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 I Had Sex With a Space Alien.
"I was an intergalactic alien love slave."
Clark Kent is half asleep, but at the words, he cracks one eye open against the morning sun. "That's kind of harsh," he mumbles. "I mean, yeah, we made love all night long, but it's not like you were screaming for mercy or anything."
"Not me, silly." Chloe Sullivan whacks him lightly with a rolled-up newspaper. "It's our Inquisitor reporter again."
"Unnnhhh." Clark rolls over. His muscles are all nice and warm and loose, and he feels incredible. Sex apparently does a body good. "Was this with the guy with three penises again?"
"So she says. So I guess you're off the hook. Must be some other alien."
"Yeah," he agrees. "Must be. I think you've checked my equipment out pretty damn thoroughly over the past week."
"Well," she says seriously, "you never know with aliens. I suppose you might be hiding a couple of retractable ones."
He rolls his eyes. "Chloe," he says. "I don't want anyone but you."
She smiles at him over the paper. "That's uncharacteristically sappy of you, Clark."
"Even if I did..." He indulges in a long, bone-cracking stretch. "I wouldn't have the energy for any other woman. You're killing me, Chloe."
"Yeah." She chuckles wryly, tossing the Inquisitor aside with all the care it deserves-- which is to say, not much. "You look like you're on the verge of death, all right."
He imagines that the comfortable glow he feels is reflected on his face. "I'm serious. You wore me out last night. I couldn't have sex again if my life depended on it."
"Really?" She blinks at him thoughtfully, and then the corners of her mouth curl up in a slight, impish smile. "Are you absolutely certain?"
Something about that smile makes him less absolutely certain than he was just a moment ago. He shifts a little on the bed, and shrugs. "Are you telling me five times wasn't enough for you? Aren't you a little sore?"
"Maybe." She leans over him, planting an arm on either side of his chest. "But that just means you'll have to make love to me very, very slowly."
He feels a throbbing ache, low in his body. Totally not a hard-on, because he's just not capable of that right now. His tire's gone flat-- and unlike the mythical alien the Inquisitor reporter's been sleeping with, he doesn't have any spares. But despite that, there's a certain warm pressure that makes him want her to move closer.
"Uh," he says, and hears his own voice, gravelly and hoarse. "Maybe after breakfast?"
"Maybe," she says softly, "I'll have you for breakfast."
She straddles him, a leg on either side of his thighs, and yanks her robe off. Beneath it, she's stark naked, and he feels himself throbbing harder.
"Hey," he says, pretending to frown. "Which of us is the intergalactic alien love slave here?"
She smiles mysteriously, and lowers her mouth to his chest. Her lips brush over his nipple, and he groans. He has his answer.
"Oh, Chlo." His voice is more gravelly than ever. "I don't mind being your love slave at all."
It's been a week since they first slept together. He certainly hadn't expected to have sex with her when she'd shown up that day. He'd been filthy, having just done his morning farm work, up to and including mucking out the stables. She'd suggested lunch-- a perfectly typical friend thing for them to do-- and he'd headed into the house to take a shower.
And to his everlasting shock, she'd followed him up the stairs and come into the shower after him.
He hadn't minded. Hell, no. Chloe had been his best friend since middle school, and he'd always had a certain attraction to her. But he'd never imagined that his attraction could blossom into a craving for her that was so intense that he couldn't get through a night without her. But it has.
He's her love slave. They both know it.
But he's pretty sure she's his love slave, too.
Her mouth teases his nipple for long moments, then slides down over his abdomen. He groans as her lips brush delicately over his cock. But then she pulls back, looking apologetic.
"Your skin, Clark."
He manages to restrain a growl of annoyance. It's not her fault. "Sorry," he says, keeping his eyes clenched shut. "I know it gets too hot."
"I'm sorry. I wish I were heatproof, but I'm not."
He no longer has a flat tire. He's inflated, pretty much to maximum pressure. He lies there, quivering, aware that if he opens his eyes, he's going to set the ceiling on fire.
They seem to run into this problem a lot.
His eyes itch and burn unmercifully, more insistent than the pulsing of his erection, and he wants to crack them open. Just a little. Just to let a tiny bit of the heat escape...
But no. He knows if he opens them at all, he's going to lose control over his heat vision entirely, and explode. He doesn't want to set the house on fire again.
But God, it feels so good when he...
Down, boy, he tells himself firmly. You can't let it go.
"We need to go downstairs," he mumbles.
It's the best solution to the problem they've come up with-- letting his heat vision explode into the fireplace, where it can't do any damage, and thus keeping his skin cool enough for her to touch. But she shakes her head.
"Not yet," she whispers.
He squeezes his eyelids more tightly. Not yet? What does she mean, not yet? It's not like she can touch him. He's too damn hot. So why on earth--
"Touch yourself," she whispers.
He's so shocked at the suggestion that his eyes almost fly open. No. No way. She is not seriously suggesting that he... that right in front of her, he...
No. He can't do that.
"I can't touch your skin when it gets this hot," she whispers, her voice soft, seductive. "But you can."
"I just..." He can't seem to form words. He's suddenly stumbling over basic English like it's a foreign language. "I, uh, downstairs? The fireplace?"
"No," she says, softly but inexorably. "Right here."
His cock pulses against his abdomen, unbearably hot, and his eyes torment him, driving him toward desperation. "I can't," he mutters, feeling his skin blaze hotter with a flush of embarrassment, feeling sweat beading all over his body. "I can't... I don't..."
"Oh, come on, Clark." He hears a flicker of impatience in her voice. "You've touched yourself before."
"But not... in front of..."
"I want to watch." Her voice strokes over him, as soft and velvety as her lips were, and he shudders.
And then, slowly, he reaches down and takes his cock into his own hand.
He is her slave. Totally and completely. Because as embarrassed as he is, as much as he never, ever imagined himself doing this in front of someone else... there's no way he can say no to her.
Even to him, his cock feels hot. It's swollen with need, pulsing with every beat of the blood rushing through his veins, and he gives a strangled groan as his hand closes around it, giving him what he needs so badly.
"That's it," she whispers. "Now move your hand."
He moves it, just a little, one slow stroke downward. A long ache of need throbs from his cock right down to his balls, tightening them, and in his eyes he feels an answering throb of heat. He arches his head back, desperately fighting to keep his eyes closed, and a low, pulsating groan rises from him.
"Again," she whispers.
"No. Chloe. Can't..."
"Yes, you can. And you want to."
He does want to. God, he wants to. He wants release worse than anything. He doesn't care about embarrassment and he doesn't care about torching the house and he doesn't care about anything except coming, giving into a long, intense climax, while come explodes over his belly and his chest in long liquid gushes and a long stream of heat rushes from his eyes...
It's all he can say. He's totally lost the capacity for English. He moves his hand upward, another slow stroke, and he can feel the precome leaking from him, wetting his cock, moistening his hand, so copious it's dripping onto his abdomen.
His eyes burn like coals, unextinguishable, all but irresistible, and his body is damp with sweat. He moves his hand downward again, writhing helplessly against the sheets, fighting against his need for release, fighting against the desperate burning in his eyes and the tight coil of need in his balls.
"Clark," she whispers. "I want to watch you come."
He can't, not in front of her. He can't... he can't...
"Faster." Her voice is just as irresistible as his need. "Let it happen."
He's her slave, and so he gives in, and lets his hips do what they want to do. His cock drives eagerly into his hand, sliding easily against the slick palm. His thrusts come faster and faster, in violent, short surges that send warm waves of pleasure washing through him, and suddenly he remembers how to speak English. Well, a little of it.
"Fuck." His voice is a low growl, sliding upward toward a higher pitch. "Oh, God, Chlo, fuck fuck fuck..."
His cock jerks, fast and hard, and he feels thick hot fluid spurting all over his abdomen, spasm after spasm of it. He cries out, coherent words lost in a long animalistic wail of pleasure, and his eyes slam open. All he can see is the red and orange of heat vision, and all he can feel is a wild ecstasy, heat burning all the way to his bones, searing him to his core. He knows he's setting the ceiling on fire, but he just... does... not... care.
At last he gasps and collapses, boneless, against the mattress. He wants to pass out, but there's that pesky fire burning. He struggles upright and stands on the bed, pats it out, and then slowly falls back down onto the bed, as limp as a bowl of Jell-O.
"Chlo." His voice is low. "God. I really am your love slave."
She curls up against him, nuzzling her face against his shoulder. "And I'm yours."
Despite his exhaustion, he drags his eyes open and looks down at her with a flicker of interest. "Oh, yeah? That sounds promising. What are you willing to do for me, exactly?"
"Rest for a minute," she says, stroking his hair. "And then we'll find out."
He smiles, and wraps his arm around her, holding her close.
He can't think of a better way to spend a morning.