The Trouble with Country Air
Lois dries her hair impatiently, padding around the bedroom in nothing but one of Farm Boy's plaid shirts and her underwear. In any other situation, she'd probably die rather than be caught dead in Smallville’s ubiquitous local couture. But in the past few weeks, she's secretly come to find it comfy-it isn't her fault plaid is so damn soft. Of course, it helps to see that flash of irritation on Clark’s face and hear the little huff of exasperation every time he catches her wearing another one of his shirts. Stealing them is worth it every single time just for that. Snickering under her breath, she looks around for her blow dryer and curses when she remembers she left it on the counter in the bathroom. "Dammit, Lois."
She tosses her towel on the desk chair and trudges out the door. In the hallway, she can hear the continuous sprinkle of water hitting the tub. Someone’s taking a shower. Her brow creases. Mrs. Kent headed out to the farmer's market earlier that morning. The only reason Lois knows this is that the woman poked her head into the bedroom at 7AM to ask if she wanted to come with. She’d had to physically restrain herself from throwing a pillow in the general direction of the obscenely cheerful voice, and had replied by flopping onto her stomach, and grumbling something unintelligible. So no, it definitely isn't Mrs. K.
Mr. Kent is probably out on some pasture fixing a fence or milking a cow or doing something else industrious. She’s pretty sure the man would lose his mind if he woke up at any time other than the crack of dawn just once in his life. She likes the guy well enough; he’s good people even if he’s kind of strict. But anyone who spouts things like, "The early bird catches the worm," with his level of conviction is seriously nuts.
So that leaves Clark.
She pauses for maybe a fifth of a second, and shrugs. No way is she hanging around waiting for him to finish showering while her hair turns into a frizzy nightmare. Besides, she can get in and out of there in less than thirty seconds. Hell, maybe she’ll say something mean on her way out just to rile him up. Her mouth quirks at the memory of his scandalized expression and the panicked eyeball peeking through the curtains the last time she snuck into the bathroom while he was showering. “God, he’s such a dork.”
Twisting the door knob and pushing it inward, she squints as a cloud of trapped steam and heat greet her. Apparently she didn’t finish all the hot water (another habit she's gotten into just to piss him off). She scans the room for the dryer, and lights upon it on the cabinet by the window. Tiptoeing, she reaches out to pick it up. A muffled groan stops her in her tracks. She frowns. Perhaps she imagined it. Shaking her head, she extends her hand again, when a more guttural moan halts her movement. The moan is followed by a whining whimper, detectable even through the steady shower of water. Her mouth drops open.
No way...
Turning her head slowly and as quietly as possible, she peers through the fog of vaporized water at the shower. Her feet move her closer, one step after another, until she stands by the toilet, little more than a foot away from the bathtub. From this close, the sound of rapid breathing is discernible. And the wet slap of skin leaves no question as to what’s going on behind the shower curtain.
Lois isn't sure whether to burst out laughing or yank the plastic drapes back with a loud, "Smile, sucker, you're on Candid Camera!" or just walk away and pretend she's never, ever contemplated the possibility of Clark Kent-. She winces. The words can’t even form themselves in her mind.
Jerking the gherkin. Flogging the dolphin. Beating the meat. Spanking the monkey. Choking the chicken-Oh, god, Lois, please stop. Apparently her brain has a handy bank of every single ridiculous phrase for male masturbation that exists, and she doesn’t even have to try, they just keep coming like a bad nursery rhyme. Flicking his wick. Punching the clown. Whacking the piñata. Peeling his banana-if screwing her fingers in her ears would help silence the racket in her head, she’d do it in a heartbeat.
He’s gasping now. And if she strains her ears she can hear snatches of words. "Ohh, yeah... oh, fuck, right there." ‘Fuck’? Farm Boy knows how to swear? She'll have to file that little factoid away for later.
She turns to leave but that's when she catches a movement out of the corner of her eye. Standing as still as a statue, she swivels her head slowly; a few degrees to the right, and for the fifth time in as many minutes-Lois’ mouth falls open like a trapdoor.
There is, conveniently, a gap through the shower curtain, nothing wider than a hand span. But it’s wide enough. Her eyes trail down and then up again-yep, it’s definitely wide enough. She can’t move a single step-not even if she wanted to. Swallowing hard to moisten an inexplicably dry throat, she catalogs exactly what she’s seeing.
Clark is leaning against the back wall of the room, his head arched backwards so he’s looking at the ceiling, a pained expression on his face. Water sluices his skin from above, running in translucent rivulets down his face, his neck, his chest. Lois gulps. Now she'd seen Clark Kent's chest in that cornfield when he was on his weekend bender or whatever the hell that crazy stunt was. But really-it’s the kind of chest that needs repeat viewings to take in. She counts the ridges of his abdomen with her eyes before her gaze slithers down the trail of dark hair, and lower still to-Holy Shit!
Slapping her hands to her mouth, Lois panics. Did she say that out loud? Her eyes fly to his face. He hasn’t broken his rhythm, he isn't screaming like a horrified virgin. If anything, he’s jerking off even harder, his shoulders rubbing back against the tiles.
Lois takes a deep breath. And-she knows it’s wrong-so very wrong but she doesn’t stop her gaze from scaling back down to his penis. This is another thing she glimpsed that night just over a month ago. Now in the fullness of day, it’s pretty obvious the bad lighting and her caffeine high didn’t do him any justice.
Biting her lip, her head drops sideways to take it all in. Half-curious (her father always told her she was too damn curious for her own good) and half-she doesn’t really have the words for it. She hasn't seen that many naked guys in real life. There was that one time she snuck into the commando showers on Fort Bragg and of course, the idiot she lost her virginity to back in 11th grade. He definitely hadn't been anything to write home about, none of them had from what she can remember. Well, none of them had looked like this.
Wetting her lip, she studies him. He’s thick. Clark can wrap his fingers around himself-but he’s also got pretty long fingers. How has she not noticed those fingers before now? But beyond that, he’s long. Not like bazooka-long or anything. But she’s pretty sure he’s packing bigger than the Average Joe. Not that she’s carried out a survey or anything to determine the average size of the male penis-she blinks. She’s babbling in her head so much, she’s missing the show.
His dick is flushed red, and she can see traces of white liquid leaking out the tip only to be washed away by the running water. He twists his hand along the length of it, moving from root to crown in a sharp rhythm. Every few swipes, he swirls his thumb across the tip and his whole body seizes up for a second, like he’s about to have a stroke. He shifts his legs so one rests on the rim of the tub and reaches down to fondle his balls with his left hand. He’s getting closer. She can see it in the way his movements are becoming less coordinated, rougher. So rough she wonders if might injure himself if he keeps it up. Maybe she should warn him or something.
Lois holds her breath for a moment and lets it out gradually. Her body tightens and she chews on her lower lip. If she thinks too deeply, she knows she'd probably cringe in embarrassment and a little self-disgust at this present situation. But with her brain distracted by the sight before her, she can’t really think logically. About anything.
He circles the tip of his cock with his thumb and forefinger, swirls back and forth over it in an undulating circle, pre-cum seeping out. Lois licks her lips. She's only ever given three blow jobs to real-life men but for some reason, something inside her wants to reach out with her tongue and lick, taste-
Later, she’ll purge her mind of every single second of this. But right now, she can’t tear her eyes away.
"Ohh, yeah, just like that-you like that? You like my dick in your mouth?" Hunh? Has Farm Boy been watching porn in his spare time? Lois finds the thought disturbing and weirdly sexy.
He’s looking just about ready to let go or close enough. His penis stiff in-between his rapidly-moving fingers. His hips jerk into his hand in uneven thrusts and he pulls even harder. "Yeah, yeah, ugh - shit! That feels so good - ahh." The words tumble out of his mouth in a broken litany. A rather loud litany at that. How often does he do this? Because she's never heard him go at it before and if he’s this noisy all the time, people can probably hear him all the way to Metropolis.
Watching him lose control like this is fascinating, maybe even beautiful-completely different from the level-headed, calm farm boy she’s used to bickering with. His face is screwed tight, his entire body straining and pulsing to the rhythm of his hands, the veins in his forearms standing out, his lips drawn back in snarl. There’s a tension in the air, it’s pulling at something inside her. Her lower abdomen twinges and she rubs her thighs together. She can feel herself getting wet-hell she's been wet for a while-just from watching him.
A shout works its way past his throat, one that quickly turns itself into a prolonged moan, and he comes hard. Spurting slick ropes of come all over his hand, across his abdomen, and across the shower curtain, and, she imagines, the tub.
She feels her cu-nt clench at the sight and she wishes she could put her hands there to ease the pressure, touch herself. Really, part of her, and she will deny this until her dying breath, wants to be right there with him in that shower, she might rub his release into her skin, maybe she’d be on her knees tasting him and she'd let him-
His fingers draw out the orgasm, wringing himself dry while he slumps against the tiled wall, his body shaking still, a dazed, happy smile flitting across his lips. And then: "Ohhh, Lo - Lois - wow... that’s-yes…swallow all of it."
Lois' thoughts freeze at the sound of her name-her body, though, is galvanized into action. Clutching the hair dryer, she scrambles-as quietly as one can scramble, and shuts the door softly behind her. With her fingers resting on the cool door knob for leverage, her mind races a mile a minute.
Had he seen her? Oh shit, he saw her. But he couldn't have. He didn't even say anything. And Clark would've said something. Or he would’ve screeched like a little girl. So was he....? Lois shakes her head. No! No, no way was Clark fantasizing about her...
She hears the water shut off in the bathroom, and jerks away from the door like she's been electrocuted, almost tripping over the hair dryer wire in her haste to escape to the relative safety of Clark Kent's bedroom. She slams the door and leans against it. Her legs feel like jelly and she’s out of breath even though she barely ran more than five steps. Inhaling deeply, she forces herself to calm down-tries to.
"Okay, Lois, calm down. This - this didn't happen. And it was just a weird fluke. And you were curious and wanted to see something. And maybe get some material to make fun of the Plaid King. But it's done. It's just hormones. And ovaries. And-and this creepy, clean country air and cow manure. And you clearly need to buy new batteries for Mr. Happy because you’re deprived. I mean, of course, you'd get distracted by... that!” she laughs, the sound uncomfortably loud in the quiet of the room, “It's finished. It’s over. You will never think about this again." She pounds her head rhythmically against the door behind her as if to reinforce every single word and wonders if there's some kind of brain-eating acid she can take to make herself forget it all.
But, even as she speaks, the images flash before her eyes like some kind of HD porn movie, and the jagged sound of her name on his lips is replaying on loud-speaker in her ear drums. Stomping to the bed, she throws herself against the mattress and stuffs her face into the pillows. “Repeat after me: You. Do. Not. Want. Clark. Kent. At all. Ever. Just ew. No.”
She says the words over and over into the pillow until she’s done a pretty decent job of convincing herself.
But the still-damp patch on the crotch of her panties and the batch of A4 batteries she buys at the store hours later, say otherwise.
Fin
She tosses her towel on the desk chair and trudges out the door. In the hallway, she can hear the continuous sprinkle of water hitting the tub. Someone’s taking a shower. Her brow creases. Mrs. Kent headed out to the farmer's market earlier that morning. The only reason Lois knows this is that the woman poked her head into the bedroom at 7AM to ask if she wanted to come with. She’d had to physically restrain herself from throwing a pillow in the general direction of the obscenely cheerful voice, and had replied by flopping onto her stomach, and grumbling something unintelligible. So no, it definitely isn't Mrs. K.
Mr. Kent is probably out on some pasture fixing a fence or milking a cow or doing something else industrious. She’s pretty sure the man would lose his mind if he woke up at any time other than the crack of dawn just once in his life. She likes the guy well enough; he’s good people even if he’s kind of strict. But anyone who spouts things like, "The early bird catches the worm," with his level of conviction is seriously nuts.
So that leaves Clark.
She pauses for maybe a fifth of a second, and shrugs. No way is she hanging around waiting for him to finish showering while her hair turns into a frizzy nightmare. Besides, she can get in and out of there in less than thirty seconds. Hell, maybe she’ll say something mean on her way out just to rile him up. Her mouth quirks at the memory of his scandalized expression and the panicked eyeball peeking through the curtains the last time she snuck into the bathroom while he was showering. “God, he’s such a dork.”
Twisting the door knob and pushing it inward, she squints as a cloud of trapped steam and heat greet her. Apparently she didn’t finish all the hot water (another habit she's gotten into just to piss him off). She scans the room for the dryer, and lights upon it on the cabinet by the window. Tiptoeing, she reaches out to pick it up. A muffled groan stops her in her tracks. She frowns. Perhaps she imagined it. Shaking her head, she extends her hand again, when a more guttural moan halts her movement. The moan is followed by a whining whimper, detectable even through the steady shower of water. Her mouth drops open.
No way...
Turning her head slowly and as quietly as possible, she peers through the fog of vaporized water at the shower. Her feet move her closer, one step after another, until she stands by the toilet, little more than a foot away from the bathtub. From this close, the sound of rapid breathing is discernible. And the wet slap of skin leaves no question as to what’s going on behind the shower curtain.
Lois isn't sure whether to burst out laughing or yank the plastic drapes back with a loud, "Smile, sucker, you're on Candid Camera!" or just walk away and pretend she's never, ever contemplated the possibility of Clark Kent-. She winces. The words can’t even form themselves in her mind.
Jerking the gherkin. Flogging the dolphin. Beating the meat. Spanking the monkey. Choking the chicken-Oh, god, Lois, please stop. Apparently her brain has a handy bank of every single ridiculous phrase for male masturbation that exists, and she doesn’t even have to try, they just keep coming like a bad nursery rhyme. Flicking his wick. Punching the clown. Whacking the piñata. Peeling his banana-if screwing her fingers in her ears would help silence the racket in her head, she’d do it in a heartbeat.
He’s gasping now. And if she strains her ears she can hear snatches of words. "Ohh, yeah... oh, fuck, right there." ‘Fuck’? Farm Boy knows how to swear? She'll have to file that little factoid away for later.
She turns to leave but that's when she catches a movement out of the corner of her eye. Standing as still as a statue, she swivels her head slowly; a few degrees to the right, and for the fifth time in as many minutes-Lois’ mouth falls open like a trapdoor.
There is, conveniently, a gap through the shower curtain, nothing wider than a hand span. But it’s wide enough. Her eyes trail down and then up again-yep, it’s definitely wide enough. She can’t move a single step-not even if she wanted to. Swallowing hard to moisten an inexplicably dry throat, she catalogs exactly what she’s seeing.
Clark is leaning against the back wall of the room, his head arched backwards so he’s looking at the ceiling, a pained expression on his face. Water sluices his skin from above, running in translucent rivulets down his face, his neck, his chest. Lois gulps. Now she'd seen Clark Kent's chest in that cornfield when he was on his weekend bender or whatever the hell that crazy stunt was. But really-it’s the kind of chest that needs repeat viewings to take in. She counts the ridges of his abdomen with her eyes before her gaze slithers down the trail of dark hair, and lower still to-Holy Shit!
Slapping her hands to her mouth, Lois panics. Did she say that out loud? Her eyes fly to his face. He hasn’t broken his rhythm, he isn't screaming like a horrified virgin. If anything, he’s jerking off even harder, his shoulders rubbing back against the tiles.
Lois takes a deep breath. And-she knows it’s wrong-so very wrong but she doesn’t stop her gaze from scaling back down to his penis. This is another thing she glimpsed that night just over a month ago. Now in the fullness of day, it’s pretty obvious the bad lighting and her caffeine high didn’t do him any justice.
Biting her lip, her head drops sideways to take it all in. Half-curious (her father always told her she was too damn curious for her own good) and half-she doesn’t really have the words for it. She hasn't seen that many naked guys in real life. There was that one time she snuck into the commando showers on Fort Bragg and of course, the idiot she lost her virginity to back in 11th grade. He definitely hadn't been anything to write home about, none of them had from what she can remember. Well, none of them had looked like this.
Wetting her lip, she studies him. He’s thick. Clark can wrap his fingers around himself-but he’s also got pretty long fingers. How has she not noticed those fingers before now? But beyond that, he’s long. Not like bazooka-long or anything. But she’s pretty sure he’s packing bigger than the Average Joe. Not that she’s carried out a survey or anything to determine the average size of the male penis-she blinks. She’s babbling in her head so much, she’s missing the show.
His dick is flushed red, and she can see traces of white liquid leaking out the tip only to be washed away by the running water. He twists his hand along the length of it, moving from root to crown in a sharp rhythm. Every few swipes, he swirls his thumb across the tip and his whole body seizes up for a second, like he’s about to have a stroke. He shifts his legs so one rests on the rim of the tub and reaches down to fondle his balls with his left hand. He’s getting closer. She can see it in the way his movements are becoming less coordinated, rougher. So rough she wonders if might injure himself if he keeps it up. Maybe she should warn him or something.
Lois holds her breath for a moment and lets it out gradually. Her body tightens and she chews on her lower lip. If she thinks too deeply, she knows she'd probably cringe in embarrassment and a little self-disgust at this present situation. But with her brain distracted by the sight before her, she can’t really think logically. About anything.
He circles the tip of his cock with his thumb and forefinger, swirls back and forth over it in an undulating circle, pre-cum seeping out. Lois licks her lips. She's only ever given three blow jobs to real-life men but for some reason, something inside her wants to reach out with her tongue and lick, taste-
Later, she’ll purge her mind of every single second of this. But right now, she can’t tear her eyes away.
"Ohh, yeah, just like that-you like that? You like my dick in your mouth?" Hunh? Has Farm Boy been watching porn in his spare time? Lois finds the thought disturbing and weirdly sexy.
He’s looking just about ready to let go or close enough. His penis stiff in-between his rapidly-moving fingers. His hips jerk into his hand in uneven thrusts and he pulls even harder. "Yeah, yeah, ugh - shit! That feels so good - ahh." The words tumble out of his mouth in a broken litany. A rather loud litany at that. How often does he do this? Because she's never heard him go at it before and if he’s this noisy all the time, people can probably hear him all the way to Metropolis.
Watching him lose control like this is fascinating, maybe even beautiful-completely different from the level-headed, calm farm boy she’s used to bickering with. His face is screwed tight, his entire body straining and pulsing to the rhythm of his hands, the veins in his forearms standing out, his lips drawn back in snarl. There’s a tension in the air, it’s pulling at something inside her. Her lower abdomen twinges and she rubs her thighs together. She can feel herself getting wet-hell she's been wet for a while-just from watching him.
A shout works its way past his throat, one that quickly turns itself into a prolonged moan, and he comes hard. Spurting slick ropes of come all over his hand, across his abdomen, and across the shower curtain, and, she imagines, the tub.
She feels her cu-nt clench at the sight and she wishes she could put her hands there to ease the pressure, touch herself. Really, part of her, and she will deny this until her dying breath, wants to be right there with him in that shower, she might rub his release into her skin, maybe she’d be on her knees tasting him and she'd let him-
His fingers draw out the orgasm, wringing himself dry while he slumps against the tiled wall, his body shaking still, a dazed, happy smile flitting across his lips. And then: "Ohhh, Lo - Lois - wow... that’s-yes…swallow all of it."
Lois' thoughts freeze at the sound of her name-her body, though, is galvanized into action. Clutching the hair dryer, she scrambles-as quietly as one can scramble, and shuts the door softly behind her. With her fingers resting on the cool door knob for leverage, her mind races a mile a minute.
Had he seen her? Oh shit, he saw her. But he couldn't have. He didn't even say anything. And Clark would've said something. Or he would’ve screeched like a little girl. So was he....? Lois shakes her head. No! No, no way was Clark fantasizing about her...
She hears the water shut off in the bathroom, and jerks away from the door like she's been electrocuted, almost tripping over the hair dryer wire in her haste to escape to the relative safety of Clark Kent's bedroom. She slams the door and leans against it. Her legs feel like jelly and she’s out of breath even though she barely ran more than five steps. Inhaling deeply, she forces herself to calm down-tries to.
"Okay, Lois, calm down. This - this didn't happen. And it was just a weird fluke. And you were curious and wanted to see something. And maybe get some material to make fun of the Plaid King. But it's done. It's just hormones. And ovaries. And-and this creepy, clean country air and cow manure. And you clearly need to buy new batteries for Mr. Happy because you’re deprived. I mean, of course, you'd get distracted by... that!” she laughs, the sound uncomfortably loud in the quiet of the room, “It's finished. It’s over. You will never think about this again." She pounds her head rhythmically against the door behind her as if to reinforce every single word and wonders if there's some kind of brain-eating acid she can take to make herself forget it all.
But, even as she speaks, the images flash before her eyes like some kind of HD porn movie, and the jagged sound of her name on his lips is replaying on loud-speaker in her ear drums. Stomping to the bed, she throws herself against the mattress and stuffs her face into the pillows. “Repeat after me: You. Do. Not. Want. Clark. Kent. At all. Ever. Just ew. No.”
She says the words over and over into the pillow until she’s done a pretty decent job of convincing herself.
But the still-damp patch on the crotch of her panties and the batch of A4 batteries she buys at the store hours later, say otherwise.
Fin