The Wildcat drillers had their day, their revenge. Not for a day, nor a night. But for days more, nights more. Rico sometimes observing, but refrained from adding to the destruction. He’d had his fill. Though it haunted him. Every and anything they thought they could possibly do to a man, they did. With the one strict reservation, before truly finishing, he had to be given back to Rico for the final drill—perhaps the final gush (if there was anything left).
He was also to be deprived of food and nourishment. Only water. Kept in the shade, out of any life-stengthening sunlight. Though always outdoors. If a wild beast might have come, they were welcome to the feast. However, they oddly seemed to stay away, repulsed by something un-earthly.
Salvo, ever the wily one, had endorsed his plan, too. The El Superior—to reinforce he was not —was duly cuffed, wrists and ankles in leather, with strong steel rings embedded into each one. To control, abuse him better. Tie, or lead, hang or stretch him as they would. With the additional adjunct—since hell, no one wanted to be continuously over-slopped with the black, foul oil during their activities—an irradiated rag collar was firmly affixed to the creature’s throat, and changed at least three times a day with a newly doused “dose” of control. Keeping him effectively dociled and powerless. His strength ebbing further and further, almost too quickly, towards a more normal big man’s, who had never touched a weight, nor developed much muscle to speak of. The expiration process of the alien in easily noted decline, more and more each day.
And because of the cuffs, a truly enlightened idea, on only the second afternoon (before he became too weak), they had gotten him onto his knees, bent forwards, slipped a wooden bit, rag-tied halter into his mouth, fastened his wrists to his ankles behind him, shoved a claw hammer’s shaft up his ass, topped with a sort of plume for a tail, and ridden him voraciously around the clearing, one by one… their own precious pony, thoroughly tamed. They’d had a lot of fun. Big muscle, a toyed over fag—bitched continually, forced to suck cock like a maniac.
Yet unwittingly, and unbeknownst to them, the ever oil-soaked rag around his neck had further hastened Superman’s demise. The wicked cloth greatly affected the blood flow to his brain, and the penetrating liquid seeping into his pores at the base of his skull, the crest of his spine… effectively began to create within him a creeping paralysis throughout all of his extremities. Hazing his mind, and lessening his ability to be either physically active or reactive. At this rate, they didn’t think he could last too much longer. Already bruises and scratches beginning to show, cuts… with blood coming from them.
But Rico forbade them ever from trying to slit his throat now, or dismember him. He, himself, would do the honors. Had to keep his “agreement.” Si?
Instead, they spent the rest of the week, ingeniously as possible. Arm-fucked him to their elbows; bound and stretched his super cock to unimaginable lengths, and twists; tortured his still impressive balls with heavier and heavier weights, to see how much it would take to curtail his ability to cum. Pierced his more and more enlarged, ever sore and swollen man-teats from their abuse, with things similar to porcupine quills… hooting at the still proficient flow of his breast-male hormones, his clear-milk down and over his haired chest like pre-cum. While yes, he did scream on most occasions when they were doing that, or fisting him. But even that subsided….
Rico had also forbade them from shaving him completely bald, no hair anywhere—like they’d wanted. His own smooth, powerful body in deep envy at the hirsute beauty of what Superman had had to display, and decided to let him keep. (Actually wanted, secretly yearned to feel his crisp, rich hair against him, their bellies and pecs… when he would fuck him one last time.)
They’d also sometimes collected his still, while profusive cum in cups, laced it with kerosene, and made him drink it. Wondering if they could poison him from inside. Or light his breath with a match…. Though his eyes by five days had gone funny. Vacant. No one home. Had no doubt fractured his brain beyond functioning.
Thus in short time, about six days, even the horniest and hottest and most determined of the muscle-men grew tired and bored, their robust bodies not finding much fun in a non-compliant, nor even faintly resistant sack of failing muscle and bones… or a bitch-fucked muscle male, whose cries had diminished from shrieks and wild protests to a faded, quiet compliance, an acquiescent, zombie-like state of existence. No longer enjoying a shred of it, ready to drown him themselves. Tired of his shit. Poor, almost empty spurts of jizz, now too often mixed with blood. Eyes beyond red-shot, slack jawed, drooling, vacant-stared. Could no longer walk. Maybe castrate him? Make him eat his own…. (Not allowed to do that.)
Time to give him to the boss.
* *
Six of them carried, delivered his dead mass to the temporary porch of Rico’s shack. Dropped him like a barrel of useless crude for disposal, a scarred, dying lump of pummeled muscle and floppy bones. Not noticeably breathing. A mess.
The men depart.
Now, it is Rico’s turn to once more claim the defeated superhero. To conquer and annihilate had been Rico’s primary goal; but just causing the once superior, oh, so mighty one to submit, over and over, had clearly given him more satisfaction than outright killing him. Only now it doesn’t. He is oddly sad for the MOS’s inevitable fate. Has to be done. Feels the time has come. He must finish the bastard, or let him go.
But with a different strategy. After some introspection, he decides to see what can be done. Uncharacteristically, and away from the eyes of his men, he begins to tend to the broken alien, who is clearly already next to extinction. Undoes the oil-collar from his neck; washes him completely from all soil and grime. Removes the long, spiny thorns from his nipples. Even applies antiseptic to the open wounds he sees. Can’t help but appreciate the thing’s incredible structure, though for sure but a shadow of what he’d been as first seen: awing them all. And when laving over Superman’s still hairy chest, wondrous pecs, with those huge jutting, though now sagged nipples, he notes they seem to swell and extend when touched, and his super cock begins to fill; but the creature barely moans, sighs deeply, remains unconscious.
To further assure his dominance, however, once cleaned, he has him fitted with a sleeveless, oil-soaked but dry, leather vest. Even fits him with one of his own cock slings. But keeps his hands bound behind him, body out of sunlight. No chance dared be taken that the once great superhero could be re-charged, resurrected, to even a miniscule modicum of strength to have to deal with. He wasn’t a fool… Superman’s undoubted rage at what had transpired would be no less than a nuclear holocaust upon all of them! Though his brain seemed to be too fried to think it.
His wrists and ankles still cuffed as it were. The silvery, steel rings.
With care, he had him fed, watered. Watched and waited. On the third day, Superman opened his eyes more than fully. But lodged behind his dulled, but beautiful still deep blues was a strange, haunted look. Dociled to almost nothingness. Truly a cowed demeanor. Rico began speaking to him in soothing tones. For two days he spoke quietly, reassuringly. But that was rather stupid, if he was going to kill him. Trying to elicit some response, however vague. Figure out what had made this thing from another universe tick, or even function. A man who could almost have been his twin, though taller, quite hairy chested, certainly built and hung… but too much of a sparkly “gooder,” to be of much use in the world. Except for the Salvation Army.
He also considered fucking him again would not be much fun, either. If unresponsive. Like a drunken whore who might have passed out, and didn’t know his cock from a snail’s. Not an exciting prospect. (Though he ached to suck his nipples….)
“… mated me, mated me….” Pounded in his head like a broken record. Something he had to blot out. Damn, no time for girly shit. He had fought the thing, and won. Pussied him down like a common prostitute. And all for free. No chance of that reoccurring. No way.
Finally, the fifth day, something winked on. After being explained to him, where he was, bits of it were coming back. (Of course, the base of his brain no longer inundated with the irradiated sludge, or contaminated blood leeching up through his carotids into his gray.)
Superman spoke softly, slowly. Said only his real name was Kal-El. From Krypton. Had been sent, escaped from a dying planet. Landed in a field on a farm, was adopted and raised by a barren couple. His earthly name was Clark Kent. Had gone to college. Was a reporter in Metropolis. Couldn’t remember the editor’s name, thought he was a good guy. Had a friend, Jimmy, some gal he liked… but not intimately. Had to keep secrets. So many secrets. No one. No; no one ever. Intimately. Seemed confused. Had to take a nap. Wondered if this person was going to keep him a prisoner, or let him go? Why was he here? Who knew him, really?
The next day he remembered. And became frightened. No, no Superman, but at last awakening to who he had been. Was. Now depowered, not too strong. Noted the gorgeous mass of Rico’s muscular body; a near former mirror of his own. How could this be? Why did this man want to rule him, keep him here? On the beach, on the beach . Now, he remembered. Rico was his enemy. Owned him. He was his. Rico had overpowered him. Was going to kill him….
Haltingly, and not like the person he had been, though remnants crept through, with a final ragged plea, once he realized things, things, things he did not want to think of, remember —he was suddenly urgent, hoped to persuade his master…. He promises he will not seek retribution; forgive. Release him? His mission in life is to help others, harm no one, really. Why did they feel they must destroy him, who only ever sought to do good? Were they not breaking the law, was he not acting justly? It was his calling, his purpose. To save whomever he could, assist—make things right! He had never willingly harmed anyone, not even criminals, murderers. Had left that to the police, the courts, the justice systems. He ran out of words. He knew now his very breath and existence was in this person’s hands. (As well, as something more… he dare not think about.) He lowers his head. Realizes his doom is at hand. Time is up.
Rico knows it, too.
He’s already had the blocks brought up. The two hundred pounders, already rigged, one for each leg. If they couldn’t dismember him, though maybe they could now—how best but to immerse the body in the pool? No traces that he had ever been. Or even was, period. Would rot, become part of the muck, itself. Who would ever think to look there… if anyone came looking. No evidence of foul play. After all, who could have done in Superman?! What a laugh!!
Probably wouldn’t even know he’d been there! The costume, long ago drenched in acid.
Rico, mulling it over: the perfect crime. The world freed of Super-Star vermin, too. Just vanished into thin air. Maybe gone home? They’d be wondering for centuries.
“Well, have to get on with it,” Rico said. “Time’s up. Need to get back to civilization, route the crude.”
With a light leash, he encircles the alien’s neck, leads him out. The silver rings, jangle. Kal knows he has lost. Follows helplessly. Really, no power in him to resist, can hardly think.
Is this what men feel like on the way to the guillotine? He couldn’t help but wonder. History a strange thing, a strange roll of the dice. Fate , what is it? We must all meet. Awake or asleep, eyes open or closed. Dying sick in a bed, laughing before the other car hits….
Ahh, but the sun. Feels like light and life to his skin. But not enough, no. Might take a day or two at the least, full on, and completely nude at that. He wouldn’t be given that. Too late.
Rico leads him to the smaller lagoon, one with fresh water; but with still bubbling pools of crude nearby. He hails one or two of his crew as they pass. Waves them off. Gives them a smile. They raise their chins, knowingly shrug, acknowledging each other. But the lagoon is set further from their main work. They watch the two powerfully, well-muscled and handsome men disappear into the jungle. One, though, obviously kowtowed by the other, who follows meekly. One the master, the other to be entombed.
“Knows what he’s doin’, for sure” one smirks to the other. “Guess he wants his last fuck private. Least he got him walking.” And sniggers.
“Can’t wait to hear the bitch scream, again.”
“Yeah, Rico’s cock’s better than a forearm, they say.”
“Poor… little puto….”
“Supered- down. And out!!”
They laugh. But a thundering tremor grips their attention. A gusher. Another fucking gusher! Diablo—they’ve hit it again!! They haste to get their capping equipment ready. Got to be quick. They have to be down river in three days.
Rico bites his lip, leading his victim on. The captive is more than a problem. He can’t let him go. Has to snuff him. What would be the easiest, least painful way? A blood choke?
Fuck, just drown him. Pretty quick. Too pussied out to give much resistance. Mightily muscled though he is: a wimp. Once “out,” then anchor his ankles to the blocks. Slip him in. Even if he comes to again, he’s gone. In minutes, almost. The black oil his new home. Forever.
Sounds like a plan.
“We’re going for a swim,” Rico says. Edging the watery lagoon.
Pausing at the rim. And no question, throws a glance to the large blocks already rigged and waiting, only needing for the ropes to be fastened, tied. Ready, by the other pool of dark liquid. The pool of death. Kal knows for certain, now.
But before he leads him in, the leash still at his neck, Rico undoes the binding of his hands from behind him. Has him raise his arms, to slip off the leather, petrol-soaked vest. It hits the hero like a sudden breath of fresh air, the foul jacket off of his skin. Grateful. Rico removes his own cock sling, and that of Superman’s. They are very close. Superman swallows.
Can almost hear the bubbling of the nearby oil pit.
There is, of course, no trace of shame between them. Rico sees the alien’s cock begin to unconsciously thicken, lengthen. His own blood surges, too. With both their erections seemingly headed towards an unreasonable edge of bursting… with great control, Rico leads him down into the water. Soon to the depth of their testicles. Which due to the water’s coolness, seems to quench their members’ stubbornness.
Rico wants the alien free of all encumbrances. To make it all his . His power, his might, this final conquest: enforcing Superman’s helplessness into his brain. His total defeat. Yet still free to fight, resist.
He nods to Superman, “Kneel.”
The alien sinks to his knees, his face just above Rico’s waist, near his sternum. Has to look up, he the taller one, now the lesser…. No doubt. Rico’s hands are placed firmly on his shoulders. He feels the slight, but more and more thrust pressuring down on them. Beginning to force Kal lower and lower into the water.
He knows it is done. Accepts. His rule as Superman is over. Weak as a child, has no way to escape, save himself. Has given himself over to the one above him.
Their eyes lock, Kal gives him a ragged, plaintive look. Rico pressuring him down more and more.
Just dunk him, dunk him, hold him down. It’s over in a flash. He isn’t even struggling, though he will as the water is filling his air passages. Only natural. Get a grip, harder, more forceful. Do it. Dunk him, hold him down. Won’t take long.
The water at his neck now, his torso being bent, Kal looks up, still not resisting. It’s useless, he knows. Has to speak. Before the inevitable plunge, the end of his breath.
“… When, when you were in me so deep—I want you to know. You gave me, the greatest joy… I’ve ever on earth known. Even so. What you must do. I, I… understand.”
Eyes connecting: dark emerald greens into rich azure blues.
With an unalterable, piercing cry, Rico falls forwards. “Dios mio, dios mio…!” his thick hands suddenly slipping down under the water, beneath, and up and under Superman’s arms. Lifts, raises him up, crushes him against him.
Softly, “Dios mio. Dios mio.” Kissing him fervently, over and over. “Kal, Kal… Kal! No, no, no. Yes, yes—yes!! I set you free.”
Superman’s head falling, quailing silently against Rico’s neck, face, shoulders. Gripping onto him like a life preserver. Crushing back. Holding him, his magnificent body against him. Begins to well up… cry quiet tears of anguish, need, relief. Feeling—.
Rico whispers. “But, I need again… to suck your cock. Your essence, drink from you. So much, so much.” Begins to shepherd him urgently towards the shore, arms and hands linked. Both of their cocks growing bold, on the verge of instant rapture.
“Instead,” Kal murmurs, “… no; yes , both of us. At the same time. And then,” not sure how to say it, “Rico, I, I want you—take my nipples, my milk. While you fuck me. Fuck me, please! ”
Their mouths, arms, bodies adhering, they fall into the grass, in incredible heat. Made love like maniacs… yet so sweet and tenderly, slow, and urgent, easy and rough. For hours. Savoring the hardnesses of each other, over and over. Their juices. Their breaths. Fucking each other three times each. Rico shocked, by the reversal he allows: Superman’s cock sending him to a heaven he’s never experienced. Their loads never diminished, nor their desire.
They slept naked under the stars, enwrapped in each other’s arms.
By the next afternoon, he was strong enough. Even after making love endlessly. Rico’s male seed renewing his own, as well as the sun. His, powering into Rico’s, amazing the Brazilian, as well. Felt he could move mountains. For the fun of it, they arm wrestled. Superman beat him simple as if Rico’s straining, cannonball biceps were straws. Actually Rico was pleased.
Himself, at last defeated. Imagine that!
Finally the superhero had to fly him back to his shelter. Knew they had to say goodbye. Rico and he having easily rolled the stone blocks into the murky crude pool—at least temporarily, his crew would figure “the job” had been done…. No doubt about it, their boss was glowing with a strange new energy. Must have been a good one. Probably drilled him really deep, while he’d held the fagged, wimp-alien under…. Is what they would have done. Watching him struggle, gasping, bucking for breath. Power robbed from him, semen spurting uselessly…. There was still oil to move, they had to beat it out of there.
They stood closely face to face. Kissed, and parted. Their final handshake, a tender encompassing grip on each of their cocks. A coy wink. Gone in an instant.
* *
Much later in Buenos Aires, Rico is counting his cash, re-sorting his receipts—is swept with an overwhelming sadness. His big hands hoop down, treasuring over the more than hefty mound between his thighs, ruminating over the events of the past few months. Ever in amazement. Recalling how “he” had truly, inadvertently trapped, drilled, and tapped… the most impossible “Big Gusher” in the universe, for all he was worth. Had beaten him, conquered him, and let him go. A feat no other earthling had been able to do.
Both of them, having been shocked to their cores, to have hit such rich, pure gold; yet still, as elusive as the space between planets. Their wells ever filled to bursting. Hoping it would never end. But now, there was this always, eternal waiting, waiting … in between, until they could be joined. He wondered if he could stand it. Much longer. No, not here. Continents away.
They had made their agreements. Superman would ignore whatever Rico and his cohorts did in the oil fields. And he would come to Rico, at least once a month, or oftener, if he could… and allow the Brazilian to fuck him senseless. No questions, no demands. Regardless, if he were robbing banks, or stealing diamonds in Cape Town. The Man of Steel accepted his desire to be fully in submission to him, just to be with him. And if Rico wanted him, too, the same way… it forever pleased him even more, than he dared ask or hope.
Only Rico had boldly said, “As I took you—allowed you, also. It can’t be otherwise. Never. We are sealed.”
But the spaces between them, he no longer wished to deal with.
No, damnit, he was moving to Florida. They could be closer. Meet more often. He would go back into modeling, hone his physique, trim off a little mass, settle down. Screw this jungle-oil business, and fraternizing with freak-minded criminals always out for a buck, or a cheap useless fuck. He was done with that. Took a deep breath. Could barely keep from gasping aloud to remember those olive-firm, alien-rich nipples in his mouth; the broad, sweet mushroomed glans, a rivering fount of pure pre-cum… bursting huge globs of white, deep into his throat, his stomach, his inner being… while beneath him, the mighty one trembled, moaning, reduced to a quavering, eager jelly… receiving his male strong sword. And, in turn, later being impaled by him, too. Taking the breath out of his lungs. Dear God, did that alien know how to fuck a man. So strong, so sweetly. A joy and wonder so great, he could barely stand to think of it. Had never known being topped by any man, either. Never desired it, so much as he did with Kal. Thought he was going to erupt right now, thinking about it. Oh, damn, to be near him. Near him. Near him.
And, oh, how easily he could have killed him. So glad he did not!! (Reinforcing the thought of his once simple mastery over the greatest being in the universe: the El Supremo, El Gran, the invincible Superman, nearly drowned like an unwanted, powerless puppy. In his hands.) Dios mio! what they would have missed had he so wickedly done—when his mind had been more animal, less human. Had now been changed by him into a more caring, considerate, compassionate man. Loving. Aching to again know those Herculean arms: their man to man smells, the taste of each other’s seeds, their seeding….
Even to kiss the sonofabitch. Feel him, savor, drink from, be drained by him—suck, fuck, hold. Glorious hell!! Better than all the money in the world, or any possible pussy! This, a far, far better way to live than he’d ever dreamed. He, and the Man of Steel—super built, super hung—and crazy-mad, exclusive, eager lovers. Cumming and cumming and cumming: into and with, for and over each other. Always wanting more, more, more. Santa Maria , that stud was a gusher. Could drown them both, if they weren’t careful. Really….
What a way to go!
What a way to live!!
* *
Yes, and it was every day, he remembered.
Every night, when alone.
He thought he had died.
He thought he had died.
He thought he had died.
Did.
At long last. No question.
Rico, Rico, Rico, Rico….
The End.
by Rick Henry, strawbridge88@att.net.
(With grateful thanks to the original author who laid out the
basic groundwork of the story.)
Author of the soon to be published novel:
CHRONICLES OF THE MIGHTY AND THE FALLEN,
an m/m erotic-romantic fantasy, with a GOT ambiance;
under the name of Richard McHenry.