<< Previous Chapter
Saturday 0935 hrs
Martha watched over Whitney for awhile, after which she got up and went down to the main house to look in on Jonathan.
“Good morning.. you’ve been doing the vanishing act all morning honey… what's going on up there?” Jonathan was looking at the papers but he was totally concentrating on Martha as she went about her usual tasks in the kitchen.
“Is Clark around?”
“No, he left early in the morning for some news story. And what vanishing act dear? I’ve been around all morning but it seems I’m losing my touch since obviously you don’t seem to notice as much anymore….”
Martha had on her best pout.
Who was Jonathan to resist. He laughed and pulled Martha over to his lap, throwing the newspaper aside. She laughed too, definitely taken by surprise.
Martha was facing towards the loft. She looked up, thinking about the sleeping boy. She’ll just have to tell her husband about him without Clark.
//maybe I should wait a little longer..//
They continued kissing, as she continued wishing and hoping Whitney was okay up there…
Whitney was back on the cross.
His arms and legs stretched taut over the wooden stake as the ropes mercilessly sucked at his wrists and ankles. Ankles twisted at painful angles. Wrists struggling in vain.
And Nigel is there. Black leather, gleaming knife. Hurting him, fondling him, cutting him, pushing his tongue into his mouth. Raping him.
And Whitney is screaming again.
“Clark! Clark! No NO NO! Clark please!!”
As the pain grows, and the cold bites, his screams get stronger.. and stronger..
And then suddenly there is no Nigel, Nigel is gone. And Clark is standing in his place. Blue jeans, red sweatshirt. Hugging him, stroking his bare back.
“Whitney hey.. its okay.. its okay.. I’m here now. I’m here..”
And Clark is holding his face and kissing him and caressing him and..
“Clark thank God! Help me.. help me”
But Clark isn’t listening. And he isn’t undoing the ropes, he just lets him hang there still. And he is kissing him all over and under… his hands all over Whitney’s naked helpless body. Whitney is confused.
“Clark? Clark please…”
Clark isn’t listening. “Whitney oh God Whit you’re so.. you’re so.. hot.”
And he continues the sweet torture. He grabs the bound boy’s semi-erect cock and pumps it with one hand as he continues to invade the bruised mouth with his own. He grips the bare ass with his other hand and rubs small circles into it, teasing him, driving him wild with twisted desire. He rubs one nipple with his left hand, while he kisses and laves the other like someone possessed. Then just as suddenly stops and switches nipples.
Whitney’s moans get louder just as his confusion and his frustration grows and threatens to consume whatever sanity he’s left with. It was as if Clark was drunk.. on Whitney. He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop.
“oh.. Clark” Whitney is lost between pain and pleasure.
“Clark please stop.. no.. no don’t stop.. God …”
“Clark… please… uh no no Clark… please…”
Suddenly the lips move away from his chest and he sobs at the loss of warmth. Someone is shaking his face, wanting him to open his eyes..
“Why didn’t you help me Whitney?”
“Why didn’t you come back for me huh?”
Before Whitney can reply, Clark is attacking his mouth and kissing him brutally. He sucks at his tongue, at the bruised lips, the walls of his mouth. Whitney is gasping.
“Why didn’t you come Whitney? I waited and waited..”
“Why didn’t you help me? Why should I help you when you didn’t?”
And Whitney is crying and he’s laughing and he’s pleading.
“Don’t. Leave me. Kill me.”
Suddenly the lips and the hands are gone and ice cold replaces the warmth from before on his body as he opens his eyes.
Nigel’s evil laughter rings out again. Shredding the quiet of the night and Whitney is quivering with fear.
“You …are… fucking… NOTHING!!”
And the knives go slashing.
“You’ll pay for my brother’s life…. WITH YOURS!!” and the knife is coming down .. down… down at his throat.
Whitney frightened himself awake. And he caught himself gasping, sitting upright.
In Clark’s bed.
He raised an arm to wipe the sweat off his brow , looking at himself for the first time. Still shaken from the nightmare, he saw the various bandages and cuts on his body and shivered.
//This cant really be happening can it? Am I still in the nightmare?//
He sighed, painfully at that. Bruised ribs and such.
“Fuck. Shit. Damn.”
Whitney wasn’t sure what to do first. Mope about the fact that he almost got raped and killed. Or mope about the fact that his obsession with Clark was totally taking its toll on him. It had never been so bad, never. And now here he is, having dreams of.. no nightmares of.. oh okay Dreams, of Clark. He looked down at himself, poking out from under the sheets.
He had to call upon his enormous hidden reservoirs of strength to get himself off the bed. His legs were weak and refused to support his weight, and soon he toppled over. Stubborn that he was, he picked himself off from the floor and continued to the bathroom he’d located while lying clumsily on the floor.
He relieved himself and not thinking about Clark was simply out of the question.
//Thanks man. I owe you more than one life now.//
And he remembered the accusation that Clark of his dreams had made.
//Why didn’t you come for me? //
Whitney closed his eyes in utter shame. Obviously the night had done nothing to alleviate his guilt. He wanted to cry but it hurt too much to move a single muscle on his face right now.
//Forgive me Clark, forgive me.//
He looked longingly at the shower, it didn’t seem wise to get in there with all the bandages so he refrained. Gingerly, he walked up in front of the mirror and looked at his face. It was red and swollen over one eye with a thousand angry gashes and bruises everywhere else.
//Good war eh marine?//
“For the thousand and one-eth time... FFFUCK!!”
Whitney angrily splashed water over his face, hoping against hope when he opened his eyes again he’d look better. No wonder Clark left him sleeping, how can anyone possibly stand to look at someone this ugly? More splashing.
//I swear if I ever see Nigel again I would…. //
Nigel was dead. How did he die again?
He shot himself. He put the thirty eight to his temple and bang.
It was coming back in pieces. Nigel Mahaney was dead. Damn. Because this meant he wouldn’t get a chance in this life to rip him apart limb to…..
How? What the…? How did..? Whitney’s head started to spin as flashes of the previous night came to him. And then he was laughing..
“Clark couldn’t have ripped out his arm like that? No One Could!”
“Yes but Clark… didn’t he? Could he?”
He tried to shrug it off as his imagination, hallucinations, because of all the stress and ..what's it called? Hypothermia.. yeah.
But he couldn’t.
He washed his face and looked longingly at Clark’s toothbrush. Clark.. wouldn’t mind would he? H-hey he was supposed to traumatized and shit right? He picked up the brush and smiled.
Clark’s toothbrush wasn’t the only thing Whitney needed. He hobbled over to his closet and took out a pair of charcoal grey cargoes he thought he’d fit into. Clark sure had grown taller and stronger since he saw him last. He towered by a whole two inches over the ex-quarterback which irked him to distraction.
//Freshman no more.//
Whitney smiled lightly, almost feeling a sense of pride at the man Clark had obviously become.
He got into the pants and pulled on a grey tee shirt with full sleeves that covered his wounded bandaged arms. The only visible evidences of last night were now on his face.
//How do I hide this disgrace?//
Got into a pair of runner shoes that were one size bigger. Damn those bastards, his favorite pair of jeans had been shredded and God knows which one of those scumbags was wearing his jacket right now.
//Which reminds me…//
Whitney Fordman was troubled no more by the nightmares and the painful memories. He was strengthened by them.
//Someone’s got to pay.//
He looked down from the loft to the main house. He could see his truck parked at a distance in a shed behind the loft where it couldn’t be seen from the main house. Was it luck or shrewd thinking on Clark’s part that Jonathan hadn’t planned to go the shed anytime this Saturday? Actually, it was Martha’s idea. Course Whitney didn’t know she already knew about his being there.
He couldn’t thank Clark enough for having understood his need for keeping the whole thing from getting public. The last thing he wanted right now was for his mother to know. Already Betty Fordman was freaked at the idea of her son living dangerously as a Marine. She breaks so easily, specially since dad died.
Besides, a Marine cleans up his own mess.
//And his commanding officer’s.. if ordered to…//
It seemed quiet, and he had no intentions of running into Mr. and Mrs. Kent right now. He slowly crept down the stairs and towards the shed.
Martha saw him coming down. Her first instinct was to go out and catch him before he left in his delicate state of health. But Jonathan was in the middle of one of his avid dissertations on the injurious presence of a Lex Luthor in his son’s life and would not be taking a coffee break anytime soon. Martha sighed and decided to let him go. When she saw he was moving, limping rather, towards his truck, she picked up a feather duster and started moving inwards, away from the table by the window that the two had been sitting on.
“Hey where you going? I’m not done yet!”
“Yes I know darling and I am listening. I just would like to get something constructive done in the meantime as well”
Martha gave her husband one of those famous Kent smiles that kill. Its obvious where Clark gets it from.
Jonathan scowled light-heartedly, got up and followed her as she went about her cleaning chores.
“Oh so now I'm interrupting you in your constructive drives am I?”
“You were saying something about Lionel Luthor building a secret nuclear reactor under the local mall?”
Jonathan threw up his handsome hands in the air.
“Jeez woman, I hate it when you use that deadly sarcasm of yours on me. Were you listening at all?”
Jonathan sighed helplessly. Women.
“Not... ok maybe not in the local mall.”
Next Chapter >>