Part Three (a): Securing the Prize.
He had added the cup to his signature suit in his early twenties because of all the lewd and shocked looks he’d increasingly received whenever he made speeches, appeared publicly, or attended community functions. It would certainly not do for a hero of his caliber to display himself so outrageously endowed, even if his uniform seemed to note every curve and cut of his wondrous physique. Modesty and decorum soon became primary concerns so as not alarm any of the public he was supposed to be helping, nor ever blatantly hint at the darkness and evil so often presented by those of a contrary nature. It was one thing to be seen as an other-worldly paragon of muscular strength and power, but another to do so without alarming traces of an untoward presentation of excessive male sexuality for all to see. Even his chest had to be also duly contained, nipples larger than thumbs would have caused more than a stir if revealed. Thus, they required being compressed against his torso with a formidable, flexible-like covering to prevent their notice. Although the mounds of them could still be considered noteworthy, but not obscene.
But after he was twenty, the older Superman got, the strangely bigger his “assets” seemed to become—part of his Kryptonian heritage. Whereas he had become abundantly large when younger as a course of normal maturity for Kryptonians, apparently in some respects males continued to increase as they aged. Particularly in their mammaries and genitalia: a true oddity. But he did have to take care they were protected nonetheless, from gaping eyes and unwelcome advances. From the age of eighteen an inch more increase in each of his appendages was upon him before he knew it, almost. Then slowed to a stop by the time he was twenty-two. Jimmy, of course, had reaped the bounty of such, since they had entangled in his early thirties. But unexpectedly after, as he matured more, there was again another surge of increase. Thus, from then to the present, he had gradually gained nearly another two inches in each of his wonderments undreamed of. Intoxicating indeed, but also keeping him ever more on guard than before. It seems the more he had, the more supercharged they became… and were evermore in constant need of being “satisfied.” As well, being ever alone, he could not help but be far more astute and endlessly craving to assuage his inherent needs, seemingly far more demanding than when he was younger. Although he did note there was one great boon to all this, his youthfulness seemed to abound, and remain nearly unchecked.
Now in his mid-fifties, Superman still had the looks of just being barely over thirty. His previously overly large penis has grown to fourteen and a half inches by nine inches around when erect; his testicles, a paired set slightly larger than baseballs, impressively oblong-shaped and weighted no less; and his pectoral projections almost doubled beyond their former thumb’s length and thickness. His pecs, too, had both thickened and widened drastically, with a distinct rounded feminine cast to them… to the sides and the lower under-curves: jouncing quite heavily and markedly no matter which way he moved... constantly arousing him. As well as his genitals. Keeping him on a tight-rope’s edge of endless sexual stimulation. Which was as much bothersome as it was with an ever undercurrent of frustrated self-exhilaration: with the necessary care to keep himself in restraint.
He knew he was almost freakish to look at naked, but was ever ego-enraptured with every quality quarter-inch of his blessings—no less continually gazed upon in his mirror, and would have traded them for nothing. Insatiably intoxicated by the sight as well as the use of them three or more times a day. Whether at home alone, in a deserted area, or secretly sometimes at work, if the urges were too strong. (And seemingly had become so more and more as he aged.) Indeed, also overwrought with the endless desire to find, be with a similarly matching partner [who was equally “built,” gloriously hung—or if near so, to instantly discover they were sadly of no character whatsoever, and certainly never as well-chested]—whom he could not find, no matter where he looked; Batman the closest possibility. But who had Robin, and was also virilely bisexual.) Thus, he’d had to make further adjustments to his costume, requiring the molding of a more substantial genital cup and breast guards, appropriately designed to contain his increased abundances. Proud still, yet righteously so—never given to indiscriminate play with others in any way at any time; ever self-contained, and clandestinely still recycling his potencies for his own indulgence and self-powering benefits (as had always proven necessary). Irrevocably then, utterly addicted to himself—a prisoner of his own narcissism.
Yet that which had all his life given him his greatest joy and stupendous might... at Luthor’s hands, now seemed to be the very approaching instruments of his possible murder. He was caught. Downed. And disarmed. Depowered on the floor at Luthor’s feet, his options fewer than few facing him. Mind-stunned, barely able to think. His invincibility breached, the fortified walls of his castle crumbling. Could hardly move, breathe. The pain in his testicles horrifically raging.
“Did you really think I was going to let you off that easy, Superman? Once snared? How foolish that would be—as if I were an idiot!” Lex’s voice honed in like a foreboding beacon through his fog. “And you the bigger one, to believe it!” Forcing the wing-clipped alien back to his senses and into the reality of his containment in the lead-lined lair. “Aww, gee. Your days... appear to be drawing to a close!”
Distress lancing into him, the possibilities, the actuality of what had been happening. His heart in his throat, hands still at his scrotum. Panic rising. Trying to straighten. Move. Mind working relentlessly. If, without the threat of the Kryptonite Lex possessed, near as it still was, he might have a chance! But how to make that come true?
Then into his intercom: “Conner!” Lex called. “Max, too!”
Two grumbling hulks entered rather quickly. Superman had effectively tangled with them but few minutes ago. Conner, he knew, already known as a formidable MMA wrestler, was a large, bald Irishman, with a nose that looked like it had been broken more times than it had been reset. Not ugly, but neither unpleasant looking, even with his cauliflower ears; bulkily muscular and imposing in a black track suit. The other equally as notable was Max, a longshoreman type, shorter, blocky built, gray-haired, unsmiling... in a dark blue one. They stood before Luther in some mystified hesitation. Each of them gazing in wonder between their strident, grinning boss, and the hapless huge bull who had beaten their asses moments earlier, now lying curled on Lex’s tan plush carpet in a writhing mess, cupping his genitals. The amazement on their faces evident.
“He got you good, huh?” Lex said, motioning to the bruise that was in its infancy forming on Conner’s left eye; rubbed his chin to indicate he saw the distorted blotch of Max’s sore jaw. “Tsch, tsch. Good fighters, I know. Downed by our once “Frequent Flyer” here, who now seems to have run out of sustainable air,” nodding to the cringed hero on the floor.
“Well, I got him even better!” he snorted. And very nicely tossed the Kryptonite stone up high, and snuggly caught back in his hand on its sparkling way down. Set it aside on his desk top.
Conner and Max saw what it was, their lights not completely, but slowly dawning.
“Now,” he addressed them, “your turn to pay him back! Think I’d like to watch my own personal wrestling match. Private. No arena. Just the four of us? Although securely filmed on my monitors for later perusal, nonetheless.”
“Bu-but that’s Superman,” both stammered, each after the other. “Hey, boss, you sure—?”
“I don’t waste, words, Conner. I don’t care who he is. Beat him! You understand?”
Conner gasped a bit at what Lex was demanding. Though he quickly assessed the muscled mound on the floor looked more like a dumped sack of potatoes than a superhero. Lex moved closer to glare into his henchmen’s faces, standing nearly toe to toe with Conner, who swallowed uncomfortably. “Get him up, both of you! Max, you stand by. I want to see Conner do his stuff. And only help if I say so.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Luthor,” and they both moved hesitantly, grasped at the downed MOS’s huge guns, and hoisted him to his feet. Who stood unsteadily between the two men, as if trying to absorb who they were, what was happening. The pain in his testicles still an anguished inferno, his guts wavery, and his mind not at all that focused. Max and Lex moved back to watch; Connor not sure how to proceed... even if the man before him was practically staggering, like he didn’t know who he was! Much less being the famed wonderment, the indomitable, monolithic Superman.
“Get rid of his cape, first, guys,” Lex ordered. They moved close again, and there seemed to be some momentary tousling, a resistance on Superman’s part as he tried to fend them off. His cape a very notable symbol of who he was! He couldn’t let them do this! As much as he twisted, turned, pushed back, resisted, sought to use his arms... it was finally removed from him; and he stood, in his eyes, as if almost now naked before them. His skin-tight blues glistening, heaving, clinging to every fiber of his outstanding physicality. Found the courage to stand taller, straighter; it was starting to sink in what was about to be happening. He had to get ready. He had heard the words: ‘Beat him!’
“Ready to get your ass whipped, Soupy-do?” Lex chided. “Balls really busted?!” he snorted. “Okay, Conner. You were a pro. I want to see you put this wimp through the motions. Make him know he’s been fucked, for sure. No holds barred.”
“Uhh, yeah, boss. Whatever you say.” Conner cracked his knuckles, ready to launch forwards.
“Wait!” Lex announced.
“Hunh?” the Irishman froze.
“STRIP,” Lex commanded.
“Wha—?” Conner asked.
“I said, ‘strip.’ Now!” Lex repeated, pointing to Conner’s track suit. “Go on....”
Conner looked at his boss questioningly, then slowly unzipped his top, pulled it off. Max was there to grab it. His bared wrestler’s body was heftily muscled, thick shouldered, sparsely haired, mostly smooth. No beauty, just power-loaded. His untanned skin released a musky, masculine scent of former sweat and oil, and he pensively thumbed at the waistband of his pants. He slowly untied it, pulled at the elastic waistband, let the material fall to his ankles, and climbed out of it. Thighs oak-thick, bigger than his arms; his bulge nicely curved. Started with a frown to tug at his blue bikini briefs.
“Stop!” Lex yelled. “Keep those on. Don’t need the gay games bit just yet. Though he might wish that’s all there was to it—maybe later. Once you take him.”
Conner snapped the waistband of his briefs back into place, relieved; Max scooping up the discarded trousers to clear the playing field. He then turned to face his still blue-clad contender.
Still fluctuant on his feet, testicles no less ache-raging, uncharacteristically the MOS decided to strike first—no preamble! As Conner turned, he was met with the blunt force of a rhinoceros-like charge. Superman had perceived his options were few. He had to get out of there, immediately!! Away from Luthor and the Kryptonite, before it could again be close-used against him. Perhaps if he could take both Conner and Luthor off their feet at the same time, the green rock could be flung far enough from Luthor’s grasp until he could reach the door. Worth a shot, perhaps the only one he had. No “gentlemanly” first handshake was in the cards.
In a flash, his granite shoulder crashed into Conner’s chest, who went “Whoompfff!” from the charge, toppled backwards. But Lex adeptly managed to step aside with a quick dance step, both surprised and delighted, his jaw dropping open, quickly closing into a Cheshire grin. Max gaped, also. Had they bitten off more than they could chew? Conner had never felt such sudden, incredible strength before in his life. The impact took his breath and almost all of his senses away, finding himself flat on the floor. Here he was, face to face with his previously long admired and in awe of masculine, heroic idol as a younger man, now practically nose to nose. The handsomest of visages above him, breathing close and nearly breathless, ironing him out flatter than a steamroller. The MOS’s mouth tight and determined, azure blue eyes flashing.
And yet, for all of it, Conner too detected a sense of fear, hesitation, and true worry etched into his opponent’s other worldly features. He and his former paragoned idol of worship, now a sworn enemy, grappling muscle to muscle. Connor soon realizing one thing in particular: he was the skilled fighter... on this mat! The other, just a jacked mass of muscle who’d always only needed to use his superior strength to overcome anything and anyone. But in close quarters, not at all adept as one might expect. Curtail the source of his great strength, he could be had. As evidenced of him having been seen downed moments ago, cupping his big genitals in obvious distress. Whatever Luthor had done to him. And simpler than otherwise imagined.
Even disadvantaged as he was, Conner was swift to move and gather himself for a stronger assault. One hard-pressed knee into the famed Man of Steel’s prodigious package saw the man above him wince, roil, withdraw, and weaken instantly. Who still fallen, gritted his teeth from crying out, his wondrous testicles again unexpectedly compromised. Jolting him into an edge of strength-sapping failure once more. Rolling partially aside, his hold on Conner slackened.
Luthor was not far away. Waving the green glowing rock like a talisman. Its effect was made more notable than one would have thought. Frown lines increasing on Superman’s brow, sweat noticeably forming—desperate to be free from its debilitating powers, draining his own might faster than water from a fire hose. He cannot lose this match!
He tried to rise, Conner wouldn’t let him. Fastened himself firmly onto Superman’s thighs, who struggled to escape—hung on, anchored him down. Fists pounding into him, particularly his groin, vulnerable solar plexus, his abdominals, causing him to curl defensively. No longer on the offensive. The cracks already appearing in the alien’s once touted might... quick, spidery veins of a faltering power more and more evident, like some kind of decades-long worn and weary cement having reached its zenith, could no longer support the monolith it was upholding. The sounds of “unh, unh, unh” growing louder, more distinct: the mighty Superman more and more being beat. His impressive arms frantic, windmilling almost like an amateur trying to block the blows. Big hands pawing to grasp at Conner’s wrists, hold back, turn the tide. Twisting, writhing. But not all that successful. In notable failing strength, considering the size of him.
Conner engulfing him, Luthor nearer and nearer. Waving the Kryptonite in his face, watching how quickly the massive alien’s eyes seemed to haze-focus, glaze. In yes, terror, in yes... approaching defeat.
“Fight, Conner, fight!” Lex cheered in the background. “Pound the fucker, like he did you!”
Max taking it all in, much in disbelief. Luthor chortling like a schoolboy.
“Nothing but a damned Pussy! Once you know his secrets, have the key,” brandishing the wicked rock, almost miming a jig. “Bet he couldn’t even get out of a paper bag, put it over his head. Could probably smother him.” Then turning, “Hey, Max, get me one of those plastic trash bags. Maybe I will. Just slip it on him, see how long he lasts....”
Superman’s eyes widened, knowing the threat. No joke, something real?! His already battered guts did another sharp swirl. Downed like this, he was more than easy prey, whatever the three of them wanted to do. With the K., could snuff him, simple as pie—. There had to be a way out!!
Worse than distressed, his former strength evaporated, now even lesser in ability than that of the very built man his size he should be, was, but could not seem to command and utilize to his advantage, he couldn’t dwell on worry—must use every ounce of his brain and will power, every shred of his sinews to save the day. Or he was through. The superior pugilistic skills of the other making things more than difficult. He must prevail, he must!! A definite fear sweeping through him. He was the “invincible, impossible” Superman, wasn’t he?! No one had ever bested him in a fight, nor kept him debilitated for long, whether more skilled or otherwise. He always won, always succeeded. No one could match or defeat him.
The two men continued to roil and grapple on the floor, one on top of the other, and vice versa... squeezing, crushing, pounding, wriggling, kicking, tousling, continuously entangled. But it more and more became evident, the great alien was tiring drastically. His blows less forceful, his crush-holds not as effective; his breathing ragged and desperately heaving. Anxiety and humiliation eroding into him, his psyche... as well as such weariness as he’d never experienced before, seemed to be strangling him from the inside out. As if the synapses of his brain were misfiring, not sending the proper signals to enable him to save himself, deep enough into the wonderment of his own overly muscled physique—could not seem to think how, or to use the inherent powers of his heritage. His laser-focused vision, ability to hold his breath, blast waves of cold, or the ability to crush steel into jello... all gone. He’d never felt so helpless in his life. A true alien shock to him, indeed! No longer invulnerable or more powerful than a locomotive. But faltering, wimping out like a prepubescent girl. Struck thoroughly to his core, beyond shakened.
Finally acknowledging his exhaustion—after all, wrestlers in close conflict soon did wear each other to a frazzle (why they had short terms of engagement, set minutes for bouts), his waning strength more and more evident... the wondrous Superman found himself having his face pressed unceremoniously to the floor, nearly unable to breathe, neck constrained, and almost whimpering. One of his now stupendous 22 ½ -inch arms pain-locked tightly behind his broad back, his mound-packed, outstandingly heavy 62-inch pectorals deep-ridden into Luthor’s office carpet over his trim 34-inch waist... his urgent, trying to gain freedom’s other wrist captive in Conner’s grip, the weight of his foe securely atop him once more—struggling like a high schooler. Demoralized and trembling. Not only in his body, but his forever beyond otherworldly magnificence, he realized it was at last failing him! He was being beaten. And by a small time criminal, at that! His disbelief unhinging him. No, no, nohhhh!! He was Superman, Superman, Superman!! This could not be happening!!
Hearing “Pussy Superman, Pussy Superman, having his ass wiped by a real pro!” Luthor, gloating a bit aways and across the room, a few steps beyond the fray. “Big muscles, big cock, BIG balls! All for show! Woo-hoo, woo-hoo! End of the line. His Grand Finale. The “undefeated,” defeated!! All for show, all for show! KILL HIM, CONNER!! KILL HIM!!”
Conner then having managed to swivel around, seating himself just above the small of Superman’s back, facing his feet, and was now able to constrict the tiring alien’s famous red boots into a Boston Crab, confining them under his armpits, and applying spine-breaking pressure onto the hapless man beneath. The pain excruciating for the MOS, now nearly sobbing, his great arms thrust forwards in front of him, trying desperately to flex, arch, paw, pound his way free, urgent to roll, twist, escape. His genitals still aching, breath compromised, unable to comprehend his approaching defeat.
“Oh, my,” he heard. “What an astounding package! An even better shot than before!”
In a true, lancing panic, knowing his prodigious genitals were now beyond vulnerable, exposed by the upward tilt of his pelvis pushed back, and presented as an enticing, greater target for Luthor’s machinations—his soul in his throat: “Nngh, nngh, nnghh!” If Luthor struck, he would be finished. He could not endure another such onslaught. It would kill him. Lex, a good six or more feet away, he could hear him readying his sling for another blow.
No, no, nohhh!! He was Superman!! He was Superman!! He must prevail!! He must!!
With the last shreds of his waning strength and pure willpower, he managed to twist, roll, and dislodge the devil from his back, knocking himself free. Another adept roll or two, and he roughly sought his feet. If Luthor were still but eight feet away, he might could lunge thru the door—! The distance a brief reprieve. But once on his feet, his senses already warped, he had difficulty gathering his thoughts, his orientation. He wavered.
Conner was now up again, and closing in, between him and the door of his escape. He had no more chance to flee without first confronting him head on, then swivel and throw him out of his way towards Luthor. He took a deep breath, hunched forward to meet him.
But Conner was the shrewder opponent. Seeing the larger built threat, he merely feinted to the left, then raised and crashed his right knee downwards onto and above Superman’s already bent left one coming forwards. It worked. The MOS caught unprepared dropped halfway more forwards, his own crouch propelling him off balance. Then as his face dipped, Conner’s other knee crashed into his chin, stupefying him. He was arced upwards, flung back. His own big arms dangling like spaghetti. A fist then caught his nose, another into his gut, he reeled, buckled forwards, blood remarkably spurting down his face. Then both of Conner’s rock hard fists slammed sledge hammers into each of his temples at the same time. The MOS was no more!!
Superman’s mouth gaped, eyes fluttered, consciousness going. “Uhh-nnnhhhh!” Stunned. Darkness seeking to drop over him. His superior mass plunged heavily forwards onto his knees, resounding throughout the room, about to keel over. In shock, realizing he’d at last been vanquished. His heart, strength, and will collapsing within him. Oh, God, no! No, no, please!! His doom as if written on a billboard before his very eyes.
“Catch him, Conner, catch him! Hold him. I have another idea. Perfect!”
Conner astutely bent-moved behind the sagging alien, gripped his incredible arms tight behind him and held him up, still on his knees, head drooping, facing Luthor, who had come very close to them... tossing his sling aside onto his desk, pocketing his green stone.
Grabbing the stunned alien by the richness of his hair, Lex jerk-slapped at his face and head, uptilting them to look at him. Seeing how still dazed he was, chuckling at his conquest. The hugely muscled titan before him in abject acquiescence. Surrendered.
“About time we had a little lesson in “True Mastermanship ,” hey, Puss? Nice teeth you have. But if you use them, we’ll have them removed—with a crowbar. Pay attention.”
And to the surprise of not only Conner, but Max as well, and the shocked Superman, woozed to near incomprehension... Luthor unzipped his fly, and pulled out a definitely prodigious cock of his own. A stunner: his men staring in envy.
“No, guys, I’m not gay,” he smirked. “But this one is! As all men love their cocks sucked by an expert. Such as by this fag here. Ever used to sucking his own. For big boys like him—normal as breathing. Since he never allows anyone else onto him. Eh, Super-fag? Tell me I’m wrong.”
“NNNnnn, nnnnn. Nnnnnn,” was all Superman could muster. Knowing he’d been had. No escape. To protest, futile. His powers removed from him. Realized he had to comply. Repugnant as the idea was. His forever enemy having him in this position, hopelessly contained and restrained. If he didn’t, far worse could be done to him, he was sure. Now that his invulnerability to pain and conquest had been curtailed, he was caught. Dethroned. A mere subservient to the much stronger man. Who might, if he pleased him... have mercy. Yet no less crushing his ego. He had to accept.
Lex Luthor’s cock was a fine one, indeed. As often powerful men do possess such equipment, part of their imposing demeanor, knowing they are superior to other men both mentally and genitally. He was superbly thick, a whopping eight inches worth, and three-fourths over nine inches in length, with a slight upcurve... bold and proud. Superman’s first thought was that Lex’s was no doubt just beyond the range of what Jimmy’s had been: thicker, longer, and certainly more substantial. Not that much longer, but very much thicker! And to take this one would not be too difficult—(his own staggeringly much larger, and well used to it!) . But to whom it was attached made the task palatably unpleasant. And the idea he no less would be expected to swallow his seed, too! This nefarious man, who had at last overcome him. Humiliating him now beyond what he’d ever thought possible. Not only in front of just the one, but two other men, as well. Unable to resist. He had been beaten. Cowed into submission. Must obey. His very life at stake.
“Let his arms and hands free, now,” Lex directed. “Stand by, just in case,” allowing his trousers to slide down further. Conner complied, stepping aside to join Max, still amazed at all that had happened. What they had seen. The depowering of the mighty Superman into a nothing, like a Casper Milquetoast. Max, still holding onto a large plastic bag, wondering if, when, and how Luthor might or might not instruct him to use it. The possibility looming sharper and sharper, that the once incredible Superman might soon be snuffed out for good. How easy it would be. Deprived of air, strangled to death. Maybe after he’d sucked off the boss. And the other two of them, as well?
Could be interesting....
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