My Skin Is Not My Own

by Shelia

Title: My Skin Is Not My Own (1/1)
Author: Shelia
Rating: NC-17 for graphic masturbatory imagery Pairing: Clark and umm... the barn
Disclaimers: I don't own them, just happily abuse them. You know, I'm starting to think I have this thing for the Kent Farm's barn. Somebody save me.

My Skin Is Not My Own
By Shelia

Clark staggered as he misjudged his speed, and the wide open doorway, catching himself against the weathered red painted side of the barn just before he could burst through its sturdy planks.

He panted harshly and it took all his concentration not to quiver uncontrollably in rhythm with the energy surrounding him. And Clark's control was slipping.

This one was going to be as strong as, if not stronger than the first spike this morning that had left him stunned, flat on his back, sprawled out in the back pasture, comming in his jeans and grasping at the grass.

He could feel this latest solar flare building, sharpening, overwhelming all his senses. His body was drinking in the energy Sol was pouring out and the whole world vibrated around him in a seductive hum. A seductive, steadily increasing hum that held a knife edge of threatened frenzy that made his already achingly hard cock throb in echo.

Clark leaned against the barn trying to anchor himself in reality. The distraction of the boards was a rough caress against his cheek, the palms of his hands where they rested against the barn.

A great pressure was building and his whole body ached with the energy flowing into him. Clark closed his eyes and pressed harder, feeling the give of aged wood as he ground his hips, his erection, against the barn.

He shuddered and pushed away, a dark-haired young god in faded blue plaid, fumbling at the fly of his worn jeans. Clark gritted his teeth against a moan as his cock, thick and heavy, slapped into his hand. Clark fisted and pushed.


His chest began to burn. His free hand gripped a handful of blue plaid and red cotton near his shoulder and ripped downward as he twisted and fell back. The material ripped away with ease, exposing his throbbing chest to the sun.

The rough wall supported his shoulders and Clark stroked himself hard again as the symbol branded into his chest burst into reality in a sweet agonizing pulse.


Yes, he was Kal-el and the universe harmonized just for him.

Clark groaned as his knees weakened. He stroked again, sliding down the barn wall slowly. Rough splinters caught on blue flannel creating the occasional small tear and he felt some of them disintegrate in a ghostlike caress as they tried in vain to impale his skin.

The solar flare peaked and the force of his orgasm drove him to his knees, head thrown back, gasping at the sky. His colors chased one another over the emblem branded into his skin and he came in a great straining pulse that arched his back and Clark screamed soundlessly at the blue Kansas sky as energy concentrated, tuned and poured through him, wave after wave, leaving him empty and gasping for breath.

But not empty. Not gasping for breath. His body thrummed. He was so full of energy that he felt that if he just wanted to, he could rocket into the sky.

Hastily he stuffed his still half hard cock inside his jeans. He zipped as he stood and wiped his hand absently on the remains of his shirt as he looked around him with wide eyes and breathed deeply.

Clark was hyperaware of everything. The sun spike had torn through him, robbing him of his control, but not his energy. Acceptance made him strong, stronger than he had ever felt before, more permanent somehow. Acceptance felt like a piece of forever that recognized him for who, for what he was.


Clark reached out and touched the barn, then boldly stared up at the sun, concentrating. Energy bathed him in a vibration that caused his cock to twitch and the ghost of his scar to tingle with promise. His hand trembled against the rough wood reminding him of the here and now.

He didn't know what was to be, only knew what was.

He was Kal-el. He was Clark.

And right now he was Clark with chores.

So Clark turned, an exquisite interpretation of a dark-haired young god, beautiful enough to be a prince among the gods of love and desire, powerful enough to be the stunning warrior god of truth and justice, hidden away from the world, hidden away even from himself. Hidden, giving him time to sort this all out.

So Clark turned, and walked through the barn's open doorway.

After all, the cows wouldn't feed themselves.


Comments, critiques, Clarks, or requests for the `real' title of this piece, welcome here, or at Remember feedback is a terrible thing to keep to yourself.

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Shelia

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