You’re pretty sure you will never get used to the sight of Lana Lang, in your flannel, sitting cross-legged on the edge of your bed, hair loose and cheeks flushed from the cold. She’s peeking at you over the rim of her favorite mug—your dad’s old Metropolis Sharks travel cup, the one you dropped in the hayloft, the one she insisted on digging out and cleaning. She’s wearing nothing but the flannel and a pair of white cotton panties, the kind that would look childish on anyone else, but on her, with her knees drawn up and her toes flexing in the faded carpet, they look… well, dangerous.
“What?” she says, catching you staring. Lana’s voice is a little hoarse, a little sleepy. She’s been up all night with you, talking about nothing and everything at once, as if being together in this room was the answer to a riddle you’d both been stuck on for years.
You shake your head and try not to smile. “Nothing.”
She rolls her eyes. “You say that a lot when you’re lying.” She sets down the mug, then draws the flannel around her tighter, like she’s cold, but you know she’s not. Not really. Not tonight. “You’re thinking something.”
You look down at your hands. “Just… I don’t want to screw this up. Us.”
Lana’s lips twitch. She climbs off the bed and pads over to you, standing between your knees. She’s so small, you could wrap your hands around her waist and probably touch your fingers together. She does it for you, takes your hands, and brings them to her hips, settling into your touch.
“You’d have to try a lot harder,” Lana says softly. She pushes your hair out of your eyes.
“I like it when you stare,” she teases, and before you can answer, she spins on the ball of her foot. Her hair whips you in the face, and she’s laughing, arms thrown wide like she’s about to take flight. She looks over her shoulder, meets your gaze, and gives her ass a little wiggle—just enough to make the white cotton ride up, just enough to make you want to reach out and grab her. She knows it, too, because she sticks her tongue out at you, a quick flash of pink, and then turns back around.
She traces her hands up her sides, slow, like she’s memorizing herself for you. Over her stomach, up to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples. The flannel hangs off her elbows like wings. You’re not breathing. You’re not sure you remember how.
Lana tilts her head, as if considering, and then hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her panties. She pulls them down, inch by inch, hips swaying side to side, making a show of it. Then pulls them back up with a laugh.
Members get full access to the uncensored 2K video: Join today >>
Turn sound ON. Click the full-screen icon to resize to your screen.
“Now you,” she says, voice low and husky.
You start to protest, but she’s already in your lap, straddling you, hands on either side of your face. You can smell the shampoo she used in your shower (vanilla, borrowed from Chloe when she stayed over), can see the shimmer of her lips and the faint scar on her chin from the time she fell off the jungle gym in second grade. You remember wanting to kiss her then, but you were eight, and she was Lana Lang, and even then you knew the laws of physics didn’t allow for things like that.
She kisses you, slow and deliberate. When she pulls away, her eyes are glossy, and her cheeks are flushed, and she’s breathing hard.
You’re not sure when you stop breathing, but you do. The world shrinks to a pinpoint, the color of her mouth, the taste of her tongue. You want this to last forever, but you’re also eighteen, and she’s Lana, and your body has opinions about the matter.
When she starts to grind against you, slow and uncertain, you panic a little, because you know what’s about to happen. You pull away, forehead pressed to hers. “Lana—”
She’s not even winded. She bites your lower lip, gently. “Clark, relax.”
“I just—” You squeeze her hips. “I’ve never—”
She laughs, and it’s not mean. “Me neither.” She looks down, grinning. “But I’ve read books.”
You groan. “Oh god.”
“Not those kind of books, farm boy.” She kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “Or maybe those kind of books.”
Your hands are under her shirt before you even realize it, tracing the curve of her back, the sharpness of her shoulder blades. Her skin is soft and hot, and she smells like everything you’ve ever wanted. She tugs the flannel open, exposing her breasts, and you stare because they’re perfect, and because it’s Lana, and because you don’t know what else to do.
She’s the one who guides your head down, until your mouth is on her nipple. You’re not sure you’re doing it right, but she shudders and presses closer, so you keep going, licking and sucking and breathing her in. She’s making little noises, muffled by your hair, and she keeps rocking in your lap, your cock trapped between you and throbbing so hard it almost hurts.
She slides off, stands. Next to your bare chest, she looks impossibly delicate, almost translucent in the lamplight. She offers you her hand, and you take it, letting her pull you up. You’re taller than her by almost a foot, so she has to stand on tiptoe to kiss you, but she likes the challenge.
She leads you to the bed, sits, and scoots back until she’s lying down. Her thighs part, invitation or dare or both. You stand in front of her, hands trembling, and she smiles like she’s never been more sure of anything.
“I want you to,” she says, and you know what she means. You swallow, feeling your face get hot, and fumble with the waistband of your boxers. You’re suddenly aware of how hard you are, how exposed, how much you want this to be good for her. You hesitate, but she reaches out, stroking you, and you nearly lose it right there.
“Is this okay?” she asks, and before you can even answer, she leans forward and slips your cock into her mouth. The sensation is so sharp, so new, that you gasp, clutching at the sheets. She’s tentative at first, tongue swirling, lips soft and wet, but then she gets bolder, deeper, and you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t believe this is happening.
You last maybe a minute. Maybe less. You try to warn her, but the words get lost somewhere between your brain and your mouth, and she stays with you, sucking harder, hands stroking your thighs, until you finally cum, hard and fast, all over her lips and chin. You’re mortified, but Lana just laughs, wiping her face with her hand and licking her fingers like she’s sampling frosting on a cupcake.
Members get full access to the uncensored 2K video: Join today >>
Turn sound ON. Click the full-screen icon to resize to your screen.
“Clark Kent,” she says, grinning, “you are the cutest boy I’ve ever met.”
You’re about to apologize, but she hushes you, kisses you, and then disappears into your bathroom, humming as she cleans up. You flop back onto the bed, heart pounding, and stare at the ceiling, wondering if it’s possible to die of embarrassment.
When she comes back, she’s still naked, but she crawls in next to you, curling against your side. “Was it good?” she says.
You nod, still stunned.
She traces circles on your chest. “I want you again,” she whispers. “I want you inside me.”
You’re not sure you can, but her touch, her words, the way she looks at you—none of it feels real. But you are hard again, impossibly so, and she smiles when she feels it.
You move to her and her are hands guiding you, her mouth hot and wet as she kisses your jaw, then your shoulder, then the hollow at the base of your throat. She pushes you down, then climbs on top, straddling you, her thighs trembling as she settles herself over your hips. Her hair falls in a curtain around your face, tickling your cheeks as she kisses you again, desperate now, her teeth grazing your lips. You taste yourself on her tongue, and it’s electric, embarrassing, erotic in a way you never knew anything could be.
She keeps grinding against you, slow and shallow, her panties soaked through and rubbing against your cock. You grab her ass, squeezing until she gasps, but she doesn’t pull away—she presses down harder, rocking her hips in little circles that make your vision blur. You want to touch her everywhere at once, but you settle for sliding your hands up her back, then down again, memorizing the shape of her, the flex and release of muscle under skin. You find the edge of her panties, tugging them down over her hips, and she lifts herself just enough for you to peel them away. They catch for a moment around her knees, then she kicks them off, careless, and then she’s naked, really naked, and you can’t look at anything else.
She pushes your shoulders until you’re flat against the mattress, then lies on top of you, her body a perfect match for yours, soft in all the places you’re hard. She kisses you again, deeper this time, her tongue insistent, and you can feel her heartbeat against your chest, wild and out of control. Her hand finds your cock, stroking it in time with the rhythm of her hips, until you’re so close you almost have to beg her to stop.
She does, finally, and shifts her weight, reaching between her legs to guide you in. She’s careful, so careful, and you realize she’s terrified—her hands are shaking, her breath coming in short bursts. You want to say something, to tell her you love her, to promise her it’s going to be okay, but then the head of your cock is pressing into her, and the words short-circuit in your brain.
She’s tight, impossibly tight, and she winces as you push in, inch by inch. You almost pull back, but she shakes her head, her fingernails digging into your shoulders. “Don’t stop,” she whispers, and you don’t.
When you’re finally all the way in, you both just… breathe. You’re inside her, and she’s wrapped around you, and it’s so much—too much—you think you might actually pass out. She moves first, hips rolling, and the friction is a miracle, a revelation, every nerve in your body lighting up at once. She sets the pace, slow and shallow, her hands braced on your chest. Her eyes are open, locked on yours, pupils blown wide. She looks like she’s falling.
You feel it building in her. She’s kissing you hard now, almost biting, her hips losing their rhythm as she moves faster, chasing something just out of reach. You watch her face, the way her mouth opens, the way she sucks in air with every thrust, and it’s almost enough to push you over the edge. But you want her to come first, need her to come first, so you slide your hand between you and find her clit, rubbing it gently, then harder when she bucks against your fingers. You can feel the way her body tightens, how wet she is, how close.
“Clark,” she gasps, voice breaking, and you slow down, holding her against you, letting her ride it out. She comes with a shudder, legs clamping around your waist, nails raking your back as she cries out your name. You stay inside her, not moving, just feeling her pulse around you, until she goes limp and heavy on your chest.
Members get full access to the uncensored 2K video: Join today >>
Turn sound ON. Click the full-screen icon to resize to your screen.
She’s still shaking when she cups your face, kisses you, and then—without a word—rolls onto her back, pulling you with her. She wants you on top of her now, wants to see your face, wants you to fuck her the way you’ve been dreaming about since you were old enough to know what dreams were. You brace yourself over her, arms trembling, and she wraps her legs around you, heels digging into your ass.
You start slow, but she won’t let you. She hooks her ankles behind you and pulls you in, hard and deep, and you lose yourself in it, in the slap of skin on skin, the heat of her, the way her tits bounce with every thrust. You’re sweating, panting, barely able to hold yourself up, but she looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.
“Don’t stop,” she says, and you don’t.
You pound into her, harder, faster, chasing your own orgasm now with everything you have left. She holds onto your shoulders, nails biting into your flesh, her eyes shut tight and mouth open in a silent scream. You feel her start to come again, her pussy fluttering around your cock, and that’s it, that’s all you need—you slam into her one last time and explode, coming so hard you see stars. It’s too much, almost painful, and you groan her name into her neck as you empty yourself inside her.
You collapse on top of her, both of you slick with sweat, shaking and gasping for air. For a long time, you just lie there, your cock still twitching inside her, her arms wrapped around your back like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go.
Eventually, you slide out, and there’s a rush of warmth, your cum leaking out of her in sticky trails that pool on the sheets. You’re embarrassed, a little, but Lana just laughs, scooping some up with her finger and flicking it at you. You laugh, too, and then you’re both giggling like idiots, tangled up in each other, the sheets a disaster zone.
You both clean up as best you can and you try not to think about how to explain this to your mom.
You collapse together, sticky and breathless, and Lana’s body fits perfectly against yours. She settles her head on your shoulder and you wrap her up, one arm under her neck, one hand tangled in her hair. Your legs knot together beneath the mess of covers. She traces slow, lazy shapes on your chest, like she’s writing her name in invisible ink.
You stay like that for a long time, not talking, barely breathing, just listening to the wind rattle the barn outside and the tick of the heater as it tries to keep up. The house is so quiet you can hear her heart beating through her chest. You think about the future—about breakfast, about tomorrow, about the next time she looks at you and you’re not sure if you’re going to die of happiness or just combust on the spot. You think about the way she laughed when you came in her mouth, the way she held you after, like she was proud, like it was the most normal thing in the world and you were the only boy who’d ever done it.
You’re almost asleep when she stirs, kisses your jaw, and whispers, “I love you.” You don’t say it back, not because you don’t mean it, but because you’re afraid if you do, you’ll never be able to stop. You squeeze her, and she gets it, and then you both drift off, tangled and warm.
You wake up to sunlight cutting across the bed, striping your bare legs and Lana’s back. She’s snoring, mouth open, hair fanned across your chest like a black halo. You don’t want to move. You want to preserve this, forever, maybe crawl back under the covers and never come out.
That’s when you hear the front door slam.
You freeze. Lana mumbles something and burrows closer, pressing her face into your neck. You run the math in your head: your parents weren’t supposed to be home for another two hours.
You try to shake Lana awake, but she clings to you, sighing, and you have to physically peel her off. She rolls onto her back, breasts bare, arms flung overhead. You yank the covers up to her chin just as the footsteps hit the stairs.
There’s no time. No time to clean up, no time to hide the evidence, no time to do anything but hold your breath and pray.
The door swings open and your dad starts to say, “Hey Clark, we’re back a little…” but the words die in his mouth. He’s standing there, toolbox in one hand, mouth open, eyebrows halfway up his forehead. Your mom is right behind him, holding a box of donuts, frozen in shock.
Lana sits up, blinking. The sheet drops. She’s completely topless, and for a full three seconds, everyone just stares at her breasts like they’re some kind of meteorological event.
“Oh my god,” your mom says, and tries to cover your dad’s eyes, which only makes him drop the toolbox, which lands on his foot.
Your dad yelps, hops around, and Lana, in a panic, grabs the nearest thing to cover herself: the Metropolis Sharks travel mug. It does not help.
Your mom is still flailing, donuts scattering across the floor like sugary landmines. Lana is mortified, you are mortified, and your dad is now bleeding from the big toe.
“I—uh—” you say, but there’s no point.
Your mom collects herself first. She gives you a look that could curdle milk, then turns to Lana, who is trying to crawl under the bed. “Would you like some breakfast, honey?” she asks, like this is the most normal Saturday in the world.
Lana squeaks, eyes wide. “No, thank you, Mrs. Kent.”
Your dad, limping, mutters, “I’ll just… get the coffee started,” and flees.
Your mom glares at you. “We’re home early,” she says, as if you’ve somehow missed this fact.
You nod. “We noticed.”
She takes a deep, heroic breath, then closes the door with the kind of gentleness that means you are doomed.
Lana slumps against you, red all the way to her toes. “Oh my God, oh my God, we’re so dead,” she whispers.
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.
You lie back, listening to your parents bicker in the kitchen, the clatter of mugs and the hiss of the coffee pot. Lana’s hand finds yours under the sheets, and you squeeze it, both of you trying not to laugh.
You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. You just lie there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the sun and her skin and the weight of everything that just happened.
You know you’ll never forget this. Not the embarrassment, not the love, not the way you fit together, perfectly, even when the world is falling apart.
You’re not sure what happens next. But you know you want it to be with her.
Lifetime Member Exclusive 5K Scenes
