The gravel parking lot outside the bar was filled with rusted pickup trucks and battered heaps that could barely be classified as cars. Country music spilled from the open door and from between the cracks in the walls of the whitewashed building that looked to be held together by spit and rusty nails. Neon beer signs and sandwich boards advertising monster truck rallies, derbies, and local bands hung in the windows.
Inside, the smell of sawdust, sweat, and smoke was heavy in the air. The jukebox music was loud and voices even louder as the t-shirt, jeans, and flannel-clad patrons swilled cheap bottled beer and flirted with the ugly waitresses. Some men and women were dancing on the scuffed hardwood floor, others were sprawled in chairs at scarred tables or on barstools running along the gouged, wooden bar. On the far side of the establishment, a roped fighting ring was set up. Around the ropes some bar patrons cheered and shouted at the bare-knuckled fight happening in the ring. Elsewhere, sweaty fat men and slutty looking women practically fornicated in front of everyone.
Lex Luthor was going to have nightmares for months.
Martha Kent had sent Lex looking for Clark, worry evident in her voice over the phone. Apparently, Clark had started frequenting the bar Lex now stood in, despite the teen being underage. He wouldn’t listen to either of his parents, and so Martha had hoped Lex would reach him. From the sketchy information Lex had been given, he figured Clark was simply rebelling and normally would have applauded, but Martha had asked…
So here Lex was, in hell disguised as a honky-tonk bar. He was painfully out of place in this setting, even though he’d dressed down in casual black slacks and black crew-necked ribbed sweater. However, Lex thrived in awkward situations and he strode further into the bar as if he were a regular. He received a suspicious look from the bartender, but he was served without comment when he ordered a MGD.
Lex turned with his beer in hand and began searching for his best friend. It wasn’t that difficult to find him, because at that moment, a beer-gutted referee declared a winner to the fight in the ring:
Some patrons cheered, others booed, and the ones standing ringside parted enough for Lex to see Clark in the center of the ring, arm raised by the referee.
Lex froze, the rim of the beer bottle pressed to his lower lip.
Clark was sweaty, his hair a mop of glistening curls. His smile was smug and his stance cocky. His thick biceps flexed and stretched as he lowered his arm, the sleeveless black t-shirt not hindering Lex’s view. Clark’s long legs were encased in jeans so tight it was easy to see he wasn’t wearing anything underneath but skin. A thick black belt and calf-high black workboots capped off the outfit.
Lex admittedly had a crush on Clark, the kind of crush that involved naked dreams and naughty thoughts at various times throughout the course of a day. Clark’s appearance tonight would fuel his masturbatory fantasies for at least a month, maybe more.
Clark saw Lex then, and the flare of heat in his limpid eyes caused Lex’s brain to short circuit, as all the blood in his head rushed due south. Clark ducked under the rope and strode towards him with a lazy grace that made Lex think of stallions and bestiality, and his brain was most definitely fried.
“Lex.” The name rolled off Clark’s tongue like sex, the hot, wet, noisy kind. He stopped a lot too close to Lex for propriety’s sake, focused on Lex’s mouth, licked his lips, and ordered in a tone as dark as smoked glass, “Follow me.”
Clark brushed bodily against Lex as he passed, heading for the door. Lex lowered the beer bottle and followed like a leash attached to his dick was pulling him.
The cool air outside woke Lex up a bit, and he remembered he was there to rescue Clark for Mama Kent, not accost the boy like he was extremely tempted to do. The perfect excuse of aiding a teenaged rebellion wouldn’t necessarily be beneficial to Lex and Clark’s friendship, even if some down and dirty sex would make their cocks happy. Lex valued Clark’s friendship above pretty much everything, so his libido would just suffer until he could jack off at home later.
“Clark-” Lex set the piss-in-a-bottle on a windowsill as he trailed Clark around the corner outside the bar. “–As much as I admire the lack of plaid flannel in your wardroh-”
Lex never finished his sentence. Clark seized Lex’s face between his large paws, and before Lex could flinch, kissed him. Thoroughly. Deeply. Hungrily. Passionately. And a few more –lys that meant toe-curling, goosebump raising, and jelly-knee causing kisses.
This was a dream, one of the really good kinds. It had to be, because only in a dream would Clark scrape his teeth from Lex’s mouth, along his cheek to his ear, and say, “I’m going to fuck you now.”
Lex might have nodded, but his short-term memory went by way of his trousers – simply gone. He was suddenly facing the outside wall of the bar, too, hands pressed against the whitewashed wood, and he could see the spit holding the building together. Cool air ruffled his short curlies, reminding him that he was literally dangling in the breeze around the side of a honky-tonk bar in the middle of redneck Kansas.
He turned his head to say something to Clark, and saw him flick open the cap of a tube of hairgel and squirt some onto his fingers. That would be sticky, was Lex’s first thought, followed by, oooohhhh, God, as Clark’s fingers went spelunking. He hit gold almost immediately, and Lex cried out. A hand clamped across his mouth and his kink fantasy-meter went into overdrive.
The fingers stretching him left, to be replaced by a tree trunk. The farmboy was fucking huge. Lex was spitted without ceremony, his reflexive cry muffled by Clark’s hand covering his mouth. He could feel every inch of Clark: the curl of foreskin as it rolled back, the criss-cross of veins along the shaft, the coarse pubic hair against his bare ass. He could practically taste the pre-come on his tongue from the inside.
Clark growled a word. It might have been Lex’s name, it might have been a curse, it might have been Swahili for all Lex cared, because he was being fucked hard, complete with sloppy wet sounds, muffled squeaks, and throaty moans. Gravity became a non-issue, too, because his feet were no longer on the ground. He was being held aloft by Clark’s thick cock, and if this really was a dream, he’d better as damned sure not wake up before both he and Clark came.
It didn’t appear that would be a problem. Clark used his other hand to grab Lex’s genitals, massaging them roughly, and Lex ever-so-nicely made the whitewashed wood a bit whiter.
He panted heavily into Clark’s palm. Clark’s other hand remained where it was, pulling Lex up and back with bruising force while ramming into him. It wasn’t very pleasant, especially with Lex’s post-orgasmic sensitivity. Lex loved it. He wanted to keep this Clark.
Raucous laughing and voices around the corner and the sound of tires on gravel reminded Lex of where they were. He shuddered in exhilaration at the risk they were taking, clenching around the dick up his ass. Clark bit him in response where his shoulder and neck met, drawing blood, and pumped his hole full of come.
After that, things ended abruptly. Lex’s trousers were back in place before he could blink. He was roughly turned around, his tonsils were licked, Clark smirked satisfactorily, said, “Thanks, I needed that,” released him, and ambled around the corner of the bar, out of sight.
Lex stood there stupidly for a while, clammy come and hairgel dripping from him. Eventually, he pulled his keys from his pocket and walked gingerly to his car. Climbing into the low-slung vehicle, he found that it hurt quite a lot to sit down. He was going to feel this for days.
He smiled, retrieved his cell phone from the glove box, and hit speed dial. “Mrs. Kent, it’s Lex. I didn’t have any luck with Clark tonight. I’ll have to try again tomorrow…”