The sign at the entrance said "Hard Times Magazine", and Clark hesitated again before he reached for the doorknob. It wasn't as if he didn't know what kind of publication this was, and a thousand horror stories of runaway teenagers corrupted by the dark side of big city life flashed through his mind. But it was either this or go back home, and he knew he had to put Smallville behind him forever. After what he'd done, his parents would never be able to love him again.
It was harder than he thought, though, making it on his own in Metropolis. Two weeks since he stepped off the bus, and he was living in a dingy hotel room, quickly running out of money. There were no jobs to be had, and he should thank his lucky star that a stranger in a diner had come up to him and offered him this. He hadn't liked the sound of it at first - he'd watched enough after school specials in his life to know that "Have you ever done any modeling?" wasn't a phrase that made for a rose colored future - but now it looked like his only option, if he didn't want to starve.
At least he had the advantage of being certain that no one could force him into something he really didn't want to do. With that thought at the front of his mind, he stepped inside.
He had never been under spotlights before, and the feeling was disorienting, like being in a dark room when somebody suddenly flicked the switch. Too much brightness and nowhere to hide.
There was make-up on his face, on large parts of his body, discreet but there, and he was thankful that at least he was still fully dressed. Though, on the other hand, the jeans they had given him were so tight he had barely been able to get them on, and the khaki T-shirt clung to his skin in a way that made him embarrassingly aware of every single muscle on his torso. The concealing safety of loose-fitting flannel had never seemed more appealing.
Paul, the photographer - the same man who had approached him in the diner - came closer, camera in hand.
"All right, Clark," he said. "We'll start out easy. Smile for the camera, please."
Okay. No different than a family portrait. He could pull that off.
"Relax. Look into the camera. Excellent. Cross your arms over your chest. Good. And look serious for me. Not tense, Clark - serious."
Paul didn't stand still like a family photographer, though. He moved around Clark, constantly changing his angle, sometimes hunching down so that the camera was looking upwards. The clicking of the shutter was continuous, a sharp metallic sound repeated over and over again, as confusing as the lights. Clark was sure he sucked as a model, but all he needed to do to get paid was make it through the session, and so far he hadn't been asked to do any funny stuff. The make-up girl had told him that Paul was a professional, and a good one, that the pictures would be "classy", whatever that meant. If he just thought of the money, he could handle this.
"Clasp your hands behind your neck. Yeah, like that. And wet your lips."
Okay, now it was getting weird.
"Again, slower. Eyes in the camera. Yes. Perfect. I love that blush."
Which of course made him blush even harder, and if he hadn't felt awkward before, now he certainly did.
"Now put your hands in your back pockets. Good. And look over here."
As he turned his head to follow Paul's movements, his eyes fell on a man standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. A slim shape, all in black, except for a pair of purple sunglasses hiding his eyes. He seemed perfectly at ease, relaxed to the point of boredom, but somehow he didn't appear to belong here. Too crisp, too sharply immaculate to work in this place, too blasé to be a stranger to it. A young man, but with a bald head.
"Over here, Clark. Focus. Always think of where your gaze is. Good. Okay, now I want you to take your shirt off. Very slowly. Keep your eyes on me."
He felt ridiculous, and he knew that he was being clumsy and very far from graceful, but he did as he was told. Careful not to rush it too much and bungle it completely, he peeled the clingy shirt from his body. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bald man push away from the wall and move closer.
"Good," Paul said when he'd got the shirt over his head. "Hand it over."
The photographer lowered the camera and held his free hand out to Clark, who passed him the shirt and watched it end up over the back of a chair. It felt like they were taking a break, a deep breath before some sort of plunge. Paul took the film out of his camera, secured it in a plastic container and pushed in a new one. The bald man sat down in a director's chair just outside the circle of light, leaning back with his legs crossed, overcoat and sunglasses still in place. He had all the grace of movement Clark was sure he lacked.
Paul turned to Clark again.
"Get down on your knees and sit back on your heels," he said.
All right. He had no idea where this was leading, but as he knelt down, Clark felt his heart begin to speed up. This was where he stepped out of his depth.
"Lean back and place your hands on the floor behind you. Yes, like that. Now tilt your head back and part your legs."
Spreading himself open, every part of him on display. Through the eager clicking of the camera, he heard another sound, faint but strangely unmistakable - a pair of sunglasses being removed. He swallowed hard and turned his head a fraction to get a view of the man who had worn them.
He was sitting still in his chair, motionless, except for the eyes. Dark, piercing eyes, roaming over Clark's body, drinking him in. There were other people in the room - the make-up girl, the guy who arranged the lighting, a few more men who came and went - and of course they all looked at him, he'd expected that. But their looks were casual, moving away and drifting back again, all in a day's work. This man watched with a focus that was frightening, never taking his eyes off Clark, as though he were the single most interesting thing in the universe. It made his skin crawl, the breath grow shallow in his chest.
It was surprisingly hard to look away.
"Beautiful," Paul said. "You're doing good. Hold that pose, but start touching yourself. Stroke your chest."
His right hand left the ground to paint a trail of warmth down his ribcage, and he let his eyelids close to forget that he was doing this in front of other people, to pretend that he was alone. But even with his eyes shut, he could feel that gaze on him, following the path of his fingers, taking in every inch of skin they touched. He couldn't escape it, and he wasn't sure he wanted to.
When his palm slid across the hardening peak of his nipple, he couldn't hold back a gasp.
"Lovely. Now open your pants."
Fingers fumbling on the belt-buckle, slipping on the button of his jeans, but somehow he managed to get the zipper down, desperately not thinking of what he might be asked to do next. One step at a time, and maybe he could get through this.
"Slip your hand inside."
Oh, God.
He'd been told not to put on any underwear, and as he slid his hand down the front of his jeans he was naked to his own touch. Touching his naked cock in front of a camera, and what on earth had he been thinking of? He couldn't do this. It was wrong. Degrading. If he went through with it, he wouldn't be able to look himself in the eye ever again. He would just get up off the floor and…
There was a soft rustle of movement to his left, and without thought, he opened his eyes and turned towards it.
The bald man had leaned forward in his chair, and as Clark watched, his gaze traveled slowly, inexorably, over his body, from his lap along the curve of his arm to his face. When their eyes met, the world fell away. What remained was a pair of dark blue irises and, far away, like a sound in a dream, the steady clickclickclick of the camera.
It was like being devoured alive. So much hunger and purpose and pure, undeniable strength in those eyes, and he had never felt more exposed, more vulnerable. As though this man saw deeper than skin, deeper than flesh and bone, and he was naked now in ways that had nothing to do with lack of clothes. He was claimed, branded by that gaze, and still it was burning through him, consuming him.
The cock beneath his hand grew suddenly, painfully hard.
Rubbing it then, because there was nothing else he could do. Because he was lost in a rush of desire more powerful than anything he'd ever known, and when the first tendril of pleasure trickled up his spine, the stranger's lips curved in a narrow smile of possession.
He knew he shouldn't, knew that he would regret it when he came to his senses, but he pulled his cock out of his pants and wrapped his fingers around it, felt it harden further when the man's eyes drifted down and drank in the sight. From what seemed like another reality, he heard Paul praise his initiative, but he didn't need instruction anymore. All he needed was the encouragement of those eyes. With long, rhythmic movements, he began to stroke.
Fierce, desperate bliss, and it had never felt like this. As if his body had been rewired, his mind wiped of self-consciousness and shame, and his whole being now existed for this alone. For lust and ecstasy and the jolt of wonder through his heart when his thumb slid through moisture over the tip of his cock and the stranger licked his lips. He couldn't remember anything more beautiful.
Pumping harder, faster, and he was already so close, his hips rushing up to meet his hand again and again. Perfect counterpoint, and he was moaning with every thrust, panting and writhing in passionate abandon. When the blue eyes found his again, he began to shake.
His, he thought. I am his.
And then the climax hit him, lifting him like a whirlwind, his body striving up and up, his head falling back in a wail that tore the air out of his lungs. He shut his eyes and let the pleasure course through him, let it own him more thoroughly than anything ever had.
When the shockwaves subsided and he found the strength to open them again, the bald man was gone.
He was sitting on the floor of a photo studio, surrounded by people, and he was alone with his shame.
The money he got kept him afloat over the next few weeks, while he found a job lifting crates in a warehouse and a room with fewer cockroaches. He preferred not to think about how he'd earned it.
Which might have worked perfectly, if his mind hadn't been haunted by the memory of piercing blue eyes and the way his will had melted into nothing under their gaze. It disturbed him how every ounce of decency and self-control had drained from him, and yet the thought of it drove him wild with desire. Some nights he spent hours imagining himself back on that studio floor - watched, wanted, undone - and in the morning he loathed himself for the pleasure it gave him. It was as though he had discovered a side to himself he'd never known existed, and he had no idea how to handle it.
On the third week after the photo shoot, he came home one day to find a large, brown envelope in his mail. Sitting down on his bed, he opened it and pulled out a letter with the Hard Time Magazine letterhead.
Clark,
I thought you might like to see the results of your photo session. Speaking for myself, I'm very pleased with how it turned out and would love the chance to work with you again. If you're interested, call us and we'll set up a time. You're a natural, kid; I think you'll see that when you look at the pictures.
Yours,
Paul
Putting aside the letter, Clark picked up the envelope again and shook out its contents. It was the latest issue of the magazine. On the cover was a picture of him, hands clasped behind his head, tongue moving out to lick his lips. The innocent blush on his cheeks made him cringe.
With trepidation, he flicked through the magazine, looking for the rest of the photos. Fifteen pages in, he found them.
Clark pulling off his shirt. Clark kneeling on the floor. Clark with his hand inside his pants. More that he didn't look at too closely. He felt removed from the person in the pictures, and he wanted it to stay that way. Then he turned another page, and his heart stopped.
He was looking at the centerfold picture, one large photo covering the entire spread, and it was of him as well. Glossy black and white that made every detail stand out, clear and sharp, and he couldn't take his eyes from it.
A profile shot, and in it he was on his knees, leaning back on one hand while the other stroked his hardened cock. It was taken in the moment of orgasm, his head thrown back, his entire body arching upwards in a curve that looked painful, yet somehow effortless, every single muscle straining towards relief. But what got him was the face. His own face, as he'd never seen it before. His eyes half closed, his mouth wide open, strands of hair clinging to sweaty temples. The expression was one of absolute bliss, of religious transport, vivid and intense beyond anything he'd thought himself capable of. It was...
...beautiful.
As he looked at it, he could feel again what had brought him there, to that moment of beauty. And he knew, suddenly and with a sharp stab of conviction, that whatever his scruples, he wanted to feel it again. He would call, and he would go there, and if he was lucky, he would meet the baldheaded stranger. And if he didn't, he would still find out who he was.
It might not be right, but the only thing he wanted was to lose himself in that gaze again.
