Title: "Small as Folk" 2/2
Authors: Minnie & monimala
Fandom: "Smallville"/"Queer as Folk"-USA
Rating/Classification: slash, language, crossover, B/J/L/C, sexual situations.
Disclaimer: We don't own them...here, you can have them back. We even washed them!
Summary: A crossover that takes place before episode 208 of "QAF" and before 114 of "Smallville."
monimala's Note: I just want to thank Minnie for the raging plot bunny That Would Not Die. This was a bunch of fun, mixing our fandoms and our styles.
Minnie's Note: I :heart: monimala. She rules. Writing with her has been a great experience. Thank you, monimala.

The inevitable car ride. Silence between you and Lex. Familiar...in the sense that you've never been able to break it, to spill the truth to him, and the pattern of half-truths, half-lies has become ingrained. And unfamiliar...in the sense that he isn't pushing, isn't asking.

You want to fill the gap, fill it with normal conversation to take the surreal edge off. You grin, ruefully, at that thought. When has your life ever been anything *but* 'surreal'? Firestarters, heat-seeking monsters, shapeshifters, and other mutated freaks that go bump in the night, are a regular part of your life. And that's just recent...not including the superhuman strength and speed and occasional dose of x-ray vision. 'Real' and 'normal' have been strangers to you since ever since your parents found you on the side of the road.

You glance at Lex's profile, white, smooth and gleaming, like a beacon in the darkness, and realize his life hasn't exactly been picture perfect either. A billionaire's son, heir to the throne of a business empire...that would all be surreal enough even if he hadn't been left bald, as a child, in the wake of the Meteor Shower That Ate Smallville.

This situation is just par for the course for both of you.

The weighty silence, like the burden of responsibility, is starting to drag you down. You just want...'normal'. For once. You can have that with the guy from Babylon. All he sees is what you want him to see...a cute boy in flannel. Not 'savior', not 'friend', definitely not 'best friend'. No ties, no lies.

Lex breaks the quiet before you do, asking, "You sure about this?"

Your mind scurries around for an answer, one you could both accept. The truth, but not all of it. "That depends. Are you?"

You think a 'no' would have been safer, would given you a way out, brought you back to where you were before. Hiding, always hiding. Eluding the certain freedom of normalcy, that's oh so close. A 'yes' would have been dangerous, but then again, you've always known the truth to be that. On the high wire without a safety net. Not worrying about who might see, what they might see. The price you pay for being real.

You're willing to pay it if he is.

He raises his eyebrows at the question you throw back at him, but doesn't answer. Instead, he gives you a look, enigmatic and charming, nods, and turns his eyes back on the road. His lips turn up slightly, as the wheel slides through his long fingers, and you wonder if he's remembering something, someone from his past.

Although you rebel against the idea, you know he's been around the block. You think he may have *built* the block. Definitely nothing new for him.

You feel the twinge of jealousy snaking through you. Jealousy at the thought that he's been closer to 'normal' than you and that you aren't his first. You let it pass, shoving it down, marveling at the irony. You're grabbing your chance to be free, leaping into the arms of another. So is he.

No grounds, moral or otherwise, for jealousy here. That's for the young, the immature. And you don't want to be that. Not tonight.

You want to be someone else.

You *can* be someone else.

"Lex? I *am* sure."


You find yourself in familiar territory. Giving Clark away, almost delivering him, gift-wrapped, to the stud with an attitude. Prepping him like the proverbial sacrificial lamb.

Same old, same old. You've been pushing Clark towards someone else ever since you've known him. Lana, the stud, anyone else but you.

You're not selfless. Far from it. You believe it's in your best interest to give Clark what he wants. What he *thinks* he wants. Once he gets past it, then you can have him. Own him. All of him. Including the truth he insists on burying.

You deserve nothing less. You know from bitter experience that secrets have a way of destroying people. Destroying relationships. He's the closest thing you've had to a friend. A best friend. Someone who doesn't want anything from you *but* you.

He's a refreshing change from the jaded, greedy piranhas that inhabit your world.

You care about this boy, this would-be messiah. In weak moments, you even admit to yourself that you love him. As much as you allow yourself to love anyone, that is. And you'll be damned if you let an unknown variable, his only secret, destroy that. Clark thinks you've let that particular bone of contention go. That you're content with what he's given you. Half of himself, the self he thinks you can handle.

You let him think that, because pushing him too hard hasn't gotten you anywhere. What you can't accomplish with aggression, you'll accomplish with stealth. It's always worked before. You're close, so close that you don't even want to think of letting Clark escape with his usual self-sacrificing, schoolboy spiel this time.

You ask him if he's sure about his decision and feel your stomach clench when he throws the question back at you. You school your features to hide your disappointment, opting, instead, to look mysterious and continental. Your response rivals his in the non-answer category.

The car you're following swerves, almost ramming into a telephone pole. You smile, slightly. You'd hazard a guess that the two strangers are not having an "are you sure" discussion.

Lucky bastards.

You wait for the inevitable "Wait...I can't do this" from Clark and wonder how this farm boy has managed to outmaneuver you emotionally. How you've allowed yourself to be outmaneuvered. The great Lionel Luthor himself would be hard-pressed to play the game this well.

But the inevitable doesn't come. Instead, you hear him say "Lex, I *am* sure" a few moments later.


He's within your grasp.

He's very nearly yours.


The loft is the logical place to take them. Not that there's much logic involved in any of this. It's like asking "what do you wear to an orgy?" Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.

Except a condom.

And you have a whole new box of them stashed in the bedside drawer.

You take separate cars...give them time to change their minds and veer off towards the swank hotel you know they must be crashing at...and Justin blows you while you drive. You almost plow into a telephone pole as you come...but when you pull, safely, into your spot in front of the building, a sleek black Mercedes is right behind you.

You wonder what they said...you wonder if they said anything at all or if the kid's bravado got in the way. You know, for sure, that nobody got blown in THAT vehicle...because they look entirely too intense...not loose and high and languid like you, with your little loverboy wrapped around you as you stumble into the cargo lift.

It's too late to turn back now.

You're going to fuck the shit out of them.

You hope they know that.


Brian goes straight to the counter and pours himself a stiff shot of Beam...offers one to your date for the night even though he could probably card both your guests and come up empty.

He accepts with a polite nod and you find yourself turning to extend the same courtesy to the strapping specimen of farm boy. "Drink? Soda...?" you ask, softly, arching an eyebrow.

"Huh?" A blush. A stammer. Staring around the loft with eyes so wide you think they're going to swallow up his entire head. "No. No, thanks."

He looks like he's going to jump out of his fucking skin.

You remember the feeling. Just a year ago, this was you. In a completely alien world with some strange, powerful man who you *knew* was going to change your life forever. He's gazing at that man right now...like a deer caught in headlights. Eyes shifting from the way Brian carries himself...to the way he looks in his sleeveless black shirt...to the ice clinking in his glass...to the anticipatory twist of his lips.

His *lips.* "Oh, no, you don't! Stop that!" you direct, feeling the slightest bit of panic rise as you check the lock on the door one more time. "His mouth belongs to me." You stride over, wrapping your arms around Brian from behind and resting your chin, possessively, on his shoulder. "So if you want any lip action tonight, you'd better kiss your friend over there before we get started."


The boy and his companion look at each other like you've suggested something completely foreign to them...*Kiss each other? US?* And you laugh, softly. What did they think people DID at orgies? Knit? Brian just looks at *you*, coolly amused by your jealousy. And thrilled by it, too. "They've never..." he whispers, knowingly, lips wet and warm on your earlobe as he half-pulls and half-pushes you towards the bedroom.

You watch them, arching forward against his mouth and the heat that's boiling upwards from your toes. "Never?" you gasp, even though you're not really surprised.

"Look at them, Justin. Can't you tell?"

Tension. Coiled tight between them like a string. You know they want to jump each other...they want to fuck so badly you can taste it in the air...but it's almost like they're afraid to touch, to share, to *try*...to be that naked.

They may seem like you and Brian on the surface...but you realize, now, that they're very, very different.

"Are you coming or going?" Brian asks them, pausing with you on the steps.

"Or coming AND going?" you add, cheekily, grinning at the memory the question provokes: gorgeous nudity...arms spread wide...your heart in your mouth as you took those crucial steps...

Yes, you're different.

You never had any fear.


The place is huge. A nice, airy loft with wide open spaces. Almost wide enough to release the anxiety that's somehow crept up your skin somewhere between the car and the door to this place. You stare at everything and nothing, trying to see if you belong here.

You think of Luthor Manor, of Lex's place. A cavernous, welcoming interior that's opened its doors to you, giving you license to be there. Nothing scary there. Or here.

The blond interrupts your reverie to offer you a drink. A soda. He looks like it doesn't even occur to him to offer you anything else. You manage to get out a very eloquent, "Huh?", following it up with a quick glance at your surroundings and a polite "No, no thanks."

No matter what you've told yourself, that you can handle this, that you want this, it still feels...awkward. Terror in Technicolor. Irreversible. It's all so real now. No vague theory, no logical justification. No turning back.

You look at the dark-haired man, drinking in the sight of him. He's not turning. Not from you or your wide-eyed stares. Not even from the panic that's written, plainly, on your face.

His lips twist in an expectant smirk. You gawk at those lips, wondering what kind of freedom they hold, what kind of truth they will pull out of you.

The blond doesn't take kindly to that, laying down some rule about his lover's lips belonging to him and only him. Then he makes a suggestion that freezes you in your tracks.

Kiss Lex?

Lex...you almost forget he's here, with you. Strange, because you'd never forget Lex, no matter where he is. Lex won't let you.

You exchange a look with him, the kind that makes your body tighten, your breath catch. A silent, unblinking, *knowing* look that betrays what you really are to each other. Two halves of a whole. Two halves that can never meet and *become* whole unless...

*"Unless"*. *Because.* *But.* *Meteors.*

That wretched burden stops you from reaching out, from touching your lips to his, from exploring his body with your hands, your mouth, everything. You know he could wrestle your secrets out of you, batter down your defenses with a mix of unconscious softness and hard longing.

So, you pull back. The stakes are too high.

The tension flares for a few more seconds, heated and brilliant, until you almost think it's worth it to forget the stakes, forget everything except what it would feel like to *be* with Lex. To be whole with him. Before you can blurt out a damning "I don't care anymore, I just want you," you hear your impatient hosts utter a challenge.

"Are you coming or going?"

"Or coming AND going?"

The moment with Lex passes, as so many moments between you do, and you drop your eyes to the floor, resigning yourself to the usual holding pattern.

Then, you raise them with clear intent.

Time for the truth.

No time for fear.

"I'm coming."


You take the shot of Beam graciously offered by your host for the evening, raising the glass slightly in a mock toast before downing its fiery contents.

You'd rather be downing something, *someone*, else but you'll take what you can get. You direct a lazy, sultry look at the blond. He'll do. For now. But he doesn't return your gaze, looking instead at the by-play going on between other occupants in the loft. Clark. In full blown panic mode. The self-assured 'yes' nowhere to be seen.

You drop your glass on a nearby table and start moving towards him, the words 'save' and 'protect' marking every stride. Despite his earlier resolve, his unconscious deftness at playing this game with you, he's still just a kid.

And that other man is not you.

*He's* not playing by the same rules. Your pace slows, then stops, as Clark gapes at the other man, panic receding. You wait for the next move, wondering how the other man will handle it. How *you'll* handle it. But Clark doesn't *make* a move. His eyes just laser in on the stud, on his lips, focusing so intently that you think Clark's forgotten there's an actual person attached to them.

His eyes never waver and you lick your own lips, as if trying to feel the weight of Clark's gaze on them. A possessive "Oh no, you don't! Stop that!" intrudes and you glance in acknowledgment at the blond. You know exactly how he feels. You may be letting a part of Clark go but he still belongs to you.

"If you want lip action...you'd better kiss your friend over there..."

They've got their own rules. You can live with that. You turn to your date for the night, wanting to kiss *him* for the knowledge and the suggestion. But first... first and always...Clark. You discard the cool half-mask you wear like a second skin, replacing it with need. Need to feel those lips, this time with consciousness and clarity. Need to take those arms and wrap them around you, not as a shield but as a blanket. Need to grab that missing piece of your soul, one you didn't know was missing until he came along and showed it to you. Offered his friendship, his help, part of himself freely. You want to gather him in, lock him up tight until you become whole again. Until you *both* become whole again.

But he retreats.

Too much, too soon for him, you think. But not enough, not nearly enough, for you. You refuse to back away, refuse to leave things hanging and unresolved. The voices of your respective partners for the evening cut in, reminding you that you're not the only one feeling the intensity, the burn.

"Are you coming or going?"

"Or coming AND going...?"

"I'm coming." He escapes again. Towards the bed, the unknown.

"Clark, wait...!" you call out, velvet and steel in your voice. You cross a few feet, a chasm really. You stake a small claim, an "I was here first" on what's yours.

A kiss.

One of the dozens you've been holding back. Your lips hover over his, dancing slightly before diving in. He eagerly catches the smooth, silky promises you make, and you sink in deeper to taste, to capture, to bind. He tastes something like pure. Like the need you thought was yours and yours alone. A heady combination you don't expect but know all too well. You stroke your tongue over his to savor him more fully and groan when he strokes back, tentatively. Before it can go on any further, you release him, reluctantly, knowing that in a few more seconds, you'd never be able to let go.

And you have to let him go.

For the moment.


He's nervous as he jerkily takes off his clothes for you. Can't hide the blush that spreads all the way down to his cute little toes...or his cute huge cock. They really DO grow 'em big out on the farm.

You've been in this position before. You wonder if you're making a habit of it or something...Brian Kinney, Deflowerer of Virgins. His dear heart-true-love is all ready sprawled on the bed, giving Justin the "come fuck me" eyes...and apparently doesn't mind so much that you're about to loosen up his twink for him.

Maybe that's the whole point of their adventure in the city.

You're doing them a service.


You can still taste Justin on your mouth...tart and hot and so fucking full of anticipation as you waited for them to take that last step into your den of sin. You're selfish. You denied it at the time, but you *are* glad you were his first. Really, his only. It means he belongs to you.

You can't imagine it any other way.

Even as this kid stretches out on your sheets, about a foot apart from the live action porno all ready going on. Blowjobs. Smart little fuckers, you think with a combination of pride and relief and lust.

"You're not going to break me, you know," h e says, interrupting your voyeurism, your hand sliding up and down your dick.

You're impressed. There's not a single tremor in his voice.

And you believe him.

"I know." You grin, ferociously, tossing a tube of KY and a rain of condoms in his general direction before you pounce. "But we might break the *bed.*"


The taste of Lex lingers on your lips, on your tongue, and you can't seem to make your hands cooperate enough to take your clothes off.

A tug here, a pull there. A blush comes on as you finally free yourself of flannel and denim. You're not exactly sure what comes next so you stretch out on the bed and let him take the lead.

He's probably going to anyway...when he gets around to it.

He's spent most of the night looking at you with craven lust but now that it's time to appease it, he can't seem to take his eyes off the pair next to you.

You wonder if he's regretting this, if he'd rather have someone else...if he wants to switch. If the recent panic in your eyes has finally sunk in and made a difference and he doesn't want you anymore.

You tell him that he can't break you, show him that you're not scared. Not a challenge but fact. Forget superpowers, the only one you've given license to hurt you, break you, is Lex. All the stranger can do to you is set you free.

And he will.

He *does*.


He slides down your body with serpentine ease. This, you think, is his idea of controlling the situation...controlling you. Giving you a good time--no pity for the little bashed boy--while he stays detached. At play in the fields of the lords and all that.

You don't mind a bit. It does away with the pesky question of "who fucks who?" that you really had no answer for once you were both naked.

But wait, you'd thought, nobody has EVER fucked me besides Brian! Panic. Big time panic. And you'd looked at him, bald and classy and relaxed, reclining on the sheets like it was HIS domain...you'd known there was no way in motherfucking Hell he'd let you into *his* tight ass.

So, it's a good thing privileged boys are good with their mouths. Masters of double talk and bullshit and the art of the silver tongue. And it doesn't surprise you when he takes you in and it's hot and wet and "Oh, God", making you surge up and clutch the sheets.

You went to the same charm school, after all.

He just graduated a few years ahead of you.

With a 4.0 GPA.

You feel all your bones melt and reform. Your head falls back and you filter in the groans and swears and slick sounds of proximal sex. Brian catches your eye and your fingers meet across the bed, interlace and interlock. Every time he sinks in between the boy's thighs, you feel it. Rhythm. Rhythm your own hips are keeping, instinctively as you fuck a stranger's mouth.

You know this. Inside. You don't even have to be together for you to feel him. You always feel him.

More right now, perhaps, than you ever have before.

How fucked up is it that you can pick a guy out of a crowd...have him suck you down and drink you up...and come blindingly hard while STILL thinking "I love Brian Kinney"?

How fucked up. And how *right*.


You're all lying, boneless, in a tangle of sweaty skin and limbs. You raise your head, slightly, staring over the blond head resting, momentarily, on your belly, and find the mirror.


And he nods, eyes glittering as he strokes Clark's hair.

That's all it takes. One simple movement. Understanding.

The game is over.

Everyone goes home a winner.


It's over. Fast.

Just like that.

Your partners move off the bed, without looking back at you, and, minutes later, you hear the sound of a shower going. You have a feeling you're all ready forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind. You stretch out beside Lex, naked, not bothering to cover yourself up. No point in being shy or secretive after what just happened.

"Guess they're into water sports." Those aren't the words you want to say but what do you say after you've just lost your virginity to a stranger in the midst of a four-way with Lex?

"Or water conservation," he replies with a quirk of his eyebrows. He looks completely at ease, satisfied, long-limbed and languid.

"I hear that's a good thing," you respond, determined to match his aplomb.

"We should try it out sometime," he suggests, grinning knowingly.

You glance at him ruefully, blushing--and you weren't sure you had any blushes *left* after earlier..."Yeah. Just to make sure they have all the data right."

The levity breaks the proverbial ice and things, immediately, turn serious. You feel "the talk" coming on. "Are you okay?" he asks you, all-too familiar concern etching lines on his face.

"Okay" is what you feel after you've finished your chores, vanquished dangerous meteor mutants and looked at the sunset. It's not even close to how you feel now. Or how you felt earlier when the stranger first slid into you, opening up tight secret places. You felt energized, all raw and nerve endings. Twinges of pain, pangs of regret, washed away by a tidal wave of release. For several moments, you became the freedom you sought, boundless and unfettered. In that state of reality, you wondered what was so important about keeping things hidden. The world as you knew it didn't end but actually began. You feel more than "okay". All the words in a thesaurus couldn't describe how you feel so you settle for "Fine." And "You?"

He stretches out, leaning towards you, until you're companionably sharing the same pillow, and sighs, "Top of the world."

"I can see that." Green reproach colors your tone

"You're not jealous, are you? You shouldn't be, you know." His reassurance chases the color away. "It didn't mean anything. It was just...a diversion."

"No. I decided, we decided. It's just--I give up. This whole thing is strange," you shrug, and you wonder if you should both be smoking or something right now. It's entirely too casual, entirely too surreal.

He laughs. "So, what else is new?"

What's *new* is your entry to the land of the free, home of the brave. You discard your last thoughts of keeping secrets and bite the bullet. They don't hold a place in this new territory, not now. "I have to tell you something. Something you've stopped asking."

He nudges you, gently, relief and triumph evident in his voice. "You can tell me anything. You know that."

"I haven't been exactly honest with you," you blurt out.

"I suppose I could be magnanimous and say it's okay, you don't have to tell me but I'd be lying," he confesses.

"I'm not..." You try to grab the right word, the right phrase, because this is no ordinary confession. This is a headline-grabbing, bright-neon-lights-flashing, mother-of-all-time admission. I'm not *what*? Not of this earth? Not human? Not like you? "Normal," you breathe, knowing it's not even close to what you mean. But at the same time, it is.

"Tell me something I don't know."

You try again, this time in plainer terms. "No, Lex. I mean, I'm not human." There. You said it. The world suddenly shrinks down to an 8x8 bed with both of you in it. You steel yourself for admonishment, for recriminations. And questions. You think he'll have a million of them. What are you? Why didn't you tell me? What *can* you do? What can your powers do *for me*? How can I ever trust you again? That he'll whip them out like harsh accusations, damning you for lying to him. You resign yourself to the inevitable.

"Let me guess. You're from a distant planet and have super powers?"

"How - How did you ??" Your jaw's practically scraping the floor as you eke that out. You feel like you're back at Babylon, with the same kind of bright light, noise, and shock . Whatever you expected, it isn't this.

"Smallville's as distant a planet as any and you're definitely the only person with enough power to hurt me."

"I don't want to hurt you. I never did."

"I know," he says softly, the knowledge resounding in his voice.

"No, you don't. I've already hurt you and you don't even know it. The meteor shower. I was there. I caused it." You're pained by that thought, burdened by how it's wreaked havoc on some many innocent people.

"I don't think a kid's responsible for my hair falling out. Not unless you were a meteor in your former life."

You've waited so long for absolution and it doesn't even occur to you that he may not see it that way. Your way. You try to make him see. "Lex, I'm responsible. I was in -- "

"Even if you were there, you couldn't saved me. Jesus, Clark, you were just a kid yourself then."

"You don't understand."

"You were a victim of circumstances, Clark. Like me. Although, I wouldn't exactly call either of us victims. More like beneficiaries."

You may have been in the same meteor shower but you came out of it differently. He's benefited from it, more so than you. His next words confirm it. "That meteor shower was the best thing that happened to me. It made me *see* that there's more to this world than just one slice, that one corner of the Luthor empire. I saw possibilities, endless possibilities in everything. I wouldn't have that if I hadn't gone into the cornfield. Is this what you've been hiding all along? This...guilt?"

"Yes. No. Not exactly."

"That wasn't a multiple choice question." Even in the midst of a soul-baring confession, he manages to make you smile. He always has. "Did you think it would ruin us? Is that why you saved me, why keep on saving me? Because you feel guilty for being in the same place at the same time?" You hear hurt, traces of anger, fill his words.

"No, no. I saved you because I wanted to. I wanted you. In my life. You belong," you assure, quickly.

Your declaration has its desired effect...and his entire demeanor changes. No more pain or suspicion. He reaches up, grasps your chin in his fingers, and plants a soft kiss on your mouth. Tender yet raw, it says everything and nothing at once, and holds more power than anything else in the world. Meteors rocks included. You feel weak, dizzy, powerless...but *powerful*.

You feel *whole*.

And you know he does, too.

You want him. You want him *now*. And you find yourself clawing at his chest, pulling him close, wanting him to bury all his truths inside yours, inside *you*.

"Clark..." he chuckles, breathlessly, into your lips. "God, Clark...easy. You need time."

You shake your head. You've *both* done too much waiting all ready "No, I just need *you*!"

"You all ready *have* me. And I'll have you..." You see the light of satisfaction, happiness, in his eyes before he sighs and rests his forehead against yours. You feel him swallow, hear his heart pounding triple time, see the beautifully foreign joy--the satisfaction--in his eyes, and he's hard against your thigh. You know what he's going to say before he says it. "But not here."

He's right. Although both of your bodies are screaming at the delay, you *know* he's right. Your first time, your *real* first time, should be in Smallville, where it all began.

Where you both began.

You smile.

"Then let's go home."


Within minutes of leaving the well-fucked lovebirds behind in the bedroom, you're all over each other.

He has you up against the steamed-soaked glass, mouth on your neck, as he drives inside you so fiercely that it makes your head snap back and nearly whack his chin every time.

That's how it goes with you two. Always. Always dancing the line between pleasure and pain, what's right and wrong, hate and love.

You think he's erasing the feel of that nameless kid from his cock. He must be...because he whispers your name over and over and over, against your skin. "JustinJustinJustinJustin."

And you gasp back, "Yesyesyes!"

Later, when you're running the loofah along his spine and kissing him--God, it's been hours, it seems, since you kissed him--he asks you, "Well? How was it?"

"How was it for you?" you deflect, automatically, swallowing hard against his tongue.

He shrugs, pulling you more completely under the spray of the shower and sliding his fingers into your hair. "I got off, didn't I?"

He yanks your head back, searching your eyes for something...an answer? Disagreement? News that you're going to run off and leave him for some folically-challenged champion cocksucker from Hicksville? He certainly won't find THAT.

"Well?" he prompts, again, looking altogether too wet and too insecure. A fucking gorgeous combination that's meant only for you...

You smile. Shrug. "I got off, didn't I?"

His gaze narrows around you...squeezing you and making your breath catch...making you choke on hot water. Oh. Oh...he doesn't want jokes right now. Funny...but what else are you supposed to do after you've just had a not-quite four-way with two strangers?

You find your breath. Touch his face with your fingertips. And find your words. The truth. "*We* got off...but I don't ever want to do that again."

Triumph lights up his eyes...like he'd expected, all along, for you to come to that conclusion. Cocky son-of-a-bitch. "What? Get blown by a hot stud?" *He's* allowed to joke...it's his defense, his shield.

"No." One that you can easily lower. "*Watch*."

He inhales, sharply, and then you find yourself pinned to the wall as he kisses you senseless...tongue invading your mouth and staking claim. You're conquered. You know that. His. And whether he admits it or not...he's yours.

What you do separately or together...with, or *to*, other people... is incidental ...a pre-show... a warm-up.

This, right here, is the real thing.


March 10, 2002.

e-mail mala.