"I save that story for the people I trust." I feel the bitterness crawling out of my mouth, words I don't really mean or more likely mean far too much for my own good. Grand exit line, and I leave that place, thinking about Clark, of course. These little glimpses of myself that I dole out to him like candy, trading my truths for his trust, but in some ways just to see his reaction. I'm fishing for answers, but really I'm hoping he'll ask the right questions. Hoping he'll want to know more, to know me.
No such luck with that dirty little secret; he just hunched over with what I swear was guilt and fucking *apologized* for it, not in the usual insincere way that everyone did when they first heard the story but really, truly apologized as though he's not only sorry but feels personally responsible for my vain little tragedy. And the evasions, the lies -- he's getting better at them, but I can always tell. His face closes up, and it's more than secrecy, it's sheer terror of being discovered I see walled up in those chameleon blue-green eyes.
I brushed it off, tried to pull it out of him by talking about his little friend's theories about the meteor shower. I wonder if he's thought about where else I might be bald, like so many of the little socialites and perverts I meet. The whispers that crawl up my spine and send cold fingers crawling across the base of my skull as they throw it in my face in the guise of casual flirtation. Sex and power, that's the world I'm used to, and Clark's confusion and guilt aren't a part of it. Still, they've helped remind me that, his amazing height and build aside, he's young and not so much naive as innocent in a way I can't begin to comprehend.
* * *
I may have been naive that day I went into the cornfields, young, foolish and full of fear and illusions, but I have never been allowed the luxury of innocence. I have always known the cold comfort of a father who sees me as a failure, even before I became a freak. He was a self-made man, and so he's trying to mold me into the same ruthless image that made him his billions in the age of yuppie greed, without regard for whatever shape into which I might have naturally grown.
I've always been a science geek. Private schools and horrible boys and there I was blowing the curve and their chances at an Ivy League. Getting my ass kicked and, later, my cock sucked, all over something as foolish as the first few letters of the alphabet, as important as being in the 99th percentile. Getting all the favors because they knew I knew all the answers, but at the same time being loathed because I knew all their weaknesses, their secret vices. They marveled at the smoothness of me and sometimes came just for the feel of my skin, even when there were no upcoming tests to cram for, no papers to be written in a surprisingly accurate imitation of their own puerile writing.
I dropped hints in those papers, just to let the faculty know exactly how I was ruining their little boys. Ruining the faculty, then, just for kicks, peddling my ass out to them not because they knew I was cheating but just to have that power over them, to know that even as I was being bent naked over a desk I was the one in control. Dad and his power trips, he taught me so well, so young.
Once I started down that path, the obvious next step was Club Zero; the proprietors knew just who would pay top dollar to get to fuck the freak, to do to the son in the bedroom what the father did to them in the boardroom. I was good enough that they came back again and again, even though they always left with eyes more hollow and tormented than they arrived. I drank in their desperation; I used my body to take what they didn't know they didn't want to give. I'm the hollow one now, though, the object of so many lessons, exiled away from my vices and mistakes. My father sent me to Smallville hoping to show me a world where the power wasn't so tainted, where the lines were simpler and more direct.
Of course he found me out; some foolish old man let it slip during some private meeting, that no matter how badly Lionel fucked him on the business deal, he'd still have enough money left over to fuck young Lex, he always had a bit set aside for that little pleasure. And of course, instead of confronting me, Lionel decided to teach me a lesson about just who and what was being fucked there in that sordid club. For once, I was left powerless, and when the inevitable happened I had to humiliate myself still further, running to him for help.
Still, in a way it was worth it. Now I know what my father likes. What gets his fucking *rocks* off, and I learned that he's been substituting for me for far longer than I wanted to think about. That his visit wasn't just a lesson for me but the culmination of years of perverse fantasies and all I can say is, I feel sorry for all those little rent boys out there who had to shave every nook and cranny for my father's sick little games. The things that get him off are something I wouldn't wish on anyone else, but he's raised me to be selfish enough that I won't sacrifice my tender skin to save any of them.
I know if I had given him what he wanted the night Club Zero was busted, he would have kept me by his side, let me live my own life awhile longer. But I just couldn't bear it, and now I'm stuck here in Smallville wondering about the secrets hidden behind the eyes of a teenage boy with the face of an angel. I thought it would be an exile, but in a way it's refreshing to be around people whose contempt is right on their faces instead of being shoved up my ass for several thousand dollars a shot.
* * *
I don't even miss the extra pocket money, since there's nothing here to spend it on that can't show up on an expense report. Cheap horrible coffee, decoratively vapid cheerleader-turned-waitresses and wasted concert tickets, all to try and see if maybe there really is someone worth calling a friend inside of me. If maybe Clark won't see what all those men saw when they called me "Little Luthor" as they crawled around inside my skin. If maybe I can't be a genuine, normal human being, if only for one farm boy.
Just once, it would be nice to know that someone else's trust in me was not only sincere, but also not horribly misplaced. Of course, normal people don't have their friends investigated because of a few inexplicable things. Normal people don't dream of river-wet kisses and wonder, did he really breathe life into me? I don't remember those moments, but when I awoke, there was a lingering heat on my lips that even the touch of death couldn't erase.
I flew for two minutes, looking over the world I had been given. For two minutes I didn't wonder who or what I'd be fucking next, and I awoke to the face of an angel. Such beauty, and I can't believe no one's touched him yet but he acts, talks, *moves* like a shy virgin; I can see that he hasn't yet had any hands on him but his own. He's never known a soft caress, or a bruising slap. He's never had someone tie him up and beat him until he's begged to be fucked just to make the beating stop. He's never been fucked by his own father. I have, in too many ways to dwell on let alone enumerate.
I still have a scar on my lip from that day. I don't know if my dear father realizes it, but I suspect he does. I suspect he gets great satisfaction seeing it, knowing that I know: no matter what I do in my life, he'll always see me pale and naked, bruised and bloody and hard as a rock as he slams into my ass. Covered in my own come and well-fucked, dazed and near tears because I didn't even realize who it was until the end. So many of them like to be called "Daddy" and I didn't look up. I'd gotten so good at playing at obedience that it never occurred to me to rebel. Even at the end, looking into his face as I was sucking his cock so he could shower my bald head with his seed as though hoping to sprout hair or a son more like himself. Even then, it didn't occur to me to rebel.
* * *
I'm sitting in a coffee shop with Clark and pretty little Lana, watching them rebel in their own little normal, teenage ways. Looking at the work in front of me, the way Lionel made me cave in every time. He can't physically fuck me into submission again, but that moment is always playing in the back of my head; my father pulling his cock out of my hungry mouth and showering my upturned face with hot little drops of his contempt. He was just another john in a long line of men lined up to fuck me, yet with him it penetrated the skin, ate at me until he had a secret tunnel bypassing all the walls I'd so carefully constructed. Now here I am using someone else's teen angst to try and shore up the walls, block the tunnel, stop tasting the filth of him in the back of my throat.
* * *
It almost worked. Lionel gave me the one little rebellion, but has gladly thrown me to the wolves at the next opportunity. A factory with a secret, and me the ignorant scapegoat. His lies almost killed me, and worse, they might have killed Clark.
Clark, who saved me even as I tried to sacrifice myself to save him. Debt upon debt, and no way to repay him. He stayed inside because he believed in me, and his simple act of faith has carved a tunnel straighter and truer than my father's, but no less painful as it bursts through the walls. His rejection of my gifts has condemned me, in ways he can't possibly understand. I know no other way of reaching out to him, so yet again I'm being fucked just because I'm a Luthor; simple, honest sharing is beyond me at this point, and that's the only coinage Clark will accept. What can I tell him? What possible connection could I forge with such a boy, with only the sordid details of my petty little life to share?
So, one truth at a time. I gauge his reactions as I dispense them. Ask him questions with impossible answers, test the boundaries and wonder if I'll ever get beyond the secret that makes his eyes go grey-blue and shuttered, that makes him flinch almost imperceptibly and edge away from me with a paranoia that seems surreal. I watch his parents welcome him back with open arms, affection that I can't begin to understand as my father's arms circle me to put a positive spin on the whole affair. Luthor Corp is about family, indeed. He runs his businesses just like he runs his life, fucking whenever he can get away with it and in as many ways as physically possible.
I have to turn my face away from the cameras, hide the familial corrosion that's eating me from the inside out. He's found a new way to fuck me, even out here in the sticks. Of course, a part of me knew he was lying, challenged him on it in front of the Kents knowing he wouldn't ever say anything incriminating with such witnesses. I know he'll make me pay for the things I said in front of the cameras, I just have to wait and see if it's as bad as I think it'll be. I feel bitter and cold, and I can't stand it anymore. I have to pull away from the chill of his touch on me. My smile is fake and pretty for the cameras, and I feel my insides twist as Clark's parents take him home, grateful he's alive. Even old Earl has someone who cares more about him than I do.
I finally just walk away -- from the reporters, from my responsibilities, from my father -- and go back to the hollow castle of my exile.
* * *
I'm sitting alone now, wondering if my dad will show up. Wondering if I have the strength to deal with him, after being beaten and betrayed and nearly dying for the second time in this strange little town. I'm on my third glass of scotch when the door opens, and I hear the familiar gait cross the carpeted floor. I look up into his eyes, one fleeting moment of hope that he might actually be concerned sparking in me. The foolish thought he might actually just want to see that I was all right. No such luck as his sneer hits me like a blow, and I know tonight is about to get oh, so much worse. I wonder if I'll survive this time. I realize I'm already moving into that familiar space in my head, starting the retreat into mindless obedience. All the control is his, this time, and my last real thought is that for the first time since I came to Smallville, Clark won't be here to save me.