Clark Kent was a nice guy, no doubt about it. Maybe a little unsophisticated in the ways of the world, but he had an endearing quality that many liked... and who couldn’t still wonder at the massive physique under his clothes? He couldn’t be hidden. Laughed, that he did take some supervised steroids, because he’d always wanted to be big, to ward off the bullies at school. But no, he wasn’t going to flex for anybody, not even Jimmy or Lois. Jimmy had a guy-crush on him; so did Lois. But she was more forthright in her approach, only she couldn’t for the life of her understand such a strapping young fellow to be so homely and almost backwards when it came to women. She’d often thought of having him over, and outright seducing him. Twice she had attempted it, but after suggesting she change into something more comfortable, he was gone when she returned in a black negligee, her hair down, and fresh perfume sprayed on her wrists and neck. Frustrating, indeed. Until she gave up.
Perhaps he was just one of those men who never got past jacking off, and never would. And since he never seemed in pursuit of anyone, or anything except work, she let it slide. There was the sports editor who seemed to have enough balls for three men, maybe not in size, but in machismo... and he was far more interesting than a farm boy with muscles and nice glasses, even if he was only 2/3 Clark’s mass. She had started entertaining him recently, and had been very surprised. He obviously had a lot more in his pants he wanted to use than wishy-washy Clark, who doubtfully had a full six, and the sports guy was hitting near eight. She was happy, and so was he. Clark was thus merely a friend. But they both somehow had a connection to Superman that was hard to define. If either one were in trouble, Superman never failed to show up. Still, it was a mystery how he never seemed to appear when they were together. What would happen if the elevator they were riding in failed? Could Superman come to the rescue? Hopefully, that ordeal didn’t need to occur.
The other strange thing (to him) was he really didn’t have to work out. He did a minimum of exercises, some basic basics, but his physique was a natural gift—you know the old joke, some guys just fall out of bed that way. That was him. He was, however, very appreciative of it, and his powers. Mindboggling even to him at times. Taken for granted, and yet deeply treasured.
He knew very few men had his endowments, his musculature, or his abilities to pleasure themselves. He was grateful, and ever mindful, considerate of others... weaker men, weaker beings. What he really could not tolerate were those who took advantage of others, in essence enslaving them, to ideas, principles, or outright personal evils beyond what a human person should endure. Therefore, he was ever ready to the rescue, whether a physical danger, or a corporate entity wishing to control others for their own greed and purposes, provided he knew about it.
Yet, all in all, he was a deeply broken-hearted man. At pushing 36, he had never been in love, had never been with anyone sexually, and was certain he probably never would. Oh, to find the man who had the balls enough to come onto him, and make an attempt... sparked his libido something fierce. Someone who might care, and not just be in it for fun and games. He’d, you bet, had his share of secret voyeurism, having scouted the globe, and seen both men and women in mad, love-lust, or plain lust situations. Tried to be decent about it, sometimes “looking” longer than he maybe should have—only to have that anguish turned inwards against himself: what he craved to share with another, and could not... knowing the dangers of his alien make-up. It couldn’t be with just anybody. And having so long been his own best partner, he was beyond wanting to be intimate with a woman, but ached for a matching equal in build, genitals, and brains (or interests); though he had hardly seen anyone who could, anywhere on the planet.
(He’d actually had a crush on Batman long ago. Even had had the guts to confront him, taking a heart-stopping chance. Bruce had put a beautiful hand on his shoulder, drawn him in, kissed him, and sighed. “If it were otherwise, I’d have you in a flash. But I have Robin, and he has me. We’re very much in love, even with the age difference. I can’t live without him, don’t want to. That kid can fuck me senseless. I adore him.”
“I, I understand, Bruce. But had to let you know. It hurts so bad, aching for the right man. A long time. Too long. I can’t be with just anyone!”
“I know. Men with any character or integrity are almost impossible to find. Especially if they are good men, serious—built, hung, decent—don’t want to play around. Sadly, the way of the world.... One day, Clark—Kal. One day. Just hold tight, when you’re not looking. That’s usually how it happens.”
They kissed again.
“Robin is the luckiest man in the world,” Kal breathed. “And me, to have you as a friend. Wish we saw each other more.”
“Me, too. This crime-fighting business is endless. Only you go the further route: Superman to the rescue, everywhere! Damn. Exhausting, if you ask me.”
Kal grinned, Batman’s dark eyes locked to his. “Well, I have a few secrets.”
“Can you share?”
Superman reddened. “Not exactly. Only with the right guy, maybe. He could know. And then, we’d be sharing each other....”
“Gotcha, Kal. Gotcha. Take care—.”
... But that was over two years ago.)
Many had nice physiques or sexual organs, but once one was noted, and he did scan a few more than discreetly, and in depth, he just couldn’t seem to find anyone with a near heart and mind as close to his. Not that he wanted a self-copy. He had seen many lesser men who gave him a raging hard-on, wanting to hold, caress, be with them... whether in bed, or just maybe camping out in the wilds somewhere, sitting at home on the couch, or watching a movie: close and together. But alas, for him, it apparently was not to be. How many delivery men had he looked at, bodybuilders, office clerks, gymnasts, athletes, actors, doctors, plumbers? The list was endless. Attractive men were all over the earth. Just finding his was... well, it seemed it would never be. Is why he often cried, tears welling up, seeing himself naked: knowing how unusual and superb he was, and unable to give himself to another, or take from them the very same. It hurt. And oh, how deeply! Even a guy to share a pizza with.
* * *
Luthor found himself more and more drawn to Dr. Slagschuster, and found he enjoyed their mutual cock-sucking more than he cared to admit. They hardly did more than that—kiss, jerk each other off, suck cock. When he thought he was becoming a bit too addicted to the doctor’s penis, he began to back off. They had to work too closely together, and he was not about to allow emotions get involved to spoil the mix. Crap, what if the doctor was to get too much enamored with this Super-creature and his fantastic physique, and try to dissuade Luthor from destroying him, or he became too enamored with him, and might balk at any orders given? Lex decided he had to toe a finer line.
He was also rather pissed and disgusted at one of the last videos he’d seen of his Superfag—vowing, indeed, this creep needed to be exterminated—he actually was mentally depraved. Had to be. Anyone who’d do something like that! The one where he’d watched the Man of Steel stand in front of a full-length mirror, sucking on and jacking off his own huge nipples like little cocks... their milked, flowing juice rivering down his torso, and then how he’d ejaculated spontaneously, never touching himself, his spunk going all over the front of the mirror in a huge splurge. And how the superhero had then leaned in against the mirror and lapped up every drop of his own jizz, even going down on his knees to get that which had dribbled down further on the glass. Luthor wanted to throw up.
Any idiot who would do that had to be an alien nutcase. No matter how often he’d swallowed Marsden’s hot cream straight from the fount itself, this was entirely different. It made not a shred of sense at all. He was going to exterminate this narcissistic bastard. No more licking his own cum from his “lonely mirror,” anymore! He wouldn’t leave him anything left to shoot with.
But, as the time wore on, Lex was getting impatient. He was also fascinated at the numbers of the young “delivery” men whom he had rounded up, very discreetly. Not delivery men, exactly, but Superboy’s bane. The ones who might be capable of delivering him in a nice box, to Luthor’s very own doorstep as planned, bound and primed and helpless... ready to be slaughtered. After a few games. So he was expending every possible ghost of a chance on how to reel in his victim, finding enough possible Kryptonite to initially enforce the capture and do it, and the right young cock to make it all happen. Yep, someone well-hung and muscled, and goodlooking... talented and unprincipled, with no qualm about taking down the mightiest man on the planet, or aiding in his demise.
The price was right. For forty million dollars, who wouldn’t? But then, who could?
He was also having a beautiful “K.” cock ring made to slip on over his boy, rendering him helpless, once ensnared. A jewel Narcissus, himself, might find fascinating.
But once secured, he wouldn’t be flying anywhere. That was the idea.
The airless chamber/room was nearly complete. A stainless steel grinder was being procured and moved into position, (for the final coup). An array of hard rubber truncheons and whips assembled. A liquid, preservative cylinder was also being carefully sculpted, just big enough, and tight enough to contain his body. Lucite tubes also had to be made to encase his cock precisely, rigged for continuous suctioning; nipple tubes, too, since he seemed to have some weird hormonal flow from them that needed to be collected for experimentation. Plus, cryo-chambers, where his depleted semen could be stored in sufficient quantities and containers... endless sorts of other rigs and straps and boards configured. There seemed to be a circus sort of atmosphere about the whole thing. And Lex was the ringmaster. Marsden, his unofficial lion-tamer, orchestrator.
Superman alone would be the hapless clown.
* * *
Naturally, once selected, how would he explain to the executioner what his task was? Whom he was plotted to overcome? Luthor decided that while some specific details would be revealed, perhaps just one or two of the lesser films shown, he truly hesitated to disclose “who” the victim was, lest the captor be ultimately too terrified to even try to carry out the plan. So he merely said there was a special bodybuilder, whom he knew was right for the plucking (who was a real thorn in his side, and he wanted to teach him a macho-humbling lesson)—and the young man was basically left on his own as to how to accomplish it. His enticing assets were quite intriguing, enough to make any man drool in the right circumstances. Lex also let it slip that there might be some Kryptonite involved, which might have to be used... because it seemed somehow this man had an odd susceptibility/allergy to it, sort of like Superman, and it might be utilized to weaken him, if the man showed any resistance, or was not being easily overpowered, or protested in giving up his “virginity” to another male.
The challenge of the whole deal sparked the young man’s interest to no end. And for what he was going to get paid for simply taking down Mr. Macho Man, and making him his bitch for few days, was a staggering incredulity. A once in a lifetime opportunity, and to fuck a very attractive hunk in the process, was much too much to say no to—even were it Batman, himself, unmasked. (That, he’d like to try, for sure!! Imagine, to fuck the Batman, and have him begging for more. Made his head spin.)
And from the pictures he’d been shown, this new guy’s body would surely rival the Bat’s, or be but only a slightly better match than that. Made him drunk with the thought of the contest. Oh, yes, he may not have been around the world, but there were exactly two straight Mr. Olympias he had personally taken down, and one Mr. Universe. Easy, because they had cocks less than seven inches, and when he slid into the shower with them, after the perfect set-ups had been made... they were his. On their knees in less than three minutes, and later, easily bent over for further reaming. It had been fun as hell. One of them had never stopped calling him, until he told the guy to fuck off; he had his own woman, and was really more interested in pussy than some short-stubbed muscle boy. Didn’t sit well with the smaller cocked man, so he ceased trying, embarrassed that his arms couldn’t match his dick enough to please him.
Jack was his name. He was 28, blond, had a superb, symmetrical, muscular build, very much on the natural side, hardly had to work out, amazing wide pecs, gorgeous nipples, small waist, and an 81/2” hanger, which grew to a good ten when aroused. Thick, too. Nice balls. And goodly muscled arms hitting 17 inches. His height was 5’10”, weighed 180 lbs. He was relatively smooth skinned, had emerald green eyes, a killer smile. Happy, easy attitude. Had actually modeled all over the place, both dressed and nude. Done a few commercials. Appeared squeaky clean, was not an indiscriminate fuck-around. Knew well how to suck his own cock, too. And did so, often. Didn’t even mind telling Luthor, when more fully briefed on his assignment. So the other guy could do his own, as well! Just indicated he was more than ripe to fall... be taken like a stuttering virgin Hercules. Lots of those around. Though few of the built ones were greatly hung. You can’t tell me they don’t look in their mirrors every day, and want to: their own selves, or a match. Whether they were four inches or only seven. It happens. Is what he told Luthor. Who, thinking about his own cock and Marsden’s... reluctantly agreed.
Though there was a certain wistfulness to Jack’s make-up. He kind of did, deep inside, ache to find one true guy, settle down. Fuck and run was really no fun at all, once accomplished. Kind of an empty vacuum inside. How cool to wake up with the same guy, maybe more than a week’s running. Christmas was no fun alone, either. Nor July 4th , or cruising Provincetown. Built, he could find by the kajillions. Matching hung, maybe not quite so many. Most of them turned out to be pure jerks, enamored with their own cocks and their abilities, always after “who’s next?” He was getting more than tired of living this way. Maybe with the money, he could buy his own boy. Someone living in a repressed country, yearning for escape, devotion to the right man. He might could settle for a muscled Arab, or a light-skinned hungry kid from Mumbai? An idea.
It was set then, for Clark’s 36th birthday. His present of a lifetime: something to die for. Jack only knew his name was Clark. He had to be quick, thorough, and was given three days to effect/enjoy his prize before delivery. Plus 40 mil. to last his lifetime.
Looking much like a young Tab Hunter, only more muscled, and hung better than Hunter could have dreamed of in his day, Jack was one who couldn’t help but be noticed if found lounging by anyone’s pool. Who was the mystery man he was to engage? What was he like?
Still, he couldn’t help but wonder, anyone that expensive, couldn’t be just any hunk fucked to teach a lesson. Oh, well. Fewer questions asked, fewer complications. In and out, fuck and run. Bind and deliver. And yes, all in a box... Luther said.
(It had taken him nearly eight months to get this all together.)
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