Title:  FIRST FRUIT
Author:  Janet F. Caires-Lesgold
Feedback to:  jfc013@merle.it.northwestern.edu
Archive:  Mailing list archives only--others please ask permission!
Category:  Vignette, angst, first-person POV
Spoilers:  Probably none--takes place after "Hourglass"
Rating:  strong R for adult language/content
Pairing:  Clark/Lex (potential, implied)
Summary:  Lex considers his options

DISCLAIMER:  These characters do not belong to me.  Smallville is the
property of Alfred Gough, Miles Millar, Tollin-Robbins Productions, and
Warner Bros. Television, and based upon characters originally created by
Jerome Siegel and Joe Shuster.  This story is just for the entertainment of
my online friends and myself, not for any profit.

COPYRIGHT:  (C) Janet F. Caires-Lesgold                  December 2, 2001
            jfc013@merle.it.northwestern.edu
Please don't redistribute or alter this story in any way without the express
permission of the author.  Thank you very much.
________________


Clark Kent is a virgin.

A guy notices these things.  The only person who has touched his penis since
it grew hair is the man himself.

Luckily, I am not in the same boat, though I must point out that I was
extremely relieved when I pubed at last.  So what if I'm still a natural
redhead?  It's less embarrassing than being hairless all over.

While I've bedded some of the Smallville High coeds, young Mr. Kent has not
had the pleasure.  I can tell from the way he moons over that little
paperdoll Lana that he's striving for perfection instead of opportunity.
What a shame, especially when he's so close to perfection all on his own.

But then again, in the activities I have in mind, I'm not that experienced
myself...  Not for lack of desire, of course.  It's just that Daddy doesn't
approve.

My father caught me once when I was fourteen, my dick in my hand and college
football on the TV, my mind awhirl picturing the tight butts under those
skinny uniform pants, when he came into my room and turned off the
television.  "Son," he had bellowed, "people don't do business with faggots.
You're not a faggot, are you?"

"No, sir," I'd answered, tucking myself back in quickly.

"Good," he'd replied, clapping me on the shoulder, then had bent to counsel
me more softly, "If you have to picture Michelangelo statuary to get hard
enough to fuck a pussy now and then, no one has to know."

My status as an only child suddenly made more sense to me at that moment.

A year or two later, when I'd popped the cherry of a freshman girl under
only a little protest, my father winked proudly at me as soon as he'd turned
his back on her freshly paid-off-to-keep-their-mouths-shut parents.  It was
then that I got the message of what kind of behavior my old man expected
from the scion of the Luthor empire.  I've tried to live up to his ideal
ever since.

I can't say that I've made a hobby of deflowering virgins, but I've done my
share.  But I've never done another guy.  I guess that makes me a virgin,
too.

At least I've read enough to know what I'd like to do to Clark Kent.  In
him, I seem to have found the perfect personification of that statue of
David that has gotten me through a few lonely nights.  However, I would
expect his flesh to be a little more yielding than that hard, cold, white
marble.  Perhaps not a cherry to pop, per se.  His lovely, taut bottom is
probably more like a peach--smooth and tender-skinned, exquisitely curved,
pliable to the touch, but just as firm and solid as might be required.

Would he be receptive to the idea of my hands on him, my mouth taking
indecent liberties with his ripe cock?  Something in the gazes he bestows on
me makes me feel that he would.  Did I say "feel"?  Let me amend that to
"know"...

I make no secret of the fact that I've been watching him, not unlike the way
he watches the babyish girl next door through the huge piece of ocular
equipment in the hayloft.  Can he tell I've got a taste for peaches almost
worse than my hunger for cherries?  While I'm at it, I wouldn't mind
munching on the strawberries of his lips, the mango slice of his tongue, and
dare I contemplate a banana?

Knock it off, Lex.  He might think you've got scurvy.  But I do long to
feast upon his "fruit salad", no matter what Daddy thinks.  So he'll be my
first...

And I'll be his.


THE END

Feedback is delicious!

--
Janet F. Caires-Lesgold            jfc013@merle.it.northwestern.edu
Speaker-to-Toys                  http://www.enteract.com/~jfc/
"I brought marshmallows.  Occasionally, I'm callous and strange."
        --  Willow Rosenberg, Buffy the Vampire Slayer: "The Zeppo"