AN: Again, sorry for the delay.
Warnings for kinkiness.
Chapter 3: Not Your Gods
It might be surprising to know that she didn't particularly enjoy using her lasso.
It had never been more than a means to an end for the Amazon. A length of twine woven and blessed by one of her gods, verily, but still just a length of twine, enchanted or no. God or no. It was a tool. It could be a weapon.
Using it was not a pastime of hers, nor had it ever been, nor did she think it would ever come to be. But convincing others of that?
Well, that was an entirely different affair.
A matter of misperception, it went hand-in-hand with every other false impression that had ever belonged to her in Patriarch's World. Most had been weeded out. Time, goods deeds and a good publicist her best assets. Yet still too many women seemed to think the lasso represented some sort of allegory on reverse female dominance. For example, too many men mistakenly seemed intent to believe the lasso meant more than just a lasso.
Or so they wished.
Sometimes a tool was just a tool.
Thus, Diana tried not to feel too much the hypocrite because, honestly – and she tried to be honest, self deception never being an ally – she had to admit that she was having a good time. It had to be said. There just wasn't any tactful, polite, or reasonably reasonable way to go about it without being blunt, and maybe a little offensive.
Tying him up was fun.
They said the truth set you free, but that was only half right, Diana thought. The truth could also be very... constricting.
There were no purple lights and reactor core, this time.
Not a landing ramp, or the laughable excuse of a mind altering pathogen in sight.
There was just them.
Just her bed, her lasso, and him. Three things good. Three things she touched, kept close to her person, or were allowed to touch her.
Kal looked beautiful tied down, Diana mused. Tied down with her lasso, tethered to her bed as if true to the title of Amazon she'd liberated him from an oasis of men, a warrior-woman happened across a lost colony of Davids to claim what was hers. It was pure hedonistic theater, Diana knew, even as a wave of possessive lust overtook her. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea. She hazarded a eyeful of his bare chest, muscle spread out behind her under a valley of smooth skin made for her eyes to circumnavigate; bit her lip.
Then again, maybe it was a good idea.
She stopped moving. "Are you regretting things?" She asked carefully.
To Clark, it was a silly question. What was he to regret, when he had agreed? When he'd watch her execute her plan as she'd secured him to her bed? No. He wasn't regretting things. He told her as much.
"Wise." Her approval was generous, and she started to move again.
"How did we end here?" Clark kept his hands – wrists in the process of being bound – still. She had already finished with his ankles.
Their eyes locked for a moment before she leaned over to reach for something past his head. "You trust me." Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him watching her.
"You already know that." It was true.
"You're in love with me."
He flicked his wrists– immobile. "Which you're taking advantage of."
"You're making amends."
On that, he chose to withhold comment.
"Have you done this before?"
Diana considered it a legitimate question deserving a legitimate answer. "I haven't." she answered with honesty, "Have you?"
"Tied a half-naked man to a bed?" Kal turned the question around, "No. Not that the idea of you tying me up and having your way with, well–"
"Kal," she interrupted him.
Sky-blue eyes focused on her. "What?"
She bent, kissing him. He tasted like ambrosia, she thought. Every good wine and then some. When she pulled back, her lips appeared close to his ear, "You're rambling." Her breath was faint, hair tickling his jaw like scratches of night.
Hand reaching for something to her right, in one fluid movement it was off the bedside table, and behind her back. Her eyes watched his follow the movement. She wore a loose black chemise nightgown, the sleek undergarment doing pathetically little to hide the smooth olive skin underneath, let alone curb her generous proportions.
"Close your eyes," she ordered.
He obeyed– somewhat reluctantly. Very reluctantly.
The bed shifted as Diana leaned over him, lifting his head more gently than she really needed. When she was finished, she saw his brows rise in response.
He was blindfolded. Clark tried but, much to his surprise, couldn't see through it.
"Lead? Is this really necessary?"
"Not lead; magic. And yes, this is absolutely necessary."
She could sense his unease grow. "I hate ma–"
Diana moved onto him, fully straddling his waist. Errant strands of hair tickled over his face as she bent over him, her hands framing either side of his jaw.
"Do you trust me?" she asked.
The question ignored the fact that bound and pounced upon as he was, the answer meant very little either way — or it meant everything.
"You know I do."
She bit her lip, and after the smile had melted enough for her to use her lips for a reply, she issued him the only advice he would receive: "Good. Remember that. The bed's frame is titanium. Relax, conserve your energy for me, not the bed."
Stretched out before her in all his glory, for all the world – or just her – to see, Kal might've presented a dilemma. Normally well kept dark hair just a little mussed– though the charming curl persisted – thick pectorals, corded biceps resting easily, the golden length of her lasso looping at the wrists, her eyes traveled lower, to the tempt-ably sculpted abs, and lower still...
She was a warrior. No true Amazon entered combat unprepared. And that's what this was– combat. Kal's doing, not hers. An underhanded and premeditated scheme conjured up by his facilities for tactics. They were inadequate when it came to her. She wondered whether she would trust him like this, were their roles reversed. She shook the thought from her mind for now. There were more pressing matters to tend to.
His only warning was fingers on his hips, curving underneath the waist of his boxers and then 'sritch'.
A rush of cool air hit his exposed genitals like a petrified yak on Mt. Everest. Thankfully, he was a bit more robust than that. She'd ripped the undergarment from him. He tensed, semi-hard and Diana waisted no time in taking him in hand. She kissed his thigh. She dragged her hair over him. She breathed her breath on him. Licked a lascivious line at the head of his length that had his hips flexing and him biting down curses. It was a slow, sensuous torture which she engaged in for several minutes before finally encasing him in the warm wetness that was her glorious mouth.
Biceps flaring, the bed rattled as he inhaled– but it held.
When she released him, it was to brush her hair out of her face, his length a glistening swell of arousal that she lavished with the attention of her tongue before finally accepting him back into her mouth. The Amazon was aware that, blinded as he was, the visual of her methodology was lost on him, so she compensated with her voice.
She was careful to be noisy. The gentle sucking at his tip as she 'mmm-hmm'd' around him became a hum. Mouth opening as the Amazon took him in slowly, and then hollowing as she ascended, releasing the engorged head with a decidedly vulgar 'pop'.
Clark, try as he might, rapidly lost composure. He was in another world. It's only components suction and heat and wetness. There was no better description.
He was groaning – sometimes moaning – her name. Strained, impotent requests for 'more' and 'like that', were uniformly ignored. Having lost the ability to maintain his control, he bristled at the sound of her voice.
"Are you contrite?"
Kisses were ran up his length, nose brushing the underside of him. Slick with her spit, she stroked him, middle finger massaging his slit while the others moulded around him in a kind of glove. She stopped long enough to tease him with empty, whispery half-puffs of air.
He was shaking. "Yes! Ugh-yes, I'm sorry."
Satisfied, she welcomed him back into her mouth, a loud moan of relief escaping him. He was close, she could tell. Just a little more. Half way down she stopped; released him. A sweat covered Clark groaned in misery.
"What? Where– why did you stop? No... gods, keep going, Di."
"What are you sorry for?"
He actually had to think. He knew the answer to this. It was why they were there. It was related to a book. Clark lifted his head off of the bed several times, trying to clear it. His chest was heaving.
"I don't know!"
And he was left bereft – panting and groaning, but still bereft.
Standing and backing away from him, she took a moment to savor his predicament.
Slowly, she stepped up the length of his body, tall legs powerful and toned, coming to a stop at the head of the bed. Movement that Clark could hear but couldn't see heralded his only warning as something dark and lace eased over the curve of her hips, shimmying down her thighs to the bed. He could hear her movements; the quiet of sheer cloth being shed, sliding to the floor.
Only, by virtue of the fact that she had moved to stand directly above him, he blocked the bed, catching them instead. Heavy with her wetness they carried her scent. Clark couldn't help but inhale.
Which was ironic, because she held her own breath. She was like a domino about to topple. She controlled what happened next, but he had no idea that in how he reacted, he effected how she reacted.
Without really thinking about it, she paused to bring one foot to his face. Slowly, tortuously, pushed the undergarment against it, brushed it over his nose, then his lips. Her breath exited her in a satisfied 'ah', lips parted a hair's breadth as she eyed the spectacle appreciatively.
Athena be praised.
When she lowered herself onto his face, hedging momentarily before teasing his lips with hers, just out of reach, it was as much an act of the unsteady thread in her legs as it was a conscious act of will. No sooner had she lowered herself, then she was up again, raising her hips just out of his reach.
When she could again speak like an adult, the Amazon caught her breath.
"How long can you hold your breath, Kal?" she inquired.
He had regained some composure since her earlier teasing, but not much. For him, denial had become frustration, which had transmuted into irritation before eventually being submerged by more temptation. He wanted to rip off his binds and... "I don't know..." he breathed, head rising and falling back against the bed, "several hours... why?"
As if he didn't already know, Diana thought.
"I think you know most of my secrets, Diana."
And she probably did.
A hand ran through his splay of black hair, forefinger and thumb gliding slowly to his cheek.
"Might I suggest you inhale?"
A willingness to go above and beyond characterized Superman, and in the bedroom, there, with her, had never represented an exception. Long, luxurious strokes of his tongue took her above. Talented, prophetic flicks on the undersized, at her sweet spot at first she hadn't even realized she'd had but that he'd long ago memorized, took her beyond. Sometimes Diana wondered if the heat vision and unconquerable endurance were red herrings. That his true super power was his ability to get her to beg him in husky utterances unbefitting an Amazon. To coax her into ebullient multiples of 'yes, yes, yes'.
Deciding he deserved encouragement - a reward, she leaned back slightly, still facing forward but arching and balancing backwards with one hand on the bed for support, just beside his hips. Her other hand journeyed south, gripping his length, again.
She felt as well as heard him grunt, powerful hips thrusting into her palm. She shushed him with a pinch above his knee and a squeeze of strong Amazon thighs.
Not relinquishing her hand's hold, she proceeded to initiate a slow, vertical ceremony up the length of him.
He was formidable. She was tall and lithe, proportionately so. Her long fingers not quite reaching round the whole of him. As an afterthought she was careful to keep her thumb in play at the head of his penis. Fingers covering it on each upstroke. A slow, warm leakage lubricated her hand. She did not want him to go off– not yet. The results of his supercharged physiology could be... comically inconvenient.
Thrust lighter now, Diana felt him pump into her hand, trying to ease the ache no doubt rekindling in his loins. She could relate. Her eyes slipped closed in ecstasy. Hera, she was close. She let herself fall further into a sort of trance, the autopilot of her hand skillfully working up and down the length of his hard, thick shaft. Taking her time as she eased her thighs rhythmically over him. His tongue and mouth working out all her spots.
Phantom hands situated themselves on her hips, and her eyes shot open.
She could've sworn...! But when she stopped to look his hands were still bound, still affixed to the headboard. She blinked and felt her head swim. Lusty, carnal thoughts of his eyes raking over her possessively overtaking her. She was caught up. That was it. Were he not bound his large hands would be reaching up, groping her breast, manipulating her in rhythmic, timed intervals to match his mouth.
Fleetingly, she regretted having blindfolded him.
A particularly violent flick of his tongue had her faltering, blue eyes pinched shut and a rebellious shudder shaking her body. Her thighs quivered, liquid heat burning a path from her core. Releasing him, she leaned against the headboard.
Again she felt phantom hands on her – possessive in kind. Strong yet gentle. She didn't fight the fantasy. It was only when she opened her eyes that she found that it was no such thing. Kal – a blindfold-less Kal – watched her. His hands were free, and somehow - she couldn't fathom how - the blindfold was gone. Shock and the unceasing pressure of his mouth pushed her over the edge and she clutched at the headboard with a cry.
"Hera..." she breathed, not sure how long she drifted in the pleasure of it.
She felt his breath against her neck.
"Kal." the Amazon heard him correct.
She felt him moving, and she willed her limbs and mind to wake up, match him, but she was submerged in the aftereffects of a still wonderful bliss. Her body one large, flushed, blush. "Not your 'gods'."
Diana found herself shivering.
She felt his hand on hers, peeling them off the dented headboard, passion-roughened as he guided it to his still hard, very much still burdened erection. He/she gripped it, and Diana opened her eyes, face forward to find that he was behind her.
Silk brushed her side, and she watched, transfixed, as she allowed her lasso - her very own - to now be brandished against her. The tables changing as he made short work of securing her wrists to the headboard, level with her head. Trust, as they like to say, is a two-way street.
"Not 'Hera'," he continued huskily. And she blushed, unfamiliar self-consciousness making her shiver. No, not quite. Clark had never bothered to wear a mask. Had never bothered in his superhero-ing to alter his voice to allay suspicion of his identity, but if he had, if he did, she imagined this is what it would sound like. "Me." She heard him finish.
She shivered again. Absolutely positive he noticed it this time.
"Kal-" she gasped out, reparations fast in coming. He kissed her - hard, her head turned, his hand in her hair, face buried into her neck, and then he pushed inside. Already prepared for him, there was no reason to hesitate. She could take him now. They both knew it.
She cried out on the very first thrust. Some kind of record for frailty, her endurance better than that by at least half. But it only built, it did not lessen.
When he eventually slowed, Diana was sure it was a pugilists torture, to test her with the exactness of his control. Her fingers grasped at the railing of the bed. It made for fumbling, ecstasy impaired attempts. A bullet and her bracelets the furthest thing she was capable of at that moment.
When he hastened, it was to carry her to her completion. Her first. Her second. Her fifth. Oh God. Oh Kal. She gripped the headboard. Titanium. Found new spots to dent. Eventually, she realized she was speaking in the midst of her ecstasy - random utterances in half a dozen languages with one refrain. Years worth of naturalization falling away and her accent thickening. Sweat-slicked body long and prostrated, coiled and pressed against the bed frame. One-two-three, six-seven-eight. White-knuckled and Kal giving her everything good.
They were still on the bed, and he was untying her. An almost gently embarrassed air about him. His hair was ruffled, looking thoroughly bed-shaken. She felt him scoop her up easily. A sometimes alien feeling, she was a lot of woman. Then again, he was a lot of man. She felt him kiss her, softly. She didn't fight the urge to curl against him. Was it over? she wondered.
He spoke to her with a smile in his voice. "Sorry if I got a bit carried away." The words were there, slightly deprecating even. But she knew he wasn't sorry at all. Damp, dark tendrils clung to her face and he gently brushed them free.
"That was... you were incredible." It was an interchangeable statement, but it had come from him.
"So were you. More than so. How did you..." she stumbled, warriors did not blush, "get free?" she finished.
He looked particularly proud of himself. Not that he didn't have every reason to be. There would have to be a rematch. Amazons didn't take kindly to being bound.
"Don't get big-headed. What worth will you be to me then?"
"Sure," there was a glint in his eye, "because we wouldn't want me to get big-headed."
He was laughing at her, in that maddening way he had of being intractably humble – or not so humble in this case. "Oh, very clever, Kal." She slapped his chest, still nestled against his larger form.
They fell into a comfortable silence. It was she who eventually broke it. "In the book, which sections did you highlight?"
Clark, chin resting atop her head and fingers gliding softly over the bronzed expanse of her back, hesitated. Having read the book, she had to have already known. Her asking him didn't make sense, unless... could he have marked the wrong sections? It was possible. "Why, what did you see?"
"'Finding pleasure in the midst of an STD," the Amazon recited – he grimaced, "Another was," she paused meaningfully, "'Hers: for the man who wants to be dominated.'" the Kryptonian started to cough. "The former gave me the idea. I guessed that some were wrong and some were intentional. And for the record, you look very fitting in gold."
He sighed, chagrined, "I can honestly say this hasn't been one of my better plans, although I can't fault the ending– most of it." He amended, remembering the lasso. "Since we're in the spirit of sharing I might as well ask what 'Το Fuck εγώ στα Hades εσείς χρηματοδότησε καλά το γιο μιας αίγας herder' means?"
His Greek was suspiciously good.
Her head shot up from his chest. "Kal!" she was blushing. "Where did you hear that?"
But there was no taunting follow-up. He just lie back, watching her with a naked, knowing curiosity to match the state of his undress. For once, Clark paid attention with undisguised shrewdness.
"Did you know you revert to Greek sometimes when we're making love?" Clark chuckled. He wasn't sure whether he qualify what they'd just done as 'making love', but it was something. "It's really quite endearing."
"Are you saying...? Impossible. I wouldn't say that."
"You're," he kissed her throat,"also" he leaned closer to trail the damp hollow between her breasts, "adorable when," the front of her knee– the leg it attached to wiggled, "you're embarrassed."
Before she could stop him, he tickled her calf – at superspeed – and after first attempting to wriggle out from underneath his grasp and letting out an un-Amazonly squeal in the process, she began to falter. Unable to flee, retaliatory maneuvers followed whereby she issued kicks and threats of bodily harm. First for the super-fingers, and on principle, for the indignity of the noise. More amused by the second he persisted. His fingers were ubiquitous feather-light pinpricks forcing laughter from her. In a last ditch effort, she attempted a leg-hold, wrapping her legs around the back of his and dragging him under the sheets.
It had felled many an enemy.
Thinking herself victorious, she gasped when he emerged, lifting them above the bed. She could have floated herself rather than hold on to him but, flustered, she was in no mood to conjure the necessary concentration.
"I win." he said simply, before seeming to think better of something. "I should have thought of this before. Over the bed rather than on it."
She had to admit, he had a point.
There wasn't much talking after that.
The apartment was still, the kind of undisturbed silence of dripping faucets and phantom creaking that marked true desertion.
Bag and keys in hand, Martha Kent locked the door behind her, disappointment passing in her wake as she realized that her son wasn't there and that she was alone. A clutch of butterscotch cookies were held in one hand and a bag with Clark Kent's favorite apple pie in the other. She had meant to call ahead, but the train ride into Metropolis had taken less time than usual.
"Oh silly me!" She fretted.
She set the pastries in his refrigerator and then went to the task of fetching a peace of paper with which to write him a note. Martha noticed the fact his apartment seemed to have more of a womanly touch since the last time she'd visited. Moving to a side table, she switched on the lamp and sat on his sofa, only to trip on something wedged between the coffee-table and couch. It was a television remote. She tried to pull it out. It wouldn't budge. She pulled harder. Finally, it came lose. She checked the floor to make sure she hadn't dislodged anything else. Really, she thought she'd taught Clark to be tidier than that. He was always the cleanest little boy.
Finished, she set her note on the table.
I stopped by but you were away. I left some butterscotch cookies on the kitchen counter and some apple pies in the fridge. I will be in the city for the weekend visiting some friends. You remember Henry and Lizzy? Oh, look at me, rambling on like an old woman. I'll be by tomorrow.
P.S. I'll bring food with me tomorrow. Your fridge is woefully understocked. You know with your appetite you can go through that in a day. I hope you're eating enough, Clark.
Finished, she moved to put the note on the coffee-table.
"Oh, what's this?"
The thickest, most colorful book lay seated on the table. It looked well-worn. It hadn't been there before, but when she'd needed the paper to write the note, and walked to the couch to leave the note, and tripped over the television remote wedged dangerously against the floor, she must have disturbed some papers upon jostling said thing free.
Putting back on her reading glasses which she'd pocketed, she read the title of the book:
'Role-Playing for Dumbies.'
My, how they invented the queerest names for books nowadays.
Martha opened it.
Many miles away in Boston, the Amazon Wonder found herself waking in the middle of the night. The reason was not her own but due to her lover who was already up, his sudden movement and the loss of warmth having woken her. He lie partially upright, elbows hefting himself up off the bed. She touched him gently.
"Is there trouble?"
"No," he squinted in concentration, "I'm not sure," he admitted, "I thought... I heard a scream."
She looked at the clock. It was several hours till sunrise. She moved to turn on the bedside light, but his hand stopped her.
"Forget it. I don't hear it anymore. I'm pretty sure it was just a dream."
"Are you sure?"
He pulled her back to him, strong arms enclosing around her. "No nightmares here. Everything else can wait."
For anyone wondering, I didn't make that Greek up. What does it mean? Look it up, people! ;-) Thanks to everyone who read, Favorited and Story Alerted this! Huge thanks to everyone who reviewed: Ratdogtwo, John777, Donny, Nightwing, Shiro-wolfman, Hellacre, EroSlackerMicha, Amber, Fostersb, and Imfanci. A few people asked what Clark meant to mark in the book. To be honest, I never really thought about it. Hopefully this answered that– sort of. And of course, thanks again to Ronnie K for the great beta(s) and Arcadia for being a patient sounding board. Anyway, feedback is mana from Heaven! Let me know what you think.