The Telemachus Story Archive

Superman - Wildcat Drillers
Part 1 - An Unearthly Surprise!
By Rick Henry
Email: strawbridge88@att.net



(An unknown/unidentified author’s story, enhanced/expanded from 7 to 30 pages, and embellished by Rick Henry; no insult nor plagiarism  intended. With apologies for any misuse of Spanish language involved. Adult, erotic material: m/m sex for mature readers only.)


WILDCAT DRILLERS: HITTING THE BIG GUSHER

Chapter One — An Unearthly Surprise!

Superman is following up on an investigative story Clark Kent had been first assigned to. His research had led him to discover an unusual cadre of Brazilian bodybuilders, who were rumored to have formed an illegal group of wildcat drillers. Ruthless drillers, who were exploiting rich finds in the heart of the protected Amazonian rainforest still off-limits to corporate development or other mining exploration. The thick rainforest canopy and virtually inaccessibly rugged interior had so far prevented the government from detecting their activities, despite help from U.S. satellite surveillance and numerous military teams patrolling the area.

Only when native peoples emerged from the dense wilderness, with tales of polluted streams and rivers, or frightening forest fires triggered by burn-offs from unusual eruptions of natural gas, did they know where the group had been drilling. But the thieves would swiftly siphon off the most accessible petroleum their small portable rigs could exploit, and be gone down river too quickly to be apprehended, selling off their ill-gotten barrels to the Black Market.

Superman had no trouble finding their site, simply tracking the man he had nailed, when disguised as reporter Clark Kent, and fingering their ringleader: a staggering, exotically handsome model/bodybuilder named Rico Delgado—nicknamed Rico “Estupendo” for his reputation as an equally known prodigious stud.

Clark had watched entranced when Rico and his crew of bodybuilders hit the beach in Rio. Rico was devilishly handsome, with the face of a rugged male model and the body of a Greek demi-god on steroids. His deeply tanned skin set off his flashing smile of perfect ivory teeth, and wide white eyes, with sharply set, piercing emerald pupils. He was said to be as wily, dangerous, and unrelenting in a fight as he was in bed. One look at the massive basket heavily sagging his tight, but ample beach thong, convinced Clark he would indeed be a handful in bed, if not three! Maybe more. Was he siliconed, or what? Not unusual in Rio. (Natural men like that rare on the planet, for sure.) Stunning: his also huge, smooth-cut chest, richly areolaed, the size of darkened silver dollars, nipples nubbed-out like small olives. Wide-capped shoulders, incredible arms, tucked waist, strongly-taut thighs. Yet shorter than himself by an easy four inches, a gaping eyeful no less. Clark drew an involuntary breath.

The remarkable Latin was more than a sculpted mass rivaling his own,except….

Stirred by something strange within him, Clark’s own impressive equipment responded, (unseen, mightier than most indeed, yet well-contained in his cup); but this man he deemed was equally, if not more his superior. And not shyly hidden, either! (As Kal-El, though from another planet by birth, modesty had been among his most striking virtues. With his gifts, he had sought to remain humble, thankful, never lording it over anyone. Except in cases of needed displays, or the forced exercising of his super-natural powers, for the benefit of the citizens of the earth.)

Unexpectantly, his alien nipples surged forth, filling to their sensitive, impossible two-plus inch length… and began to throb and ache thickly under his shirt. Quickening his blood—the mere thought !! Not to mention, the nearly nude sight of this muscular Brazilian’s near flawless physique. The idea of … his slacks beginning to bulge, pressuring forth his privacy guard, Clark had to quickly adjust his sunshades and turn away. He dared not think! Control, control, control—!! He was here to work, investigate, not daydream

Damn, had he ruined himself that much?! (Ever taking his own?)

Rico and his buddies oiled themselves up and wrestled in the sand, Rico taking on the entire team of six other powerfully built men, two by two. They fought a particularly brutal form of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu called Luta Livre—Rico grappling beneath the pile of writhing muscle until he had forced each man in turn to submit, dare to have a limb broken, or be choked unconscious.

Then they sparred, using the unique Brazilian martial art style called Capoeira. Rico moved like a cat, effortlessly dancing around his crowd of attackers and suddenly striking out, a cobra encircled by a pack of snarling mongooses. He whirled, kicked, did somersaults and cartwheels like a human pyrotechnics show. In less time than it took to hardly think, Clark gazed in continual, astonished admiration, while Rico demolished another half dozen strong, lithely adept, challenging opponents. He was magnificent, and super -skilled.

Clark didn’t have near the moxie, he knew. A bit troublesome to consider. After all, who he was —cloaked in a baggy shirt and non-descript jacket, even on a roasting hot day. Knowing his unquestionable strength was one thing, but a very lethally skilled opponent could well be quite another. Nothing he wanted to consider, or dwell on.

Then, with a hearty laugh and toss of his raven-black hair, this bravo-stud Rico flung his sweaty, sand-streaked muscular body into the sea, and strongly swimming out snatched a surfboard right from under an unwary surfer. And mounting it effortlessly, in a swift dolphin-like leap, rode it gracefully atop a towering coaster of a wave toward the open beach… now lined with a crowd of adoring women (as well as men). Among which included the very impressed Clark… Rico’s black thong noticeably anchoring his artistry on the board. Indrawn breaths in abundance. Clark swallowed hard.

Give it to Superman. He’ll know what to do.

* *

Utilizing his x-ray vision (and a previously planted GPS unit), the careful alien has silently tracked Rio and his crew as they endeavor to enter one of the hidden, more remote pockets of the Amazon jungle. Giving them plenty of time to set up camp, and begin their activities: stealing oil from government lands. When he felt he had enough evidence (film recorded) to pursue a conviction, he struck.

He swooped in and caught them in the act of razing a jungle clearing, his prey stripped once again to their minimal jock-slings, their light mahogany tanned bodies even darker, glistening and splotched with sweat and oil from a recent strike. Their near nudity a norm— more often than not being “free-for-all” mixed lovers as it were—randy with their shared muscular and unrestrained sexuality. Fuck! Cock was cock, and asses when offered. No strings, no commitment. In the jungle, who cares? No women, their own bodies would do.

Superman descended in a blur, catching them in surprise at mid-lunch. Rico gaped in astonishment (as did all): the wondrously built, striking-looking, internationally famed el Supremo Criatura in blue had arrived. Barely able to absorb what they are seeing, they bolt.

Just as Superman painlessly overpowers their best efforts to resist arrest, corralling them quickly, is about to tie up the crew, net and haul them in like a string of fish to the capital—something unexpected happens. Swift and mighty as he is, eighteen “slippery” men are hard to deal with. A few scattered. Intent on his mission—

But Rico Delgado has adeptly wrenched free of Superman’s grasp, and lunges towards an oil rig, one of three they were working—presses a lever, and sends the drill burrowing down to its maximum depth, triggering a full gusher that overwhelms the temporary seal earlier erected around the shaft’s opening. An enormous rush of thick, black crude erupts like a fire hydrant with a burst valve. He meant it only as a diversion, but luckily indeed, it blinds the closing-in after him Superman effectively, who is thoroughly showered by the deluge of sticky oil.

Instantly, the caped hero is struck with alarm. He feels as if he is suffocating, unable to breathe. His face, neck, hair, hands burning: a raging fire penetrating every pore of his exposed skin. He gasps. Struggles. Fighting to clear his eyes, his huge arms rising to ward off—what? A deep sickness clawing into his stomach, his lungs. His mind hazing. He staggers, stumbles forward, trying to free himself from the black horror enveloping him. Some of it now piercing his suit. He fails, falls again. Tries once more to rise. One arm reaching as if begging for help, his thoughts more than jumbled.

Groaning softly.

To Rico’s amazement, however, clearing his own vision, and as he attempts to join with the fleeing group of his men, they pause to look back. Shocked to see the soaked el Supremo, their attacker, in obvious distress. Practically unable to stand, floundering like a blind man.

Emboldened, the men return, surround and quickly, surprisingly, overpower the Man of Steel. Aware he is somehow debilitated, weakened, though still with the strength of a normal, greatly muscled man… against six or more, he has no chance. Grappling, grabbing onto him securely, arms and legs, they hold him down, subdued and helpless. Then drag him to the side bank of the shallow-depressed filling pool. The gusher gradually waning in intensity.

“No!NO!! ” the subdued hero writhes. “Take your—no, let me go !!” The fear slow-creeping into his demands, obvious. His alien mind noticeably shaken, uncomprehending. Even tries seeking to burn his captors away with his renowned heat-vision: a failed dud. Bereft. Stricken.

Rico ponders how this sudden reversal could possibly be. Noting the criatura’s increasing distress.

At last, he recalls how his chief engineer, Salvo, a veteran mining specialist, always carried a Geiger counter on their expeditions—always on the lookout for rich uranium deposits, as well as oil. But when they’d first done a test at this site, it was not at the surface level of ground they had detected radiation… but from a pocket deeper down, after the shaft had unleashed its hidden lower crude.

Rico had cursed his luck at the time, fearing the oil was contaminated by a deep vein of radioactive deposits. Deposits which were too deep for their less sophisticated portable equipment to exploit, but at levels which could also render the petroleum useless to sell. He had considered, though, still turning it over at bargain basement prices to his contacts in Buenos Aires, before they could allay any suspicions about its quality, or run conclusive tests on its purity.

But now they had the additional complication of Superman! Mierda!

Rico thus figured, the mysterious source of radiation must have come from a meteorite fragment which had imbedded itself deep into the earth near the petroleum deposit. A meteorite, composed partially, or perhaps entirely of Kryptonite? The known, most effective weapon against the fallen superhero. That had to be the answer! Their contained Superman, having been covered with the irradiated crude, must have been weakened enough by it for them to have overcome him so easily. Disorienting him, reducing his powers.

The legendary Superman el Supremo, now only as strong as a well-muscled man his size could be—but possibly fading towards a lesser and lesser strength—if the radiation were to continue its lethal work. If so, he was doomed. No threat to them anymore. Could now probably have his ass beaten as easy as any other. Why not?

Rico has the men get him onto his feet, winking rather slyly to them to slacken their grips. Test his theory. The besmeared, still wobbly hero realizing his chance… the feel of his skin cooling, mind clearing, muscles surging—he breaks free from their grip and tries to flee. He takes four huge steps forwards, thrusting them aside, launches himself into the air… and falls! His arms barely cushioning his fall, face down, his big chest into the ground. Startled. Shocked and embarrassed. Derided with guffaws, the men quickly re-snare him in scorching shame.

“Goin’ somewhere, Fairy Flyer?”

“Tinker Bell does better than that!”

Voices, rough hands disdainful, restraining him once more.

“Get rid of him,” Rico shrugs.

One of the stronger men, with a sickening garlic breath, grasps the startled hero in a choke hold from behind. “Break your fucking neck!” he hisses.

Valiantly, the superhero is not about to be further destroyed. He breaks the hold, rips loose from the man, but is tripped as he whirls, crumples off-balanced to one knee… another cleanly swinging a machete at his lowered head and back. Superman’s eyes went white wide—no arm could save him, the strike too swift!

A severe jolt, the blade hit—bent… and fractured.

“Fuck you! This!! ” another screams.

Trying to rise, still shook—a shotgun blast into his stomach. Instantly sick, he howls in pain, drops again to his knees. Wounded, but not harmed. Worse than stunned. His terror mounting. He had felt the blast; his brain giddy with light-headedness. He clutches his stomach, moaning.

They jerk him to his feet again, refastening their hands around him. Another sinister one tries to slip a knife into his ribs, his heart—he lurched. It also bent, broke. They were stumped. Wondering what to do. Frowning.

“Strip him!” Rico finally said. “I want to see what this muscle-boy has.” Assessing him, much his equal, old or young as he was. Twenty-eight, thirty-six? Adding, “Looks like he’s got more than a physique. Noticeable package, as well. Let’s see…?”

The prisoner glared. Gritted his teeth.

“Before we cover his naked ass with oil, hang him up to dry. That ought to rot his armor—!”

All the while resisting as best he could, he was roughly assaulted; his suit not that easy to rip. Gradually, they stretched, pulled, twisted, and cut it off. The magnificence of his build and body nearly unparalleled. Diamond-cut symmetry—completely nude and on display. He was, of course, humiliated, yet proudly aware of his assets: flared his lats, tightened his stomach… but dropped his chin, embarrassed, a pawn in their hands; his own unceremoniously held clasped and restrained behind him. All theirs.

Something none of them could have imagined. Much less himself.

Having never in his adult life, beyond college (and not nearly then developed, as he was now), been naked in the presence of any humans… he flushed with both pride and a deep embarrassment. Now, they would see. The Clark in him wilting shy as a sparrow; his Kryptonian heritage, however, swelling the curve of his proud-thrust pecs.

Rico was astonished, as most were. The incredible, honed cut of his body—Rico viewed, amazed. Easily as wondrous as his selfish, narcissistic own. Taller, a tad leaner, smaller-waisted. But, damn!! And oh, my God, his body, covered with gorgeously rich, manly dark hair!

“Tits on him!!” Rico exhaled. “Incredible! Like a fucking cow!”

Then seeing the heft of his maleness, a large ear of corn in length and thickness flaccid, yet equally impressed with the denuded “Hero of the World,” captively now theirs—he couldn’t help but “Rico-style” smirk.

“Yeah,nice! But never as hung as me. But close, really close. Hey, Man of Steel? Is it? Does it get hard? Or is it just a fagged out piece of loose alien meat, just good for decoration?” He laughed derisively. “Bet you never even use it, except at home, hey? Not really a match, are we? Only aguacate for balls.” [avocados] Proudly patting his own.

Which, while not the size of Rico’s, still the envy of every man there.

Rico, himself, having been boldly nude before them the whole time. His testicles, grapefruit-sized and a half—yes, partially packed with silicone, but still raucously fruitful. His cock a full eleven and a half inches erect; flaccid, not that much less. Thick, too. All natural . He correctly estimated the hero before him at only ten and a half? A shade not as thick? Gloriously impressive, but still less than his own touted superiority.

Kal turned beet red, if that were possible, beneath the muck still partially smeared over him. But did feel a measure of his strength returning, no longer cloaked so much with the strangling effect of the oil. He was gradually gauging how to make his move. Soon, soon, he must try again. Taking deeper breaths.

No, the captive’s baby-makers weren’t as large as his. (Almost no natural man’s were.) But the Latin found the inner knot between his thighs tightening, nonetheless. Controlling himself, not letting his demeanor waver. Nor allowing himself to be too appreciative of their despoiled enemy. His men were watching. His coup had to be more than complete.

Rico first thought was to simply dispatch the intruder while they had him at their mercy. But after several handguns had also been discharged at point blank range against his temples, all sharp instruments failed, and they couldn’t even seem to behead the bastard… Rico realized his invulnerability must still be largely intact. But he had felt pain!The bodybuilder was vainly trying to think of how to handle him. How do you kill a thing you can’t kill?

And regretfully, how beautiful he was, much like himself, (his machismo neither afraid to admit, or think it). A shame to exterminate him. Yet how? This man-like creature, more than a dangerous enemy, who could get them all incarcerated for long terms—if not extinguished. He must crush him completely.

For he, too, had been publicly humiliated by this do-gooder.

When first appearing, Rico had been seized as he attempted to escape… the blue-clad being unintentionally having hooked a few fingers inside the back of his genitally-laden trunks (rendering him in agonizing pain), and dragged him kicking, howling, thrashing, and fuming helpless as a child back to the drill site. He had thus been forced to wriggle and jerk himself free from the overstretched material, and run buck naked back to the oil rig to pull the switch. His heavy genitals still tender, on full lurid display—albeit most usually proud, but this time more like a scared adolescent. Shown to have been bested by another male. And a freak, at that!

He had to reclaim the game!

Form a plan. Almost recoiling at the thought. (God forbid, were someone to do the same to him! Yet it sparked the devil within to think it.) Without warning, he snatched a sharp Bowie knife from the side belt of one of his colleagues… casually approached the Man of Steel. He could tell the alien was appearing to stand a bit more lofty, as if being recharged with either sunlight or determination. Daring to resist again? We’ll see.

He drew close, brandishing the knife. Very close. Had to look up to catch his eyes. He smiled, then reached out and below, quickly—grasped Superman’s avocados in his hand. The hero’s mouth went slightly ajar. Rico clamped down, tightened, and began to squeeze. Incredibly hard.

Unrelenting, he stared deep into his victim’s azure, startled eyes. Kal’s own reflecting back the pain being imposed upon him. His brows furrowed, a groan escaped his lips. More than frightened, knowing instantly a chink in his vulnerability had been found! A cored, deep fear rose inside him, his mighty balls now feeling the viced grip of his enemy—and starting to quaver before him. His moments ago returning confidence, shredded. His guts churned. Rico was hurting him, terribly. Sweat formed on his forehead. Mouth twisted. He began to whimper. Then, to beg.

At first a whisper, then louder. “Please, no! Don’t, please—! Oh, no!! Spare—Rico!! Nuh,nuh,no-noooohhHHH!!!!”

Panicked. Quailing, he saw the knife. Was losing it. With his hips, he tried desperately to pull away. Rico lifted the weight of his sac, his balls higher and tighter from the base. Took the knife, and tried to sever them. Superman felt the sting, but his flesh held fast. Rico sawed and sawed, then in disgust, released his bruised testicles, and flung the knife aside.

“Damn! I know you don’t need those things. Nor really use them.Damn!! ” More than angry. Clenched his teeth. Punched a fast whopping fist into his captive’s abdomen. Hard!

The relinquished Superman almost fainted, slackened heavily between the arms of his imprisoners. They actually had to struggle to hold the mass of his weight up. Relief, and released fear surged through him. His person, his superhero’s machismo had been bridged, nearly shattered. Still their inescapable victim. To do with as they pleased. How long could he last?

It was then Salvo leaned in close to Rico’s ear, one eye still cast toward the subdued hero. His voice raspy, gravelly.

“If you keep him covered in oil, eventually—he won’t be able to breathe. Like a fish, maybe? His strength, his skin? Gradually weaker and weaker.” Pausing for effect, having Rico’s full attention. “And if he can’t have his belly, or his throat slit… from outside. Maybe, mi amigo, you have to get him from inside . Eh? Where he has no defense. Yes?

A broad fatherly grin, patting Rico, he backed off.

Rico nodded.

And with an amused smile, cupping his giant balls in his hands, he lifted them forwards towards the wary Man of Steel.

“For you, chiquillo. All yours.”

Superman re-alarmed. A sinking feeling sweeping over him.

Now was Rico’s chance to re-humiliate the superhero for good. In a way that even if he were to recover his super-powers and break free, he would never dare to disrupt their operations again. No, this was going to be a happening the “hero” would forever be too ashamed of, nor dare want to remember!

If he survives.

Rico pondering further… if he loses too much of his power, would he then expire? Drained of his superior strength-source fromwithin— unable to be recharged from the sun, oil all over his skin? Could he be fatally depleted to kingdom come? Worth a try. If his “outsides” are otherwise impervious. His insides must be more than fair game. Ha!!

The whole bunch of them, ignobly plowing the field?

He called for some heavy duty spring clamps. Ordered his men to again tighten, and hold him in place. Salvo nears to remind him, he’s been too long out of his oil-soaked clothes, he needs to be careful. This is too dangerous a game to dare play! El Supremo has not been named frivolously. Rico then whispers in his ear; Salvo perks up and takes off, pleased.

“We’ll just keep him greased as he is. Lubed and oiled,” he had grinned to his friend. “No help from the sun, either. He’s fucked!”

Superman, however, knowing something worse is up, decides he must make his move. His enormous arms and thighs have been outstretched. He is feeling more than a normal man’s strength beginning to surge from his cells, through his balls . With a burst of determination, he flexes himself free, the men falling off to either side of him. His lungs fill with a powerful breath, takes two and a half steps forwards—as if struck by lightning, he freezes, staggered—immobile. An incredible wash of thick, black crude has been cast onto and over him, across his naked back. Once more he is literally gasping for breath, the irradiated, toxic, scorching liquid seeping rapidly into his exposed pores, more fully than ever before, a stricken, panicked look on his face. He remains stock still. Then begins to heave dryly. Oh, no, no, no!!

He is irredeemably defeated.

His hands, his legs, once more restrained. Contained, enslaved. Nonetheless, someone wipes the front of him… his face, his torso clean. Laboring still to breathe more clearly, stomach in whirling knots. Brain scrambled.

“Hang onto him, now!” Rico is suddenly as close as his breath. The strange clips in his hands, he fastens them dually at once, onto the protruding thumb-huge nipples of the superhero’s chest. Superman screams, jolted beyond the mists of consciousness. Incredibly alert. Mind still in a spin. His cock fully erect to near explosion in less than ten seconds. Taking even deeper breaths. Stunned.

“Take them off, take them off—please! Take… them… aaww-aawoooffffff!! ” failing into a near swoon.

“I thought so,” Rico smirks.

Looking at him, the MOS’s horse penis in full surge, high angled and glorious, Rico’s own, swelling uncontrollably. He then surprisingly—to his men, especially—throws his arms around the alien’s neck, rising up to meet him, crushes their mouths together. Superman trying to mumble something, devoured by Rico’s mouth for long moments. Adjusting to the startled shock of it, his cock enflamed crazily, testicles surging within him: both withdrawing and lowering rapidly, up and down, up and down, and oh, god, his tits—with a fire beyond possible, in terrible surging pain, and ripped wonder… they begin to leak forth his mighty juices, like the pre-flow from his fantastic member. Rico’s and his own, now crushed hard between their bellies almost sternum to sternum. His brain going brainless. Then, Rico drops to his knees. Further astonishing them all.

And takes Superman’s cock in his mouth, his throat, and sucks him voraciously. No less than an accomplished master.

The Man of Steel is staggered. Moaning insanely. Being taken. Can barely remain standing. The first earthling to have ever sought the alien’s glory. In less than five minutes, the conquered alien begins a low, rising howl. His seed being robbed from him, cannot help himself. Rico knows the increasing swell too well… and backs off.

Superman powers his seed, erupting like a volcano. Spewing anyone nearby for six, eight feet. His sperm thick, richly roped and abundant. He cries aloud, spurt after spurt, his legs failing, and drops gasping in a mindless nirvana. Rico in awe. Insanely delighted.

A few more of those, El Supremo can be no more. Will die from within.

Kal continues to weep, “Take them off, take them off, take them off, take them…” And pales into unconsciousness.

Rico mercifully undoes the clips. Kicks at the alien’s limp body, disdainfully. “Fuck,” he cursed, “I didn’t even get to cum! Ahhhh… next time, next time. And he will know it! My puto will know it.”

The men cheer, shake hands, congratulate each other. They know Rico will win. He always does. El Grande is done.

* *

After careful thought, Rico has a new plan. Has the alien hosed off completely. He knows he’s already powered him down, having shot off enough sperm, over a month’s storage. Must be. Tapped his fucking source really well, plumbed the depths: an incredible gusher. No one could shoot that much continually. Or often. (Probably hardly ever “used,” maybe?)

The captive is brought into consciousness with the cold bath. Unbound, he struggles to his feet. Also knowing, even without the oil, he has been seriously depleted. A mouth like he’d never known, paralyzing, intoxicating him. Causing him to erupt like almost never before. Not even his own had ever brought him to such a height of expulsion. Perhaps it had been the clips, pressuring—tearing into his nipples. He shuddered. The thought , again, totally unnerving him.

“Gringo, we have a proposal. Before we take you out.”

What on earth? Take him “out!” How could they?

His mind reeling… knew now they could. Had already breached his fortress. His strength. His semen. His sexuality. His… hisbeing . He gulped. Interiorly quavered. He was literally the Man of Steel no more. Anyone who could rip his seed, his power from him—!

“As the godfather said,” Rico parroted, “I maka you an offer, you can’t ’a refuse. Capiche?”

Superman finally straightened. Aware the oil was no longer burning him, even his hair was clean. No queasiness in his stomach. He had a chance, now. Definitely?

“You ever fight a real man, man to man? Without those Kryptonian powers? Which you no longer have, at least for awhile. Man to man, muscle to muscle, cock to cock—eh, gringo?” Rico was enjoying this. He detected Superman wetting his lips, swallowing hard.

Oh, fuck—he had him!

“You want to live, we let you go, give you a chance. You never come back, forget who we are. You beat me in a fight—.” He let that sink in. “Otherwise, we kill you now.” Pausing for more news. “But, you lose… you are ours. Maybe kill you not so quick. Wish we had.”

Preposterous! Take him down? But he had seen Rico fight. Knew he was no match for him. Without his superior strength, even his regular manly strength, strength to strength, Rico would win. He was sure of it. He, Superman, was not skilled! Tough, pliable, capable, flexible, but not “super” skilled. Never had been. Always relied on his innate, genetic superiority. Which had now, not only from the radiation-shock to his system, but the abundance of his semen released from him, taken its toll. More than several weeks’ worth. (For he rarely indulged in taking himself, knowing it both strengthened and weakened him, simultaneously. But sometimes the pleasure was worth the brief reduction of his might, notable though it was. And no earthling had he ever known. Secretly: yes, had sucked himself, fucked himself. But ever so judiciously.)

If he said No , they might could finish him off with the oil. If he said Yes , it was his only chance! In essence, he had no choice ! To not fight was to die. To fight and lose was also to die. To win: with only a remote chance of the sun itself possibly re-strengthening him enough to do so… if he could make the battle last—for hours ?? Meaning… or to maybe escape… remain hidden in the jungle long enough to restore? Fly away. His only option: the only thought that came to his mind.

Rico’s patience was up. “You agree, mi puto? You win, you agree you also let us go. Your honor, your word.”

A lance in his gut, Superman nodded. “Agreed. Amigo .”

Why he added that, he didn’t know. Rico was not his friend, nor would be. (Only his remembered mouth more than arrowed a deeper something within him. And the beauty of the man, his awesome endowment, impossible to ignore—could almost beg for friendship, warmth. In another country, another world. Or because of his nature… appealing for Rico’s mercy, were he to fail?)

“‘Amigo,’ my cock!” Rico snorted. “Agreed.”

Superman reddened.

They did not shake hands.

In minutes, they went to a clearing yards from the pool. The men formed a wide encircling barrier edged also with varied pieces of equipment; barrels, cables. lumber, wood. They would be ringed in a rough, grassy area. Bordered as well by sparse jungle growth and trees. Superman scanned the area urgently, looking for even the most minimal way of escape. None seemed present. He had no intention to be womanish about it. But man to man, he no doubt would be defeated—though a few of the others he had no question about being able to overcome. He noted the ones he thought weakest, might break through between, use them against each other. Distractions of any sort could be a boon, a diversion… and he’d have to be more than swift about it.

The rules? Flesh to flesh. And anything they could get their hands on. Rock, wood, snake, dirt, steel, cables, rope, each other. No holds barred. They were allowed to wear ample but snug ball/cock slings, for protection only. So their genitals wouldn’t get in the way. But they could be punched, grabbed, kicked. Gouging of the eyes was the only thing forbidden.

Each saw it as a fight to the death. (Was meant to be, ultimately.)

A fired shot into the air was their signal. They initially clashed like two bulls, a ploy to gauge and test each other’s strengths, weaknesses—but not skills. They oddly seemed so muscularly, powerfully matched, Rico’s men wondered if this were a good idea after all; only they relied on Rico’s more than formidable other skills. This, to him, they figured, was only “playtime”… something to sap the superior alien’s wind power, before getting really tough; make him into an inevitable pussy, hounding him into submission little by little, just for the show. More and more wearing him down, humiliating the “invincible” son-of-a-bitch into a sniveling concha.

Hell, after all, he was fighting Superman. Whoever had, or could?

And win.

Knowing Superman… wouldn’t.

* *

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