SV fic: WHEN I WAS LOST

[roxymissrose]

1

Clark leaned out of the window of his apartment, cricked his neck and just managed to see the sun rising over the tops of the buildings across the way. It was still quiet in the streets-not for long, of course, but at the moment the air still held a pre-dawn hush. Clark liked this time of morning. It reminded him of better times, when he still had a home and parents, when he'd still had people who'd truly cared for him. He closed his eyes and pretended he could hear the low cough-snuffle of calves in their pens, the sleepy chirping of the henhouse. He imagined Shelby barking when he called out his name…"Oh, Mom," he whispered, "Dad…" and let the pain sweep through him until he could push it away again.

Clark sighed-he had hours to go before it was time to work, but he had things to do, so. Time to officially start the day. He closed his window, locked it, and grabbing his soap and towel, headed into the bathroom. He climbed into the shower, a stall barely big enough to stand in as long as he only bent one arm at a time. There were positives to being tall, but it had its drawbacks, he thought, as he struggled to wash up and keep the shower curtain closed, too. The shower-the bathroom-- had apparently been built with a person five feet tall in mind. He grinned as he let the hot water wash over him, hummed a little to himself. At least it was all his, alone. He thought idly about getting a cat. The apartment felt a little cold and isolated sometimes…but mostly just after working, so. Maybe not such a good idea.

He stuck his toothbrush in his mouth and wandered out to the kitchen, flicked his electric kettle on, and dropped a spoon of instant coffee into the mug on the counter. He leaned against the counter, brushing his teeth as he waited for the kettle to boil.

With the TV as white-noise in the background, he took two donuts out of the box of day-olds and munched on them, sipped the rapidly cooling mug of bitter coffee and stared at the pile of creased and faintly greasy bills stacked on the table. Rent was due, and no matter how the landlady suggested he could pay it, he made sure to be unfailingly polite and on time with the exact amount in cash--so far had he'd been successful in deflecting her advances. He was pretty sure that one day, she wasn't going to take a smile and an appeal to her atrophied maternal sense. One of these days he was going to have to either get a new place or give that sad little woman what she wanted. Clark grimaced. Well, if push came to shove…he'd done a hell of a lot worse. And he really loved his little apartment. He didn't even mind overmuch that it tended to smell of the dumpsters from the restaurant next door-he preferred that to the smell of un-emptied buckets that had made do as toilets in that first, god-awful place. He liked that he could go up the stairs to the roof, even set a chair out there, and that he had fairly good sized windows and lots of light-he hated being in shadows. He had a bedroom with a door that actually mostly closed, and sure, his bathroom might be a step up from an outhouse, and the shower just a suggestion, but it was his alone and the apartment had a solid, lockable, door. It was all he needed. He'd be hard-pressed to find another place as clean and livable for the price.

That first year he'd been on his own, after sleeping wherever he could find a dry spot those first few weeks, he'd ended up sleeping on the floor of a place that housed ten people in a space designed for four, tops. He'd never had a moment's peace and the 'roommates' came and went at all hours. That year, he'd lost almost everything he'd had that tied him to Smallville. Someone in the place stole from him. Hell, for all he knew, they all stole from him. When he was finally able to leave, all he'd taken with him was the broken necklace he called his bad luck charm-the necklace he was pretty sure had once belonged to Lana Lang and a picture of his mom and dad. Now the photo was in a cheap wooden frame, and sat on the table next to his bed. Under the table, in the metal box he'd scavenged from the wreckage of an abandoned factory building, he kept the necklace. The metal of the box somehow dulled the pain-metal an old timer told him was lead and maybe worth a few dollars. Turned out, it was worth much more than that to Clark.

Everything that was important to him was in his apartment-everything in it belonged to him, and him alone.

~kCk~

The Garden was shaping up to be a bust tonight, Clark thought. A light drizzle was making everyone uncomfortable, and foot traffic was almost non-existent. Street traffic was down as well. Clark shrugged. Some nights you lost, some nights, you made the rent. He strolled his way over to the ornamental bridge that spanned a gravel river that ended at the shores of a little man-made lake; it was one of his favorite places in the park. In the day, it was an island of quiet, a place of comfortable solitude and reflection. At night, it was an altogether different atmosphere. At night, it was a place that fractured souls met and hurt each other more. Clark shook his head with a rueful smile at the turn his head had taken. Junior English had done a terrible number on his thought processes. He forgot himself enough to smile, and regretted that very much when a voice at his back crooned, "Well, well. Having a good night, are we?"

He sighed. The undercover jerk made his life, and the life of the other boys, more difficult…but Clark had a system. He didn't mind paying a fee to keep them all out of trouble, and he made sure that he was the only one who did pay. The man was…troublesome, but not in a way that could hurt Clark.

An hour later Clark was back in the park, the drizzle had resolved itself into a brisk rain, but Clark lingered while most took off for sheltered areas. He sat on a bench and let his head fall back, closed his eyes and let the smells, the sounds, sooth him. He timed his breaths to the drip-trip-drip of rain splashing its way through the leafy canopy overhead and it was better than meditation. He inhaled deeply and the spicy scent of dianthus in the nearby flower beds swept a wave of remembered warmth through him. He mused that not having to breathe the way others did, did nothing to ease the powerful, all-consuming, wanting to breathe. The body might not need the oxygen, but the mind certainly didn't believe, and shrieked around in his skull telling him he needed air now, now, NOW. He shuddered. He hated that vice bastard so much, it made him feel guilty. He knew that he could stand by and watch the man die, with laughter in his heart--and that made him feel--dirty. Disgusting. Dirtier than anything anyone paid him to do. Clark's fingertips rose to his throat without being aware, and traced the swell and dip of his Adam's apple. At this point, there'd be no sign of the fleeting red marks left by the soft cotton rope that had tightened on his neck until not even a whisper of air bled through.

This time had been intense. This time, even that pervert cop looked shocked at what he'd done. Thank goodness he didn't seem to realize that Clark should be dead, not just have lapsed into 'unconsciousness'. Clark fanned out the bills in his hand. He didn't feel the slightest guilt for having picked the man's pockets, though, it served the perv right. And still, the creep had gotten off cheap for what he'd wanted. Fifty dollars to fuck a man while he choked to death? Clark considered it payment deserved for having saved someone else from the bastard's touch.

He stood up and stared at his reflection in a puddle at his feet. The puddle cast back a picture of a boy with black pits where his eyes should be, sunken over skull white cheeks…he crushed the bills in his hand. Clark knew, he knew damn well, there was no real justification for his theft and his dad would have probably been more horrified at the theft than the job. He snorted softly. It really was time to get to work when he wasted time on pointless reflection-literal and metaphorical. He checked his pockets for his tin of mints, and walked out of the park to wherever the johns would be circling this time of night. He shoved his jeans a little lower on his hips-chumming the water.

By the time he got back to the apartment that morning, he had three kids in tow, and extra groceries from the market. He sent the girls to get cleaned up, and set the boy to helping him cook. Bread tasted good no matter how old with enough cheese and some butter. He cut soft spots away from a tomato, cut it into paper thin slices and laid it on the cheese before flipping the whole thing into a frying pan.

"Under that counter, there's some packages of Raman noodles. You want to bring 'em here?" He took the packages, handed the boy a collection of mismatched bowls. As the boy set the table he broke the noodles up inside the package and then dumped them into boiling water, pulled some soy packets saved from take-out dinners from a drawer and tossed a package by each plate. By the time the girls came back out, their makeshift evening meal was done.

While they ate, Clark collected their stories, and nodded. They were familiar as his own story. "Here," Clark said, "this place will let you sleep there, and here's one that will let you stay for a few days. You'll just need to-to-rotate between the two. This place," he shoved a flyer over, "will let you call anywhere I the country-for free. As long as you're calling a relative." Clark glared. "You know what I mean."

Only one of the girls took the flyer with anything approaching interest. Clark sighed. He did what he could, but his space was his, and he never shared it-ever.

Later that morning, he led the kids off to the shelters, wished them luck and then headed towards the library. It was a favorite place of his. A place to disappear inside his head in a pleasant way, whether through reading, or research at one of the computer kiosks. He searched a few times a month, trying to find hints of someone who was like himself. Someone who was a freak like him. He skimmed through the local papers and came up with nothing, so he grabbed an interesting book and sat in one of the armchairs nearest the tall windows, and read until hunger forced him out again.

"Clark! Run!"
"Mom. No-no!" in the blink of an eye mom was snatched from his hands-he'd been too startled to tighten his grip and she was whirled away from him. A fog of debris cloaked her from him, and in minutes everything he'd ever had was gone-his home was reduced to matchsticks, the animals dead, his dad missing, his mom…"Mom! Mom…" he hit the ground, dropped to his side and cried that he'd been spared.

Clark woke from the nightmare with a groan that in his dream had been a scream. He hated that dream, hated it so much.

That day, the beginning of the end, Clark found out that he was a freak. He'd lost his mother, been thrown through the barn and driven into the dirt of the field to his neck; he'd emerged without a scratch atop the mound of mud and wood and pulverized stone that had been his home. The pain had dissipated almost the instant he'd managed to grub his way back to the surface. He'd cried and bled and vomited dirt for what felt like hours, but under the grime, he was untouched. A freak. The only thing that had hurt him was a cracked piece of green crystal attached to half a chain, something he'd found looped through the branches of a lilac, all that was left of his mother's garden. Some…impulse had made him reach for it, and he'd been shocked to his core at the explosion of pain that shot up his arm and into his gut when he'd touched it. Disregarding the pain, he'd shoved the broken necklace in a pocket. He'd relished the violent burn of it against his hip, like acid drilling into the bone. It at least let him know he was alive. He'd wanted to hurt too, the way everyone around him hurt.

When they came to tell him that they'd found his dad, he'd sat right down on the ground where they'd told him, and cried.

And then he had no place to go, no one to help. He couldn't see going from one small town to the other so in the end, he chose Metropolis. Something called him there, and he followed the impulse. It was an impulse that occasionally he regretted.

Clark pulled his fingers through his hair, trying to get it to do something besides pouf out on one side. He blinked hard; making his eyes water a bit-tricks seemed to like it when his eyes were a little wet. They liked it too when he lined them with broad strokes of black, and tinted his lips a bit with gloss. He pulled the skin tight t-shirt a little more comfortably across his shoulders. The way it rode up into his armpits was a bit distracting. Cars drove by in a slow procession, but none of them stopped. He sighed, and moved further into the dark, a district where warehouses and old brick factories sat abandoned. Rehab fever hadn't caught up in this part of the city yet. It was always dark here, and the rain reactivated the smell of long dead beef and the overpowering scent of paper mills.

Clark ended up on his knees, grit needling his kneecaps. His mouth was wide and pulled tight at the corners and the john kept shoving in without concern for him. He wouldn’t throw up; he hadn't done that in years. He grimaced as the guy snatched up a handful of hair and pulled. Bitch, he muttered, and repeated it, quietly, nastily, to himself. Clark closed his eyes so the john wouldn't see him roll his eyes. No more than a minute or two later, Clark spit a mouthful of spunk onto the ground between his knees. He licked the rawness from his lips and nodded when the guy shoved a few bills at him. He waited for the guy to clear out, and then headed out of the alley himself, folding the money into his pocket. A little later, he was in a hotel room, legs spread while a trick worked himself to orgasm.

The night was fairly typical, and not bad pay wise. Rent was almost paid, Clark calculated while he walked. If he'd had to pay a pimp, he'd never be able to make ends meet. But he'd established early on that no one could touch him. He couldn't be beaten, couldn't be coerced-there was no leverage on a man who was untouchable. He'd had to break a knee-cap or two before he was considered too much trouble. He'd even had the other whores ask for his protection but Clark turned that down too. He had to stay on his own. It was the only safe way for everyone.

Clark had learned his lesson. People who needed him died.

Most nights Clark spent in the Garden, or the streets around the clubs. Clark didn't have to worry about being chased off from anywhere or being threatened-that kind of thing had been sorted out early on. Clark was used to modest and didn't need much more than what he had. But there were times he stepped outside the box he'd made for himself, times that were coming more frequently and it wasn't the money he could make--two or three times what he made on the street-it was the weight of guilt that drove him out of his apartment those times, and past the clubs that most tourists visited. He went beyond them to those places that were special, anonymous and only those who knew…knew. Places with people who were used to skirting the edge of the dark. Who knew how to keep a secret.

Those nights, Clark wore a necklace with a pendant, a little metal box-a gift from a 'date'. Clark let the fine but sturdy links of the chain run through his fingers. Gift sounded so much nicer than payment, he thought and smiled. That 'date' had been the first he used the necklace with. It had become a signal to those who knew, that here was a boy who'd do anything. Anything at all. When he went, Clark made sure to charge all he could, because some people thought that if they got a thing for free, it was worthless, but if it cost them their heart's blood, well then…people would know how precious a thing it was, that only they could afford.

This was the way Clark burned off a little of his guilt, paid the price for being a freak. A freak…he told himself it was penance and punishment, but a small, dark, twisted part of him loved it.

~kCk~
On this particular night, he found himself contemplating a bland beige carpet. It was all he could see with his head hung over the end of the table he was tied to, feet on the floor and spread wide by a bar, his ass up and exposed. The pendant was in his mouth, the little door he could open or close with his tongue in the open position. He drooled a little around it--with his head hanging down, it was difficult to swallow. The trick could care less-he was paying for Clark's ass, not his mouth. He never looked once into Clark's face, not from the moment Clark dropped his clothes and climbed on the table.

He felt everything the john did, pain flared bright, over and over across his oversensitive skin. It hurt, it stopped his breath. The client hissed a slow, quiet string of words and twisted the dildo in further, drew it out slow. "Tell me, tell me how much you hate this-"
"I hate it, I don't-don't do this-" Clark had no trouble acting out this little scene-the guy was an ass and he did hate it-him-but he was paying a ridiculous amount of money to humiliate Clark. What the heck, he'd hate it until he had to love it.

Once the scene was over, he'd lick the box closed and heal perfectly in a few short hours--alone, at home. Staying with a trick was a no go-a non-negotiable rule and nobody complained twice, not if they ever wanted to hire him again. No staying the night, no gags, no scenes without the pendent. Clark was the one who decided when the game had come to an end. What he did wasn't a Dom/sub situation-he didn't do that. The buyer got to hurt someone, and that was all they got.

~kCk~

It was a calm night, dry, warm, and rare in Metropolis. A faint breeze had sprung up, blowing the scent of garbage and rot away from the club district. It was the perfect night, just right for drawing out his special clients-the mild weather was always guaranteed to bring them out like roaches from the baseboards.

He was dressed to draw them in, a thin black a-shirt that showed off lithe muscle to effect and around his neck the deceptively delicate chain, the pendanttucked into the neckline. He leaned against the wall behind him, legs spread, the hands tucked deep into his pockets pulling the fabric of his artfully distressed jeans tight across his dick. Subtlety was a waste in his profession.

He played the part of disaffected hustler, dredging up a look of mild interest to give the men who walked past and fucked Clark with their eyes. It was still too early for the money crowd, and not one of them stood a chance with Clark-too poor, not the right kind of needy. They wanted him, craved him, of course, but Clark wasn't about philanthropy. Pity fucks didn't pay the bills.

A full moon gilded the street pale silver before Clark decided it was time he made his appearance in the right sort of clubs. He shifted, ready to move but he hesitated--a tall man, almost eye to eye with Clark, stopped in front of him. He sauntered up, smirking, and brought his arms up to cage Clark against the wall.

Clark snorted. Apparently this one lacked no confidence. He ran his eyes from the guy's shoes to his mouth, a slow and obviously appraising gaze that made the other chuckle. The potential client was dressed expensively but not showy, and other than that brief chuckle, was quiet as Clark examined him. Clark liked what he saw-the man was handsome, very much so, and the look he gave Clark said that he knew it. Clark kind of liked that. His soft blue eyes gave Clark the feeling that the man saw himand not just a mouth or an ass for hire. Clark blinked, and smiled. He'd decided already, regardless of what the man wanted, he was going with him-for the way the man looked at him alone. By the way the client relaxed, he knew too, that Clark wasn't going to refuse him. He bent his elbows, lowering himself against Clark until they were resting chest to chest, Clark still pressed against the brick wall. He whispered in Clark's ear, "Do you care what happens to you?"

Clark flinched-not the question he'd expected, he waited perhaps a beat too long before answering, "Of course I do."

The man smirked, disbelief plain in the curve of his mouth. He pushed himself away from Clark, took a step or two back, and then asked the question Clark had been expecting. "How much for the night, pretty?"

Clark rolled shoulders first off the wall and followed the man. He watched Clark come and his blue eyes widened, for a startled moment he looked like a rabbit in the path of a predator before he covered his brief surprise with a laugh. Clark found he liked the sound of it. "Six hundred, but it'll be worth it-whatever you want."

"Oh, I've heard about the boy with the necklace, what he'll do, what he'll let happen to him. I've got something that requires a bit of…finesse. I want you for the weekend. Do you need to--is anyone waiting for you?"

Clark laughed, about to tell him no way in hell did he do overnights, let alone a damn weekend but his mouth decided to betray him. "No one is waiting for me. And I'm going to need four thousand for a weekend."

The man stared at him, and Clark didn’t turn a hair. He waited, relaxed, certain the man would turn him down hard. Though if he did take the bait, Clark wouldn't need to work for a while. He could devote more time to work on his search. For a few weeks at least, he wouldn't have to do anything but read, sleep, not think about anything--until the dreams drove him back out to the streets.
"Done," the man said.

Clark blinked. He hadn't expected a yes, so for a long moment he could only stare in disbelief before he pulled the mask back on. He looked away, tugged at the hem of his shirt-realized he was fidgeting and froze. Tried for a confident smile but this man, something about this man was twisting the script…"I don't have many rules--" he began.

"So I've heard…" the man interrupted with a sardonic smile. Clark huffed and continued.

"--but the ones I have are iron-clad. I won’t change them for anyone or any amount of money." He traced the chain that looped around his neck. Fiddled with the tiny box pendent, the lid he could open or close with his tongue. "For one, this necklace never comes off. Whatever scene we do that doesn't require my mouth, starts when I put the box in my mouth, stops when I drop it. Okay?"

The man frowned, but agreed. "All right…can you talk with that thing in your mouth?"

"Never been an issue so far. It's my safe word," he laughed and the man smiled as if he knew a secret Clark didn't.

"Come on, then," the other said and led Clark to a very, very nice car. "Get in."

~eEe~

The client led Clark into an apartment that he called his studio.

"I'm Eric," he said, as he unlocked the door and disabled an alarm. He took Clark's elbow and led him inside, turned him to face a long, stark white wall hung with oversized prints. "I'm a photographer, and I'm looking for a new model. My current model just let me know she's dropped out to have a baby." He flicked switches, and spots came up and illuminated several of the huge framed photos behind them. In almost every print, a woman, or at least her long, slim back, featured. She kept her face away from the camera, and it made the shots even more intriguing. She was wrapped in red cord in some, the red stark against her coffee colored skin, and Clark found those fascinating-he had no idea rope could be so beautiful. In others, she had something in her skin, and it took a moment before it registered. Her skin was pierced, in patterns, with hypodermic needles-their pink and black caps made a design in her back. Clark tilted his head, studied the prints. He could do that-had done something a little like that. But the designs had been cut into his skin, and held no meaning for him or, as far as he could tell, the client--the cuts had just been cuts, slices in his skin. He'd bled a lot, and the client had smeared the blood all over his belly, then jerked off on him and he'd been paid well enough to moan and groan as if he'd cared.

This, though…this fascinated him.

Eric took out his kit and spread it across a stainless steel table that sat under a row of narrow windows. "These are needles-fine gauge needles. I'll put these into your skin, if you agree to it. It will look a little like those photos. There's something about you, you're so masculine, but with this…veneer of frailty," he stopped and laughed softly. "Um, that's not quite the word…at any rate; I've never done a man before." He grinned at Clark's little snort. "Shhh," he said, "I'm being serious. To clarify, I've never created art with a man as my canvas. I'm looking forward to the contrast, male and female. What do you think…can you can do this, Clark?"

Clark smiled. "Sure, Eric, I don't see a problem."

He let Eric undress him, all very artistic and serious, and then pose him. He smiled to himself as Eric adjusted lights, and screens, puttered around with lenses and muttered to himself before taking shots of Clark, moving him this way and that, every new pose arranged to hide Clark's face. Clark thought it was a lot of time wasted pretending this whole 'model' thing was Eric's focus. But if the man wanted to tease himself, far be it from Clark to ruin his little fantasy. Clark thought that as this point the guy would have been either fucking him or sticking him or both but it didn't really matter-the meter started ticking the moment he'd walked in the door.

Eric took a long time staring at the shots he'd taken. He seemed to be in a trance--when Clark caught his attention; his eyes went wide and dark. "Lay down on the bed-on your back," he said, his voice rough and dry. He yanked at his own clothes and Clark lay down and masked a sigh. It was a surprise that Eric took so long to get to this but this? Was easy, this was nothing….

Eric slicked the condom on his dick, and asked Clark how much prep he needed and Clark shook his head. "Go on," he said, and slid the pendant into his mouth, tongued it open, just because he wanted it to hurt, a little…

Eric pushed lube into him, just enough to slick his own way, fucked him hard, ruthless--caught up Clark's thighs in his hands and pushed them towards his chest. Clark fought to breathe, used every trick he'd learned to keep himself the way the client liked, loose and pliant. He tried to sink inside himself, but instead felt every push in, felt his rim grab and pull at Eric's dick, got caught up in the sounds Eric made. He let go of any pretense of control when Eric shifted his grip to press Clark's thighs flat against his chest, fucked Clark so deep, fast, that he couldn't draw a breath let alone move-all he could do was take it. Eric strained forward, shuddered and came hard, so hard that Clark could feel the heat as come filled the thin latex, felt Eric's dick jerk inside him. He rode out Eric's orgasm on a wave of diffuse and pleasant arousal himself, unusual, but nice. He was even a little hard….
Clark was readying himself to stir, go clean up and maybe, finish himself off, but Eric reached down and jerked Clark off rough, fast, and just hair way from painful. Just what Clark needed. He felt some surprise that Eric even wanted him to get off---lot of guys couldn't care less and most of the times Clark was grateful they didn't. This was different.

Clark gasped out loud when he came, hot and slick and thick and it went on and on…distantly he heard Eric groan and felt his dick twitch inside him. It had been a long time since he'd gotten off-since he'd even wanted to.

"It's been a long time since I've been moved to be with anyone-sorry if I was too rough, I just-" Eric looked away.

Clark got off the bed and reached for his clothes, let the pendant slip from his mouth and said, "Don’t apologize, you paid for that. It was what we agreed to, right? Or at least it was implied-anything means pretty much just that."

Eric looked at Clark through narrowed eyes. "How about you leave your clothes there? Take a shower. Sleep-tomorrow the real work begins."

Clark shrugged. So Eric wanted him to spend the time without clothes…a thing like that was so minor it didn't even register. He padded into Eric's bathroom, surprised at just how ordinary and sparsely furnished it was. It reminded him that this was Eric's space but not his home, he wasn't going to bring a thing like Clark into his home….

When he came out of the shower, Eric was dozing on the bed. Clark made to walk past him out to the living room, and the long padded bench that did duty as a sofa. He wasn't asked to stay with Eric and wasn't about to ask.

"Where do you think you're going? Get your pretty ass in bed," Eric growled, and held the covers back, waiting. Clark smothered the smile that wanted to come and slid into the sheets. Eric grabbed him and wound his legs through Clark's. "I snore," was all he said. Clark slipped into sleep faster than he'd had since…since a very, very long time.

~eEe~

The next day, they did…nothing. Eric ordered in breakfast, they drank coffee and ate and Clark read the parts of the newspaper Eric passed to him. He went on at length about the power of the printed word, and the joy of reading an actual paper and Clark disagreed with him, countering Eric's arguments just for fun. Eric seemed to enjoy it. They walked in the park, he brought Clark along on a shopping trip for supplies, they had lunch, Eric took him home again and fucked him. It was eerily like a date--a real one, the kind Clark could only imagine. Eric talked to him like he was a normal person, as if he truly valued Clark's opinion. It unsettled Clark if he let himself think about it…he reminded himself that he was getting paid ridiculous amounts of money to act normal.

That evening, Eric behaved in a way Clark could understand. He opened all the blinds and fucked Clark on the studio floor, a thick rug protecting Clark's skin. After, Eric sat him on the padded bench, snapped on a pair of latex gloves and began to work. He cleaned a section of Clark's skin with a pad of alcohol-soaked gauze. The medicinal odor stung Clark's nose. The brief chill dissipated and Eric pinched up a bit of skin, slipped a needle in. It sent a faint electric shock through Clark, one after the other until his skin tingled, then began to burn and soon, the pain became a constant. Clark was surprised to find himself getting a little hard. The sting, sooth, sting, sooth of the needles sliding into him became the point he concentrated on. He felt himself falling into the sensation; filled up with it…he began to feel a faint stirring of something like panic. This wasn't holding his breath and waiting for the pain to stop, like usual. This was different, insidious, creeping up on him so slowly that it took a while before he understood there was nothing left of the world but Eric breathing, the pop-sting of the needles, the slow beat of some jazz in the background, his own breath, and the slick slide and sting of the alcohol….

He felt a faint tremor work through him and then Eric's hand was wrapped around his neck, squeezing gently and his voice in Clark's ear murmuring, "It's okay, I've got you, I've got you…"

The grip tightened and brought Clark back, and he felt something in his chest open, warm…he leaned into Eric's grip.

"That's it, Clark, that's it." Eric kissed his shoulder and went to the cameras and Clark moved the way Eric wanted him to do.

~eEe~
"Look, Clark. Look at how amazing you are."

Clark looked at what Eric made and was surprised. The pattern looped around and around itself, like a nautilus shell. It looked…amazing. Beautiful. And then it was over. Eric took the needles out, cleaned Clark's back like he cared. He disposed of the needles-"Fresh set, each time, each canvas," Eric murmured, and Clark could see that Eric was some other place, deciding on prints, how to crop and frame them, maybe what pattern to use next. Finally, he gave Clark his entire attention, led him into the bathroom, nudged him into a warm shower and blew him, slow and torturous, until Clark found himself nearly screaming when he came, the pendant bouncing open and unnoticed on his chest.
After, Eric made arrangements to do it again. Clark found himself looking forward to it.
~kCk~

"Hello darling, how've you been?"

"Oh, not bad, how about yourself, gorgeous?" Clark smiled, shifted the phone to his shoulder. He'd just come in from shopping and only answered because it was his favorite client.

"Ahhh, flattery, I love it. So, you've been busy…a friend tells me he saw you at a scene last week. You naughty boy. I tried to make an appointment and you told me you were busy."

Clark emptied his shopping bags on the counter, stacking cans of soup into a cabinet. "Ah, Maestro dear, I was busy. I was on the clock, dearest."

"I see. Well. Clark, listen, I don't want you doing that street thing anymore."

Eric's tone changed and Clark straightened, groceries forgotten. His own tone went a little cold. "Oh, really? You want me to what, give up the life and live with you?" be your own personal whore he managed not to say aloud.
Eric laughed. "Good lord no; you'd be bored of me in a week." He laughed off Clark's automatic protest and said, "No, darling; I have someone for you that I think you'll fit well. I think…" Eric stopped, went on. "I think you might need him as much as he needs you. Now, he's stubborn, hard-headed and you might not like him at all. If you don't care to take him on, let me know, I'll drop a word and you'll never be bothered by him again. I have…some influence with him."

An unpleasant little shiver worked its way through Clark's gut. He was…surprised that Eric had 'recommended' him to someone else. He had no doubt Eric had influence, and wielded it like a prince, careless, kindly, with absolute expectation of obedience-which he got. And after all, business was business and anything else was an illusion. "Yes, all right, I'll meet with him. Just be sure to tell him, it's only a meeting, not a contract."

"Darling, of course. I know you, after all." Eric chuckled and hung up, and Clark tapped the phone against his cheek. What he needed. He drew his fingers over his lips and licked the shiver that brought away. This might be interesting…he opened the kitchen window and sniffed. The bakery down the street scented his entire kitchen with the wonderful smell of fresh bread…he thought he should pick something, maybe coffee to go with-he was addicted to their mochas. Or maybe a bag of whole beans and see if the ridiculously complicated coffee maker Eric recommended was as good as he said it was.

~kCk~

Claude proved to be as interesting as Eric hinted. He was dark, polished and handsome, smooth and cold as cut marble. He only wanted one thing from Clark-everything. Clark took the contract with a sense of foreboding. Even though Eric promised him that Claude wouldn't break him apart, everything about the man told Clark it was possible.

First night with Claude, Clark was told to remove his clothes as soon as he walked in the door. Humiliation. Clark nodded. Most would be embarrassed, uncomfortable to be naked in a strange environment, but Clark was uniquely configured not to care. He was practically invincible-what did it matter to have his impervious skin exposed? He stripped off, and waited for Claude to guide him in his script.
Claude tilted his head, inspecting Clark and Clark studied Claude right back. His brown eyes were blown, there was a thin sheen of perspiration at his hairline, his upper lip…Clark's enhanced sight picked it up, that and the delicate tremors racing over Claude's hands. The man was nervous, expectant, slightly aroused…probably none of it noticeable to a person not Clark. "Have you ever wondered what it would like to be a doll, Clark? To have no feelings, no desires, no cares? Not to act until acted on?"
Not especially, he thought to himself, but only held up the necklace and said, "You know my requirements."

"I do. I'm willing to ignore the…necklace." His smooth brow wrinkled, he stared at the thin silver chain. "Why, may I ask, the necklace? Is it a fetish? A charm?" He looked more than interested, more than a client making small talk, working themselves up to the game. He looked genuinely puzzled, curious.

Clark smirked at him. "It's nothing. It's just a thing I have-which I guess would make it a kind of fetish." He shrugged, and Claude's face settled into a bland mask, smooth as glass.

"Of course." He took Clark's arm, pulled until Clark relaxed all his muscles and dropped when Claude nudged him. He lay where he fell and Claude hissed. "Yes…yes, just like that." He knelt next to Clark, stroked his skin, pinched and pulled his nipples and watched Clark not move a muscle, not react in any way except…Clark found himself slowly being aroused, almost against his will. The open box rasped against his tongue, the only movement Clark made was to swallow the saliva that the pain pulsing on his tongue brought.

Claude was touching Clark's dick now, running his fingers over it, pressing the pad of his thumb against the slit, over and over, twisting slightly, until precome welled up and was smeared around the head of his dick, gathered under the crown. Clark fought not to flutter his eyelashes, not to groan.

"Good," Claude murmured, "very good." He stood and left Clark in a heap on the floor, his breath coming thin and fast, his thigh wet with strings of precome. It took Clark a moment or two to turn his focus away from himself and back to the outer world…he smelled tea; heard Claude move around the kitchen…heard the door open and close.

He blinked.

He was naked, lying on a chilly tile floor in strange apartment, called there by a man he didn't know, who'd maybe just left him alone. He had no idea what the man planned and only Eric's word that Claude wouldn't damage him in a permanent way…his dick twitched and a rill of precome slipped down his thigh. His eyes blurred, his vision grayed until he saw only the tile under him, heard his breath, felt the slight chill of the ceramic against his skin and only his tongue moved, stroking the box over and over, the sting of the green chip making his mouth feel raw.

He heard a door open, close softly, barely a click…leather soles tapped against the tile, and Clark's eyesight swam as he tried to focus on soft brown leather, neatly tied laces. He blinked slowly, carefully. Heard the soft snick of a zipper opening, a hushed sound of fabric being pulled, pushed…cold, hard hands grabbed his waist and tipped him to his chest, his legs were pulled apart, arranged. One of those cold hands landed on his ass, pressing against the cleft, opening him….

Clark's heart was pounding painfully hard in his chest-his fight to keep his breathing even and unobtrusive was making him light-headed. For a split second he thought himself a fool for putting himself through this ridiculous act, for a severely damaged client…but his pulse was pounding in his dick too, and it twitched and wet the tiles beneath him.

Claude was pushing two, three, four fingers into him, slick and slippery with a touch too much lube-to make up for it, Claude slammed inside him, gripped his hips painfully, little bloody crescents cut into Clark's flesh when Claude pulled his hips up, making the angle better for himself.

Clark let himself go completely loose, like a puppet with broken strings, flopping a bit ridiculously on the floor but somehow, imagining looking down on himself and Claude only made him harder, made him groan against his tightly closed lips, pray for the moments Claude's thrusts drove his dick against the tiles, skidding slick and wet against the glass smooth surface and it took all of his willpower not to scream-not enough pressure, not enough friction. The frustration was only making him harder, wilder. His balls tightened, Claude gasped, a tiny sound, a quick exhalation through his nose and he stiffened, bearing down so hard that his nails cut bloody streaks into Clark's hips. The movement pushed Clark's face against the unforgiving floor until he thought he's pass out for lack of air. Clark bit the inside of his cheek bloody and trembled trying to hold still when his dick was throbbing, bobbing against the tile and spilling come.

Claude came silently, his dick trying to swell against the hot clench of Clark's hole. He held Clark against him for long seconds, until finally he pulled out and Clark flopped to his back, smearing cooling come all over his skin. Claude left, came back with a towel and wiped up the spot on the tiles…left Clark with come tightening and prickling his skin as it dried.

Afterward, he pulled Clark to the couch and used him as a foot rest as he drank a glass of wine and surfed channels. Clark fell asleep.

Right before Clark left, Claude asked, "The necklace…it has something to do with your ability to, um…perform your duties with no consequences." Not quite a question, not quite a statement. He slid his hand under Clark's shirt, dipped fingers into the waistband of Clark's pants and stroked smooth, unmarked skin. "I wonder. Does it help you, or hurt you?"

Despite the chill that filled him, Clark smiled. He arched eyebrows and said, "No idea what you're talking about, man--it's just a thing, like I told you."

Claude hmmed thoughtfully. Withdrew his hand and just asked Clark when he'd be free again.

~kCk~

"So, this guy you're sending to me-thanks by the way-does he have any special needs I should be prepared for?" Clark swung around in a lazy circle, tilting his desk chair back as he did, waiting for Eric to respond. He shut down his laptop and gave Eric his complete attention.
"Is that a veiled reference to Claude?" Eric chuckled.

"Mmm." Clark laughed softly, too. "Claude has been. Interesting? I'm not quite sure that's the word I want, but he is that and more. Have you ever wondered what leather pony boots laced all the way up to your thighs feel like-oh, that and walking around on those stilts blindfolded, at the end of a chain and with your hands in padded mitts?"

Eric was silent for a moment and Clark worried he'd given him the wrong impression-he wasn't angry with him over Claude, far from it. Eric had been right when he'd said Claude and he 'fit'. He'd never like the man, but he needed what Claude needed. Clark was about to assure Eric of that when an explosive breath broke the silence on the other side of the line. Clark's eyebrows shot up-it was not a sound of shock but barely suppressed laughter. "Oh…my…word. Claude is really a special little thing, isn’t he? Are you-getting along with him?"

"I can't say I like him, but he's never boring. And he's wicked smart." Clark frowned. almost too smart.

"Well, sweetness, this new fellow is completely darling, and doesn't think he has any special needs. However-"

Clark mocked Eric, "However-"

"He has one that the poor dear's not really aware of. Darling one, how are you at playing seventeen?"

"What! You're sending me a pedophile?"

"No…no. Well, not exactly. It's. Complicated."

"You mean twisted…."

"Clark…."

"Oh, all right. But if I don’t like him-"

"Darling. I know, he knows, it's all your choice. Would I steer you wrong?"

Clark swung his leather desk chair around again, stared at the view from his new apartment. He looked over the rooftops, out towards the bay-he could just glimpse flashes from the water between the buildings mostly screening it from view. The sun hung huge and yellow and perfect in a dove-blue sky, "No. no, Maestro, you wouldn't-you haven't."

~bBb~

Clark was going over his books, killing time as he waited to meet with the new client. He had an appointment set for that afternoon, a sort of get-to-know-you thing. The man had seemed nice, a lot younger than Clark had expected considering…he shrugged. Not his to wonder. All he had to do was arrive and let the client lead. He'd picked out jeans and a white shirt, his standard 'first date' ensemble. It worked until he knew what each person's requirement was.

He was just about to go into the kitchen and make an espresso when the doorbell chimed. He was surprised-and irritated, his appointment wasn't for a few hours more-this was his own time.

There was a small, neatly dressed man at his door, holding a large box, from one of the more upscale department stores, not anything showy, but nice. The man seemed to be physically restraining himself from clicking his heels. "I'm sorry; I know that appearing at your doorstep unannounced is rather rude-"

Clark smiled. "Let me guess, he insisted I get this. Fine, tell him I said thanks and I'll see him in--" he checked his watch, "--two hours. In the lobby. Stress that, please."

The man made a slight face-a tiny fleeting moue of distaste, and Clark only smiled wider. Here was someone way too invested in their employer's private life. "Don’t worry," Clark said, "I'll bring him back in one piece."

The man made an effort not to bow and Clark dismissed him by shutting the door in his face. After all, the man was right-it was rude to show up unannounced.

He brought the box into the bedroom and laid it on the bed. He was curious-what was it that this client wanted, specific enough to send him a costume for the evening? Clark was truly curious. He opened the box, and separated layers of creamy tissue. He drew fingertips over it-it felt handmade. Interesting. In the box was a white polo shirt, a pair of plaid shorts carefully designed to look as though they'd just been scooped off the bedroom floor, and two boxes, one obviously containing shoes and one small box holding a puka shell necklace. "Well, I believe I have some idea how the script goes," Clark muttered and laughed to himself. Oh, this was going to be an interesting afternoon, he thought.

An hour later, he was showered, shaved, and dressed in the outfit which Clark noticed did not include underwear. He stared at himself in the mirror, popped his collar and smiled for a brief second. He looked…alien. He was dressed like the kid he'd never been. When he should have been dressed like this, dragging a backpack full of books instead of everything he owned, worrying about grades and whether he'd get to use the family car, he'd been on his knees, losing his childhood. A wave of anger so deep it surprised him washed over him.

He looked away from the mirror, took a deep breath and shook himself. A job was a job was a job. He tried a smile again, swept his hair back from his forehead and smiled wider. Rubbed at his cheeks until they pinked up, bit his lips to darken them. He decided against lip gloss, or any scent. He was pretty sure how to play the character the new client wanted.

~bBb~

Clark swung out of the lobby doors, caught himself on the handles with a laugh, and trotted over to a limo parked at the curb. He leaned in, "Hey, waitin' for me, yeah?" He grinned wide, and stuck his hand into the open window. "Clark."

The guy inside-the very hot guy inside, took his hand and shook it. Firm, warm and confident. A perfect handshake. Textbook perfect. A tiny bell in Clark's mind chimed. "Bruce-get in, Clark."
Clark slid in and looked around the inside of the limo. Took his time examining the ridiculously good looking guy sitting across from him. He tried a look of barely disguised awe and knew he'd hit the script.

"Clark, you look…perfect. You look. Wow."

"Aw, Bruce. You're gonna embarrass me, man. So, where we goin'?"

"I thought--the beach?" Bruce sounded half hopeful, as if he expected Clark to refuse.

"Yeah! Sounds-great." Clark smiled, and groaned inside. He hated sand in places sand shouldn't go. He hated getting it in his mouth and on his hands-it was a thing. But the client was always right and Bruce Wayne was righter than most, a truly obscene amount of right. He was making so much off this one date that he could donate half of this night to his shelters and still make the bills for few months in advance. He gave Bruce another huge grin and watched the man squirm as subtly as was possible.

Clark had expected a private beach somewhere, or an obnoxiously expensive beach house, but surprisingly they ended up strolling the boardwalk right along with everyone else. Bruce was charming, amusing-fun. They shared a sandwich and sodas from a tiny little storefront sandwich shop, crisp and oily fries that had Clark sucking grease and salt from his fingers and laughing inside thinking of doing such a thing with Eric, or Claude. He snorted, and got a look from Bruce.

"Here," Clark said. "Open up." Bruce opened wide and flushed a deep red, but his eyes sparkled. Clark shoved a few fries in, and made sure his fingers grazed Bruce's lip. "Good, right?" he whispered and Bruce grabbed his hand and sucked on the tip of one of his fingers-quick, but Clark felt it like an electric snap through his body.

The sun was shining high in the sky, and the back of Bruce's shirt was wet, the heat made Clark's hair curl around his ears. The smell of the ocean filled his nose. The shrill laughter of children mixed with dozens voices and odd snatches of music wove in and out of the sound of the waves, Clark found it a bit hypnotic and without intending to, he was smiling. Bruce looked over and nudged Clark's hand with his. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Having a great time, Bruce, great." Clark looked down the boards a bit and jabbed Bruce with his elbow. "Win me that," he said and pointed in the general direction of a shooting game.

Bruce narrowed his eyes at the display of cheap stuffed animals. "Yeah?" He asked, "Which one do you want? The giraffe?"

Clark nibbled his fries and nodded, and Bruce nodded back. "Okay," Bruce said, "one giraffe coming up."

Bruce strode over to the booth, all smiles and charm, took the gun and turned into a stranger. Clark watched in shock as pleasant Bruce disappeared--went cold and still, calculating. He could see him size up the targets, heft the fake gun, adjust his grip, his stance-and then Bruce blew the targets away, shredding one after the other. He put the gun down, shook himself and turned to Clark with a smile. "Giraffe."

Clark held his hand out and the scrawny stuffed thing dropped into his hands. He looked up at Bruce and he knew his disbelief was written all over his face. Bruce blushed, licked his lips and suddenly found the greatest interest in a water ice stand a few booths down. Clark let himself be pulled along but figured there was definitely so much more to Bruce than was immediately visible. Nice. He liked a little mystery.

They walked down to the beach with their water-ices, and strolled along the shore line. Clark amused himself by performing for Bruce, running though the sugary sand, leather flip-flops throwing up fine clouds as he ran. Bruce laughed, and watched him with glowing eyes and a happy, wide smile. In the bright, pure sunlight, Clark could see lines of care beginning to etch themselves into Bruce's clear skin. This man was more used to frowning than laughing--Clark thought he much preferred the lines Bruce made laughing. Clark whirled around and dashed back to him and some wild impulse made him throw his arms wide and wrap Bruce up.

"Thanks Bruce-thanks for this."

"Oh! Oh, it’s-it’s nothing, I-I'm glad you like it."

"Very much," Clark said, and surprised the hell out of himself by how much he meant it.

On the way back to his apartment, Clark stretched out on the back seat of the limo, and let Bruce babble frantic apologies as he slipped to his knees and guiltily pulled the zipper of Clark's shorts open. He furtively pressed his nose to Clark's groin as if Clark was unaware of what Bruce was doing, and inhaled like he was starving for air. He let Bruce suck up bruises and nip at the soft flesh above his dick, let Bruce kiss and lick his way through the nest of curls that surrounded his dick, and fucked Bruce's mouth when he begged for it, so quietly no one but Clark could have heard, "Clark, please, please, right in my throat, please." Clark shuddered, and closed his eyes; felt the gentle suction, spit and precome made the slide smoother and smoother. Saliva trickled down his balls, Bruce's steady moans around his dick had Clark gasping. Bruce loved giving head-Clark didn’t think he'd ever had anyone blow him like this, like their life depended on it. He gasped and cupped the back of Bruce's head, even though he was sure Bruce wanted him to grab his hair-sometimes the client didn't know what they really wanted-he screamed and panted and writhed like he's never had anyone go down on him before, like this was the most epic moment of his supposedly sixteen years.

"Fuck, I gotta-I gotta-fuck!" he yelled and bucked up into the tight liquid heat of Bruce's mouth and really, there wasn't a lot of pretense to his actions. Bruce was damn good and-likable. Clark groaned, low at first, louder and louder…a vibration that Clark had just begun to feel quickened and Clark realized that Bruce was jerking himself off as he sucked his dick-so hot, he couldn't wait and Clark shouted, came like he was never going to stop.

Bruce pulled off, caught most of Clark's come on his tongue and the rest ended up on his cheek, his neck; he curled over Clark's lap and moaned into his sticky, wet skin, his dick throbbing against Clark's leg as he came on the limo floor.

Clark twitched painfully-yes, without a doubt, this had been a good idea. Eric was a genius.

He called Eric after to thank him and told him he'd had a surprisingly enjoyable afternoon. He showered sand and sweat and come down the drain, repacked the clothing to send it, unlaundered, back to Bruce. It had been great fun playing a teen. No doubt he wasn't like any teen in the history of ever, but Bruce didn't seem to know that. Bruce seemed to not know a lot about people. Strange, considering how public a person he was. Clark shrugged. Regardless, his bank account was fatter, his shelters were richer, and he had the sweetest giraffe in the world staring at him from his bookcase. That had been…interesting as well.

part two