His nipples at least a quarter-sized larger now, he was rocked by the sight of them in the mirror. Also, the tagging that had been done to them. Oddly erotically attractive, and equally demeaning. Luthor had also made him slip on a silvery 24”, 4mm linked choke-chain around his neck, the cold circling of it resting firmly-loose below the hollow of his throat at his clavicle. Sign of ownership and control. Something one might have put on their Rottweiler. The further linkage of his conquest... beyond the evident other, still in the thickness of his pubic hair, what Jack had marked him with.
He was hopelessly bound, and knew it. The light dimming in his eyes to a resigned, sorrowful dullness. He knew Jack was gone, and hopefully safe. He prayed it was so, but had no evidence. Terribly hungry for a good solid meal, he was only being fed liquid nourishment. The wonder of the needles thrust into his big arms still an amazement, piercing his prominent veins, invading his once invulnerable pain-free flesh. No more. He felt the intrusion of them, hated their evil. Though they were basically keeping him alive.
Why?
Ahh, he remembered now. They were going to harvest his essences. Drain him to extinction. Days to go, perhaps? He had no idea. The Kryptonite had done its gradual work; his semen, his breast-hormones, his strength dangerously depleted. His handsome face sallow and drawn. His body though, still staggeringly beautiful, the musculature etched more finely sharp than ever before. Must be his lack of hydrating fluidity throughout.
Luthor administered his daily gloats. Dr. Slagschuster, checking all systems, blood pressures, respiratory rates, heart functions... protein analysis, potassium levels, red cell counts. Usually tugging on and stroking his large phallus when he did it. Superman was inured to the touch, felt nothing, his appendage ponderous and weakened, not as easily stimulated as before. Unless they were to inject him with some sexual stimulant, which they hadn’t done for awhile; he surmised they were allowing him to recuperate, before the final assault.
At last, it began. The bad doctor brought in an array of tubes, accompanied by portable suction machines. He injected several unknown substances into the hateful IV’s. The sting of them was immediately noticeable. The doctor stepped back, had a small remote device in his hands. He made a quick jab with one of his fingers. Superman screamed. The jolt through his nipples lanced him to the core, deep into his groin, his cock flooding blood almost instantly, and he shot a load of semen before he was fully hard. He then sagged, stunned, within the tight restraints of his scaffold.
“Oh, dear,” the doctor oo-ed. “So quick, so effective. Can’t have any of that, losing those precious sperm so fast. Sorry.” He gave the shocked hero a soft glance. “We’ll just have to tone it down a bit. Once the tubes are in place, just a few tiny jolts now and then. Even and steady. Make it nice and slow and automatic.... Not nearly as painful.”
“You sonofabitch!” Superman cursed.
Slagschuster glanced at him a moment, and shrugged. Continued his business. Forcing the alien’s semi-stimulated member into one of the tubes, making sure there was a fine, not alarming seal to it from the vacuum device, making sure the tubes at the end of the cock cylinder were easily able to siphon, drain off and collect any further ejaculate. Also, the Dane then fitted some very much smaller, but still large cylinders over the length and girth of his swollen male-teats, prominent on his pecs. Superman groaned in dread, knowing the precious hormones would also be raped from his nipples for experimentation: driving him crazy with ecstasy and torment, when it happened... rupturing his juices, both from his prostate and his breasts—violating his testicles and Cowper’s—forced into overload production/secretions. How long, oh, God, how long would this go on? Before he gave out, his body shut down?
Not a clue. Nothing in any of his archives had ever referenced such a thing. As if it had never been thought of: the diabolical, forced rape and destruction of a male Kryptonian! A horror never considered to be mentioned. (Only aliens would have thought of this!)
And for what reason?
It began at 4P.M. on Thursday. They even gagged him, in case he might start screaming, didn’t want to hear it. And went on relentlessly for 48 hours. Milking him, so that he would/could ejaculate only once every three hours. They feared less time to restore himself might lead to a lesser volume of product. They were right. While he could ejaculate a half dozen times in four hours, if with a beloved partner, or super-stimulated... that alone would have put him “out” for over half a day. The shock to his system would have knocked him silly, physically and mentally. As they’d already figured out, when the pints of before had been collected. So they decided to prolong it, do it in smaller increments.
Perhaps stretch it out over two weeks? They wanted no less than two plus gallons from him before he might expire. Was he capable? They’d already seen he could put out a quart in the previous 24 hours they’d tried. He had come through it that time by himself, and the last night with Jack: a staggering output. So they knew he had super-human capabilities to regenerate.
But with a broken spirit, who knew how long he would live?
After two days, they stopped. His head sagged listlessly on his chest, his black, wavy hair mussed and forlorn, eyes closed. Slagschuster said he should be rested. He was ecstatic the alien had released two and a half quarts more of starman jizz, but only eight ounces from his pec-tits. Well, maybe the fucker wouldn’t make it to two gallons? He looked as worn as if he’d been run over by a truck. Ahhh, just pump him full of more protein and steroids, temporarily. Maybe it would boost his output. Until his testicles would start to discharge blood. Then they’d know he had gone the limit, his gonads no longer capable, destroyed.
Nonetheless, Luthor insisted on going further. Wanted to see, exactly what could be done, or if it couldn’t. He had a new device, same old, actually, just a new program.
He raised Superman’s listless chin, slapped his face. The strained blue eyes opened.
“Remember me, Cow-Tits? Superfag?”
“Luthor...” the depleted Superman acknowledged dully.
“That’s a boy. Remembered my cock, did you? Thought so,” he grinned. “Well, no time for that, now. Maybe later. When I release you.... But first, a little change. We’re leaving you, Superman. Say, “bye, bye.” Leaving all that old stuff behind. Have something new for you. No more “Superman”—unless I give him permission to think about it. Actually trying this out, to see if it would work on the Bat, too. We take you out... he’s gone, as well. No problem.”
And with that, he gave a swift jerk on the choke-chain, pulling Superman’s head down forwards, released the chain, and grasped hold of each of Superman’s huge nipples, and gave them a piercing squeeze. The alien’s eyes went wild-wide, head up and back, emitting a mournful, “N-n-noooo—noooohhh!” gasping once more. The swollen buds so sore and tender he could have died. His chin dropped.
Lex then reached up, and slipped the headphones onto him. True terror in Clark’s eyes: “No, not again, not again, no, please....!!!” He had no more resistance. This would finish him, the last part of his mind, he knew. “No, no, no, no, nooooohh!! ” uselessly. It was futile.
He had lost.
Luthor put a shushing hand over his mouth, shutting him down.
“Nighty-night, Super-Man .... Night, night—for good .”
The horrible, soft voice in his ears, killing him.
“Welcome, Superman, into your world of bondage and servitude. This is Lex Luthor, your Lord and Owner—your Master. Nevermore shall you be known as Superman. Nor even Clark Kent. (UNLESS YOU ARE SPECIFICALLY TOLD TO REMEMBER, AND ARE ADDRESSED AS SUCH, but only ever so vaguely.) Those will be memories we slowly erase. You are now #0001, the first of a new and alien prototype—similar to a human, but not at all like one. You are an alien from outer space. You are owned and controlled by Lex Luthor, your Master. You have no say in the matter, no thoughts of resistance, nor to the contrary. You are eternally now one who belongs to Luthor. To do whatever he says, whatever he desires. Compliant only for a short time... until we are through, and you have fulfilled your destiny. Then you will reach your termination, never to return again.
“In the process, your once great strength and abilities will be severely curtailed, a faint memory. You will never again be able to use them of your own free will or volition, and only when commanded or allowed, when given permission. Until then, you will do as we say... with just the slightest trace of a memory, to keep you in check, to let you know how far you have fallen, how easily and greatly you have been conquered—by a far superior man, your Master, Lex Luthor, whom you will in all instances obey—no longer with any selfish identity of who you once were. The deed is done. The Kryptonite we used on you, and all the other methods, have seeped into your body, every cell, and atom of your brain. You can no longer truly think thoughts of your own; your only thoughts are the ones we give you. You have no decisions to make, only instructions to follow. You are thoroughly being programmed into a new entity entirely: definitely not human, but totally alien and repulsive to humankind, though there will be some similarities and functions. But do not despair. You breathe and live only for the joy of your Master, to please and obey him, whatever he asks or wills.
“Fear not, you have been subdued, conquered, and rendered helpless: unable to escape or change the fate which is now yours. You will accept it completely and willingly. This is your Master’s desire. And his desire is always yours.... Otherwise, your mind will be a total blank. Incapable of generating any new thoughts, other than the ones given to you. You have no identity, nor purpose, except to be #0001, your Master’s product and toy. Completely and totally his, forever and ever and ever.”
The nightmare ran for 72 hours, non-stop. Over and over.
Round eight, complete.
* * *
It was Tuesday evening when Lex returned, having taken off Sunday to relax, and attend to Monday’s business at the office. Marsden had overseen the work while he was gone. The facility had few men on the grounds. Six roughs were there for the physical things, moving objects, patrolling the grounds, whatever. The fewer around the better, and the doors were more than securely enabled. Hardly anyone would consider what the building was used for, thus little curiosity aroused. It was plain and solid and secure, not even a helipad to give it significance.
The close-eyed bulk of Superman hung listlessly in his restraints. He had been thoroughly, continuously milked for three days: relieved of his precious life-strength (this second round) every four hours. Slagschuster was disappointed the alien’s output had begun to decrease rapidly after the first 36 hours; he was still two quarts short of the two and a half gallons he had hoped to extract, and at the same time amazed at the aggregate production thus far obtained. Three dozen men could not have spewed half as much. This starman was more than a powerhouse of fertility. Analysis showed his ejaculate protein content was fourteen times higher than any human quantities recorded, with other abnormalities which could take months to define.
However, the last three emissions had shown significant blood amounts mixed into and with his semen. Obviously he was on the threshold of testicular disintegration. Or it could be that he had just been too long, and too regularly traumatized, and this was only a mild form of stress being manifested? The doctor had shut down the machine around noon. They could try again later, to see if the alien could still produce, or had been effectively rendered incapable. But he had grave doubts. Too much blood in the last emission. It looked pretty fatal.
The captive was aroused with a cold water spray. His eyes opened, but they were quite vacant. Luthor paced around in front of him, surveying his handiwork. It still thrilled him to no end, when he, too, could glance at the naked being... and noted the being’s once invincible costume now hanging useless in plain sight. The red boots staunchly upright at the base of the clothing rack, the long cape nearly dragging the floor. Empty, spent shell of a once superhero.
“Well, Superman, how are you?”
“... Who... Su—?”
“I am Lex Luthor, your Master. Who are you?”
There was a deep frown on the nude man’s face.
“I, I... I am... Zero-zero-zero-one. An... alien. A new... prototype.”
“And who is your owner? To whom do you belong, obey?”
“Lex... Luthor. He is my Master... my owner. I am his.”
“Do you know Superman?”
“Su... Su, Super...man? I... he used to... I don’t know.”
“And Clark Kent?”
“No. No, no. No, Clark. No Su... no Kent. Who?”
“How strong are you?”
“I, I... have... no streng... power. No can... Zero-zero-zero-one. What?”
“Good, Zero-zero-zero-one! We can release you. Let you have a little exercise. Something to eat. Take a piss.”
Luthor called for a tray of food to be brought in, just a couple of hamburgers, a salad, placed on a nearby table, a chair... releasing the bound creature, who seemed as disoriented as a penguin in a steam room. Ever moving his head around, trying to rub feeling into his wrists, arms, shoulders, chest. Even felt down with some astonishment over his heavy, flaccid genitals, that seemed even larger and more swollen from the endless abuse of them, as if wondering what they were between his thighs. He ate listlessly, with no appetite, but did consume the water brought, and was given more... eyes dulled to a lifeless, watery blue.
The food tray was whisked away.
“How do you feel, #0001? What do you think of all this?”
“... empty. Inside. Noth... ing.”
“Can you bend this bar?”
Lex picked up a crowbar he had brought into the lab with him, from where he had placed it on the side. “Here. Try this. Bend it in half!”
The captive looked at him and at the bar, not understanding. “No. I can’t.”
“And if I told you to remember... that you were once Superman, that you are Superman, and you can do anything—what then?”
A strange and haunted flickering of something stole over the inanimate man’s face. He seemed oddly flushed, embarrassed. He shook his head.
“Superman, bend the bar. I, your Master, Lex, command it.”
Superman took up the bar, and began to try to bend it. The veins in his arms, his forehead, his shoulders and pecs throbbed mightily. He could not. It did not budge. He kept trying until nearly faint. Luthor stopped him, with a broad smile.
“I can’t, Master. I can’t. I’m not strong enough.” He handed the bar back to Luthor.
“Can you fly, Superman? Show me. Fly, Superman, fly!”
“I...” Superman was more than confused. “Fly? I, I... can’t do that.”
“Come, try. Follow me.”
Luthor led him to a wider, broader cleared space of the lab. “You raise your arms a little, you bend you knees, give a little jump... and fly! Do it.”
Superman looked at him like a dog with a new pan.
He did as instructed. It was a silly gesture. The naked muscleman, trying to launch himself into thin air—just “thinking” about it?
“Don’t you remember, Superman? You used to do that. Easy as pie. Do it!”
“I-I—” the pain of something crossed his eyes from deep within. He caved within. “I... I can’t, Master. I can’t. No strength, no... ability, anymore.” His words sad, hollow and fearful. What was to become of him, had become? Who was he? He could not think—! All he could consider to say was, “I am #0001, Master. What is your desire? I am #0001, yours. All yours.”
Luthor stood there, and shook his head. Not knowing whether to smile, or shout, or cry, or dance. The alien was done. And HE had done it! His enemy vanquished.
Destroyed.
It was delightful. And sad, too.
Yes, Marsden was right. A magnificent creature. But, magnificent no more. A mindless entity of muscle, and what—no semen, no strength, good for what? The time had come....
He went to the console, and spoke into the mike, more privately.
He said, “The job is done, Slagschuster. Let’s proceed with the final rounds. He’s no longer good for anything. Rather useless. A shred of a memory. Bring those boys in. Let’s get on with it. Flip on the cameras.”
* * *
“Now you remember, don’t you? I have given you the command: you will remember! You were, are , Superman—who he is still, but inoperable as such.”
“I, I—yes. Can... remember. I am Superman. The mightiest being on the planet, invincible, indestructible.” The naked captive suddenly swelled his chest with a trace of his former pride and power. No one was greater, stronger. Could do what he could—save who he could save, help those in distress, curtail activities of the evil.
“And now, you know. But alas, you also know... you have those powers no more; do you?”
“Fly, I can fly!” But he couldn’t. “Strong, I am strong, powerful—. ”
“You can’t fly. You couldn’t bend the bar, Superman. You are a weaked-out pussy-boy. A puny excuse for a man.... A queer alien, not human. A cock-sucking, dick-taking fuck... in your mouth, up your ass: a disgusting pervert, who enjoys his own jizz, his own genitals more than life itself. I have a few surprises for you, mighty man. Mighty... no more!”
“Give me a chance, give me time. I can, I will recover!”
“Only if you are free. But you are mine, Superman. And doomsday has arrived.”
“Luthor—no, please. The people I could help...” almost boyish in his plea.
“And a curse to me, and mine. No, thank you.”
Superman remained frozen, stoic in his defeat, realizing it, knowing it. He was going to die.
“Now,” Lex pulled at his chin, cracked his knuckles, (oh, so pleased with himself), “a few little secrets. A few little tidbits of information for you. If you can take it.”
“And...?”
“There is... there was... NO Kryptonite. Anywhere, at any time. Only the suggestion. The fear of it, penetrating your mind... all by yourself. You did it, Superman, weakened yourself with your own mind, your own fear. Then, of course, Jack draining you unexpectedly. He was the only one who had some the size of a walnut, but never had to use it. He just fucked you out. Over and over and over. Until you became more pliable, more able to be manipulated. No Kryptonite in the cock ring. No Kryptonite in the restraining cuffs. No Kryptonite in your nipple rings. The only Kryptonite... was in your mind. You, with your great strength could have freed yourself long ago—IF you had had the mind, the will to do so! Oh, the “imaginary” Kryptonite—what it was doing to you... while you shot load after load of your precious juices! That was all that was needed. The great Superman—destroyed from within. By his own body. His own mind.”
“NO! NOOOO! NOOOoooooohhhh!! ”
The stunned, defenseless Superman fell to his knees, his arms, his hands up, as if trying to block out Luthor’s words, to his face, over his ears. Oh, God, no, no, no!! It couldn’t be true!! BUT he knew it was. Every shred of it. It was his semen, and his semen only, the loss of it... which had sapped his strength! Nothing else!!
And his mind: believing to be true what was not true, had broken him down from within. Only now the voice in his head, the one that had droned on and on and on and on. He had lost all his bearings. He was Luthor’s. A Superman “used to be,” Superman never to be, was, could not be—Luthor owned him. His reason and senses crumbling. He had been vanquished. Could never be repaired. His terror was only overridden by a strange, defeated calmness. He was, after all, #0001. He had no thoughts of his own. He was an alien being, non-human. Had reached his point of termination. Good for nothing. No strength, no reproduction abilities, irreparable. His essence drained: who he was, whatever... exterminated from within! The blood in his semen—.
“Get to your feet, Sow-Tits. You have company.”
One of Luthor’s henchmen brought in four teenage boys. A motley, ragged crew, scrawny, unpleasant-looking, smelling of alcohol and unwashed gutter trash. They thought they were cool, but what the hell. One with pants to nearly his ankles, the others holes in their jeans, foul-sloganed tee-shirts... faces pinched, scraggly, trying-to-grow beards.
“Hey, boys. This is the one I was telling you about.”
Superman stood there like a statue. Crushed from within, yet a monolith of pure muscle.
“Holy shit, look at the knockers on that dude!”
“And that goddamned horse-cock!”
“Fuckin’ arms—!”
“You expect us to take on this muscle-head? Lex, you gotta be crazy! He’s too big!!”
They looked half-scared, alternately green and gray, and ready to bolt.
“Remember, $200 bucks apiece. Get him down. Beat the shit out of him. Anyway you like.”
“He’s too big, man, he’s too big! He’ll kill us.”
They were in shock. One would only see guys like this on the cover of bodybuilding magazines. Not one of them weighed 160 pounds, at 15 years old. Fist smart, and street tough as they were. They weren’t crazy.
Lex smirked. “You don’t understand, boys. He’s a pussy. A muscle fag. A true cocksucker, who likes dick up his ass. He’s no man, he’s a pervert. Show him what you think about that! Besides, those muscles are all for show. He’s a wimp.”
And Luthor walked up to the tall figure, and belted him as hard as he could in the gut.
Superman went “UHHHHHhhhhhhh!” grabbed his stomach, and bent forwards.
“Told you.” Lex turned to them, spread out his arm in invitation. “Tell you what, he hurts a single one of you, I’ll serve him his balls for dinner. He can’t. He’s a weak fuck. Teach him a lesson. Men don’t tolerate faggots, not real men. Especially not “pretty” ones!”
The bravest one went up, looked him over real careful, and then cut loose with a swift knee to the groin. The naked man “Ommmpphh-ed” again. The boy cracked his fist into Superman’s jaw. Superman’s head didn’t move. But the three others went at him all at once.
He didn’t even barely raise his arms in defense. Just took their pounding, over and over. The life, the care had gone out of him, anyway. What did it matter? But he did raise his arms, tried to ward off the relentless knuckles, fists, kicks, was finally knocked to his knees, almost unconscious.
Then, Luthor said, “Use these. See those huge muscles—his pecs, his shoulders, his neck, his traps, his arms. Break’em down. Turn them into jelly!”
And he handed each one of them the hard rubber truncheons he’d been saving, for just such a beating. Had planned it all along. He was having the Man of Steel reduced to a quivering jellyfish. All that mighty muscle into nothing. It gave him a hard-on, strangely enough... while he watched, and the Man of Steel began to scream as they tore his musculature apart, bashed him nearly senseless. No one could have survived. His power was reduced to near death, total helplessness. He moaned, he cried out, he was in pure agony... as they dismantled his wondrous physique, strand by strand, until he could no longer even remain on his knees. Blood was running from his nose, his mouth, his ears... the lacerations starting to form on his rich skin, the fibers being near pulverized. But they were admonished NOT to bash on his face.
Somehow he managed to get back almost onto his knees. The pummeling continued. Still trying to ward off the incessant murdering. His arms so weak, so weak... so weak. They finally fell to his sides, useless. Shoulders dead, unable to lift them. No power in them to help himself. Just took the beating, beating, beating, beating. His head also smashed out of thinking, out of reality.
“How long, man, how long?” the lead gang-kid asked. “How much more?”
Luthor sort of shrugged. “He’s looking pretty beat. Good job, guys. You gave this suck-fag a total workout. Enough, enough! Let the pussy go. Too heavy to move if he passes out.” He peeled off the hundreds from a pocket roll, handing two to each of them. They were wide-eyed and in wonder. “Wow, man, we beat that fag to a pulp. Big dick and all. Ain’t worth a shit to even piss on.”
The Man of Steel, finally in reprieve, was sagged in a bloody, broken mass on his knees, hardly upright, head bowed in shame and obvious defeat, unable to even raise his great arms anymore. The boys had bludgeoned them to mere appendages, that hung limply, not a shred of strength in them.
Then, Luthor said. “Super good job, guys.... But, one more thing. Since this faggot likes to get it in the ass, here’s a nice twelve-incher to work him with. Just like his own. Make him blow his load, you’ll each get an extra $300 bills. Wanna give it a try?”
“Holy shit, man! $300 bucks to ream him with a dildo? You got it.”
“There’s the Vaseline! Big clue—work those fag-tits of his, pull on them real good, he’ll probably pop a nut faster than you can say Monty Python . I need to see that. What he’s shooting, how much.” Lex stepped aside, they rushed to assault the victim, whose eyes were widened even further with disbelief. A horror unspeakable. Only there was nothing he could do to stop them.
En masse, they grappled him, held the mighty Man of Steel powerless in their grasp, reamed him cruelly with the dildo, ripped, pulled, clawed at his nipples, on the rings in them... he helplessly shot, no resistance, but it took more than ten minutes, and they weren’t liking it—though they did like the further torment they were inflicting on him, cursing him as they did it. Struggle as he might, there was no way he could throw them off. They had him down and he was helpless. He wailed, cried, moaned, whimpered, gasped. Couldn’t use his arms in any way. Was ruthlessly raped, each one taking their turns ramming him with the flexible-stiff dildo, jerking his nipples... and tired and worn as he was, he could not help but blast again whatever was left in him. His climax almost ripped him apart. Intense, but as if composed of needles. Every muscle in his body sounding-off furious, dangerous alarms.
It was mostly blood that erupted from his cock, when he came: rich and red, only tiny chunks of white nut, drowning in the male-mush of his destruction.
They left him panting, heaving on the floor. So thoroughly screwed, he thought he’d never walk again, hurt so bad inside... a raging fire in his nuts, his prostate, his cock tubes.
Lex Luthor seemed more than well pleased. So fine, to see his enemy down.
“Before you go...” after paying them again, Lex leaned in, and whispered something into the lead kid’s ears.
His head perked up, and said, “Okay, man, you got it.”
And on the way out, the kid paused, and kicked Superman, hard as he could right in his balls. The Man of Steel, a strangled scream erupting from his lips, almost stroked flat out, rolling over, face down, near-senseless across the floor. Could not even put his hands under him, hold them against the agony in his scrotum, had not the power to do so. Just lay in throbbing agony, wishing he were dead. And the kid kicked him twice more. He almost died, screaming.
The boys left, laughing. Having truly fucked the fag!
But Luthor was not quite done.
“Hey, uhh, Superman. Not quite so “super” anymore, right? Nahhh. Alien done, finished. All your seed gone. Can’t make anymore. Marsden says you’re shooting blood, now. I see, I can see.... Those balls now, like they’re finished! Probably ruptured.”
The broken man moaned, not barely comprehending, nor caring. In so much pain, he could barely breathe, surely not move.
Lex went up behind him, got down on the floor, over his shredded torso, grasped him by his rich mass of black hair, jerked his head high and back in a fierce grip.
“Well, since you’re balls are gone—no more seed. No more shooting for you. You won’t need that prostate, either. Though I understand, if someone bitches you, you can still come, climax. But what the hell. You sure won’t be shooting anything. No more, anyway!”
And still jerking back on the hapless Superman, this time by his neck, the choke-chain, he jammed a hard, eight inch electrified dildo in and up, into the quavering man’s ass, and turned it on. The knob of it was large and uncomfortable, painful and horrible. Superman screamed and screamed, as Luthor held it in firmly, let it fry Kal-El’s prostate into nothing... though broken in pieces, the Man of Steel bucked and writhed, his lifeless arms trying to paw, claw, fight, but it was useless. He passed out into a cold, dark oblivion. Another galaxy. His masculinity destroyed from within.
He would never cum again. Even if his balls did repair.
His testicles, his semen, his prostate, his body, his spirit... murdered.
His malehood terminated.
* * *
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