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Clark prowled around the Church, looking for someone to help him expiate his demons.
An outside observer might be forgiven for thinking that Superman should be happy after the day he’d had. After all, he’d defeated a horde of killer robots who had invaded Metropolis—which was something he really wished he didn’t have quite so much experience with. With League backup, however, there had been minimal casualties this time, and he’d even been able to spare the time to investigate the robots’ source. For once, Luthor hadn’t managed to keep his hands squeaky clean, and he was now in police custody. Of course, the billionaire almost certainly wouldn’t stay there for long, but causing Metropolis’ premiere entrepreneur even a slight inconvenience had to be considered a victory, right?
But it didn’t feel that way to Clark. The guilt and grief and rage he felt from seeing someone hurt the city and people he’d sworn to protect built up until it had to burst out or destroy him from the inside. Fortunately, he’d long since found a—relatively—safe outlet for these familiar poisons.
Metropolis would be mourning and sweeping up debris tonight, so he flew over the bay, to the Narrows of Gotham, for what he needed.
The Church was so named because it had been built in a former Episcopalian church and retained its turn-of-the-century splendor, including an altar, stained glass windows, and huge brass pipe organ. In place of the pews, metal cages hung from the ceiling, showcasing scantily clad dancers adorned with leather and chains, gyrating to the gothic rock. They weren’t what Clark had come here for, however.
Clark was dressed for the part he wanted—needed—to play, in skintight black leather pants and a matching Y-shaped chest harness. Despite his muscular physique, he knew from experience that the outfit—combined with his face, still boyish despite his thirty-five years, and the gel and glitter he’d rubbed into his artfully tousled hair—would garner him the kind of attention he sought. The black pendant he wore, with its tiny, glowing green gemstone, ensured that whomever he picked would be able to punish him to the extent he’d merited.
And if, with the League’s debriefing still ringing in his ear, a deep, growly voice listing off all the things he could have done better, he kept an eye out for tall, well-built brunets, preferably with blue eyes—well. He wasn’t hurting anyone but himself.
“Kal,” a sultry voice murmured in his ear. He turned and quickly bobbed his head in respect to the owner of the club. She was resplendent this evening in a tight green velvet dress with black accents, her blood-red hair piled high in ringlets, riding crop in her hand. “It’s been too long since we’ve seen you. Have you finally come to grace one of my cages?”
“Only if you’re going to show me how much you appreciate my performance, afterward, Mistress Ivy,” Clark responded boldly, only half-joking. He knew she almost certainly wouldn’t take him up on the offer—she was famously uninterested in men—but he would happily follow through if she did. She also had a reputation for hard and vicious play.
“Mmm, you wicked temptress,” she purred, running the crop lightly up his chest until it rested just below his chin, pushing his head up. “How about this? Come along back with me and I’ll bring you someone I think you’ll like. If they show you a good enough time, you’ll return sometime soon and repay me.”
Clark eyed her, intrigued. This was a relatively new club, just a few years old, and he’d only picked up partners here a half-dozen times. However, he had no doubt that its formidable Mistress had formed a keen idea of his tastes and wouldn’t have made the offer unless she had someone particular in mind. In addition, what she’d said had implied the use of one of Church’s well-equipped playrooms. He’d only been in them once, when his pick of the night had been wealthy enough to afford the exorbitant fee, and that experience had left him with no illusions that they were far superior, both in terms of luxury and safety, to whatever hotel room, apartment, or back alley he might otherwise end up in.
“Agreed,” he responded after a second. “I put myself in your hands.”
“For the moment,” she said, smiling graciously. Unwrapping a thin leather leash from her waist, she clipped the snap hook at the end to the O-ring at the center of his harness and led him off, to the entertainment of the nearby clubgoers. He followed her willingly out of the former chapel, which now served as the main dance room, through the adjacent bar area, and into the annex—previously the parish priest’s residence—that held the club’s offices and playrooms. The hallway that connected the two buildings had been widened into an antechamber, where two women in black spandex—one in a leotard and fishnets, the other in a full catsuit—sat behind a desk to check in clients.
“List Playroom 4 as booked for the night, Holly,” Ivy instructed. “Eva, please get this gentleman set up there.”
“Yes, Mistress,” they murmured quietly in somewhat creepy unison. The Mistress unclipped her leash and nodded at Clark to follow the woman on the right.
The small room she showed him into fit the rest of the club’s aesthetic: black and silver damask wallpaper; blood-red, heavy drapes; and simple, low-pile black carpet, which would hide a multitude of sins. The room was rectangular, probably about seven feet by ten, and the door opened into one of the long sides, while the wall across from it held two large, fumed oak cabinets between curtained windows. A Saint Andrew’s cross was positioned against one short wall, solidly made of the same dark wood, with black leather rests in the center of the cross and along each end. A king-sized, medieval-style four-post bed nestled into the other side, while a steel and leather bench sat in the center of the room, dominating the space.
“As always in the club, traffic light safewords can be used,” Eva said in a rehearsed singsong as she led him in, “and protection and regular check-ins are mandatory. Please let us know if your Dom misbehaves in any way; it’s the only way we can protect our clientele. First aid, play, and prophylactic supplies are provided in the cabinets. The staff on duty will need to formally check you out to make certain you don’t need any additional care. Are there any restrictions I should make your Dom aware of, or do you prefer to negotiate in person?”
“No fluid play,” Clark said. “And I would prefer that my harness and jewelry not be removed.”
She glanced at his chest, then down at the ring on his left hand, and nodded understanding. “As you wish.” She walked over to the cabinets and pulled out a simple set of padded leather restraints.
“Subs are traditionally restrained when alone in playrooms,” she said. “If that’s okay with you?”
He nodded, the thought sending a ping of arousal through him. After glancing over his options, he positioned himself with his back against the cross, facing out into the room. Eva followed him and strapped him in with quick, economical motions. Kneeling in front of him gracefully, she removed his boots so that she could get the ankle restraints on, but otherwise left his outfit alone. Once he was secure, she moved to the wall behind the cross and worked a crank. The cross slowly widened until his limbs were stretched tight, his feet barely touching the ground. The backward lean of the cross helped to bear some of his weight.
“All snug?” Eva checked in.
He nodded again, and she left, shutting the door behind her with a quick smile. The noise of her heels, which had admittedly already been muffled against the carpet, shut off immediately as the door closed. Clark rested his head against one bicep, hoping he wouldn’t have too long to wait. His nerves, already strumming with his need, had been stretched tight by this lead up.
Fortunately, he barely had time to get bored before the door reopened.
“—can do, after all you’ve done for Harley and me,” Mistress Ivy was saying as she walked in and stood holding the door open, looking behind her.
“I was repaying a debt myself,” a familiar deep voice responded, and Clark jerked his head up in abject horror as his best friend walked into the room. Showing no inclination to fit in with the club crowd, Bruce Wayne was dressed (as always when in public) in a ten-thousand-dollar, elegant black suit.
Well, to be fair, sometimes he wears an even more expensive black suit. Shit. Shit. Of all the gin joints in all the world… Clark thought despairingly. Running into Bruce during one of these rare outings had been a private nightmare—and fantasy—for years, but he’d never thought it would actually happen. For all his public reputation, Bruce had stopped actually partying long ago. So why is he here? Does the universe just hate me that much?
The billionaire turned to face the cross and froze for an almost imperceptible second. Anyone who didn’t know him well might have thought that he was only appreciating the sight, but Clark noted the tiny tells—a small tick as Bruce’s jaw clenched, his right eye tightening slightly, his left hand jerking as it tried to form a fist—and knew he’d been made. Clark hung his head down despairingly, cursing whatever criminals or investigation had managed to bring Bruce here. He thought briefly about calling out to Ivy and telling her that he’d changed his mind, but he knew that there was no way Bruce was going to let him walk away without an explanation. He might as well face the music.
“Thank you, Ivy,” Bruce said after a momentary pause, his voice low and gravelly, edging into Batman registers. Oh God, please don’t let him speak that way for the whole lecture, Clark thought desperately. There was a reason he’d built an impenetrable cup into the super suit after a couple weeks with the League, and it had a lot more to do with what Batman’s commanding tones did to him than any worry over his superpowered teammates taking cheap shots. Unfortunately, the tight, thin leather he wore right now had no similar protection. I can maybe get through this with some dignity intact as long as he stays Bruce Wayne, please let him stay in character.
The door closed. Clark didn’t raise his head. The last thing he needed at this moment was another sight of how fucking good Bruce looked in that tailored wool suit. There was a long pause.
“Clark,” Bruce said finally. “Are you… here for an article?” His voice was higher, again, thank goodness, settling back into Bruce Wayne’s usual clear baritone, wavering slightly with bewilderment.
Clark blinked. That hadn’t even occurred to him. “… yes?” he replied hesitantly. What article would I possibly be writing on a night when there was a major attack in Metropolis, he thought frantically.
Bruce grunted and stalked forward, his feet scuffing heavily on the carpet. He cupped a hand under Clark’s chin, his fingers digging into Clark’s jaw, and wrenched Clark’s head up slightly, so he had to meet Bruce’s eyes.
“What article, Clark?” he grated.
“Um… about… how people use BDSM… to respond to trauma?” Clark fabricated wildly.
“And you thought that you would just have sex with some random stranger to figure out—how were you even going to hide your identity if—” Bruce’s brow creased. “They said not to take off your jewelry.” His eyes hopped between Clark’s unpierced ears, then down to his pendant. He released Clark’s chin and lifted it up, examining it closely. Clark closed his eyes in resignation.
“Clark,” Bruce growled. Clark kept his eyes squeezed shut, trying desperately not to show his reaction to that harsh, familiar sound. “You walked half-naked into a BDSM club, wearing kryptonite, and let Poison Ivy chain you up. Are you insane?”
“Probably,” Clark admitted, then his eyes popped open despite himself. “That’s Poison Ivy?”
“How many six-foot tall redheads in green dresses named Ivy do you think we have in this city?” Bruce demanded. Clark shrugged. He probably should have put two and two together. He just hadn’t really expected to have to keep an eye out for one of Gotham’s most notorious former supervillains at a kink club. Well, that probably explains what Bruce is doing here.
“I mean, it is a sex club,” Clark pointed out. “There are plenty of people who dress up like villains—and heroes—for sexy fun times.”
“Clark,” Bruce demanded again, grabbing the cross and shaking him a bit. “Why are you here?”
“Why do you think, Bruce?” Clark replied, glaring at his teammate, exasperated. Bruce looked back at him blankly. Of course, he’s going to fucking make me say it.
Clark sighed and rested his head to the side again. “I need something, after a fight, sometimes,” he mumbled. “I find it here.”
There was another long pause. Bruce was still gripping the sides of the cross just above the center of the X, which made his forearms graze across the bottom of Clark’s ribs every time he breathed in. The slight touches were making Clark’s strung nerves vibrate even harder.
“Ivy said that you’ve hooked up with most of her hardest hitters,” Bruce said finally, his voice still low. “She said you drank up everything they had to offer and were still looking for more.”
Clark felt himself flush hotly and knew his bare chest and face would be painted with obvious, crimson red splotches. I should have known he’d be asking leading questions.
“What are you looking for, Clark?” Bruce pried. “Pleasure? Release? Escape? Titillation? Punishment?”
Clark couldn’t help himself from jerking slightly at that last, and flushed again, knowing Bruce would be cataloguing his reactions.
“Clark,” Bruce said gently, and patted his hip—it was doubtless meant as comforting gesture, but it sent tingles through to Clark’s groin, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from leaning into it. “You protected your city well today, against one of the most dangerous supervillains in the world. No one could have done better.”
“I could have killed Luthor years ago,” Clark snapped.
Bruce stiffened, his hand clenching into Clark’s flesh. “You couldn’t. We don’t kill people.”
“I wouldn’t,” Clark corrected, finally meeting his teammate’s eyes again. “I made that choice a long time ago, and I’m not going to change it. I would become a bigger monster than Luthor if I took the law into my own hands. But it’s still a choice, and that makes every death, every injury, every piece of property that Luthor has damaged since, at least partly my fault.”
Bruce sighed. “Who am I to criticize someone for unhealthy coping mechanisms?” he asked eventually, in a light, ironic tone. He relaxed his hand, but left it resting against Clark’s hip. Clark snorted with unexpected laughter.
“Lois?” Bruce asked softly.
“She can’t play as hard as I need,” Clark answered.
“She knows?”
“Yeah.”
Bruce nodded slowly. “Well,” he said. “I can let you out. Or I can leave you here, go tell Ivy we didn’t suit, and have her find you someone else. Or,” his voice deepened, “I can stay.”
Clark knew his burgeoning response to that tone had to be showing, and he was very close to no longer caring. He examined Bruce’s face searchingly, his heart beginning to race. Bruce gazed back at him, expressionless.
“You’d stay?” Clark croaked.
Bruce nodded. His eyes were dark, deep wells of blue, and Clark was drowning in them. Bruce placed his other hand on Clark’s other hip and stroked both his thumbs against Clark’s bare skin, just above his pants. Bound against the cross, Bruce’s powerful frame hemming him in, Clark had nowhere to go to get away from the touch. A shiver went down his spine.
“It’s almost certainly a bad idea,” Bruce admitted hoarsely. “But I find I prefer it to walking away right now and letting someone else have you.”
Clark shuddered in anticipation, half-believing this was a dream. He’d been suppressing fantasies about the other man for so long...
“Please,” he gasped.
Bruce hummed and released him. Clark watched raptly as Bruce stripped down, removing and folding his clothes with measured, economical motions, laying them in a neat pile on a chair next to the door. Clark drank in every revealed inch of his tanned, muscular, scarred body. Bruce was an enormous bear of a man; he wasn’t quite as tall as Clark but must have fifty pounds on him, all of it in corded muscle on his powerful shoulders, chest, arms, and thighs. Black, wiry hair, lightly touched with silver, curled over his chest and down his narrow waist, outlining his hard abdominals and chiseled hips. Clark gulped at the sight of his thick cock, hanging low, already swelling slightly. That’s going to feel so good, splitting me open...
“Any preferences, requirements?” Bruce asked when he was done. A small, smug smile crossed his face as he saw where Clark’s eyes were fixed.
“Make me bleed,” Clark said huskily. “Make me cry. Wait to get a safeword before you fuck me.”
Bruce groaned slightly. “What safeword?” he asked practically. “Red is for if I’ve really screwed up and you need to stop completely, yellow for a pause and check-in.”
“Make me say that I submit,” Clark said after a second’s consideration.
Bruce nodded and walked over to one of the cabinets, rooting in it for a minute. He pulled out a gleaming chrome doctor’s tray first, with a foldable stand, and set it up. Then he started piling up supplies. A few different impact toys—two floggers, a whip, and a paddle—were the first out. Then at least a dozen scalpels, all individually wrapped in plastic. Clark tensed, almost quivering in anticipation. A black bag joined them, and another. Then several condoms, gloves, and lube. The last item Bruce pulled out was… okay, Clark had no idea what that was. It was a rod, perhaps a foot long; a black plastic grip on one side, with a trailing electric cord, and a length of silver metal on the other, swollen knobs running down its length. Bruce plugged the cord into an outlet on the wall behind the cross and set the object on the tray, positioning it just in front and to the left of Clark.
“What is that?” Clark asked trepidatiously.
Bruce’s eyes glinted as he pulled on the black latex gloves. “It’s a styling device for women’s hair. Probably here for Ivy to touch up her coiffure after spanking her girlfriend silly. Amazing how things can be repurposed.”
Clark’s brow creased in puzzlement. The object looked rather like a dildo, if anything. Perhaps it vibrated? That would explain the cord, but what use would that be for hair? Maybe he’s just fucking with me.
“Now then,” Bruce said in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. “I’m looking forward to hearing what you sound like as I take you apart. I don’t want it to be over too soon. So, I’m going to start nice and slow, and I want you to be completely honest with me about how you’re doing as we go forward.”
Clark nodded jerkily.
“What was that?” Bruce asked.
“I—yes, I’ll be honest.”
“Very good,” Bruce praised him.
Clark shuddered again in reaction. Well, that answers the question of whether he’ll be able to make the transition from friend to Dom…
Bruce began with the impact toys, aiming hits at Clark’s chest, arms, and occasionally dipping down against his belly. Clark stayed silent, steeling himself against the pain as Bruce worked through the floggers, then the paddle, and ended with a few whip lashes. The warmup always hurt the most, before the endorphins started flowing.
On the other hand, maybe it’s just that the part I’m going through at the moment is always the worst.
Bruce asked a couple questions at first, but stopped after Clark returned only disjointed, stuttered answers, clearly realizing that being forced to talk wasn’t helpful for him. Once he’d worked his way once through all the toys, Bruce went back to the top, hitting harder, checking in occasionally. Clark welcomed the pain; every sting and thud against his skin was a needed penance for all that he hadn’t been able to save.
Bruce kept cycling, varying the frequency and location of his hits, until Clark was grunting or yelping at each hit. Every sound Bruce forced out of Clark made it easier, somehow, for him to make more noise, react more honestly. By the time Bruce had gone through each toy a half-dozen times, Clark was swaying in his bonds, his entire body thrumming. His mind was full of calm white static, anticipating each blow but also living in the moment, free of other thought or worry.
Laying down the tools, Bruce moved in to stand directly in front of Clark and started stroking the afflicted, reddened flesh, both of his large, powerful hands moving symmetrically. He started at Clark’s waist, then moved up, across his nipples. He grasped Clark’s neck tightly, thumbs cutting off his breath for just a second, swept up his bound arms, then went back down and started over. His touch was rough, impersonal, proprietary. It left trails of tingling electricity along Clark’s skin. After a few passes up and down, while Clark writhed, gasping with pleasure under the caresses, Bruce let his hands wander around to Clark’s back, and stepped even closer, lowering his mouth to Clark’s chest. After a few wet, open-mouthed kisses, he bit down on Clark’s right nipple.
And kept biting, harder and harder, until Clark couldn’t help but shout in pain.
“Hn,” Bruce said absently. “Good to know. Color?”
“Green,” Clark bit out.
Still stroking Clark’s lower back absently, Bruce moved his mouth to Clark’s left nipple and repeated the process. Clark managed to hold out a little longer this time, clenching his teeth against the pain, but finally had to yowl in protest as it felt like Bruce had bitten clear through the bud of skin.
Bruce stepped back and wiped his mouth. A small trace of blood wiped off on his hand.
“Bleeding,” he noted. “Check.”
Clark breathed in and out against the pain still shooting up from his nipples. It dulled quickly once Bruce was no longer actively torturing them.
Bruce stepped back in close and lifted up one of the scalpels. “Are you sentimentally attached to those pants?” he asked. “I’m sure there are some spares here you can put on before you leave.”
“Not as long as you buy me new ones,” Clark said, knowing Bruce wouldn’t even notice the expense of a thousand pants like that.
“Deal,” Bruce said, and began slicing through the leather. The pants were clinging even tighter to Clark’s legs than usual, with the stretch of his legs and how he’d been sweating in pain and arousal. Bruce didn’t bother to be too careful, although he checked the scalpel after every cut and switched to a new one every time it came back bloody. By the time Bruce got his pants entirely off, Clark was cursing and bleeding from a half-dozen tiny cuts. He was also fully erect.
“Mmmm,” Bruce purred. He grabbed the lube.
“I’m not—” Clark started.
“I know,” Bruce said. “But clearly, by the time you submit, I’m not going to want to wait.”
He stretched Clark quickly, ignoring his complaints. Once Bruce was done, he took a large anal plug from one of the black bags and began working it in. Clark hissed at the burn. Once it was in, Bruce pulled a silver chain from the other bag. It split into a Y a little more than halfway down its length, with both ends on that side ending in small silver nipple clamps. The other end hooked onto black silicone cock and ball rings.
“Oh shit.” Clark cursed again.
Bruce smirked. He slid the silicone around Clark’s penis, wilted a bit from the rough prep, and around his balls. Pulling the chain taut, he fastened the clamps around Clark’s still-sore nipples. Clark couldn’t help but screech a little as they went on.
“Color?” Bruce checked in again.
“Green,” Clark moaned.
“Good boy,” Bruce approved. He yanked a few times at Clark’s dick, until he’d stiffened up again in the restraints. Clark whined as the rough movements pulled at the chains attached to his nipples.
“Alright,” Bruce approved. He picked up the last, mysterious device. “You know what you have to say to make this stop.”
Clark snorted. Bruce expected him to submit because of a woman’s grooming tool?
Bruce dragged the knobbed, metal object across Clark’s ribs.
Clark screamed shrilly as his skin burned in its wake. Women use this voluntarily? his mind skittered in disbelief.
The next, longer touch was against his thigh. Biting off his shout—it was easier this time, without the element of surprise—he looked down and saw a thin, two-inch long stretch of skin redden and then almost immediately blister.
“Such sounds you make,” Bruce purred, and began mouthing at the burn on his ribs. His mouth felt cool against the hot welt. Clark clenched his teeth as his eyes stung and watered.
“Mmmm. Crying, check. Close to giving up yet?” Bruce asked. Clark shook his head, squeezing his eyes closed.
“Jesus Christ,” Bruce muttered, and grabbed another scalpel.
Clark held out as long as possible as Bruce continued to make strategic cuts and burns into his skin, wanting—needing—to earn his release, but he was soon crying shamelessly, tears pouring down his cheeks, and screaming every time one of Bruce’s tools touched his flesh. The tears washed him clean while the screams vented out his festering rage and sorrow and guilt.
“Clark,” Bruce finally breathed into his ear. The bigger man was half embracing him, thrusting slowly against Clark’s right hip, his left arm wrapped around the back of the cross and holding on to Clark’s waist, while his right hand finished drawing the iron slowly up the inside of Clark’s left arm, still strapped to the cross. “It’s okay. You’ve paid enough. You can be forgiven.”
Clark moved his head to face Bruce. “Yeah?” he pleaded.
“Yeah,” Bruce whispered. “Yeah, baby, you’ve done so good. You did everything you could. You took so much. Just let it all out. Let it go.”
“Please,” Clark whispered, needing to be pushed just that little bit farther.
Bruce kissed him; slowly, wetly, passionately. In the midst of the kiss, fire pressed against Clark’s neck. He screamed at the top of his lungs, yanking his head back and away.
“Say it, sweetheart,” Bruce begged.
Clark had to try a couple times before he could force coherent sound through his mouth. “I submit,” he finally choked out.
Bruce exhaled shakily and began unstrapping Clark from the cross, releasing his ankles first so he could stand—well, so he could help bear his weight—then removing the harness and pendant, and finally freeing his wrists. Clark laughed-sobbed giddily as he half-leaned, half-fell into Bruce’s welcoming arms. He didn’t think he’d ever been this high. Or low? Deep? Who the fuck knows. It usually took a Dom half the night to get Clark into subspace, if he got fully there at all—he didn’t think Bruce had taken even thirty minutes to break him. Of course, most Doms don’t know that anything they do to me will be healed as soon as the sun rises.
Bruce heaved him across the room. He let him down for a second on the leather bench so he could adjust his hold, but pulled Clark back when he tried to position himself against the bench.
“Not today,” he said briefly, and hoisted Clark back into his arms and carried him to the bed. Laying him down on the soft, welcoming mattress, Bruce gently stroked Clark’s sweaty hair back off his forehead.
“Checking in, sweetheart,” Bruce said soothingly. “That was a lot. Are you sure you’re okay to keep going, or should we go straight to taking care of you?”
Clark jerked his head up frantically, his eyes widening. “Don’t you dare,” he panted.
Bruce chuckled. “You’re incredible,” he said. He guided Clark onto his hands and knees, so that none of his cuts or burns were touching the mattress. Now that the kryptonite was gone, they would heal more quickly than human-norm, but nowhere near Clark’s usual, practically instantaneous rate, not until he got more direct sunlight to recharge.
“I’ll be right back, baby,” Bruce said. Clark whined, but Bruce was as good as his word, leaping across the room to grab the condoms and the last unwrapped scalpel and charging back just as fast. Clark’s eyes widened at the scalpel, but Bruce simply used it to slice open one of the condoms, then threw it away with a practiced gesture. It embedded itself at least a half-inch into the wall and stuck there, quivering. Clark huffed a laugh and turned his head back down to the mattress.
Then he moaned and buried his head entirely as Bruce spread the cut condom across his crack and began lapping at him through it, tonguing around the base of the plug. Bruce continued to eat him out until he was whimpering with overstimulation and begging hoarsely.
“Such a good boy,” Bruce said huskily, as he finally drew out the plug with a squelch.
“Please fuck me, please fuck me, please fuck me,” Clark chanted, rocking back against his best friend. The motions made the clamps against his nipples, which had long since stopped to actively hurt with the flood of endorphins swamping Clark’s senses, twinge again slightly, adding to his urgency.
“Sweetheart,” Bruce said in a broken voice. Flattening himself against Clark’s back, he took Clark’s hips in a firm grasp and finally thrust in, slowly.
“Oh god,” Clark whispered. Bruce was so much bigger than the plug. Clark groaned as the other man steadily advanced, filling him up entirely. The burn was as nothing compared to the intense satisfaction and pleasure of being so utterly claimed. Clark laid his forearms down, bracing himself on his elbows and clasping his hands above his head, and just hung there, impaled on Bruce’s cock.
And then Bruce began to move in earnest.
Clark was soon sobbing again, in bliss this time, as Bruce fucked him smoothly and steadily, hips rolling endlessly, holding Clark tightly against his body so he couldn’t escalate the rhythm. Every thrust dragged Bruce’s thick cock past Clark’s prostate, amping up the pleasure. Clark was so hard it hurt, straining against the ring. Nothing had ever felt this good.
“Please, Bruce,” he begged finally, turning his head to the side so he could speak without being muffled by the fluffy mattress. “Please, I can’t take any more.”
Bruce hummed and ran his hand gently—too gently, dammit!—along Clark’s cock and balls, fingering the silicon ring. Clark wept.
“Brace yourself,” Bruce advised him—and yanked hard at the chain that led up to the clamps, pulling them off. Clark screamed as blood rushed back into his tortured nipples, and collapsed, then howled as his burns and cuts scraped against the sheets. The sudden severe pain backed him off from the precipice.
Chuckling evilly, Bruce went back to fucking him, harder now, holding Clark up and against him with a powerful arm across his lower belly to keep his chest above the mattress. Heedless of the potential pain, Clark writhed and squirmed in Bruce’s grasp, desperately grinding his dick against that iron grip.
“Hold… still, you… little brat,” Bruce snarled.
“Please, Bruce,” Clark whined, still wiggling. “I need it so bad, please give it to me.”
Bruce groaned deep in his throat and smashed Clark flat against the bed, pounding into him.
“You’ll come... on my cock...or not at all.” Bruce panted.
It took a while, but finally, with the friction of his dick against the mattress and the soreness of his injuries being pressed into the sheets, Clark went hurtling over the edge. He came, spasming helplessly, spurting again and again as Bruce continued fucking him. Bruce moaned as Clark’s muscles clenched tight on his dick. He gave a few more spasmodic thrusts and came as well, grinding down onto Clark, then collapsed next to him on the mattress. With a grunt of effort, Clark turned over onto his back, to spare the welts on his chest, and leaned his head against Bruce’s shoulder.
They both lay insensate for several long minutes, panting quietly. Finally, Bruce pushed himself up, pulling a pillow down to take the place of his shoulder under Clark’s head. Bruce stroked a hand down Clark’s chest, between his various injuries, and made a rueful, sympathetic face. From the feel, at least a few of the burn blisters had split open, and they stung like a bitch. Clark couldn’t care less, however, with the euphoria running through him, and he giggled as Bruce’s trailing fingers tickled him a little. Bruce shook his head, chuckling, and crawled over Clark to get off the bed. He returned a second later with a cold bottle of water, which he handed to Clark, and a first-aid kit, which he laid open on the bed.
“I’ll heal as soon as the sun comes up,” Clark remarked idly, peering up. “Waste of supplies.”
“It’s only about 3 AM,” Bruce responded. “Unless you want to stay in this room for another three hours and change, I’ve got to patch you up enough to pass inspection. And the used supplies will be pretty hard to explain if you walk out of here without a scratch.”
Clark grunted understanding and laid his head back down. Bruce slowly went over his body, first with some hydrogen peroxide and cotton rounds, then with some antibiotic ointment—which clearly had analgesic added, and Clark hummed happily as it took effect—and finally with liquid bandage for the cuts and gauze and tape for the burns. First aid done, he cleaned Clark’s whole body with a few wet wipes and disposed of the trash and used toys. Clark was shivering just a little as he finished, and Bruce lay back down and gathered him into his arms, whispering praise and reassurances and stroking his back and sides softly.
“Thank you,” Clark breathed finally, when he felt less shaky. “I really needed that. I’m sorry I interrupted whatever you were investigating here tonight.”
Bruce laughed. “Clark. Is that what you thought? I wasn’t here for business. Contrary to my reputation, I don’t actually sleep with anyone if I don’t want to.”
Clark jerked up, peering at his friend with surprise. “You… really?”
“Really,” Bruce affirmed. “I also sometimes ‘need something,’ that I find here. A space where I can be completely in control of everything, for a while, without the whole city hanging in the balance. Where I can narrow my focus down, let go of all other responsibilities, and let myself loose. Do what I can’t do out there, and just… completely wreck someone. And then make it all better.”
Clark hummed again in understanding.
“Are you ready to switch venues?” Bruce asked.
Clark would honestly have preferred some more time with Bruce, but not because he still needed a Dom’s attention, not really, so he nodded agreement. Bruce dressed quickly, and then handed Clark a pair of boxer briefs from the cabinets—still in their packaging—and pulled out a black fleece sweatsuit, likewise. Clark snorted, impressed at the near cornucopia effect of those cabinets.
Sure must be nice to be rich…
Instead of handing Clark the sweatsuit, however, Bruce left it on the bench in the middle of the room and quietly walked out. Clark creased his brow, a little dismayed at the lack of any kind of farewell or follow-up discussion.
What the hell am I supposed to… are we just never talking about it again, or…?
A couple minutes later, before Clark had quite summoned the strength to stand and change into the new clothes, Eva walked in.
Oh right, check-out. Clark recalled with a slight grimace. He knew it was for his own protection, but the last thing he wanted right now was to talk to someone else. Fortunately, Eva was thoroughly professional, checking over his injuries with a competent hand and asking some pointed questions about Bruce’s conduct. The burns concerned her quite a bit, but he eventually convinced her that he was fine and promised to check back in soon to confirm it. Satisfied, she left, noting that Clark could take as much time as he needed. With Bruce gone, however, he just wanted to get back home and collapse.
Once he’d dressed, Clark found the wreck of his pants and pulled out his wallet, phone, and keys. Gingerly, he picked up the pendant from the corner where Bruce had dropped it and slipped it into the wallet’s coin purse, which he had reinforced with lead fibers. The pendant’s chip of kryptonite wasn’t big enough to do more than bring him down close enough to human-norm to be injured, but he still relaxed when it was safety stored away.
When he finally left the room, Bruce was waiting in the hall, leaning against the wall across from the door. Clark covered his surprise well—he hoped—and smiled at his teammate, quite as if he’d expected him to be there. Bruce nodded back and jerked his head down the hallway, leading Clark farther into the annex, rather than back toward the club. Clark followed him docilely through the building and out a side door he hadn’t known existed. A long black town car—not quite a limo—was parked at the curb outside. Clark was grateful to see a young black man he didn’t know, rather than Alfred, waiting next to it.
“Thanks, Luke,” Bruce said briefly, and waved Clark forward as the driver held the back door open for them.
“Of course, sir,” Luke said smoothly, and smiled briefly at Clark as he slid in.
Clark fidgeted awkwardly with his seatbelt as Bruce got in next to him. In the playroom, once Bruce had decided to stay, they’d had clear and defined roles. Now those definitions were murky. Were they still in sexual partner space? Or back to friends and teammates? Or somewhere in between?
“Do you need to be dropped back home?” Bruce asked quietly as he strapped himself in. “Or can I take you back to the Manor until the sun comes up?”
Clark smiled, relieved that Bruce had phrased his question so as to make his own preference clear; still hovering on the edge of subspace, Clark would have found it hard to make a reasoned choice, especially given that he’d be imposing on Bruce either way. “The Manor would be fine, thank you.”
Bruce nodded and spoke into the intercom, giving Luke their direction, then leaned back in his seat. Clark mirrored him, still feeling unusually discombobulated. His emotions were all over the place; extreme satiation warring with shame and embarrassment, pleasure at Bruce’s continued care and company mixed with worry over the future of their friendship, fatigue, the pain of his wounds, and underlying it all, a strange, unidentifiable something roiling around in his stomach.
“Sorry, what?” he asked, suddenly realizing that Bruce had been saying something.
Bruce gave him a searching look. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Fine, fine,” Clark said, trying for a breezy, reassuring tone. “Just tired. Been a long day.”
Bruce looked at him with narrowed eyes. Clark recognized the expression from every League debrief where Bruce suspected Clark was trying to bluff his way out of something—usually about how he’d failed to be adequately prepared.
“Really—” he started.
“Lay down, then,” Bruce interrupted, patting his lap. Clark gave him an incredulous look, but Bruce just raised his eyebrows challengingly and leaned back in his seat. After a second, Clark shrugged. The back row of seats wasn’t overly wide, but it fit three passengers, so there was just barely room. Clark was tired, the burns on his chest and limbs were starting to really hurt despite the analgesic Bruce had applied, and resting his eyes sounded a lot better than continuing to spar verbally with Bruce. He undid his seatbelt and sprawled out on the seat, resting the side of his head on Bruce’s leg, and folded his knees tightly against interior of the car. He didn’t really think he’d be able to fall asleep, but then, once he was settled, Bruce started stroking his hair and rubbing his fingers against his scalp. Clark melted, relaxing under the touch, every muscle going limp, and he was out like a light.
Clark drifted slowly to consciousness. Sleep was a present, tangible thing, like he was fighting to rise slowly through layers of syrup, or mud, or some other murky, viscous substance. Even once he was fully awake, it took him a long time to realize that he wasn’t actually still asleep, that there had to be some other reason he couldn’t move.
The realization finally hitting, he struggled to raise his heavy eyelids and craned his neck, trying to figure out what was going on. He was laying spread-eagled on his back, chained hand-and-foot to a huge, sturdy bed. Wide, green-specked metal manacles wrapped around his wrists and ankles, with padding so that he couldn’t get out even by dislocating a thumb. The cuffs hooked onto broad nylon straps that were pulled tight against the mattress and probably wrapped underneath it and the bed frame—quite impossible to break without super strength. He panicked for a minute, limbs thrashing, heartbeat racing, beginning to hyperventilate, before he remembered where he’d fallen asleep and recognized his surroundings as Bruce’s bedroom. Not that he’d been a frequent visitor, but he’d seen it a few times, especially after Bruce’s back injury, and the Morris print wallpaper was distinctive. Anger rapidly overtook his original fear.
“Bruce!” he shouted. “What the hell?”
While he waited for a response—since there’s fuck all else I can do—he looked around. He could see the sun, shining in brightly through wide-open windows across from the bed, and Bruce’s room was on the end of the east wing of the Manor, so it must be fairly early still. Clark was naked, which made him grit his teeth in fury again, but all his injuries were gone, so Bruce must have waited to pull out the manacles until the sun came up and activated his healing powers. What the fuck, Bruce?!?
It had been a least a minute or two by now.
“Bruce!” he shouted again. “Get your ass in here and let me out!”
A crackle of static sounded behind and to the right of his head. He craned his neck up again; there was an intercom set into the wall next to a bedside table. A clock on the same table read 6:52 AM, so Clark genuinely hadn’t been sleeping for long—although he was still flabbergasted that he’d somehow slept through being moved from the car.
“Calm down,” Bruce’s voice was made tinny by the connection, but his amusement came through loud and clear, and Clark growled, furious. “You’ll have Alfred in there if you keep shouting,” Bruce continued. “I’m just wrapping something up in the Cave, I’ll be there in a bit.”
Clark was still weighing the embarrassment of Alfred seeing him like this versus the ignominy of waiting who-knew-how-long for Bruce to get around to him when the intercom sounded again.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce continued, and the note of genuine chagrin in his voice calmed Clark a smidgeon. “I wouldn’t have left you, but a time-sensitive problem came up, and I thought you’d sleep a bit longer, after you didn’t wake with the dawn. I’ll be up as soon as I can, I promise.”
Clark growled again—regardless of any sudden emergency, Bruce had still chained him to a bed while he was sleeping—but decided to give it a little while before he started yelling again. Fortunately, Bruce was as good as his word and walked into the room less than ten minutes later.
“How are you feeling?” he asked cheerfully, sitting down on the bed next to Clark’s chest. He had changed and was now dressed casually in jeans and a black turtleneck.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Clark demanded, thrashing around as much as he could. “I’m chained to a bed with kryptonite, that’s how I’m doing!”
“Mmm. Doesn’t seem that much different than the situation I found you in earlier,” Bruce said blithely, “and you seemed undisturbed then.” A steely note crept into his voice with the last few words, and his eyes meeting Clark’s were unrepentant and angry.
Clark groaned inwardly. And here I really thought I was going to escape the lecture.
“Bruce,” he bit out, striving for calm. “I am willing to have this conversation with you, but not while I’m tied up without consent. Let me go.”
“Or what?” Bruce somehow managed to make that sound genuinely curious, rather than threatening.
“If I don’t show up at home soon, Lois will call the club,” Clark said. “Ivy will tell her that I left with you. She’ll call here, and if you don’t answer, her next call will be to Diana. Do you really want to have that conversation?”
Bruce quirked his mouth. “Perhaps not. On the other hand, it doesn’t seem like all of you wants to be released...” he said with a suggestive smirk, glancing down at Clark’s erection.
“Bruce!” Clark roared, flushing red with embarrassment and anger. “Let me out, now! Or we are done.”
Bruce snorted, but grabbed a key from the bedside table and unlocked Clark’s nearest wrist. Clark breathed out a short exhale of relief. Bruce leaned over him to release his other arm, and he rubbed his wrists as Bruce hopped off the bed and took a couple of steps to his feet.
“As it happens, I did actually speak with Lois, almost an hour ago,” Bruce said while unlocking Clark’s ankles. “She was very relieved to hear that you were sleeping peacefully and will be here in a couple hours, with Jon, for brunch.” Clark winced. He knew Lois worried every time he went out “clubbing.”
Free, Clark pushed himself up from the bed and pulled the sheet around his waist in a makeshift toga. He stood in front of the window, stretching in the sunlight, enjoying the feel of the solar radiation charging up his cells with energy. Once he felt close to full power and more able—he was never ready—to deal with Bruce, he turned back to the bed, where Bruce sat piling up the manacles and putting them away in a lead-lined box.
“Please tell me that you’re aware how messed up this was,” he stated, staring Bruce down. “Because you have no business in a club like the Church if you think this was anywhere close to okay.”
Bruce at least had the decency to look a little abashed. “I was trying to make a point about the danger you’ve been putting yourself in,” he said stubbornly.
“Yes, Bruce, I realized that,” Clark said with deadpan sarcasm. “This wasn’t subtle.”
“It wasn’t meant to be,” Bruce replied, his voice hardening. “What if I had been—”
“If you hadn’t been you, I would have insisted that we check in together before leaving the club,” Clark snapped back. “And posted our information and the location we planned to go and a timeline on when I needed to call back in.”
“And a fat lot of good that would do you if someone decided to slit your throat five minutes after they’d gotten you out of there,” Bruce hissed. “Or just... went too far, by accident.”
Clark sighed. “Yes. That is a danger. Life is full of them. This is something I need to be able to function as Superman without becoming a danger to the world and those around me. In my opinion, that makes the risks worth it.”
“You could have come to me,” Bruce said angrily.
Clark raised his eyebrows. “I had no idea that you were—”
“I could have gotten you a professional,” Bruce continued, “or rented you an apartment, even if I wasn’t—there are a hundred ways I could have made this safer. I’m your friend. Why would you not ask me for help?”
Clark blinked, shocked at the genuine hurt that colored Bruce’s voice. “I—it honestly never occurred to me,” he responded blankly. “This really isn’t something I talk to people about,” he admitted after another second of thought.
After a moment more spent glowering, Bruce accepted that with a reluctant nod. “Well, you’re not going back there,” he declared.
Clark eyes narrowed at the presumption, but then he smirked. “Actually, I have to,” he said silkily. “Since, despite this unfortunate follow-up, I think you showed me a good enough time that I can’t welsh on my deal with Ivy.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “What deal?”
“I have to put in a turn as a cage-dancer,” Clark said insouciantly.
Bruce growled.
“You don’t get to dictate what I do with my life because we slept together once, Bruce,” Clark said hotly, stalking forward toward the bed. “And you do not get to chain me up after I fell asleep because I trusted you.” At that last, he leaned his fists against the bed and glared Bruce down from an inch in front of his face.
Bruce dropped his eyes, seemingly genuine shame creeping across his face. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I lost my temper, but that’s not an excuse. I’m sorry.”
Clark grunted skeptically, but pulled back and then sat down, next to Bruce on the bed. “Fine,” he conceded.
They sat next to each other in silence for a few minutes.
“Where do we go from here?” Bruce asked.
“I’m not sure,” Clark admitted. They sat quietly for a few more minutes, then he laughed as an idea came to him. “You’re my friend. I have a thing you could maybe help me with?”
Bruce laughed as well and turned toward him. “It’d be my honor,” he answered, eyes dancing.
“Yeah?” Clark asked, striving for the same light, teasing tone, and failing utterly.
“Clark,” Bruce husked, laying a hand on his knee. “You’re so beautiful.”
Clark flushed happily.
“Last night was... beyond words,” Bruce continued. “If you tell me we can never do that again—” he shrugged, but the intent, impassioned look in his eyes robbed the gesture of any seeming nonchalance. “I’ll respect that, because your friendship means the world to me. I’ll help however you need. But if I could be the one to be there for you...”
“I want you to be,” Clark vowed, his heart racing. He scooted closer to Bruce on the bed. “I’ve never been taken down that deep, that fast. It was...” he shook his head. “I've always wanted it to be you.”
Bruce purred at that and wrapped his arms around Clark’s waist, kissing him passionately. They fell back against the bed, entwined. Urgent heat rose between them fast and hard.
“I want you,” Bruce gasped, pulling away the sheet still wrapped around Clark’s legs.
Clark moaned, running his hands up under Bruce’s knit turtleneck. The touch of his lover’s bare skin was delicious and electric. Pulling the shirt up and off, he glanced around and spied out supplies inside the bedside table. He crawled over and grabbed them while Bruce hurriedly shucked off his pants.
Turning back, Clark reembraced his friend and lover, worked a condom onto Bruce’s dick, and slicked it up, all the while focusing intently on his own lower body. Forcibly relaxing his muscles with superhuman control, he raised himself up and then sat down in Bruce’s lap in one smooth motion, sheathing Bruce to the hilt. Bruce gasped like he’d taken a punch to the gut and clutched at Clark’s shoulders.
“Holy... shit...” Bruce panted, and shook minutely, resting his forehead on Clark’s chest.
Clark pulled Bruce’s mouth up to his and kissed him again. He made himself lighter, enough that Bruce could slide him easily up and down, but otherwise waited, motionless, for Bruce to recover.
“Okay,” Bruce croaked after a minute. “Okay.” He ran his hands down Clark’s skin and took a firm grasp on his ass, lifting him up. A second later, he choked out a laugh as he discovered the games Clark was playing with gravity.
“You’re so good for me,” Bruce purred, and began bouncing Clark on his cock. Clark moaned, arching his spine and throwing his head back. Bruce’s dick felt every bit as good with his powers as without them—the burn and stretch and overwhelming fullness were gone, but in recompense, Clark could feel every micrometer of skin-on-skin, identify every vein and fold as Bruce slid back and forth within him. Making sure he didn’t voluntarily move a muscle, he let Bruce manhandle him and sped himself up just a bit, to better savor the sensation.
From Bruce's point of view in regular time, Clark orgasmed several times within the space of fifteen minutes, quivering endlessly, flopping like a rag doll, and giving short, shrill whimpers as Bruce rolled his hips and moved him rapidly up and down on his cock. From Clark’s perspective, Bruce fucked him slowly and steadily for endless hours, indifferent to his breathy cries. Eventually, he felt Bruce’s balls slowly tighten against his ass, and he let go of his grip on the forces of the universe, letting time and space return to normal. Bruce snarled and came, shaking, as Clark’s body, now back to regular weight, slammed down on his dick.
They clung to each other for several long minutes afterward. Bruce buried his head in Clark’s chest, panting quietly.
“Well,” Clark said finally. “That was fun. Wanna go again?”
Bruce laughed tiredly, tipped him over onto the bed, and slapped his ass. “Brat.”
AND THEN LOIS ARRIVED LATER THAT MORNING AND SAID, IN ORDER: 1) OH THANK GOD, HE’S NOT GOING TO BE GETTING FUCKED BY DUBIOUS STRANGERS ANYMORE; 2) SO, BRUCE, WHEN DO I GET TO PUBLISH YOUR COMING OUT STORY?; AND 3) ANYBODY UP FOR A THREESOME?