Contract
by Calico



August 02

For julad, mostly-- but LauraK saved me on the britisms and wax corrupted me to lex in the first place, hence gratitude all round. ::gratitude::


Lex, pushing his dick harder into the guy's throat just to feel it lurch, wasn't even sure this one was genuinely queer.

He didn't care much. The young men his father sent - with emphasis on the young - were whores to begin with, or they wouldn't turn up in their various guises on the doorstep of Lex's life. Stood to reason. Take this one, for instance - city-slick trembling hotshot, driving his moron-mobile very gently into the back of Lex's favourite Aston Martin.

"Do you know who I am?" Lex had demanded, and Cityboy had done a pretty good impression of not knowing, and that was when Lex had decided he'd prefer this guy on his knees.

No point not taking such pretty bait. He didn't wanna wind up wasting Lionel's money, of course. It'd be inappropriate to send back a gift unopened - and anyway, he liked to play into his father's hands, keep him underestimating until he wouldn't know the real Lex at all.

Cityboy choked when Lex came, and for that brief blinding moment Lex imagined it was a different mouth he was fucking, a different gasp hanging in the air. He swayed on his feet, reaching for the wall with damp palms. Images like that still took a bit of getting used to.

Cityboy sank back onto his heels, eyes tightly closed. Savouring the taste, it almost looked like, even though he clearly wasn't. Lex tucked himself back into his pants and smiled breathlessly, exhilaration swirling klaxons through his brain. He'd pay to see Lionel's face when this one made his report.

Cityboy had been easier than the others to lure home - possibly because he'd been babbling about insurance and how could he make it up to Lex and sorry sorry sorry and he didn't want to tell his father because he was already being disapproved of and oh oh could Lex think of any other way to pay him back at all...?

That sort of thing.

Sometimes, Lex hated that his father sent these men to him, hated that they came in such fucking obvious camouflage and didn't even prove a decent challenge. The first one had been pretty shortly after Lex set up house in Smallville, just as he was getting comfortable with the idea of never feeling Lionel's breath on the back of his neck again-- he'd been a brash, brassy reporter, and he'd buckled the moment Lex took him upstairs. Confessions a-plenty, stunningly unwelcome, and Lex tore out every last one. Yes, Lionel sent him. Yes, Lionel wanted to know if Lex was still fucking guys. Yes, Lex was welcome to demonstrate, to give him firsthand experience of Lex's ongoing preferences. Yes, he'd bend like that. Yes.

The second guy Lionel had sent was a whole different package, and threw it all into a harsher light. Lex had been having a particularly frustrating day with Clark, catching one too many shy glances at the sheerest mention of Princess Chastity Belt, topped off with Clark's spectacularly thoughtless endorsement of paternal love as a shaping force.

He'd driven out to Metropolis, stalking into the first new gay bar he could find, and a random guy had caught his attention, looked tough but slim; "Elton," the guy had said, when Lex asked what name he should write on the notch on his bedpost tomorrow morning. An architect-cum-bricklayer. Great shoulders. They'd had a good fuck, and Elton had been sweaty and shaky in his arms by the end. Nothing like it to clear the head.

It hadn't been until Clark drove him to frustration again, not until he'd tried to chase Elton up - the easy option, and succulent to boot - that he realised the name was as fake as the history. Elton actually worked in a well-disguised brothel, and... yeah, once Lex had furiously set men to break the account books, it emerged that Elton had been working the weekend Lex had happened to take him home. Working and paid. Generously.

It was about then Lex had realised that Lionel was all around him, everywhere; hadn't let him go after all.

"Give him my love," Lex said, kissing Cityboy's salty mouth in lieu of someone more important's, and again the guy did a passable imitation of not knowing what Lex was talking about.

Lex chucked him out before he could start to feel uneasy. He didn't think he'd slipped up - he lived in his game-face - but still, better to err on caution's side. Some of the men nowadays were good fun, and he let them sleep in his arms; others made the hair on the back of his neck prickle, and it was a release to see the darkness of his driveway swallow them whole.

The fun ones tended to be the ingeniously plotted surprises - Cityboy today, that'd been cute. At first. Lex's favourite was still probably the Russian tourist. Utter style. He'd gone to Russia last year on quiet business, and did the meet at the end of a train journey. Playing the diplomat, he'd fussed a lot on the way in, then was supposed to blend utterly into the background on the way back to the airport. The train journey was three hours.

There was, he'd thought, something incredibly intimate about public transport. Especially trains - especially when you're used to limos, being cupped and coddled in tinted glass. Here, your fellow passengers watch you doze, eat, drink, sleep, drool; they hear your conversation and know the titles of your books. They smell anything you smell, watch the same passengers and mountains roving past, and probably only meet your eyes twice an hour.

They can also watch you in the reflection in the window, especially in tunnels. It would've been enough to make Lex paranoid, if he hadn't already guessed the sleeker of the two guys opposite him was a paternal gift.

The men talked quietly in Russian, and Lex let his eyes wander at will, taking in smart suits, expensive phones. Well-kitted whores, he thought absently, and realised that he already knew the end of this story, was merely waiting to see how it unfurled.

"Definitely foreign," the sleek guy said suddenly, in a thickly accented undertone, and Lex kept looking idly out the window, like their English conversation made no more sense than the Russian one.

"Good luck," the second man murmured, and Lex could hear the smirk in his voice, and Sleek stretched hugely, easily enough to justify Lex glancing at him-- and then eye contact, two... three... four, and then their gazes were dancing, slow sliding, slice after slice of casually coy recognition. It was - well, yeah, fun, to sense when Sleek was going to glance across and promptly smooth his own face to neutral, faux-oblivious that Sleek's companion was observing every move.

"He keeps looking over," the companion had said mildly, like he might be talking about the different sandwiches he might choose for lunch, and a private grin had spread on Sleek's face.

"Cool. Maybe I'm in with a chance yet."

That'd been a fun one, wedged between carriages with the guy's dick hot and damp against his own, biting back curses that would betray his cover. Sleek had kissed like a lot of whores didn't, like he meant it, and for a few moments Lex had kidded himself that Lionel didn't know about this one, that this was a closed capsule of absolute free will.

It took a week to resign himself to the truth, to recognise that men like that simply didn't wander in and out of his life of their own accord. It took a phone call with Lionel and a query as to if he'd enjoyed his time abroad. Lionel shouldn't have known Lex was going; that he did, well, that stroked Lex's suspicions right at the root.

In a way, it was freeing. Meant he wasn't a fool for kissing Sleek briefly on the mouth afterwards and not looking back. Meant he hadn't let a quality catch slip away; meant he could relegate the afternoon back to the field of familiarity. He could think of it as pure enjoyment, once he shoved that pitiful wistfulness aside. Fun.

Other instances were-- less so.

Take Clark, for instance, for an example of one that really hurt. Seemed innocuous and genuine at first - what whore risks his life to turn a trick, huh? - but the moment Lex had tugged at Clark's offer of open friendship, pieces came away in his hands. Boy was lying to him, and it didn't take a Princeton graduate to figure out why.

Fucking scary that Lionel had whole families in his grip, that he planted so young - or, worse, possible that Jonathan and Martha had no idea Clark was selling himself on the side, and Clark was even less the guy Lex had come to adore.

Clark was coming to see him this afternoon, and he couldn't help but wonder if he'd buckle today and invite him upstairs. Wouldn't be difficult; God knew that mouth was made to yield, and the way he licked his lips like unconsciously from time to time suggested Clark agreed with God on that one.

Any sudden thought of him made Lex's stomach turn softly, almost an ache, not quite. The treacherous thought that Clark might be genuine would slam him gently into depression at least once a week; depression because he knew it was hopeless, slam because that tiny hope utterly refused to dissolve.

About four times a day he decided impulsively to fuck him, but the decision would drain back into uncertainty when he actually considered the ramifications. The moment he took Clark to bed, he wouldn't be able to hide in the shadowed unspoken area of their relationship any more. Simple fact.

If he took Clark upstairs and treated him like the others, like rare meat to be bruised, he wouldn't even be able to pretend he didn't know. The change would be too abrupt, too obvious. And, and Clark would think bad of him, would shy away-- and Lex didn't want that, couldn't stand to hurt Clark just because his father had gotten there first.

If he treated Clark like he didn't know, like he wanted to, with eyelashes and sickeningly earnest blowjobs, all the physical equivalents of roses-- then Lionel would know he had a weak spot, know exactly where to press to make Lex cringe.

Better to leave him alone. Flirt and flirt, but keep him at arms' length, and let Clark entertain his blatant fantasies that if it ever happened, it'd be nice.

"Nice wheels," Clark had said one time, nodding with palpably restrained euphoria at Lex's latest Spyder Convertible. Lex had smiled, enjoying reading him almost as much as the compliment.

"Where would you drive if I gave it to you?" he had said, for the fun of it.

Clark's eyes had gone huge. The sun was setting, and the devious light made his irises shine. "You can't do that."

"Maybe not, but I'm curious."

Clark had blown out a slow breath, and Lex watched it sink in that yes, if he played his cards right, he could screw father and son equally, exploiting one purportedly for the sake of the other. "I'd probably-- I'd just go fast," Clark had said eventually, passing his palm against the bonnet of the Ferrari. "Oh, it wouldn't matter where," and his eyes were luminous black, hand blatantly a caress, "but this one's pure speed, right? Go so fast the stars blur, that what I want. The freedom."

Oh, yeah. An average farmboy, content with his organic fruit and not a bit claustrophobic. Incorruptible. "I can imagine," Lex had said softly, wondering if it was a sign of conscience that Clark wanted to flee the scene of his deception.

"We should do it sometime," Clark said, turning to him, impulsive and wild and gleaming in the early evening light, and Lex had swallowed as Clark had gotten smoothly back to the job of trying to reel him in.

He couldn't spend much time with Clark without needing a severe recovery period, these days. He was already looking forward to the next Cityboy, the next Sleek - someone to make the game fun again, someone to make him feel like he was winning.

One guy had brought assault charges on him, once, which was so funny until the man stuck firmly with his story, at which point it just got irritating. The out-of-court-settlement had been the worse piece of double-dog-dare charade that Lex had ever had to participate in, give or take a family wedding. Lionel had tested his patience with that one. He'd also been the last in a while, before Cityboy. Maybe Clark's reports are enough to sate Lionel's appetites right now.

Maybe, he thinks sometimes, Clark's called off all contact with Lionel now that he's got to know Lex as more than a trick. Maybe he's ripped up Lionel's checks and stopped returning his calls. Maybe he even had a showdown, spat at him, told him him exactly how sick he thought the old man was, what a sick, gross, paranoid, pathetic old man.

Maybe.

He'd got Clark lightly stoned once, and they'd been giggling happily at badly dubbed German cartoons in a cosy room in Lex's house, and a pack of playing cards was sprawled across most of the coffee table and half of the floor, and Clark's arm had somehow slithered along the back of the couch and then tucked itself around Lex's shoulders.

"My head's spinning," Clark complained, grinning from ear to ear at the ceiling. He'd coughed a little on the first breath of pot, looking up sheepishly while Lex watched indulgently with his chin on his hands, and since that moment of eye contact Clark's grin hadn't faltered even once.

"You'll be hungry soon," Lex promised, with a little glow of anticipation. He would enjoy watching Clark eat, watching him scarf the plump chicken-mayo sandwiches he'd had made especially for when the munchies hit. They'd talked about sandwiches the previous day, about what made a totally perfect one. Lex had taken mental notes.

"Hungry now," Clark said, indistinctly.

"You want a sandwich?"

"Wrong sort of hungry," Clark muttered, and Lex focused on him as sharply as he could through the mild high, saw how happily relaxed Clark was, felt the telltale nudge of his fingers on Lex's shoulder.

Fold in, those fingers nudged. Fold in and lick the curve of his throat.

No.

"No sandwich," Lex said slowly, buying time, watching Clark's blissed-out profile, and then he gave up, because he had to hear it; he'd always been one to take baits, after all. "What, then?"

"I want," Clark said, and looked at him suddenly, eyes huge and black and narrow. "You know what I want." His voice had breath caught in it, like sprung cobwebs.

"Maybe," Lex agreed, wanting to do it do it lean in do it-- "Clark," he said softly, instead, forcing down the clamour in his chest, "if - yeah, I think I know - but don't you got something you oughta tell me first?"

Clark froze, a little confusion bursting across his expression, undercut with defensiveness. "No."

"You've not got something, or you don't think you should tell me?" Lex said, and Clark's face fell.

"There's a thing, but you can't make me tell you," he whispered, sitting straighter, "please," and ice unfurled in Lex's stomach, and Lex thought, no, he could make him tell, he had ways of making people tell-- but he wouldn't, not Clark, and it gave him an odd feeling to realise Clark didn't know any of that.

"Why can't you tell me?"

"It's complicated."

Lex bit back a sour grin. No shit. "Can't you explain a little, just give me a hint? a tiny hint?" He sounded desperate, and reined in his voice, "I might've guessed already, y'know," and it was risky but he didn't care. He pushed images of Lionel hard from his brain, gritting his teeth as, insidiously triumphant, they seeped back again. Why should today be any different, after all.

"You won't think of me the same," Clark was saying miserably, "I just, I can't," and Lex had felt that ache swirl dully inside.

"Okay."

Clark looked at him accusingly. "It's not."

"It's okay. We're friends. You're allowed secrets from your friends."

"We're--"

"Friends, Clark," Lex had said ruthlessly, and then pushed himself up off the couch, wandering purposefully to the silver-covered dish on the table in the corner. "I'm hungry, anyway. You hungry yet? Regular hungry?"

The sandwiches were truly amazing, fresh granary bread with butter and thick dressing and crammed with these tender moist slabs of chicken, the whole thing lightly warm. It took opening his mouth incredibly wide to fit the whole thing in, and by the time he'd finished chewing the first wonderful bite he'd reasoned that Clark would tell him when he was ready and there was no reason to ruin their evening over it just yet. After all, if he ruined the evening, there was no logical reason he shouldn't ruin their future too.

Let it go, then. For now.

He'd enjoyed watching Clark eat, just how he'd expected to. Clark had gusto, and it was sexy as hell, and he licked his fingers afterwards, apparently oblivious to the vibes he was giving by the truckload. He hadn't mentioned the secrets thing again.

And-- yeah, now Clark thinks Lex doesn't trust him, and that was why he wouldn't take that next step, and that's true and safe, Lex has supposed. After thinking about it for a while, Lex began to live somewhat in fear that Clark might summon up the courage to tell him the truth; after all, what the fuck would he do? It was bad suspecting it, it was worse seeing Clark's unintentional confirmation, and Lex doesn't know what would tear inside him at actually hearing the words.

He'd prefer not to give Clark the chance, he's decided. He'd prefer not to force Clark's hand and make him choose again; it's Lionel, after all, who Lex's real quarrel involves. Clark's just a useful interim for Lionel, a means to a way. By folding with Clark, Lex would play into Lionel's hands.

At least this way, this safe way, Lionel won't control his dick anymore, and that's the whole point.

He's telling himself that more and more, these days.


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