The men who had delivered the box, and returned to pick it up, had no idea of what they were doing. They were just hired workers on a simple moving job. Just the way Luthor wanted it. The fewer who knew anything whatsoever, the better.
They delivered the crate to an industrial complex on the outskirts of Metropolis.
When it arrived, Luthor discreetly kept himself out of sight. His own men within the complex then moved the package to its proper place. Whereupon he appeared, all dapper and smiling. In one of his few public moments of affection, he put his arm around Dr. Slagschuster non-discreetly... walked him around the box, thoroughly satisfied.
“How long do you think?” he asked the doctor.
Marsden looked at him, through eyes beginning to get a bit imbibed with genuine feeling for the man. They’d sucked each other’s cocks more than often the past few months; he felt Luthor was on the verge of wanting to perhaps make it a more durable union.
“He’ll definitely be hazed for a good hour or so, from the time of the first confrontation. After that, not a clue; depends on how depleted his system is, the effect of the “Kryptonite,” a variety of factors us earthlings would not know.”
“Not sure, then.”
“At least an hour. He didn’t leave the rag on him, did he? Then, he might be dead!”
“No, he said he wouldn’t, didn’t.”
“Hope not—136 million dollars’ worth of equipment rendered useless, for sure.”
“Even so, not wasted. The funeral is inevitable: now, or later.”
“You’re a cad. Don’t you think he’s too beautiful to kill?”
“He may be. But beauty, if an enemy, is no longer beauty. But vermin.”
“I see your point. At least, we can have some fun go-rounds in the process.”
“Yes,” Luthor gloated. “Jack was round one. Delivery, round two. Package opened, round three.”
And Lex let go of the doctor, staring up and around him, looking at the great height, and the curved walls of a giant cylinder which was contained within one third of the immediate lab. There were a few private viewing rooms, with comfortable chairs banked off on varied sides of the reverse outer walls. The cylinder, itself, composed of atomic lucite-glass, was directly from NASA engineering. Able to withstand a ten kiloton explosion from a mile away, without melting or shattering. Its isolating tube rose forty feet tall, diameter twenty. It was situated at the left rear side of the lab. The main outer lab was surrounded with four well-placed sliding security panel entrances, available by hand-print, iris-print, or card key access only. Luthor’s personal air-lock entrance required all three, leading to his own inner sanctum. Not even Marsden was allowed there, unless taken by him.
Should anything unplanned happen, the protectiveness and confinement of whatever might be within the cylinder was more than assured. No false steps, nor moves. It could be made airtight in moments, flooded with liquid or gas, turned into a raging inferno to rival a miniature nuclear fission, or become the ordinary hypobaric chamber for which it was designed: a vacuum to test astronauts for space walking, or blow out their brains.
“So, we shall see.”
They left the main lab chamber, going into one of the smaller outer ones. Wine was ordered and served. Their eyes were glued to the naked crate, alone on a small dais in the center of the cylinder. Spotlighted vaguely. Luthor gave the doctor a mild toast. Other guests were already arriving. Greetings made.
“Jack should be here any moment. He has the key....”
* * *
The limousine not far behind, though an inconspicuous one, a simple Mercedes in stone gray, deposited Jack and his goodies in good time.
Handshakes were given all around. Jack, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the attention, the key in his hand, twirling on a small silver chain; sipping the finest wine, no less, among a stable of a select few notable men. There was a senator, two bank presidents, one CEO of staggering influence, Dr. Slagschuster, a genetics professor from Harvard (Colin Meirtz), a bio-physicist from Berne (Alfredo DeWrengle), and Lex Luthor. Jack was the pretty one.
Lex would not have had such a gathering had he not thought his game would be successful. A chagrined, red-face-after, was not on the agenda.
They drank leisurely, small talk, Slagschuster ever ready with his watch: eyes curiously glued to the wooden crate.
“Jack,” Luthor informed him, “we didn’t know how to break this to you, but you will be remaining with us for a short while. Until “things” settle in. I’m sure you understand.”
Not one to be pushed too forthrightly, “I assume there is an additional salary?”
“Fear not, fear not. I always reward hard work,” the boss assured.
“Is it negotiable?”
“No. But your balls are.... Clear enough?”
Jack swallowed, while a few of the other men snorted approvingly; and he quickly said, “Capiche,” with a rapid opening and closing of one clenched fist by his side. Not what he’d expected! He took a solitary stance close to the viewing window. When given the signal by Marsden, he was to enter the chamber, unlock the crate, lift the lid, and return. The box would thus be raised hydraulically at a slant, so all could view the contents thereof. Oh, yes... Jack was to remove the blindfold and the ball gag.
All eyes were riveted to the base of the chamber, even when speaking to each other. Marsden said, “I think—” but got no further. Three of them dropped their glasses to the floor, one pissed his pants, all of them rose to their feet. Jack almost choked.
The crate exploded in a shattering of wooden splinters, and Superman emerged like Caesar from the Rhine, sans face gear, head cocked back, feet spread, swirly cape amid the dust, one hand proudly on each hip, out-thrust chest bold and strong.
“You called?” he demanded, staring from his chamber into theirs. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”
Luthor, not one to let moments to his disadvantage get too far ahead, grabbed up the nearby mike, and cooed pleasantly: “Welcome, Superman! We heard you’d had a birthday recently. So sorry we forgot the cake.”
“As if this were about cake!” Clark was mad. His eyes blazed. Then he caught Jack gazing at him through the glass... a kicked puppy, and softened, his eyes diffusing with sadness.
“I’m sorry, they made me!” Jack tried to defend himself, knowing the voices between the chambers could be heard.
“That’s right, Superman. We played him, too. Just like you. After all, to catch a big fish, one only needs a disarmingly little hook.”
“And now that you have me?”
“Oh, just to talk. Work out a few difficulties. Teach you a few lessons. Make a few experiments—scramble your brain, milk you dry, turn you into ant-food. Nothing special.”
“You’re disgusting, Luthor. How you’ve evaded jail this long is beyond me.”
Luthor smiled. “Keep talking. There’s so little time left to be rational, Superman. Soon you won’t even have a mind.”
“Fat chance,” blasted the Man of Steel. “Your Kryptonite was pretty low grade.” He held up both hands. Though silver circlets still encased each wrist, the chain between them had been torn as if paper.
“Yes, that was a bit of a joke, I admit. Though the one around your cock isn’t, and is still pretty powerful.”
Superman frowned a moment. He couldn’t be digging at his crotch, pull down his pants, rip off his bulge cup, try to free himself of it. Though one big hand did slide down to rub along his package, his eyebrows knitting anxiously. Oh, damn! Did Jack really do that to him—the man he loved and trusted most in the whole universe?! No, it couldn’t be! Though he remembered, Jack had told him.
And determined it was true. His loins ached with a strange weakness. Could feel his pubic hair rustled into the silvery links holding him. He tightened his jaw.
“Jack...?” he asked plaintively, almost unconsciously. A faint sigh of not-wanting-to- believe-it despair.
The young man couldn’t look him in the eyes.
“I had to.”
Luthor, finished with this, more than ready. Hastening to continue.
“Hey, Superman. We’ve got you. No matter. It’s a done deal. You’re ours.”
“Like hell!” Kal’s jaw clenched, determined, and sought his escape-ward ascent. He bent his knees, launched himself to break through the crystal barrier at the top. Shocked to discover in immediate flight, neither his thrust, nor his movement upwards was but a third of his normal potency. He hit the top, and the surface did not yield to his strength. He pushed valiantly, hovering with less and less power, then let himself slip down further along the curved walls, pushing and pressing desperately at the glass. He wasn’t strong enough—this couldn’t be happening: it was only lucite-glass!! Why was his head so suddenly... woozy? Senses fizzing.
Luthor had by then already released the gas valves, chloroform entering into the tube from strategic ports... jetting furiously from all sides, top to bottom, pressing down.
Fear gripped Superman’s guts. Jack had downed him with a single hand on a single cloth. This was a far greater threat, altogether. He could suffocate! Huge shoulders, big arms straining... un-aiding him. His hands gnarled at the unyielding glass, fingernails striving for salvation. No, no, noooo!! Can’t be—.
A rising panic surged within him. Luther had succeeded. Captured him! No escape!!
It had previously entered Luthor’s mind to have the cylinder rigged with a spewing forth of something like silk-worm filaments from the gas jets. The most powerful creatures on earth, with incredible muscle, could never “break” through something which would merely cling to their skin, and eventually entomb them the more they struggled, becoming contained by their own strength. An idea he had entertained, even gave him a hard-on thinking about it: Superman trussed and bound helplessly, ensnared by his own might. But, while effective, it was too messy to clean up afterwards. And once the webbing were removed, then what?
Because he honest-to-God did not have any extra Kryptonite.
So he had to be fast. Or faster than his foe. Smarter. Much smarter.
He was grinning as he watched. The others fascinated. The oxygen in the shaft was being rapidly displaced by the gas. Not even Superman could thrive without oxygen. Jack was suddenly alarmed and anxious. He had really expected Superman to break free, eventually.
Kal tried valiantly to escape from side to side; the cylinder walls were unrelenting, the gas getting heavier and heavier. He flew more and more weakly, banging into the sides. His hands desperate for a grip, something to hold onto, push through or tear at. The more he struggled, his lungs could barely function, no oxygen for strength, for the effort. Mind hazing.
The men watched him... a fly in a bottle, searching frantically for release. A great show! His circling became slower and slower, his panic obvious from the terror on his face. His movements slackening, more and more sluggish, his efforts less resourceful, finally diminishing—sliding down limply near the side where Jack had been standing,... a forlorn gesture, his face nearly against the glass, his hands pawing, trying to reach through for help from the youth he loved more than his own soul, trying to communicate some silent something... his great muscled strength failing him. He collapsed in a heap along the base-edge of the chamber floor.
Lifeless and inert.
“Round three!” Luthor exclaimed, and poured himself and the open-mouthed Marsden a private toast. The other men regathered their composure, and also opted for more wine.
“You won’t let him die, you won’t!” Jack found himself at Luthor’s suit coat, gripping hard at the lapels. Surprised, Lex shook himself free. “I didn’t bring him here for that! Not the money, there’s not enough in the world to do that to him! You’ve got to let him breathe! Please, Lex, you said it was just to teach him a lesson!”
“Easy, easy, Jack. He’ll be okay.” Turning to Dr. Slagschuster, “How long, Doc?”
“Fifteen minutes, easy. No sweat.”
“See, Jack, it’s okay. Just need to keep him down awhile, show him who’s boss. Next time, he won’t be so quick to meddle with LUTHOR ENTERPRISES. ... Still with us, Jack? Easy, take it easy.”
The concerned young blond was not happy at all. This was going way overboard. He scanned the faces of the other men in the room. They seemed jubilant, unconcerned. They had their boy, and could do with him as they pleased. Simple as 1-2-3. At least, the way Lex Luthor had outlined it. This Jack was, yes, naturally distressed. He’d just had a mild relationship with the muscleman. No wonder he was feeling a little touchy. But, oh, let’s not forget... he was now one rich kid. He sure wouldn’t be jeopardizing all that dough for having had a pleasant fuck or two, would he? With the most famous cock on the planet? The kid was no dummy, for sure.
He was the one who’d fucked Superman. Brought him down. No one else could claim that distinction! A superhero in his own right, no less. Definitely to be talked about.
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