My So-Called Life-
You know how sometimes life is like a chocolate shake? You want to drink the shake right away and you suck real hard on the straw but it hurts so much. So you've gotta wait until it's warmer and wetter and it doesn't hurt so bad, you know? But then you've got this perfect time to drink the shake, when it's not too cold that it won't go through the straw and not so warm it's disgusting and starts seeping through the wax in the paper cup. So you try to get there and it's really hard. This is me, waiting for Jordan Catalano in the hallway. Because like, every day in the boiler room, when I press him into the railing above the furnaces and unzip his pants, I've got to plan just the right time to spit.
Your Lego Brand Toys-
"Bjarke, take me on the train to the police station! There, perhaps we will find an Astronaut or a Knight to make love to in a fabulous tres og ni!"
"I will, Søren, after I finish this game of football and drive the ambulance in circles. To get me in the mood first, take off your trousers."
"As you wish. Ahhhh! AAAAAHHHHH! Oh my God! The HORROR! The HORROR!"
On the Road-
Dean made me an egg sandwich. I told him it tasted like shit. He hit me. I beat him up. Then he let me fuck him in Cleveland.
The Talking Cats Video-
Left hand cat: Im in ur krotch, razin ur temperchur.
Right hand cat: Iz glad iz u.
Left hand cat: M'kay.
Right hand cat: U takes unother life wiz ur wilz!
Left hand cat: M'kay. M'kay.
Right hand cat: I can haz orgazm?
Left hand cat: M'kaaaay.
Right hand cat: Iz dun.
Left hand cat: I likes ur earwax.
Right hand cat: Ew.
The Democratic Debates-
Sen. Obama: I think the European Union as a whole has been a long-standing ally of ours, and through NATO we've been able to make some significant progress. Afghanistan, in particular, is an area where we should be focusing. NATO has made real contributions there.
Gov. Richardson: Take me.
Your shampoo bottle-
Lather, oh God, lather, yeah. Oh shit. Okay. Repeat. Oh just repeat. Repeat repeat REPEAT OH OH OH. Follow with Pantene Pro-V conditioner.
Wargames-
"Joshua seduced me."
The Wizard of Oz-
The Tin Man: Oh, Dorothy, this heart is telling me that I (twang sound of tin uncrumpling) love you.
Dorothy: Did I tell you which body part I asked The Wizard for?
Slaughterhouse Five-
Listen:
Billy Pilgrim has become unstuck in time, and gotten his come stuck all over Bernard O'Hare.
Mystery Science Theatre 3000-
TV's Frank (on the screen): There's no need to tell Joel, Servo. This is just between you, me Dr. Forrester and our... needs.
Servo (also on the screen): Joel will never find out?
Dr. Forrester (also also on the screen): No. Now, just let Frank do what he needs to do with you.
Servo (screen): Okay, mmm, that feels... tingly.
Dr. Forrester (at home in the lab): Um, Frank? Why is A Night at the Crypt in this envelope? What are we showing Joel right now?
Joel: Worst movie ever.
The Mac ads-
PC walked in to find Mac on his iPod, his eyes closed, sitting at his laptop, but bobbing his head to something and hissing out a few jumbled lyrics, his head turning for dramatic effect. PC walked over to him, took the headphone out of his left ear and placed it in his own. It was All I Want is You by U2. Mac pushed his forefinger in his ear and slid the chord between his middle and ring finger until he found it against PC’s cheek. He stood up and swung around dramatically, lipsynching the words with his hand over his heart. PC giggled and started doing the same. Mac pressed into his own chest, mouthing “Yooooooo-ooooou,” kissed his fingers and turned them toward PC. PC kissed his own and pressed them into Mac’s palm. Mac clasped his hand, stretched it out and pushed their chests together. They danced out the rest of the song. Linux watched, a huge grin on his face, from the couch. The two of them swirled before him, breathing out the lyrics with the sound of their soles swishing against the floor.
Later, they shared hard drives. As Mac wasn't running Windows, no viruses were exchanged.
Your Monopoly pieces-
Dog: That's not a condom, Cannon, that's Thimble.
Showing posts with label missing sex scene. Show all posts
Showing posts with label missing sex scene. Show all posts
Friday, December 21, 2007
Monday, December 3, 2007
The Missing Sex Scene-We Three Kings
This is seriously blasphemous, so if you are sensitive to that sort of thing, don't read this.
Melchior had been traveling from his kingdom, going west, west, west for months when he again found himself rigid as bamboo. “It’s the myrrh,” he mumbled to himself, reassuring, he supposed, to a Confucianist, but getting damned inconvenient. The traveling had been fine, miraculously speedy and strangely weather-free. Even in the Himalayas, the “Abode of Snow,” he was warm, and path of dry and smooth forever opened itself in front of him. Here in the desert, even at night it was warm and comfortable. It seemed that the traveling would only go faster had he not brought the myrrh, had he not found himself seeing mirages of beautiful women, their robes opening to him, the scent of the flower of their flesh drifting over the strangely comfortable desert to his nose.
He walked away from the sleeping Caspar, tucking his erection under the belt of his robes, taking a flask of peanut oil with him. He’d just met Caspar that morning, his story similar, if shorter, of a star and a strange, beautiful creature dropped from the heavens telling them to follow it. The two of them agreed with a nudge to the ribs that they would have crossed the earth on all fours barking like a dog if that fantastic creature would have asked them to. They laughed, but it was a forced laugh. They were completely serious. She’d appeared in visions to them both for ages, her breasts levitating in the air, her golden hair like silk, you could feel it through the atmosphere. She was the atmosphere when she was there, really. Both of them had dropped to their knees because they wouldn’t hold them anymore when she came to them. The angel, for that’s what they’d decided she was, had made them pure desire, made them hump the air, their eyes half-shut, clutching their crotches like young boys late for the emptying of their bladders.
“She’s a great fertility goddess from the West,” they agreed, to end the conversation less awkwardly.
Melchior climbed a rise and took a few steps, sliding on his heels in the sand, down the other side. He tried not to close his eyes for a moment until he was out of sight of the oasis, though he couldn’t hide from the star. He fell into the sand, exhausted from crushed desire, and quickly opened his robe. He cleared his hands of sand, opened the bottle of oil and coated himself with it. He gasped at his own touch, feeling the first shock of satisfaction and more lust, and twisted his cock between forefinger and thumb. He did not use his other fingers, hadn’t used them for all these months. The tease was transcendent. He began to pump himself and at last closed his eyes, letting the vision of the Western fertility goddess enter his mind unabated.
Caspar woke as he had every night for these two weeks, feeling prickles from the stars above, as if they were far-off suns, each of them with their with their own gods and powers. It was as if they each wanted to touch him, caress him, land on his skin and mate with him in some dance that they’d all memorized through the ages. It was a strange and chaste fantasy, but he chose it over the vision of the angel descending to his cock, her own light and wonder too powerful to be conceived by his addled mind. It had been two weeks since he’d been visited by her and his life had become transformed. Since that indescribable dream, as palpable as any of his other memories but many times their effect, he’d been uprooted from his home, taken from his bed and his many wives, to chase this one goddess’s suggestion. He’d tried to give it more importance in his mind, credit it with something more substantial than a beautiful woman landing at the foot of his couch as he quietly ate supper, but that’s all it was. That he’d rolled to the floor, blinded by her and in paroxysms of pleasure and helplessness, was too unexplainable to be acknowledged, even to himself.
Yet, here Caspar was, on his back, titillated by the very stars again, an erection full and vigorous as the moon itself not so much paralyzing his body as imperiously filling it with vigor. The erection wasn’t of the standard kind that he’d felt in other weeks, before he’d met her. It was all-encompassing, his cock like a boulder and just as deniable. He left the oasis with a small bottle of cooking oil and climbed a hill to be alone, his knees tingling under the heavy-but-light of his body, his cock, too hard to have more than slightest bob in his walk, fighting his robes for relief.
Melchior heard the zip-zip of two feet in the sand and wrote it off as the friction of his own elbow. Though he’d had no reason to notice before, he saw now that sound didn’t carry in the sand the way that it did across normal soil or with the surprising accuracy of water. He allowed himself some noises, some small moans and yips, settling in for the long ride.
That was the other matter. These erections took ages to wear away. Melchior and Caspar had both noticed that they could ride the ecstasy just before the culmination for what seemed like hours, bodies rigid and arms light in the haze, their mouths drooping with dumb joy, joy to the world.
Caspar’s head was muddled, and he knew it. He’d climbed the ridge at the top of a small dune and found Melchior, grey in the moonlight, his robe open and his back arched, his hand pleasuring himself and didn’t balk, didn’t rush away, didn’t so much as quietly save them both the embarrassment and climb back down to the oasis. He lay down instead at Melchior’s side, pushed his hand off of him and replaced it with his own.
Melchior trembled hard at his ministrations, nearly choking at his bodily shock and the lack of mental shock. He reached inside Caspar’s robe and found him too, wracked with his own massive need, and stroked it furiously, just the thumb and forefinger as he had on himself. Caspar looked upon this strange king with the almond-shaped eyes and suddenly adored him, under some spell of the fertility goddess, he fell in his mind onto Melchior’s body, pressed his lips to his own and shared this bliss with him. He knew then that he was meant to, that this journey was not sacred alone.
“It’s the myrrh,” mumbled the Confucianist through his quivering lips. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”
The Muslim shook his head. “It’s the goddess,” he said, “Aphrodite herself.”
Balthasar had seen the oasis reflecting in the moonlight from a mile or so behind him. He’d been traveling at night, though the sun had not been bothering him. At night, he could keep better track of the star that the strange, translucently white woman had planted in his mind. She’d told him that he would be meeting two other kings and that they would seem as strange and wonderful to him as herself. He did not see how this was possible, bent over in the dust of his own hut, the shaft in his robes mimicking the one he held in his right hand, that of his reign. She was ugly, he’d thought at first, insubstantial and blinding white, but his body had reacted, transgressed his mind, with a sandstorm of lust. He fell before her and clutched his cock as if it were magnetized to his hand. He didn’t like doing this in front of a strange woman, but she only smiled at him. Another wave of the storm crossed his body at her smile and his head swirled in the wind. Her words skipped his ears altogether and landed directly in his soul. Star, kings, savior, north.
When she left, he called for his wife. When she entered the hut, wiping some dust off of her nose and confused, he brought her to the floor, pushed her knees apart and mounted her like an antelope. He thrust into her for what seemed like an hour, without soreness or dissipating energy, he fucked her, good and hard and primal, his face drawn and slack, his head swarmed with stinging need and joy. Joy to the world.
In the morning, not sated, but recharged, he made plans to head out, filled his sacks with gold and food, saddled his ass and waited until sundown before he set out.
The terrible rush was hitting Balthasar again as he arrived at the oasis. He dismounted his ass and found himself hunched over, as he had been too many times over the past forty days, not becoming for a king. His heels made zip-zip sounds in the sand. He saw a fire and two blankets, two more beasts tied to a tree and knew that he was about to meet the other kings. He didn’t want to disturb them, not in his condition, and tied his ass to a tree just over the ridge from the camp. He opened a saddlebag, retrieved a small bottle of oil for his skin and followed the crest of the ridge, descending when he would find privacy.
The two men looked like ghosts to him in the moonlight, though not as shockingly as the angel had. He saw them twist in the sand and thought that they might have been bitten by a snake or were in the pains of thirst. He began to rush to them, his mind full of the prayers taught to him by his shaman, when he approached close enough to see their hands. They were pleasuring each other.
His mind reeled at the selfishness of the two men, wasting their seed on the desert floor and each other, until he remembered that there were no women around, that they were as guiltless as he, who’d dropped enough seed in the desert behind him to make it grow lush as a jungle. He fell, as he had so many times in forty days, to his knees and poured the skin oil into his palm. He watched the men, the voice of the angel whispering more lust into his mind. “They will seem as wondrous and strange as myself,” she said. When his hand made contact with his cock, he crushed a long groan in his mouth. It escaped his nose instead as a whine, a single, drawn whistle of ecstatic love.
“Go to them,” the angel whispered. “They know the way too, and will share their journey with you.”
He shuffled through the sand on his knees, the structure of his very bones pulling his body to them. He could hear them now, their strained breaths and wet kisses, the flapping skin of their hands on each other. The smaller one with the straight hair bent forward then and pushed the bearded one flat on his back. He crawled between the bearded one’s knees and took his cock in his mouth, suckling it with concentration and deep need.
“Ah!” Balthasar let out before he could help it. The two men looked up at him and found his shape in the sand. They did not look shocked, embarrassed or even unprepared for him. The bearded one reached out for him, and Balthasar’s knees zip-zipped to his side. He felt a small culmination in destiny, felt his cock descend Caspar’s mouth as if he were a key all these forty days, dangling for a lock.
The three kings moved as one under the stars, pushing and pulling into each other, swifter and stronger at the same pace, a swash and a backwash of the waves of the sea here in the sand. Balthasar reached until he found the leg of the straight-haired one, Melchior, wrapped his hand between his thighs and pulled him to his mouth. The light of the desert grew stronger, brighter, whiter, more focused on the triangle that had formed between their bodies. It was the star descending the gap. The three became thoughtless, weightless, focused and filled with holy bliss. Their cocks each smelled of spices, tasted of honey, moved with the ease of a fish in a river.
The angel appeared above them again, though they did not open their eyes to her. She hovered above them and pulsed, the star in her hands, beaming pure bliss from the center of her stomach, where her navel would be. The kings grasped each other’s legs tightly in their fists and felt creation, joyful creation of the death of death. It was here now, they knew, it was come.
“Alleluia!” sang the angel, declared the angel, and the three men, no longer kings, but under the guidance of a greater being, came in torrents, frankincense, myrrh and gold, precious into each other’s bodies. It pumped and pumped and pumped and they drank it, the last food they would eat on their journey, and fell to their backs, each man’s head on another’s thighs.
And the angel led them all to sing, their bodies straining to set off,
“King and God and sacrifice;
Alleluia, Alleluia,
Sounds through the earth and skies.”
Melchior had been traveling from his kingdom, going west, west, west for months when he again found himself rigid as bamboo. “It’s the myrrh,” he mumbled to himself, reassuring, he supposed, to a Confucianist, but getting damned inconvenient. The traveling had been fine, miraculously speedy and strangely weather-free. Even in the Himalayas, the “Abode of Snow,” he was warm, and path of dry and smooth forever opened itself in front of him. Here in the desert, even at night it was warm and comfortable. It seemed that the traveling would only go faster had he not brought the myrrh, had he not found himself seeing mirages of beautiful women, their robes opening to him, the scent of the flower of their flesh drifting over the strangely comfortable desert to his nose.
He walked away from the sleeping Caspar, tucking his erection under the belt of his robes, taking a flask of peanut oil with him. He’d just met Caspar that morning, his story similar, if shorter, of a star and a strange, beautiful creature dropped from the heavens telling them to follow it. The two of them agreed with a nudge to the ribs that they would have crossed the earth on all fours barking like a dog if that fantastic creature would have asked them to. They laughed, but it was a forced laugh. They were completely serious. She’d appeared in visions to them both for ages, her breasts levitating in the air, her golden hair like silk, you could feel it through the atmosphere. She was the atmosphere when she was there, really. Both of them had dropped to their knees because they wouldn’t hold them anymore when she came to them. The angel, for that’s what they’d decided she was, had made them pure desire, made them hump the air, their eyes half-shut, clutching their crotches like young boys late for the emptying of their bladders.
“She’s a great fertility goddess from the West,” they agreed, to end the conversation less awkwardly.
Melchior climbed a rise and took a few steps, sliding on his heels in the sand, down the other side. He tried not to close his eyes for a moment until he was out of sight of the oasis, though he couldn’t hide from the star. He fell into the sand, exhausted from crushed desire, and quickly opened his robe. He cleared his hands of sand, opened the bottle of oil and coated himself with it. He gasped at his own touch, feeling the first shock of satisfaction and more lust, and twisted his cock between forefinger and thumb. He did not use his other fingers, hadn’t used them for all these months. The tease was transcendent. He began to pump himself and at last closed his eyes, letting the vision of the Western fertility goddess enter his mind unabated.
Caspar woke as he had every night for these two weeks, feeling prickles from the stars above, as if they were far-off suns, each of them with their with their own gods and powers. It was as if they each wanted to touch him, caress him, land on his skin and mate with him in some dance that they’d all memorized through the ages. It was a strange and chaste fantasy, but he chose it over the vision of the angel descending to his cock, her own light and wonder too powerful to be conceived by his addled mind. It had been two weeks since he’d been visited by her and his life had become transformed. Since that indescribable dream, as palpable as any of his other memories but many times their effect, he’d been uprooted from his home, taken from his bed and his many wives, to chase this one goddess’s suggestion. He’d tried to give it more importance in his mind, credit it with something more substantial than a beautiful woman landing at the foot of his couch as he quietly ate supper, but that’s all it was. That he’d rolled to the floor, blinded by her and in paroxysms of pleasure and helplessness, was too unexplainable to be acknowledged, even to himself.
Yet, here Caspar was, on his back, titillated by the very stars again, an erection full and vigorous as the moon itself not so much paralyzing his body as imperiously filling it with vigor. The erection wasn’t of the standard kind that he’d felt in other weeks, before he’d met her. It was all-encompassing, his cock like a boulder and just as deniable. He left the oasis with a small bottle of cooking oil and climbed a hill to be alone, his knees tingling under the heavy-but-light of his body, his cock, too hard to have more than slightest bob in his walk, fighting his robes for relief.
Melchior heard the zip-zip of two feet in the sand and wrote it off as the friction of his own elbow. Though he’d had no reason to notice before, he saw now that sound didn’t carry in the sand the way that it did across normal soil or with the surprising accuracy of water. He allowed himself some noises, some small moans and yips, settling in for the long ride.
That was the other matter. These erections took ages to wear away. Melchior and Caspar had both noticed that they could ride the ecstasy just before the culmination for what seemed like hours, bodies rigid and arms light in the haze, their mouths drooping with dumb joy, joy to the world.
Caspar’s head was muddled, and he knew it. He’d climbed the ridge at the top of a small dune and found Melchior, grey in the moonlight, his robe open and his back arched, his hand pleasuring himself and didn’t balk, didn’t rush away, didn’t so much as quietly save them both the embarrassment and climb back down to the oasis. He lay down instead at Melchior’s side, pushed his hand off of him and replaced it with his own.
Melchior trembled hard at his ministrations, nearly choking at his bodily shock and the lack of mental shock. He reached inside Caspar’s robe and found him too, wracked with his own massive need, and stroked it furiously, just the thumb and forefinger as he had on himself. Caspar looked upon this strange king with the almond-shaped eyes and suddenly adored him, under some spell of the fertility goddess, he fell in his mind onto Melchior’s body, pressed his lips to his own and shared this bliss with him. He knew then that he was meant to, that this journey was not sacred alone.
“It’s the myrrh,” mumbled the Confucianist through his quivering lips. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”
The Muslim shook his head. “It’s the goddess,” he said, “Aphrodite herself.”
Balthasar had seen the oasis reflecting in the moonlight from a mile or so behind him. He’d been traveling at night, though the sun had not been bothering him. At night, he could keep better track of the star that the strange, translucently white woman had planted in his mind. She’d told him that he would be meeting two other kings and that they would seem as strange and wonderful to him as herself. He did not see how this was possible, bent over in the dust of his own hut, the shaft in his robes mimicking the one he held in his right hand, that of his reign. She was ugly, he’d thought at first, insubstantial and blinding white, but his body had reacted, transgressed his mind, with a sandstorm of lust. He fell before her and clutched his cock as if it were magnetized to his hand. He didn’t like doing this in front of a strange woman, but she only smiled at him. Another wave of the storm crossed his body at her smile and his head swirled in the wind. Her words skipped his ears altogether and landed directly in his soul. Star, kings, savior, north.
When she left, he called for his wife. When she entered the hut, wiping some dust off of her nose and confused, he brought her to the floor, pushed her knees apart and mounted her like an antelope. He thrust into her for what seemed like an hour, without soreness or dissipating energy, he fucked her, good and hard and primal, his face drawn and slack, his head swarmed with stinging need and joy. Joy to the world.
In the morning, not sated, but recharged, he made plans to head out, filled his sacks with gold and food, saddled his ass and waited until sundown before he set out.
The terrible rush was hitting Balthasar again as he arrived at the oasis. He dismounted his ass and found himself hunched over, as he had been too many times over the past forty days, not becoming for a king. His heels made zip-zip sounds in the sand. He saw a fire and two blankets, two more beasts tied to a tree and knew that he was about to meet the other kings. He didn’t want to disturb them, not in his condition, and tied his ass to a tree just over the ridge from the camp. He opened a saddlebag, retrieved a small bottle of oil for his skin and followed the crest of the ridge, descending when he would find privacy.
The two men looked like ghosts to him in the moonlight, though not as shockingly as the angel had. He saw them twist in the sand and thought that they might have been bitten by a snake or were in the pains of thirst. He began to rush to them, his mind full of the prayers taught to him by his shaman, when he approached close enough to see their hands. They were pleasuring each other.
His mind reeled at the selfishness of the two men, wasting their seed on the desert floor and each other, until he remembered that there were no women around, that they were as guiltless as he, who’d dropped enough seed in the desert behind him to make it grow lush as a jungle. He fell, as he had so many times in forty days, to his knees and poured the skin oil into his palm. He watched the men, the voice of the angel whispering more lust into his mind. “They will seem as wondrous and strange as myself,” she said. When his hand made contact with his cock, he crushed a long groan in his mouth. It escaped his nose instead as a whine, a single, drawn whistle of ecstatic love.
“Go to them,” the angel whispered. “They know the way too, and will share their journey with you.”
He shuffled through the sand on his knees, the structure of his very bones pulling his body to them. He could hear them now, their strained breaths and wet kisses, the flapping skin of their hands on each other. The smaller one with the straight hair bent forward then and pushed the bearded one flat on his back. He crawled between the bearded one’s knees and took his cock in his mouth, suckling it with concentration and deep need.
“Ah!” Balthasar let out before he could help it. The two men looked up at him and found his shape in the sand. They did not look shocked, embarrassed or even unprepared for him. The bearded one reached out for him, and Balthasar’s knees zip-zipped to his side. He felt a small culmination in destiny, felt his cock descend Caspar’s mouth as if he were a key all these forty days, dangling for a lock.
The three kings moved as one under the stars, pushing and pulling into each other, swifter and stronger at the same pace, a swash and a backwash of the waves of the sea here in the sand. Balthasar reached until he found the leg of the straight-haired one, Melchior, wrapped his hand between his thighs and pulled him to his mouth. The light of the desert grew stronger, brighter, whiter, more focused on the triangle that had formed between their bodies. It was the star descending the gap. The three became thoughtless, weightless, focused and filled with holy bliss. Their cocks each smelled of spices, tasted of honey, moved with the ease of a fish in a river.
The angel appeared above them again, though they did not open their eyes to her. She hovered above them and pulsed, the star in her hands, beaming pure bliss from the center of her stomach, where her navel would be. The kings grasped each other’s legs tightly in their fists and felt creation, joyful creation of the death of death. It was here now, they knew, it was come.
“Alleluia!” sang the angel, declared the angel, and the three men, no longer kings, but under the guidance of a greater being, came in torrents, frankincense, myrrh and gold, precious into each other’s bodies. It pumped and pumped and pumped and they drank it, the last food they would eat on their journey, and fell to their backs, each man’s head on another’s thighs.
And the angel led them all to sing, their bodies straining to set off,
“King and God and sacrifice;
Alleluia, Alleluia,
Sounds through the earth and skies.”
Thursday, September 6, 2007
The Missing Sex Scene: Superman
Clark sits on the roof of The Daily Planet, watching the slow rotation of the world. Metropolis is all lights and the squeaking of brakes. He loves it here, but decides to do it anyway. He holds his breath for a few moments, thinks of Lois, her bright eyes. She teased him today, his winter boots, large and furry. She said he ought to shave his legs, farmboy. The weather doesn’t bother him, but she does. He bought the boots for the tease. He exhales smoothly and evenly, starting with the clouds. Atoms stick to atoms in them and they begin to come down, alarming frozen ice shards. He can do snowflakes, convincing ones even if they’re simple, but he doesn’t have the time. The ice shards make little flock flock noises as they hit his face and overcoat. He knows that the shock of his body breaks them at the crystalline level. He wonders if they would hurt a normal man and eases them back a little bit. That’s the problem with imperviousness. Tweaking is impossible.
He blows, still in the same breath, across new windcurrents, rearranging them, creating distortion in the upper atmosphere that drift down through the higher air pressure. He finishes with a few small puffs aimed at power lines miles in the distance. He focuses in on them and watches them fall. Large parts of the city go dark except for a few headlights and cigarettes. Each pop makes him feel bad, but it’s nights like this that keep the spirit of the city up. People need a challenge to come together, he thinks, then laughs at his pun.
The Daily Planet goes dark, and more importantly, Lois’s apartment goes dark. He made sure of that, snapped the little power line right on her street. If he’s going to do this, he will not mess up. He’s a perfectionist when it comes to Lois. Because Lois is perfection. It’s time to rush down to her now, turn over a few chairs in a bumbling way. Call out her name, as if he needs her help, is afraid of the dark. There is no dark for him. He’s embarrassed watching people struggle in it, their eyes open and arms out. He wants to help them, but he can’t.
“I love you, Lois,” he says in a voice that’s booming, but so low-pitched that only he can hear it, and heads down to save her.
“It’s alright, Lois, no monkey business. I’ll sleep on the couch,” Clark says just before he closes the door. She watches him lock it before she sighs and accepts the night ahead of her.
“Did you just say ‘monkey business’?” she asks, but shakes his response off before he can give it to her. A housefly hovers over her head. He’s mortified and takes it out with a quick zap of the eyes. It lands on her head, legs in the air. He sends a quick puff to throw it off of her. “Drafty in here, huh?” she says. He sighs. Flies or drafts, he will always disappoint her. She goes to his framed pictures on the windowsill. When she looks at his visage, he sends warm waves to her pussy from behind. He’s never done this before, not on purpose. His X-ray vision shows some subtle effects. So far, so good. “You know what, Clark?” she says, a little cautiously, “You were a good looking kid. Is that your house?”
“Yes,” Clark says. He warms his body temperature as he walks to her, radiates near her. He’s not doing it on purpose. He asked Jimmy one day if this happened to him when he was in love and Jimmy stared at him for a moment. Clark panicked, thought he’d just given something away, but Jimmy just admitted that he’d never been in love with a girl before.
Lois looks a little awkward, searching for a way into normal conversation, Clark at her side. He reaches around her, positively molten now, and points at the photo of the house. “Yes,” he says. “That’s the tree that my father planted as a boy, that’s him there, and this is the back door, and this is the window to my bedroom.” It was a bad way to end it, the mention of the bedroom. Clumsy. But he couldn’t find anything else in the picture to comment on. He has lots of powers, but smell isn’t one of them. His sense of smell is simply normal. For the first time in his life, he regrets it. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this close to Lois before in calm air and would love to smell every part of her. He smells only her hair and that Lois perfume.
The space between them is palpable, more liquid than gas. Clark can see her breasts rise and fall slowly in his peripheral vision. He stands quietly and radiates, happier than he’s ever been. The rest of it would be nice, but he doesn’t need it anymore. He turns his head and says it again, if anything, louder than he did before, “I love you, Lois!”
“That was weird,” she says. “Did you just feel that?”
“Can I get you anything?” he asks, pushing up his glasses. Standing this close, she can see they’re non-prescription and he shouldn’t have drawn attention to them, but he did anyway. Habit.
She turns to him and looks for a moment right at him. He thinks his jig is up until he realizes she’s only looking at his eyes.
“No, thank you. It’s late.” She breaks apart from him. “I’m going to bed.” As she walks away, he gets a good look at her pussy. It’s dripping. He considers running to her, picking her up, sweeping her into the sky, surrounding her in the warmth of his cape, watching the ice shards melt on her skin as he makes love to her. His feet remain where they are and he listens to the crush of the ice on his windows.
He lies on the couch and watches her try to sleep through the wall. She turns and flips and pulls at his shirt. He’s been popping her with warmth, as subtle as rain in the summer. In the end, he’d be content to do this all night, to watch her squirm, make her lose her inhibitions and make herself come. He’s lying in a fetal position on the couch, the ache in his pajama pants begging for relief. “Make love to me,” he says in the deep voice, not terribly loudly. “Make love to me, Lois.”
Lois opens her legs and slips her fingers into the side of her panties. Clark gasps. She punches the mattress.
“Fuck it,” she says, and Clark is shocked at the word. His mouth is still open when she gets out of bed, goes to him on the couch, spreads his legs and lies down between them.
“Is this okay, Clark?” Her voice is broken as if she’s been crying, but it always gets this way when she’s under any kind of stress. “I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do. I don’t… know… what’s coming… over me.”
“Lois,” he says in a controlled voice that sounds too much like his alter ego, “I….” He kisses her and she begins to move over him, to slide on him, to let her fingers go to all his places. He shivers like a scared schoolgirl and he wonders if some of this Clark persona has started to metastasize onto his real personality. He picks her up from what should be an impossible leverage and carries her reverently back to the bedroom, the side of her bottom bumping his penis, and lays her down, his hands sliding up her sides as lets her down, finally ending in her hair. He opens her legs and lets his cheeks brush across the inside of her thighs as he descends. He pushes forward, the smell of her at last, and wraps the loose crotch of her panties in one superhuman finger.
She can’t know, he reminds himself. Why can’t she know? She just can’t, he reminds himself again. He leans into her glistening want, splits her between the finger and thumb and lets her have this, just this. That’s the least of what she deserves.
His tongue flaps so fast on her that his saliva can barely balance out the friction. He makes quick, indiscernible dips down between licks to pick up some of her oozing sweet to keep it up. She has an orgasm, releasing across the bed madly, sheets in her fists, with barely a moment to yell before he brings her to another. He works her into three before she begs him to stop, begs him to come up and fuck her. She said that word again. He accepts it. She can’t quite be all there right now.
He climbs her, dropping his pajamas as he goes, her face still open and panting. He keeps his face away to be polite, but she leans forward and kisses him anyway, a feral Lois, new and shocking. “Fuck me,” she says again, taking his penis to her between two fingers, pushing him forward with her legs around his torso.
She can’t know, he reminds himself. Why can’t she know? She just can’t, he reminds himself again. He struggles, counting, as he makes love to her, as she sheathes him inside of her. He tweaks it until he thinks he has a normal pace, though he can’t say for sure. He keeps it to the same rhythm that Mr. White exhibited when he mimed making love to a temp. It’s good this way anyway, he tells himself. He can pay attention to every part of her, can nuzzle her neck and tenderly cup her breasts. She’s sweating and he can taste it. He loves her, knows that he’s practically setting fire to her with his body temperature but can’t help it. He opens his eyes for a moment and burns a cigarette-sized hole in the pillow next to her face. Darn.
“What’s burning?” she asks, but soon forgets it.
She sighs, stops him, makes some adjustment, feels his penis in her fingers and bends her knees back to her chest. She guides his penis down as he stares at her, unsure of what she’s doing. “Lois?” he says.
She pushes his penis into her behind. “Lo-“ he starts again, then feels the tight around him. He swallows and waits disbelievingly as she slowly falls onto him, wincing. A wall inside of her relaxes. He gets in further. He is overcome by the tight, the intense pressure of her. Another wall falls and she relaxes. “Go,” she says.
He begins to make love to her behind, his mind melted, his body outside of his control. He starts to go as fast as he can, which is to say, faster that any normal man can. Her eyes squint and she has another orgasm. He’s sure that he’s hurt her, but she’s not hurt, she screams his name out. “Clark!” she yells.
“Lois, I love you,” he says in a normal voice, the sense in him vanished somewhere in the air.
“I love you too, Superman,” she says.
He has no time to react, pulls out before he gets her, orgasms with Superman force, blowing a hole in her pillow and consequently the wall. Feathers are flying when he opens his eyes. One lands on her lips. She puffs it away and smiles at him. “I love you too, Superman,” she says and laughs. That Kryptonite laugh of hers.
He blows, still in the same breath, across new windcurrents, rearranging them, creating distortion in the upper atmosphere that drift down through the higher air pressure. He finishes with a few small puffs aimed at power lines miles in the distance. He focuses in on them and watches them fall. Large parts of the city go dark except for a few headlights and cigarettes. Each pop makes him feel bad, but it’s nights like this that keep the spirit of the city up. People need a challenge to come together, he thinks, then laughs at his pun.
The Daily Planet goes dark, and more importantly, Lois’s apartment goes dark. He made sure of that, snapped the little power line right on her street. If he’s going to do this, he will not mess up. He’s a perfectionist when it comes to Lois. Because Lois is perfection. It’s time to rush down to her now, turn over a few chairs in a bumbling way. Call out her name, as if he needs her help, is afraid of the dark. There is no dark for him. He’s embarrassed watching people struggle in it, their eyes open and arms out. He wants to help them, but he can’t.
“I love you, Lois,” he says in a voice that’s booming, but so low-pitched that only he can hear it, and heads down to save her.
“It’s alright, Lois, no monkey business. I’ll sleep on the couch,” Clark says just before he closes the door. She watches him lock it before she sighs and accepts the night ahead of her.
“Did you just say ‘monkey business’?” she asks, but shakes his response off before he can give it to her. A housefly hovers over her head. He’s mortified and takes it out with a quick zap of the eyes. It lands on her head, legs in the air. He sends a quick puff to throw it off of her. “Drafty in here, huh?” she says. He sighs. Flies or drafts, he will always disappoint her. She goes to his framed pictures on the windowsill. When she looks at his visage, he sends warm waves to her pussy from behind. He’s never done this before, not on purpose. His X-ray vision shows some subtle effects. So far, so good. “You know what, Clark?” she says, a little cautiously, “You were a good looking kid. Is that your house?”
“Yes,” Clark says. He warms his body temperature as he walks to her, radiates near her. He’s not doing it on purpose. He asked Jimmy one day if this happened to him when he was in love and Jimmy stared at him for a moment. Clark panicked, thought he’d just given something away, but Jimmy just admitted that he’d never been in love with a girl before.
Lois looks a little awkward, searching for a way into normal conversation, Clark at her side. He reaches around her, positively molten now, and points at the photo of the house. “Yes,” he says. “That’s the tree that my father planted as a boy, that’s him there, and this is the back door, and this is the window to my bedroom.” It was a bad way to end it, the mention of the bedroom. Clumsy. But he couldn’t find anything else in the picture to comment on. He has lots of powers, but smell isn’t one of them. His sense of smell is simply normal. For the first time in his life, he regrets it. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this close to Lois before in calm air and would love to smell every part of her. He smells only her hair and that Lois perfume.
The space between them is palpable, more liquid than gas. Clark can see her breasts rise and fall slowly in his peripheral vision. He stands quietly and radiates, happier than he’s ever been. The rest of it would be nice, but he doesn’t need it anymore. He turns his head and says it again, if anything, louder than he did before, “I love you, Lois!”
“That was weird,” she says. “Did you just feel that?”
“Can I get you anything?” he asks, pushing up his glasses. Standing this close, she can see they’re non-prescription and he shouldn’t have drawn attention to them, but he did anyway. Habit.
She turns to him and looks for a moment right at him. He thinks his jig is up until he realizes she’s only looking at his eyes.
“No, thank you. It’s late.” She breaks apart from him. “I’m going to bed.” As she walks away, he gets a good look at her pussy. It’s dripping. He considers running to her, picking her up, sweeping her into the sky, surrounding her in the warmth of his cape, watching the ice shards melt on her skin as he makes love to her. His feet remain where they are and he listens to the crush of the ice on his windows.
He lies on the couch and watches her try to sleep through the wall. She turns and flips and pulls at his shirt. He’s been popping her with warmth, as subtle as rain in the summer. In the end, he’d be content to do this all night, to watch her squirm, make her lose her inhibitions and make herself come. He’s lying in a fetal position on the couch, the ache in his pajama pants begging for relief. “Make love to me,” he says in the deep voice, not terribly loudly. “Make love to me, Lois.”
Lois opens her legs and slips her fingers into the side of her panties. Clark gasps. She punches the mattress.
“Fuck it,” she says, and Clark is shocked at the word. His mouth is still open when she gets out of bed, goes to him on the couch, spreads his legs and lies down between them.
“Is this okay, Clark?” Her voice is broken as if she’s been crying, but it always gets this way when she’s under any kind of stress. “I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do. I don’t… know… what’s coming… over me.”
“Lois,” he says in a controlled voice that sounds too much like his alter ego, “I….” He kisses her and she begins to move over him, to slide on him, to let her fingers go to all his places. He shivers like a scared schoolgirl and he wonders if some of this Clark persona has started to metastasize onto his real personality. He picks her up from what should be an impossible leverage and carries her reverently back to the bedroom, the side of her bottom bumping his penis, and lays her down, his hands sliding up her sides as lets her down, finally ending in her hair. He opens her legs and lets his cheeks brush across the inside of her thighs as he descends. He pushes forward, the smell of her at last, and wraps the loose crotch of her panties in one superhuman finger.
She can’t know, he reminds himself. Why can’t she know? She just can’t, he reminds himself again. He leans into her glistening want, splits her between the finger and thumb and lets her have this, just this. That’s the least of what she deserves.
His tongue flaps so fast on her that his saliva can barely balance out the friction. He makes quick, indiscernible dips down between licks to pick up some of her oozing sweet to keep it up. She has an orgasm, releasing across the bed madly, sheets in her fists, with barely a moment to yell before he brings her to another. He works her into three before she begs him to stop, begs him to come up and fuck her. She said that word again. He accepts it. She can’t quite be all there right now.
He climbs her, dropping his pajamas as he goes, her face still open and panting. He keeps his face away to be polite, but she leans forward and kisses him anyway, a feral Lois, new and shocking. “Fuck me,” she says again, taking his penis to her between two fingers, pushing him forward with her legs around his torso.
She can’t know, he reminds himself. Why can’t she know? She just can’t, he reminds himself again. He struggles, counting, as he makes love to her, as she sheathes him inside of her. He tweaks it until he thinks he has a normal pace, though he can’t say for sure. He keeps it to the same rhythm that Mr. White exhibited when he mimed making love to a temp. It’s good this way anyway, he tells himself. He can pay attention to every part of her, can nuzzle her neck and tenderly cup her breasts. She’s sweating and he can taste it. He loves her, knows that he’s practically setting fire to her with his body temperature but can’t help it. He opens his eyes for a moment and burns a cigarette-sized hole in the pillow next to her face. Darn.
“What’s burning?” she asks, but soon forgets it.
She sighs, stops him, makes some adjustment, feels his penis in her fingers and bends her knees back to her chest. She guides his penis down as he stares at her, unsure of what she’s doing. “Lois?” he says.
She pushes his penis into her behind. “Lo-“ he starts again, then feels the tight around him. He swallows and waits disbelievingly as she slowly falls onto him, wincing. A wall inside of her relaxes. He gets in further. He is overcome by the tight, the intense pressure of her. Another wall falls and she relaxes. “Go,” she says.
He begins to make love to her behind, his mind melted, his body outside of his control. He starts to go as fast as he can, which is to say, faster that any normal man can. Her eyes squint and she has another orgasm. He’s sure that he’s hurt her, but she’s not hurt, she screams his name out. “Clark!” she yells.
“Lois, I love you,” he says in a normal voice, the sense in him vanished somewhere in the air.
“I love you too, Superman,” she says.
He has no time to react, pulls out before he gets her, orgasms with Superman force, blowing a hole in her pillow and consequently the wall. Feathers are flying when he opens his eyes. One lands on her lips. She puffs it away and smiles at him. “I love you too, Superman,” she says and laughs. That Kryptonite laugh of hers.
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