The Mind is Poisonous

In fact, you elected to make the break as clean and gentle as possible. You reserved a Saturday dinner for three at a relatively nice restaurant in Gotham, knowing well that the place would simply add a chair to a two-person booth to save space. Perfect for the little date they didn't know they were having. You wouldn't be uncomfortable for long, as you had ordered an appetizer to-go, and reserved your uber the night before. You knew Tim wouldn't kick up a fuss; he was too practical and honest with himself. Knowing him, he probably already knew exactly what you were up to. Thankfully, you wouldn't have to be under his watch much longer. Given Tim's constant insistence on picking up your bills, you had quite the nest egg. Thanks to him, it wouldn't hurt to treat yourself on the way out of your bullshit relationship. You'd spend a few weeks idle in Spain, enjoying the local climate and forgetting how stupid you felt.

You hadn't imagined Kon would show first, or on time, really. You were enjoying it. Tim had been held up with a work thing, giving you some one-on-one time with "the other man". It was fun, how nervous you were able to make him.

"So," he attempted to break the ice for a third time. "What's the occasion?"

"Hm?" Playing dumb was petty, but forgivable. You'd forgive yourself, at least.

"I mean — not that this isn't… really nice… but, why'd you invite me along? I'm sure you and Tim make enough fun between the two of you and—"

Okay, gross. His nerves were losing their fun.

"I just wanted the three of us to have a little hangout!" Your years of customer service trained you for this exact moment. Conceal your fury. "You two have been spending so much time together, and I want in on the fun!"

You hoped that was chipper enough to get him to drop it. Judging by his flushed ears, he was in for a nasty surprise. You might have felt bad for him, but he didn't need your pity. He could fuck Tim for consolation, if he needed to.

Speak of the devil, there was Timmy. He greeted you with a kiss and an apology for being late. You stayed pleasant, but you could tell he knew something was up. Still you weren't about to crack. You waited until he had been brought his drink and the bread was nearly gone.

"I'm sorry, Kon," you started. "I lied to you earlier."

He looked up, mouth full of bread. All the ease you'd worked into him was gone.

"I know you've been fucking my boyfriend."

The table beside you went dead silent.

Barcelona was treating you very well. You'd been out every day, exploring the city late in to the night. The only part that didn't agree with you was those old European streets. No one warned you about cobblestones, but the days of walking over them (in less-than-practical shoes) had caught up to you. You elected to spend the night in, for your poor aching feet.

You had availed yourself to the luxurious en suite for some much needed pampering. With your body scrubbed, massaged and perfumed to your satisfaction, you were going to spend the rest of your evening with your favorite show.

You were, except when you reentered the room, there was a man's jacket hanging in the closet across from you.

"I always wanted to take you on a Europe trip." Tim was seated at the small table in your kitchenette. He was fiddling with your laptop. "I guess, in a way, I still did, but I had always imagined I'd be allowed to join the fun."

"What the hell are you doing here?" If he had come to intimidate you, he was in for disappointment.

"We missed you," he admitted.

You whipped around, finally noticing Kon posted up against the door. Fuck, you hadn't seen him, he was still as a statue. He looked scared, as if you were going to disappear if he looked away. You were going to give him a reason to be scared if he didn't get out of your hotel room.

"Get out."

Tim finally looked up from the screen. "Go ahead, Kon. Just like we talked about."

You hadn't laid back, but your back was now pressed into the mattress. Just a second ago, you were on your feet. How…? You'd barely oriented yourself when something wet probed your folds. A shriek escaped you. Your thighs snapped shut around what you realized to be Kon's head. A familiar feeling lit between your shoulders.

"What is this?" You had lost all bravado.

"Babe," Tim snorted. "We've done this plenty of times. You don't remember?"

"Stop it." You pulled at his hair. "Stop it, Kon. I mean it." Kon showed no indication of hearing you. He slipped his hands under your thighs, opening you wider for him. Desperate, you turned back to Tim. "Tim. I don't want this. You have to help me."

You clawed at the head between your thighs, yanking up at his curls. It was like he was welded to you. A flush was creeping up your face as your body caught up to Kon's ministrations. Your eyes were big and watery, frantically looking for escape. Tim would have to admit, you were really pretty when you were scared.

Your ex began to shuck off his clothes, neatly draping them on the back of a chair. With a cold pit in your stomach, you took in his pale, lithe body. You had missed him, before the breakup. You missed him every time he left your bed. A part of you missed him now. You wanted him to hold you now like he used to, to make it all disappear.

"Tim, make him stop." You didn't know when you started crying. He said nothing, just smiling as he crawled next to you. He combed back your damp hair before pulling you into a soft kiss. You were so warm. His hands found their way to your robe, pulling it open. Your chest shuddered in the cool air.

"This was supposed to be slower," he mused. You raised a hand to shove him. He intercepted it, placing tender kisses to your palm. "I still think it's pretty romantic, in our way." He licked a stripe up your hand.

You gasped and looked away. Kon was groaning louder, and you could feel the bed rock as he ground into it. Tim continued lapping at your palm. His stray hand joined your other in Kon's curls, directing him up to your clit. Your sobs broke into rhythmic moans as he began to suckle at it. Tim brought your now-wet hand to his cock.

"I love how you played detective." He cut himself off with a whine, as he began rubbing against your limp palm. He wrapped his hand around yours, closing it around his cock. You were close. You kept tugging uselessly at Kon's hair.

"Come on, give it to him," Tim breathed, fucking your hand. "It's all he's ever wanted."

Kon's hands slid from your hips, up across your belly to caress anything he could reach. You were no longer trying to pull him away, but rutting up into his face. You were chasing your high, closing the distance. You locked your thighs together and saw white.

Your climax was short-lived. You came to, too soon and too aware of your surroundings. Tim was still using your hand. Unlike his friend, he didn't seem to be in a rush. Dread pricked you as you wondered how long they planned to play with you. You hoped Kon was done, at least. He was red, and shaking like a lamb; he must have finished with you. Propped on one elbow, he was looking at you like you put the sun in the sky.

"Can I give you another?"

Tim had the nerve to snicker. You squeezed, making him yelp and remove your hand. Unhanded but cornered, you wedged yourself against the headboard.

"Don't touch me." You pulled your knees to your chest. Tim recovered quickly.

"It's okay, Kon. She's still upset about being left out."

"If you touch me, I'll claw your eyes out." You couldn't make good on that promise, when his hands closed around your ankles.

"Use your fingers, too, for the next one."

"Can we do it on the balcony?"

You were terribly sore, all over. It brought you back to the morning after Halloween, back in high school. You had gone to a haunted maze with your friends. You all had lied about your ages to get into the late-night event. That was supposed to be the best one, where the maze spilled into a wilderness trail, and the actors had free reign to chase you. It had been immense fun. But the next morning, your found every muscle, including plenty you didn't know you had, was tense and agitated.

You couldn't tell if it was nostalgia or youth, but you swore this time was worse. Dehydration had your head pounding, but your aching limbs vetoed the search for water. Even your hands felt sore. It was like you had fallen asleep, clinging to a mountainside.

Clark could hear you stirring in the next room. Poor thing. He could hear the painful little groans in the back of your throat. He had pulled you into the air rather suddenly. He remembered your poor heart racing and racing until you fainted. He added a dose of ibuprofen to the breakfast tray he was building you.

Your breathing picked up. The events of the previous evening were returning to you. You needed to get your shit from the curb before garbage collection. The late morning sunlight was not a good sign. If you didn't move you'd be out on the streets without even your coat! You wrenched yourself up, pushing the quilt away. Hoping it was not yet eight o'clock, you reached to check your phone and touched an empty wooden nightstand. Your phone wasn't on your nightstand. And you had a vinyl nightstand. And you slept with a duvet, not a quilt.

This was not your room. Of course it wasn't. You'd been kicked out of your room. That's why you needed to get your shit off the curb.

Before a more helpful line of thought could start, a large man entered with a tray in hand. The stranger nervously returned your terrified gaze with an attempt at a smile. He was comfortably dressed in a pair of flannel pants, a Metropolis U shirt, and a cardigan. Despite having the demeanor and dress of a little librarian, this man near filled the door frame with his figure.

"Good, you're awake! Are you feeling okay?"

"Where am I? Sorry, who are you?" If he was opening nicely, you were going to try to keep him there. Whatever was happening, you did not want to see that behemoth mad.

He mouthed a little 'oh', as if you reminded him of something.

"I'm Clark, and this is my home. You'll be staying here, just until we can get everything fixed."

No full name, not even a hemisphere, and also, "Fixed?"

"I understand you lost a lot recently, and I figured I ought to help you get them back. Or, better things, actually."

How did he know anything about you? Was he with LexCorp? Did they want you to somehow get back the lost samples? How? Were they going to bleed you instead?

"I don't understand." Your adrenaline was finally starting to kick in. Not helpfully, of course: just to make your limbs lock up in terror.

He moved in towards the bed, setting the tray on the nightstand. You coildn't move yourself to look at its contents; you couldn't move at all. He placed a great, gentle hand on your shoulder; it felt heavier than it should. You tried to meet his eye, but the glare on his thick lenses obscured it.

"It's okay. We're going to take as much time as you need. Get some more rest."

With that, he gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze, and left you. You were dumbfounded. This had to be some LexCorp black site, or a trafficking thing. You peered over at the nightstand. Instead of the instruments for torture and/or organ removal you expected, there was breakfast.

The spread was too juvenile to feel menacing: french toast sticks with a little pot of syrup, a bowl of cut fruit, and a cup of orange juice. There was a little orange pill placed by the cup. You held it up to the light; there was a little "I-2" inscribed. You were not going to trust that was legitimate.

You stashed the pill in your pocket, thankful to have been left in your own clothes. Carefully, as quietly as you could manage, you crept off the bed, towards the door. You had not been barefoot before loosing consciousness, you grimly remembered as you felt cold hardwood beneath you. Your greater suspicions were confirmed when you tested the knob: locked. You made your way to the window at the opposite end: also locked. From the window, you could see you were in a second floor room, overlooking a vast cornfield. How had they gotten you out of Metropolis? How long had you been out? You returned to the bed to think things over.

You had to consider your next moves carefully. You would be insane to consume anything this man gave you. On the other hand, going hungry wasn't going to get you out, and you were risking his anger if you refused him.

Clark was listening in as he finished up the dishes. It broke his heart, to hear how scared you were, but he needed to be patient. You'd figure out that you were safe here, even if it took some time. You were a smart cookie, and you'd find your way to the right answers.

It took about an hour for the man to return. He looked disappointed, but unsurprised at your full tray. You cowered behind the bed while he approached the nightstand.

"This isn't good, anymore," he sighed, taking the plate of french toast. In it's place he left a packet of saltines. "Try to eat something while I'm out. I'll be back to make you dinner."

You were alone, yet again. As soon as you could no longer hear his footsteps, you raced for the window. You couldn't see the road or driveway, but you listened for a car engine. You listened. And listened. And listened.

What the hell was his game? He had to still be on the property, unless Lex gave all his leg-breakers stealth vehicles for their cornfield bunkers. Or maybe, he was able to walk all the way? You were losing it. He was probably still lurking on the property just to fuck with you.

You had no way of reading this man's intentions, and he had yet to give anything up to you. You tried to decipher anything of the foodstuffs left to you. There was no difference to be made between the melon in your bowl, and that which you had seen a hundred times. The pineapple was firm and fragrant. It smelled sharp, corrosive, compared to the canned variety you were used to. You didn't bother with the orange juice; you had seen enough interns blending vitamins into that to know it couldn't be trusted. You were considering hazarding the water. It was properly odorless, flavorless, the right viscosity, and you were fucking thirsty. You considered the saltines, but decided against them. Anyone could re-seal those with a flat iron.

The food was probably fine, if you were honest. He already had you in in the middle of nowhere. But the idea of giving in, willingly, was far more toxic than anything he could serve you. You couldn't stomach it.

Your hunger strike left you ample time to search the room. There was a second door, also locked, that you suspected was an en suite bathroom. The dresser was empty. There was a comfy looking armchair, near the foot of the bed. The setup reminded you of a nursing home: devoid of anything sharp or breakable.

Before the lack of tools could panic you further, you resolved to figure out how you got here. You remembered your landlord there… and Superman.

He'd asked you not to jump, and you went in on him. That's how you got kicked out. You remembered not being able to breathe. You couldn't remember if you made it back in the building. But if you didn't then Superman had been there. The more you tried to pull together, the less this looked like your job tying loose ends.

You could hear 'Clark' return through the front door. Again, there was no vehicle, no sight of him outside, no proof he ever left. You looked down at the ugly bruises on your knuckles. Failing to conjure any more delicate methods of egress, you resorted to trying to punch out the window. The "glass" hadn't even trembled. You hadn't given your captor enough credit, it seemed.

Tears pricked your eyes as you wondered how many others had stayed in this room.

He was coming up the stairs. You glanced at your untouched tray. There was no point. You waited too long. You heard the door open, but couldn't bear to look. The side of your face felt unusually warm: the side opposite the window.

"You know," he drawled. "We have a clean plate rule in this house."

You were shaking. He cupped your chin, bringing you to meet his eye.

"I know you're scared, but you are going to eat something tonight."

You had finally come forward about your love for rope-work. Many of your previous partners had raised a brow at it, but you loved it. The process of turning your partner into a work of art, the trust they placed in you, and the thrill of having them at your mercy: it was all so romantic to you. Clark seemed surprised by your request, but as always, was eager to please you. You were open to being tied up yourself, but he insisted you take the lead, at least for the first time. The two of you had a long discussion about safety, boundaries, and what you both wanted from the experience. It was exciting; so exciting you splurged for expedited shipping on some new rope.

Unfortunately, Clark was pulled away from your bed for the next two weeks. It was a work trip, one where he wouldn't have consistent cell signal. You didn't like how sudden it was, but you understood, and you were supportive. He couldn't talk you out of getting up early to drive him to the airport.

"You be safe, sweetie," he murmured into your parting embrace.

"Stay safe, yourself!" You sent him off with one last kiss.

You were lonelier than you anticipated. You stayed productive, and spent a little more time with friends to get out of your head. You were constantly pining, though. And then the pining got boring. Then, the pining turned to scheming. You were spurred on by his absence, by the element of surprise it would grant you. When he returned, you had a full evening planned to show him just how much he was missed. You hoped he was ready to be wined, dined, and loved just the way he liked.

When you finally got him home from the airport, you ushered him to the shower. He seemed pleasantly surprised by the heated towels. Once he was clean and in some fresh house clothes, he met you in the kitchen. You'd just finished laying the table. You preened under his ready thanks. You two shared a lovely meal, and you even got a rare peek into his next article. While you wanted him to let you take care of the evening, he made you concede on dishes. He would not be dissuaded. Ever the opportunist, you took the free time to freshen up, and change into a favorite set.

"Honey?" he called.

"In the bedroom. Will you bring the carafe?"

You two would want water later. Catching your meaning, Clark obediently brought the carafe and two small glasses. He took you in as he entered.

"For me?"

"I missed you." He was so easy to be honest with.

He carefully set the glassware on your nightstand, before joining you on the bed. You pulled him in for a kiss. Sometimes, you wondered how you got by before Clark. He was your home, truly. You never had to hide any part of yourself from him. With him holding you, you felt love in your entirety.

You reluctantly broke the kiss to help him out of his shirt.

"So where are they?" He glanced to your dresser drawer.

"Huh?"

"The ropes. Did you get them?"

"Oh." Did he think you were just buttering him up to try your thing? You set that sting aside. "We don't have to do that tonight. This one's all for you."

"All for me? You're spoiling me!" He laughed, as if it were incredulous.

"You're one to talk."

"But do you have them?"

"Yeah, but, they're not going anywhere, Clark."

He pulled you in, close. "I've been thinking about it this whole trip. Been thinking about what you might do to me. Don't you want to tie me up?"

Damn him. He had you the second he asked, and he knew it.

"Alright," you relented. "But we're taking it real slow. And we're using the stoplight system, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And what does that mean?"

"Green means keep going, yellow means slow down, and red means stop."

"I have the safety cutter right here," you tapped it on the nightstand for emphasis, "if you need out. Or if you just want out."

"And what do I say when you're taking too long?"

You were going to kill him, if he didn't manage to get you first.

"You say, 'pretty please'."

You pulled the bundles from your drawer, thanking your eagerness that you had washed them as soon as they arrived. You opted for a nice indigo blue; you always liked Clark in blue. It brought out the warmth in his skin and the brightness of his eyes.

You fastened the first hitch over his shoulders, running two fingers between him and the smooth cording. You checked his face. He was staring back at you, face painted with adoration, curiosity and a growing flush.

"Too tight?"

"We could go tighter." You furrowed you brows.

"Is it too loose?" You shifted the center knot around. "It needs give, but it shouldn't feel like it'll saw into you."

"It's perfect."

"Alright, but you tell me if that changes. You're not getting any less than perfect, tonight."

He let you continue, though you were starting to get distracted by your own handiwork. A well-placed cow-hitch accentuated the… abundance of his chest, and you had to keep your mouth from watering. You needed to keep some semblance of control, here. You wound the cords in a dragonfly pattern around his great arms, securing them behind his back.

"Color?"

"Green," he said, lightly flexing against his bindings. There was no fear. You knew he trusted you completely. You pushed his glasses back up his nose for him.

The man bound before you was perfect. His skin was flawless, warm and sensitive. It wasn't particularly sensitive, but it was pleasant to run your fingers over, to pinch. His member steadily came to attention under your ministrations. He sighed without shame.

You had resolved yourself stay cool. He'd asked you, very nicely, to take control. You needed to be steady at the lead, if you were to have Clark at your mercy tonight. He was determined to make that difficult, with the way he leaned into your touch, as you teased every part of him with your fingertips.

You turned your attention back to his face, and his glasses were, yet again, askew. It was worth considering taking them off. They were fogged up, and the nose pads were slicked with sweat. Carefully, you lifted the thick frames away. Spurred on by his little gasp, you made a show of slowly cleaning them, folding them, and putting them away. Turning back around, you stifled your own noise of surprise. He looked so different without his glasses. He hadn't changed, when your back was turned, no. He looked perfect. It wasn't that his glasses didn't suit him; in fact, you quite liked them. It was if you took some grounding quality off him, and all that was left was perfection. Tantalizing, beautifully bound perfection.

You crawled back to him, settling in his lap against his clothed erection. He whined into the kisses you lavished on him. You ran your palms against his torso, against your work, groping and petting the many things that pleased your eye. The way he shuddered only spurred you on. He gasped as you grabbed the central twist of ropes on his sternum. You gave a few light tugs.

"Color?"

"Green," his voice wasn't as steady as before.

Using the rope for stability, you rolled your hips forward, against the shaft pressing through his sweatpants. A cracked, "Ugnh," escaped him, and you kissed him for it.

"Good boy," you sighed, using your other hand to play with your clit. You took up a gentle rhythm on his cock.

"Please" His eyes were teary. "Pretty please, I need it. I need all of you."

You couldn't make him wait in good conscience. He was begging just as you told him to, and this was his special night. Besides, your wetness was starting to soak through his sweatpants. You helped him shimmy out of the last of his clothes. Well, you did most of the work, as he was trembling, and painfully hard.

"Aw, Sweetie," you coo, swiping some precum around his tip. "Let me take care of you."

You pulled your panties to the side, lining him up with your drenched entrance. He was whimpering, frantically nodding, but you still needed to check.

"Color?"

You could almost see the gears turn in his big, confused head.

"Green! Fuck—green, please, pretty please just, green!"

Sinking down easily, you cut off any further begging. You rode him slowly, gently, just like he liked. He wouldn't last long, you had thought. He was babbling and moaning underneath you. You saw him strain up towards you, and mercifully leaned down to kiss him more.

There was a cacophony of snapping sounds, as if someone broke fifty rubber bands right next to your ears. Clark's hands were on your body. Impossible.

"Clark! Are you-" you gasped, pushing on his chest.

He broke the ropes. Half your handiwork, what had been holding his arms, lay in pieces around you. The harness, being a separate piece, held on under your fingers. He broke the ropes, like they were nothing. You had no idea he could do that.

Seemingly oblivious to your alarm, Clark gripped your hips, angling you to punish the sweet spot deep inside.

"Clark, wait!" Your voice was breaking , now. You pushed harder on his chest, then beat your palms against him. You couldn't seem to break him out of this. Was he on Venom?

"So sorry about your pretty work, baby. I missed you so much. Needed to hold you."

He slid one arm around your back, pulling you flush with him. His pubic bone ground up to your clit with each thrust, but you couldn't melt into it.

"Yellow," you finally remembered.

All he gave back was a soft "shh," followed by a kiss. This tipped you into panic.

"Red! Red! I want to stop! Clark--" tears poured down your face. You clawed, no, gouged at him, but couldn't make a mark.

He whispered something: one of his usual sweet nothings, which only now failed to sooth you. You looked into the face of the man you trusted above all, and could not recognize him.

"So good. You're so good to me."

You gave up. Clark, or whatever you hoped was wearing his skin, was too strong. Slumped against his chest, you let him rut into you without resistance. You hoped he'd finish soon.

By your third climax, you accepted you weren't just dealing with super strength. He showed no signs he was even close. In fact, he only seemed to be getting more excited. He'd begun pistoning up into you with more speed. His fingers found your clit, eager to push you back to your high. You were exhausted. At his mercy, you let your eyes slip shut, resting your forehead to his shoulder. "Good girl," he kept calling you.

And there came a new feeling. The pressure on your shins and knees gradually eased. Then, the feeling of the sheets completely disappeared. You awakened, trying to make sense of the new position and you were flying. You couldn't even find the thoughts; you just felt your feet dangle above the bed. You tensed, inadvertently squeezing him, and it was over. He finished, quite vocally, forcing you in tandem with his fingers. You two hung in the air one moment, before dropping back down to the mattress. For the first time in hours, he let go of you.

You wanted to run. You had to get out of here and call the police, or the Justice League, or even Lex Luthor, but you couldn't even stand. You tried to drag yourself away, but he just scooped you up like a toy. You were back against his chest, listening to the heartbeat you knew so well.

"I love you," he panted. "I love you so much."

You laid still, hoping he'd lose interest.

"Thank you. I'll explain it all in the morning. I just want to hold you now. I missed holding you, so much."

You didn't want to stay with this stranger in your bed, but you weren't in control, tonight.

Clark was back to taking care of you, like before.

He'd kept one promise: he did try to explain things the next morning. Clark told you all about Krypton, his other parents, his powers, his real work in the Justice League, and a thousand other things that made your head spin. You waited, and listened, but all you were hearing were all the lies you had bought. And he still hadn't explained last night.

The conversation got cut short when he got to the hypno-glasses. Apparently, they were what kept you from recognizing him as Superman. He took them off to demonstrate, and it was like a switch flipped in you. Your body erupted in tremors, and no matter how hard you breathed, you couldn't get air. He'd thrown them back on and rushed you to the bathroom. To your mortification, you realized you had soiled yourself in your terror.

"I'm so sorry," Clark tried to get you to meet his eyes. "It's all too much. I'm sorry."

He turned from you to start filling the bath. It was probably to clean you up. Or maybe he would drown you. Your panic strangely eased at the thought. You really didn't know what could come next, but it wasn't like it mattered. You could do nothing.

He took his time bathing you. He had washed your hair in the shower before. It was something he had wanted to try. You hadn't liked it, then. It made you feel helpless. Now, you knew. He kept asking you about the water temperature, if you were sore anywhere, if you could hear him. You couldn't find the will to answer.

You were cleaned, dried, dressed, and deposited on the couch with a blanket. You didn't bother to help, when he could easily move you like a doll. He went back to the kitchen behind you. You knew the recipe by the sound of his movements; he was making a favorite of yours. You grabbed a blanket, and wrapped it around yourself. The free movement apparently told Clark you were ready to talk.

"I think you should take some time off work."

You think that's a terrible idea. You think you should head out for work tomorrow and call the police. You think you should head straight to LexCorp and beg them to lock you away in one of their black sites.

"You've had a shock, and that's my fault. I'll help you make the call. Just a few days, and—"

"I think I'll go back tomorrow. This is… a lot," you didn't dare try to face him as you spoke. "And I need some time to think everything over. It'll be good for me, to be out of the house for a bit."

The kitchen was suddenly void of movement. The only sound was the sizzling in the pan. You almost thought he vanished, till you heard him sigh. He was right behind you.