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Clark shifted slightly on the supple Italian leather of the sofa, which was most likely more expensive than everything he owned combined. He glanced at his watch for the third time. 9:23. His meeting with infamous Playboy billionaire, Bruce Wayne, was meant to begin twenty-three minutes ago. With a loud sigh of irritation, he dragged one hand over his face. His gaze swept around the spacious office once again, from the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic, smog-filled view of the city, to the large mahogany desk, which was painfully empty. That was where Bruce Wayne should have been when he arrived.
Should have, being the operative phrase.
He was genuinely thrilled to be chosen for this assignment at first. Interviewing the Bruce Wayne about the new green initiatives that Wayne Enterprises was rolling out in Gotham, one of the most polluted and crime-ridden cities on the planet, was a significant story, one that he was personally excited to partake in. For someone like him with enhanced senses, the pollution of Gotham was a physical weight. He could feel the way it settled in his pores, filling his lungs with each breath. So, any attempt to clean it, to make the quality of life for those in Gotham better, was something he was personally invested in.
And, well… Perhaps, if these initiatives worked even half as well as Wayne had touted during last week’s press conference, it might actually make a difference. Then, it might not be so bad to fly by and lend a hand to the city’s self-appointed guardian, were he ever to need it.
He wouldn’t, of course. Batman was more than capable of handling himself and his city. He’d made that abundantly, almost aggressively clear during their brief tenure as coworkers in the newly founded Justice League. The man was severe and fiercely protective of his territory and his people. Clark respected his dedication, even if he found his methods… abrasive.
For a moment, Clark couldn’t help but wonder if the grim vigilante approved of Wayne Enterprises’ corporate do-gooding. Did he see it as a genuine attempt to help or another layer of paint to cover the corruption? It was a strange thought that the billionaire and the bat could be two sides of the same coin, each fighting for their city.
Perhaps that would make a decent article, Clark thought. Before he could follow that thread any further, the heavy oak door swung open without a knock, and in walked none other than Bruce Wayne himself. A brilliant, almost blindingly white smile was spread across his beautiful, luminous face. “Oh, Charlie!” He exclaimed in surprise, his voice smooth. “I could have sworn my secretary said our meeting was at 9:00! I hope you weren’t waiting too long,” He chuckled, shrugging off his bespoke suit jacket, tossing it casually over the back of a nearby armchair. The shirt beneath was a pale blue, stretched taut across his muscular frame. It was dangerously tight, leaving little to the imagination as it emphasized the sheer breadth of his shoulders and chest, the thick muscle tapering down to a trim waist.
He’s athletic, Clark remembered reading once, in a fluff piece about the billionaire. He’s into bodybuilding and extreme sports, and he's a part-time model on the side. Based on his physique, the article hadn’t been exaggerating.
Clark watched curiously as Bruce made a languid path towards an overstocked liquor cart. He picked up a crystal decanter and poured two fingers of an amber liquor that Clark assumed was sickeningly expensive scotch. In one smooth motion, he downed the entire glass, throat working as he swallowed. Without a word, he made his way to the sofa, not choosing one of the other available chairs but sitting down directly beside Clark, close enough that their knees could brush.
Clark adjusted his glasses. “It’s… Clark, Mr. Wayne,” He said slowly, voice measured as he tried to process the whirlwind entrance he just witnessed. “Clark Kent, from the Daily Planet. And the meeting was at 9:00. It’s currently,” He checked his watch again, “9:36.”
Bruce laughed, a flippant, dismissive sound that irked Clark. He threw one arm over the back of the couch, fingers brushing against Clark’s shoulder, as he crossed his legs. “Is it?” He mused, leaning in. The space between them shrank incrementally, the air filling with Bruce’s warm, musky cologne, drowning Clark’s senses. “I feel like I should find some way to apologize for being late,” He breathed, voice low and husky. His breath was warm as it brushed over Clark’s skin, scented faintly like… apple, not the harsh liquor he’d just consumed.
Clark’s expression tightened. He shifted subtly, leaning away and turning his body to create a sliver of personal space. He cleared his throat, the sound a little too loud in the quiet office. “No, no - uh, no apology necessary, Mr. Wayne,” He muttered, hating the way his work cracked. He cleared his throat again and set his small digital recorder on the polished coffee table. He uncapped his pen and flipped his notebook open. “If we could just start the interview…”
With a low hum, Bruce reached out smoothly. He took Clark’s press pass lanyard between his long fingers, twisting the cord around one as he read the name aloud. “Please, Clark,” He mused, ice-blue eyes lifting from the pass to meet Clark’s. “Mr. Wayne was my father.” He gave the lanyard a gentle, insistent tug. “Why don’t you call me Bruce, hm? There’s no need for formalities between us, is there?”
But there was. There absolutely was.
Clark reached up and firmly, but politely, tugged the lanyard from Bruce’s grasp with an exasperated huff. His composure was slipping by the second. “So, Mr. Wayne.” He repeated, tone stiff. “We’ve been hearing a lot about the green initiatives that Wayne Enterprises has been launching to help clean up Gotham. One, in particular, caught my eye.” He glanced at the notes, trying to regain his professional footing. “The Hydra Project. It’s a big undertaking to decontaminate Gotham Harbour. Is there any reason you’ve chosen to start with the… hrk!” He choked off as a hand slid up his thigh, landing dangerously high and squeezing.
Clark froze, every muscle in his body going rigid. The hand on his thigh was an inferno, the heat of it burning through the wool of his trousers and branding his skin. Long, elegant fingers brushed deliberately over the fabric in a maddening caress that sent a jolt up his spine. His face darkened further, creeping down his neck as his mouth went uselessly dry. He couldn’t stop the biological reaction the touch was provoking, his pants tightening uncomfortably with a sudden, unwelcome rush of arousal that warred with the annoyance simmering in his gut.
Bruce didn’t move his hand. Instead, he leaned even closer, shifting his body to bring his lips directly to the shell of Clark’s ear. His voice was a low, husky whisper. “You were saying something about the harbour?” He murmured, the words a warm puff of air. His thumb began to move, stroking a slow, maddening circle on Clark’s inner thigh, each pass inching higher. “Well, Clark, it’s a very…” His thumb brushed deliberately over the rapidly stiffening bulge in Clark’s trousers. “Big project, don’t you think?”
Clark’s jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth clacked together. He jerked his leg back violently, pressing himself hard against the sofa’s arm in a desperate bid to create distance, to regain some semblance of composure, and keep Bruce on track. An amused, rich chuckle came from the Billionaire, a sound that grated on Clark’s last nerve. His hand tightened around the pen, the cheap plastic groaning under the pressure. He glanced at the recorder on the table and forced himself to exhale slowly and steadily through his nose, counting down from ten as he tried to tamp down his annoyance.
This was a big interview. A career-making interview. This would be his first real chance at the front page, his opportunity to move beyond local fluff pieces and prove himself as a serious journalist. It was so, so crucial that he get this right. Of course, someone like Bruce Wayne, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, would never have to consider that. He would never understand the concept of work, of needing to earn your position. For him, everything was a game.
And Clark was not a fan of being selected as the newest toy.
“It’s Mr. Kent to you,” He bit out, voice strained with suppressed anger. He shoved Bruce's hand away from his leg, followed by placing one firm, unyielding hand on the man’s chest to push him back a few inches. The contact was electric, even through the thin silk of Bruce’s shirt. He could feel the solid, unyielding wall of muscle beneath his palm, and the unnervingly calm, steady beat of his heart. “And I suggest that you keep your hands to yourself, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce’s smile didn’t falter for a second. If anything, it widened. He held up his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes, startling blue and filled with wicked amusement, never left Clark’s face. “My apologies, Mr. Kent,” He said, though his tone was anything but apologetic. “I’m just a tactile person. I like to connect with people, get a… feel for them,” He paused, gaze dropping deliberately towards Clark’s mouth before languidly flicking back up to his eyes. “Don’t you want to connect with me, Clark?” He purred.
Clark felt a surge of something hot rise in his chest. He took a deep, steadying breath as he tried to push down the primal urge to wipe that smug look off the billionaire’s beautiful face. The air in the office suddenly felt thick, heavy and suffocating. He could smell the clean scent of Bruce’s cologne, the mint of his toothpaste, and something… uniquely Bruce, warm and musky and dangerously appealing.
“No,” Clark said, the word clipped and final. He swallowed hard, forcing his gaze back to his notebook, the neat lines a lifeline. “I want to ask you about the projected budget for the harbour decontamination. Like I was saying, it’s quite the undertaking.”
Bruce sighed dramatically, throwing himself back against the sofa cushions. His arm draped over Clark’s shoulder once again, fingers beginning to idly toy with the curls at the back of the man’s neck. “Budgets, budgets, budgets,” He complained, his voice a bratty whine. “So boring. Can’t we talk about something more interesting?” He leaned in again, hot breath fanning against Clark’s cheek. “Like you, for instance. I bet you have all sorts of interesting stories. A big, strong man like you, all cooped up in a little newsroom… seems like a waste, if you ask me.” He whispered, lips brushing against the rough stubble of Clark’s jaw.
That was it. That single, deliberate touch was the final straw. Just like that, Clark’s control snapped.
One hand snapped out with impossible speed, tangling in Bruce’s thick, dark hair and wrenching his head back, baring the long, pale column of his throat. The billionaire’s eyes widened in shock, a startled squeak escaping his lips as his heart pounded against his ribs in a frantic rhythm that Clark felt in his very bones. He clearly hadn’t expected such a reaction from the sweet, mild-mannered reporter. But he had poked and prodded until there was no other reaction left for him to give.
“You push, and push, and push,” Clark hissed, voice low and venomous. He leaned in, lips brushing against Bruce’s ear. “If you want to play games with me, Brucie, I’ll show you a game.” He growled, drinking in the panicked expression on Bruce’s face, the way the billionaire’s blue eyes, so full of confidence and amusement only moments ago, were now entirely confused.
The shock in Bruce’s eyes was a fleeting, beautiful thing. Before he could process the monumental mistake he made in riling this reporter up, Clark used his other hand to haul Bruce up and forward. The billionaire flailed, hand scrambling for purchase on the slick leather cushions, but there was no escaping from the strongest man alive. With one quick motion, Clark stood, and Bruce was manhandled, twisted, and unceremoniously bent over on the sofa, his face pressed into the cool, expensive leather. The position was humiliating, forcing his ass into a deep arch that presented him like a prize.
“Mr. Kent, this wasn’t what I was-” Bruce's indignant protest was cut off by a firm smack on his covered ass cheek, followed quickly by another. When a third, harder smack landed on the same cheek, a yelp tore from Bruce’s throat.
“You’ve been a brat, Bruce.” Clark hissed, voice laced with dark satisfaction. He dragged his fingers along the seam of Bruce’s trousers, pressing the fabric in against the warm slit of his cunt and rubbing firmly. A choked, helpless gasp fell from Bruce’s lips. “And I think you’re always a brat. You’ve never had anyone tell you no, have you? Hm?” He asked, rubbing firmly with insistent, maddening pressure. The fabric dampened quickly beneath his touch.
“Clark, this isn’t-” He started, voice trembling, only to have one open-handed swat land right over his cunt, tearing an involuntary cry from his throat. His back arched further, toes barely managing to brush against the rug beneath his feet.
“I asked you a question, Bruce. And you’ll call me Mr. Kent.” He growled, rubbing his fingers over Bruce’s slit again, the fabric now soaked through with his arousal. “So, tell me. Has anyone ever told you no?”
Bruce glanced over his shoulder, eyes misty with unshed tears as he chewed on his plump lower lip. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he shook his head. “N-No, s-sir, Mr. Kent, sir,” he mumbled, the words a breathy, humiliating confession.
Clark exhaled slowly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I thought so.” He said, reaching around the man to pop Bruce’s trouser button open. He slid them, along with the delicate, silken panties beneath, down the man’s muscular legs, leaving them pooled around his ankles. He ran both hands over the firm, pale globes of Bruce’s ass, admiring the angry red handprint he had left on one cheek. Slowly, his hands crept lower, pulling apart Bruce’s slick pussy lips to admire the clenching little hole, already glistening with need.
With little preamble, Clark sank two fingers into Bruce’s dripping cunt all the way to the knuckle, in one smooth stroke. The action tore a high-pitched squeal from the man’s throat, legs uselessly kicking in the air. “You’re soaked,” Clark observed, his voice low as he kept his fingers buried deep inside that slick, clenching heat. “All that talk, that teasing. You like being treated like this, hm? You’re just a little brat who needs to be put in his place and fucked like the little tease that you are.”
Bruce could only whimper, a high, desperate sound muffled by the leather. His cunt clenched around Clark’s fingers at his filthy words.
Another smack on the same cheek made him whine pathetically. “You’ll answer me when I speak to you,” Clark demanded, crooking his fingers to choke out a gasp.
“Y-Yes, Mr. Kent,” Bruce gasped, voice breaking as he trembled. “I-I like it, oh, fuck, I like it.”
With the admission, Clark’s fingers began to move, plunging deep into his cunt with a deliberate, punishing rhythm that stole his breath. His thumb found Bruce’s clit, already swollen and sensitive, and pressed against it, rubbing in firm, torturous circles. The action made Bruce moan loudly, hips canting to push them closer to Clark. And Clark was relentless, a third finger sinking in alongside the first two, plunging deep into his cunt and scissoring apart to stretch him wide. His own slickness dripped down his thighs, a testament to his overwhelming arousal as Clark’s thumb pressed harder, rubbing more insistently.
“A-Ah, Mr… Mr. Kent, I-I… ah, more, please, faster, ah-” He moaned breathlessly, fingers clawing at the sofa as long, thick fingers curved inside him. His weight slumped against the arm as he surrendered himself to the stimulation, but a firm smack on his already burning ass made him jolt up again.
“You don’t get to demand anything, Brucie,” Clark grunted, pulling his fingers out with a wet, obscene pop. Immediately, the orgasm that was so, so painfully close began ebbing away, leaving a desperate need in its wake. Bruce choked out an incredulous cry, eyes widening as he glanced back, face a mess of tears and desperation. His eyes went wider as they met Clark’s dark, possessive gaze. “You’ll take what I give you.” He said simply, both hands moving to undo his belt, shoving his own trousers down and freeing the thick, heavy cock that had been straining against the fabric.
Bruce’s mouth went utterly dry as his eyes dropped towards the heavy, rigid length of his cock. It was monstrous, a thing of impossible proportions; thick as his wrist and long enough to be concerning. The flared head was an angry, red, precome oozing down it slowly. He watched with wide, almost hypnotized eyes as one of Clark’s large hands wrapped around the appendage, smearing Bruce’s own slick along the twitching, veined length with each languid stroke.
Clark stepped forward until their thighs brushed together, closing the last inch of space between them. The broad head of his cock rubbed against Bruce’s slick, swollen slit, smearing the wetness further and teasing his entrance with the maddening pressure. Bruce shuddered, body trembling in anticipation of being speared on the biggest, thickest cock he’d ever seen.
One hand fisted in his dark hair once again, shoving his face down against the couch cushion as the tip lined up perfectly with his fluttering hole. “You wanted to connect, huh, Brucie?” Clark’s voice was a low, guttural thing. “Let’s see how connected we can get.”
And with one slow, relentless push, he began to push, bullying Bruce’s little cunt open as he sank in, inch by inch.
A muffled, ragged cry was torn from his throat as he was pressed into the sofa, the sound swallowed by the leather. The stretch was incredible, a burning, overwhelming pressure that bordered deliciously on pain. His inner walls fluttered and clenched desperately around Clark’s cock as it sank deeper, his body struggling to adapt to the intrusion.
And Clark didn’t stop for a second. His hips moved with purpose, burying himself once inch at a time until he was entirely seated to the hilt, heavy balls pressed against Bruce’s ass, as his tip pressed firmly into his cervix with bruising pressure. He held himself there for a single, torturous moment to let Bruce adjust, to let him feel the sheer, impossible size buried within his tight little cunt.
“Fuck,” Clark breathed, voice strained with the effort of his restraint. “So tight, Brucie. This is what you wanted, isn’t it, you little tease. You wanted to be ruined by my cock.”
Bruce could only whimper, a high, broken sound, his mind entirely overwhelmed by the sensation. He was so full, so completely and utterly stretched. He could feel every pulse, every throb of the thick cock inside him, carving its shape into his very being.
Clark’s hands slid down from Bruce’s hair to grip onto his waist, hands nearly meeting around the man’s middle as he squeezed, just hard enough to leave his bruise, his mark on that creamy, pale flesh. Then, he pulled back almost all the way before slamming in with a single, powerful thrust that knocked the air out of Bruce’s lungs. He set a brutal rhythm, a deep, hard fucking that was entirely about punishing Bruce for being such a tease, a distraction. Each hard thrust tore a choked-out moan from Bruce’s lips, the lewd sound of their skin slapping together echoing in the vast, silent room around them.
“Is this what you wanted when you came on to me, Brucie?” Clark snarled, one hand coming down hard on Bruce’s already reddened ass cheek, the sharp smack making the man beneath him jolt. “To be fucked like a common whore? To be bent over and used?” He leaned forward, chest pressing against Bruce’s back, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “Is that what you do? Do you fuck anyone who comes for a meeting? Do you bend over and let them play with this pretty little pussy?” He bit down on Bruce’s earlobe. “Look at how you’re taking my cock, you’re made for it. Made to be a little slut.”
Bruce’s mind was fracturing under the absolute onslaught of pleasure and humiliation, tears dribbling down his cheeks as he hiccuped desperately, so overwhelmed. The thick cock inside him was hitting every sensitive spot, pounding against his cervix with each devastating, punishing stroke. Clark’s words were a filthy litany of degradation that only served to heighten his arousal, his mind overtaken by this man and his impressive cock. It was pushing him closer and closer to the edge with each passing second.
“Puh-leassee,” Bruce gasped, voice broken and unrecognizable as he whined needily. “M-Mr. Ke..ent, p-please! I’m- I’m going to-”
“Going to what?” Clark demanded, rhythm never faltering as he pounded viciously into Bruce’s abused little cunt. He reached around, fingers finding Bruce’s swollen, sensitive clit again and rubbing it in tight, maddening circles. “Going to come? Do it. Come for me, Bruce. Show me how much of a dirty little slut you are, how much you love being fucked like this.”
That was all it took. With a loud, broken sob, Bruce shattered. His cunt clenched vice-tight around Clark’s cock as his body trembled with the force of his release, slickness gushing down his thighs.
Clark groaned gutturally as Bruce’s walls clenched around him, the tight, milking sensation pushing him over the edge. With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep and came, cock pulsing as he emptied himself into Bruce’s clutching, spasming cunt. He pumped rope after rope of thick, hot cum into his womb, hips twitching. His fingers tightened around the man’s waist, holding him in a bruising grip until they had both ridden out the aftershocks.
With a slow, controlled exhale, Clark gradually released his bruising hold around Bruce’s waist, fingers uncurling one by one. The billionaire slumped further into the sofa, body going completely boneless, chest heaving, and hips twitching weakly. The motion caused his ass to lift higher, presented obscenely as his chest and face pressed into the leather. Clark’s eyes raked over him with slow, deliberate hunger, taking in the full state of him, cataloging every detail of how beautifully, thoroughly wrecked he looked.
And wrecked, Bruce was. His dark hair, immaculately styled when he entered, was slick with sweat, sticking against his forehead and neck in wet, tangled curls. His skin was beautifully flushed, a deep, rosy pink that spread down his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. Tear tracks cut lines down his cheeks, his eyes rimmed with red and glassy, his bottom lip swollen and raw from chewing on it.
Clark slowly shifted back, pulling his softening cock inch by inch from that puffy, abused little cunt. Bruce whimpered at the sensation, his walls clenching weakly as if trying to hold him in. When the thick head finally popped free, with a wet sound, a trickle of thick, white come oozed from the gaping, well-fucked hole, dribbling down Bruce’s trembling, milky thigh.
Clark drank in the sight, burning it permanently into his memory. The image of Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s most notorious playboy, bent over and dripping with his cum, was one he would carry with him for a very long time.
He bent down to tug his underwear and pants back up, fastening the belt calmly as he kept his eyes trained on that cum-filled cunt, watching as another trickle of release seeped from Bruce’s hole. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a crisp, white business card. With one smooth motion, he folded it in half, then half again. Clark reached forward, and Bruce flinched a small, over-sensitive twitch, as Clark pressed the folded card against his ruined cunt, pushing it in with his thumb to sink it inside, mesmerized as that hungry little cunt swallowed it eagerly. A low, breathy sound fell from Bruce’s lips, hips twitching weakly in response to the stimulation.
“I’ll be expecting a call when you’re ready to conduct an actual interview, Mr. Wayne.” He said firmly, his collectedness a stark contrast to the ragged breathing of the man beneath him. He hooked his fingers around Bruce’s black, silky thong and pulled it up the man’s hips with a firm tug, the delicate fabric snapping against his skin to keep everything nicely contained. His card, his cum, everything, was pressed snuggly inside.
And without another word, he grabbed his bag from where he’d left it on the floor, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out the door. He left the small digital recorder still running on the coffee table, and a fucked-out, thoroughly ruined billionaire sprawled across the couch.
The latter having just learned a very important lesson about playing with fire.