(Enhanced/expanded/re-edited… from an original story by Henry Dee, with his permission.)
Disclaimer: this is a work of erotic fan-fiction for mature readers, featuring male/male sex and relationships; not for profit. Some major characters are owned by DC Comics.
Lev Levkowicz grimaced as he gazed onto the street from a second floor window of the war-ruined warehouse. Up until now the civil war in this small former Soviet republic had been a seemingly bottomless cash barrel for the illegal arms merchant, selling weapons to both sides at grossly exaggerated prices. But now, in the street below, he was witnessing the collapse of his whole immoral empire. With a curse, he continued looking through his binoculars.
What should have been another lucrative successful exchange of arms for cash was being undone by a striking blue, red, and yellow clad figure, whose power and uprightness made him the deadly enemy of people like Lev in every part of the world. Gangland bosses, bloodthirsty dictators, slavers, terrorists, kidnappers, smugglers: all knew and feared Superman as their greatest and most hated foe. Now Lev ground his teeth, rubbed over his stubby-cropped, gray balding head, and swore under his breath at the sight of his fifteen choice men disarmed and kneeling with their hands on their heads in the street below. Along the length of the bomb-scarred avenue, molten lumps of metal were all that remained of the six M1-A1 Abrams tanks which should have brought a haul of millions of dollars for the arms dealer, who had watched aghast as the famed Kryptonian superhero had soared in out of the sky, his heat vision raking the metal monsters into vacant unrecognizable mounds.
Standing before his prisoners in his famous pose, feet apart and arms folded across an impressively sculpted chest, his red cape billowing in the wind, Superman was the epitome of the unparalleled macho-hero, loved, adored and desired by women and men alike in every part of the world. Lev felt his blood rise in fury as the alien-handsome face turned itself towards the window where he stood, and smiled in mocking triumph. There was no use in trying to run or hide. Superman's speed and X-ray vision made any attempt at flight useless. Lev and his men were going to The International Criminal Court in The Hague, and that was that!
Superman extended his arm, pointed directly at Lev, and gestured for the defeated criminal to come down into the street. Spitting and cursing, Lev turned from the window with downcast eyes and headed towards the stairs to surrender himself. He was not used to losing; he hated it. And being undone by that smug, self-satisfied, overly-muscled do-gooder rankled him all the more.
He was just about to take hold of the stair rail and begin his descent, when there was a sudden sensation of being struck by a giant hand, and he found himself face down on the cracked floorboards gasping for breath. The whole building shook momentarily, and the air was full of dust and a deep loud roaring. Was this a warning from Superman? A clear statement that if Lev didn't do exactly as he was told, he could be blown away like a dry leaf?
Panicking, Lev dragged himself on all fours towards the window. The roar had dropped to a low groan now and the building had ceased its shaking, but still the dust in the air swirled throughout the room in response to a powerful wind that had sprung up from nowhere. Super-breath? As he hauled himself up to the sill, he was aware of a strangeness to the light streaming in from outside. It had a glow to it like a vibrant sunset, and yet the time was barely past noon. Looking out, he saw what once had been a calm-weather day now given way to squalls, with strong gusts whipping one way then another: both leafy and leafless trees in the street dancing crazily, the air filled with rubbish from the street below.
He grabbed at the binoculars still dangling from his neck, and swiftly scanned the area.
Above him wisps of cloud rushed and swirled, but it was not the storm which made him gasp—it was the sky, and the sun. He had never seen anything like it! The sky had turned a vibrant green; and the sun seemed to boil! No longer a soft pale yellow, it was now a blazing disk of red and orange, casting weird light and shadows onto the city below. The atmosphere a mix of green and red, but rapidly toning into a thick amber.
Turning his scan street-ward, Lev saw that the sudden storm had knocked his men to the ground. Some lay face down, covering their heads. Others were staggering about, trying to keep their feet and lurching for whatever cover and protection they could find. And surprisingly, astonishingly, so was Superman!
The Man of Steel was clearly struggling to maintain his balance. His red cape snapped in the air like a flag, his hands and arms close-wrapped around his head, shielding his face from the savage gusts. A sudden change in wind direction seemed to catch him off-guard and his legs gave way beneath him. He fell face forwards and rolled drunkenly onto his side. This time as he struggled once more to his feet, Lev saw the impossible. His face was grazed, and a fine rivulet of blood now flowed from a notable cut above his left eyebrow. Superman was bleeding! His invulnerable flesh had been penetrated by a simple fall to the ground!
Lev threw himself back from the window, and seizing the stair rail with both hands half ran down the stairs seeking the door to the street.
Outside, Superman once more onto his feet was wheeling in a fog of nausea. He had never experienced anything like this. Without warning, the sudden windstorm had hurled him to the ground—waves of dizziness and stabbing muscle cramps washed through him. Was it Kryptonite? Had someone made a bomb of the deadly green mineral and fired it at him? But no, this was nothing like the searing burn of Kryptonite radiation: this was something new.
Another staggering swirl of wind caught, hit him, and again his weakened legs gave way. He lay thoroughly dazed on his back, and for the first time his eyes focused skywards—dismay raced through him, and he gasped. The yellow sun, radiant source of his power and invulnerability, was no more! Instead, he was peering up at an angrily boiling disk of red and orange. Another rush of nausea engulfed him. He felt something sting into his eyes and realized it was blood trickling from his throbbing left brow, where he had connected with the ground moments before.
He was immediately aware of the precariousness of his situation. Suddenly vulnerable, sick and weak, alone on the other side of the world far from friends or aid… in the middle of a warzone, and among deadly enemies—he was in mortal danger. He must escape!
He staggered once more to his feet and willed himself into the air.
But there was no flight.
He had jumped bare inches from the ground before falling back down again, butt and elbows connecting sharply with the hard road. His power of flight was gone, along with his strength and invulnerability. Panic seized him. Looking around, he could see that the Levkowicz gang members had not yet noticed his plight, too preoccupied with their own situation. But on the far side of the street, holding himself steady against the door frame of the wrecked warehouse, Lev Levkowicz was staring, mouth agape, directly at him.
The arms dealer bent down and picked up a half-brick from the rubble around him, never taking his eyes off Superman. He hurled the brick as hard as he could at the prone superhero. Momentarily hazed, lacking the instinct to avoid the missile, Superman was struck in the right knee. His blue tights ripped at the joint, and more blood began to flow. The pain of the impact to bone caused him to cry out, curling his leg—a sound that was followed a split second later by a holler of amazement and delight from Lev.
Now as Superman held onto his pain-wracked knee, he could see his enemy lurching directly towards him. Several of Lev’s men were also soon aware of what was happening, and they gazed with eyes wide as their boss slowly covered the distance between himself and their weakened enemy.
Superman watched with horror, frozen to the spot, as Lev moved towards him, his arm now extended in his direction, clutching a Luger pistol he had drawn from under his fatigue-style coat: a look of hatred and triumph spreading over his face. His astonished gang members, finding their balance against the gusting winds, moved to join him—surrounding the weakened Kryptonian, they grabbed him and held him fast. The mighty hero was immobilized, helpless, his great strength diminished, thrashing futilely to rend himself free. It was no go.
An unusual terror gripped his soul. Superman braced himself for death. But as the muzzle of the gun drew close to his forehead, a hand shot out from the left, and thrust it aside.
“Austin! What the fuck are you doing?” roared Lev at the young man, who had just prevented him from splattering out the brains and life of their hated enemy. More than a perfect conquest!
“Boss! Stay calm! Use your head! We have “Superman!” How cool is that?!! We could kill him now, if we wanted—go down in history. But where be the profit in that? Think!! Think how much the US government would pay in ransom to save the life of their great hero! One who flits around in bright, girly-colored tights, too. A real she-man!” Wisdom and disdain sneering in his voice.
“The USA don't pay ransoms,” shouted Terry, the oldest of the group, who was eager to see the Kryptonian's gray matter spilled onto the ground.
“No, they don't,” muttered Stan, Levkowicz’s chief lieutenant. “But Austin’s right, Boss. Superman’s worth far more to us alive than dead. The US might not pay, but just think how much the criminal world would—Don Lucio, to get him into his clutches? Or Lex Luthor?”
Superman blanched at the mention of one of his most dangerous and unscrupulous foes: Don Lucio Lucifero, a criminal genius whose empire straddled much of Europe and the Middle East. He was equally renowned for his scientific brilliance, Machiavellian schemes, and his sadistic cruelty—feared by governments, businesses, and criminal adversaries everywhere. He especially hated Superman, the one being who consistently had opposed him, and who on more than one occasion had foiled his plans… costing the Don millions of dollars in illegal gains. (Not to mention having continuously thwarted the devious U.S.’s ruthless brigand, Luthor.)
“Exactly!” crowed Austin. “Nine zeros boss. Bet the Don would pay a billion dollars to have this Super-ass as his prisoner.”
Lev smiled thoughtfully, then nodded as he grabbed the subdued, increasingly alarmed superhero by the hair.
“Yes, you’re both right,” he hissed, then pulled the wrecked Superman’s face up close to his own, glaring venomously into the quavering turquoise eyes. “I don’t know what’s happened. Clearly something to do with the sun. But whatever it is, you’re ours now, fly-boy! We’ve got you—and that’s gonna pay. And then, you’re gonna pay, big time!”
In panic, Superman made a sudden swift effort to jerk free and run, but he was barely loose, onto his feet, when he was knocked down with punches and kicks from the thugs around him. Face down on the ground, he now had two of them grasping his arms behind him, while another kneeled on the back of his neck, others pinning his torso and legs. His once Olympian strength completely contained. Useless.
“Stay the fuck down!” shouted Stan. “You're not going anywhere, except where we take you!” And with that he released a sharp stomp into the fallen hero's kidneys, the worst pain so far.
“Pick him up, boys,” said Lev. “Take him into the warehouse. We'll get out of this storm and contact Don Lucio. Then, we'll know what to do next.”
Weakened, in pain and nauseous, Superman was partially lifted and dragged by a half dozen pairs of crudely unpleasant hands, and rough-herded with ease into the warehouse, where a bare half hour earlier Lev Levkowicz had prepared himself for defeat. The storm seemed now to be abating, but the angry sun still glared weirdly overhead.
A rope was brought and the struggling Kryptonian was tied standing forwards against a thick wooden pillar, chest pressed hard against the splintery post. Lev and Stan disappeared into an adjacent room. For nearly an hour the rest of the gang, astonished at the unexpected turnaround in their fortunes, sat laughing and jeering at their unwilling guest. Several of them came up to him at intervals, and drawing close, spat directly into his eyes and face—or yanked on his belt from behind, tightening his notably large testicles cruelly in the confines of his already compromised tights. Terry wickedly drew a knife and placed its tip under the blood-marred left eye. Superman felt the sharp blade begin to press in towards the softness of the socket.
Fearful, trying to pull back his head, the hero quailed, “No, no-ohhhh!!” Good God, if they blinded him, he’d be helpless!!
“No, mon!” Austin shouted, grabbing Terry by the wrist, and dragging his hand away from Superman’s face. “Nice idea, but the boss wouldn’t like it. Fucker’s got to be able to see, and feel… all that’s coming. Makes it more exciting. Capiche?”
“Yea, guess so,” said the Terry, sheathing the knife. “I'll wait. I'm sure there'll be more fun and games later.”
And without warning, moving close behind him, he clamp/clapped both of his hands hard against each of Superman’s ears at the same time, staggering the hero. They all laughed, when their weakened prisoner jerked and groaned.
Confusion and worry flooded Superman’s mind. His strength and powers had evaporated with the un-worldly change in the sun. His might now—even if free—only a possible match to the strongest man there. But his skills , against trained criminals? Used to his superior strength to carry him through, he was not really proficient in any of the martial arts assaults he might be facing. A fatal neglect, he realized. (Even lesser Jimmy Olsen might now could take him down if challenged, his greater mass of little aid, his friend’s skills superior, he was sure. As was… a dull, deep surge moved in his pecs—and the remembrance of him pierced him through .)
His heart raced, his breath came in quick shallow gasps. His ears still rang from Terry’s clap. “Okay, okay, don’t panic!” he told himself. “DON’T panic!” Though fear threatened to overwhelm him. He knew he would have to stay calm and use his wits, if he was to ever have a chance of enduring/escaping the looming ordeals ahead, and/or face a possible no doubt hideous demise at the hands of the sadistic Don Lucifero… whose cruelty he’d heard knew no bounds.
He had to stay calm, focus. No matter what.
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