For Superman, his first night in captivity seemed to last an eternity. Outside the warehouse, the wind continued to howl and gust, whipping trees about like dancing ghosts silhouetted against the pale amber clouds, backlit by an also eerie red ball of a moon. He could see little from the dirt-laced panes, but enough to be continuously concerned. In his mind, his thoughts, too, danced crazily: how to escape this horrific situation and save his life?
At first, he’d considered outbidding Don Lucio, pay the gangsters whatever amount they wanted to release him. In normal circumstances, he could tear any amount of priceless gems and minerals from the earth, offer any bribe; but without his powers, he was no more than a pauper. He thought of offering himself to the young Scot, Austin, and allow him to use him as his own personal slave or catamite, for a specified period of time—if he would help him escape. It was obvious the young criminal would enjoy his Super-male’s submissiveness, as he had already plundered him thoroughly; and at least, he would be alive, if not wholly empowered as Superman. But that was senseless. Austin surely knew that if he crossed Don Lucio Lucifero his days would be numbered, and his death excruciating. Providing the Don still roamed freely. Superman couldn’t exactly be around to protect him, after—especially if still deprived of his formidable powers! Around and around his thoughts went, searching desperately for a way out. But nothing presented itself.
Earlier that evening, following the forced ejaculation, Lev Levkowicz had assigned Ken and Austin to take the alien’s seed to Budapest, but Austin had begged out.
“Could you send one of the others with Ken, Boss?” he asked. “I’d really like to stay with fag-cunt, here. I like helping keep him in line. Can you send Terry?”
Lev had smiled and snorted.
“Ok Austin, stay. You can be chief keeper of the zoo, seeing how clearly you enjoy the role. But I’m not sending Terry. I like to have him close, in case there’s trouble. I’ll have Juan go with Ken. Only other who knows how to ride.” Turning to the now designated two: “Take the big bikes, be as quick as you can, but be careful. These are bad conditions for night riding.”
At that, the Argentinian from the gang moved forward to join Ken. They took three small containers each from the medical supplies, and for a moment Superman thought they were going to force him to cum another round. But they simply divided out, from the richness of the other stored jars, about half of the copious amount of his expended semen between them, three jars a piece, and loaded them into the coolers on the back of their bikes. They left shortly before midnight. There were actually two other four ounce jar-fulls left, which Lev decided to keep. If there were an accident, he would still be prepared. With or without Superman, he could still claim proof of having had him, and his jizz.
After that, Lev retired elsewhere, and the remaining gang members ate some dried food from their packs, spread out their sleeping bags, and settled down for the night. Raucous, ribald conversation soon gave way to whisperings, and then silence. Austin took his premier place on the “stage” alongside the now again hogtied captive. Cuddling up to the worn Superman, he took a few liberties: nibbled on his earlobes, gently teased with his fingers at his large, still tender nipples. He pulled playfully at the hairs of his treasure trail, and slipped his hand between the welt-covered butt cheeks, making small intrusions into the hole he had ravished some hours earlier. Superman still in recovery, though, felt, smelled, and even craved Austin’s comforting nearness… albeit trying to resist, but unable, the gangster bringing him to a definite arousal. “Thank you,” he dared to whisper. Austin shushed him, and coldly rolled away.
Stealthily, carefully, once the others had fallen asleep, the Scot left the stage briefly, and returned with something from the medical kit. Then, he began squeezing ointment onto the worst of the abrasions on Superman’s body, gently rubbing it in. His hands were firm, if cold, and surprisingly caring.
There was a stirring from the near side of the room.
“Hey, Austin!” called Terry. “What’cha doin’?”
“Just some antibiotic cream to guard against infection. Lucio won’t be too be happy if his prize drops dead from blood-poisoning, before he’s had his fun!”
“Oh… yeah. Good thinking.” And he rolled back over, and was soon snoring loudly.
And strangely, for Superman, feeling the deft, considerate hands of the young Scot on his back and buttocks, it was easier to picture in his mind the presence of his ached-for Jimmy; even to imagine that they were his hands applying the soothing cream. He moaned softly.
Shortly after, Austin rolled over and fell into a deep sleep, but not before thoroughly re- testing the bonds on his tethered prisoner. He didn’t dare allow the man to wrestle free. Or he would be toast! No matter what he could, or couldn’t do.
But there was no sleep for Superman. His mind continued to roil, filled with worry and dread, still helpless… the inexorable approach of his deadly date with his nemesis. Though he did manage a ragged doze.
* * *
Near mid-morning, after dawn, when the churning red ball of the sun again seemed to set the sky on fire, as the gang were breakfasting and organizing themselves for the day, Lev called everyone together. New plans were being laid.
Superman had not been fed since falling under their control and he was preoccupied with an unfamiliar gnawing he now felt in his gut. Of course, Superman was used to eating, but only somewhat minimally, not a three times a day necessity. Now he realized that the gripping cramps in his abdomen meant he was hungry. He was also thirsty. It was strange the way these basic human drives, which he’d never been overly concerned with before, intruded into his consciousness, asserting themselves ahead of every other thought or feeling. But the demands of his newly normalized body were soon forgotten.
Lev briskly walked up to where he was lying hogtied on the stage, holding his cellphone in front of him, while his men gathered around.
“Well it seems that Ken and Juan made good time getting to Budapest, and Don Lucio has already verified the “strangeness” of the alien cum. Though his tests were basically preliminary. Now, we have to prepare this fag for delivery, as specified.”
And he passed the cellphone to the men. They read the text message with puzzled looks and raised eyebrows.
“Want me to get some bits from the trees on the street, Boss? For the ‘birching?’” asked Terry.
“Yes. Four to six swatches should be enough. While you’re doing that, we’ll get our guest strung up and ready.” And he winked mockingly at Superman, who closed his eyes and groaned to himself, tensing—still trying to mask his apprehensions from his captors. He had never witnessed birching: flogging with a bundle of flexible green or stiff dried twigs, but he had read about its use and the agonizing pain it could inflict. Thoughts of his torture to come were reinforced, knowing birching was usually applied to the gluteals. He had no idea how he could endure more than previously experienced.
Austin and several others of the gang wrestled Superman to his feet. He struggled as best he could, protesting and soft-cursing them all the while. Even without his powers his magnificent body was strong enough to make it difficult for them, muscled beyond normal as he was. Lev stepped forward, and slapped him twice hard around the face. His head snapped sideways each direction from the force.
“Settle down, cunt!”
Strangely, the struggling, overly-built male they were holding, did. Lev’s words, like a sharp lance piercing inside him—he wimped out. Imprisoned in mind at his inescapable fate.
They left his ankles bound, less than a foot apart, but loosed his hands from behind, and retied them in front. Meanwhile, a thick rope had been thrown over a rafter. Yuri, one of the most menacing still, tied one end to the ropes around Superman’s wrists, and then all of them began to haul on it… raising the prisoner’s arms painfully high, lifting him upwards so that he hung with his feet about a meter from the floor. He continued to curse them and pull against his bonds, but all he was able to achieve was to set himself twisting in mid-air.
Austin gazed in awe at the wonderful musculature spinning before him. Superman really was the most beautiful man he had ever seen. Adonis-like looks, built beyond the body, not of a body-builder, but somewhere between a Hercules and a trim Apollo—no roid-stuffed Mr. Olympia: though massive, yet lean and tight. Horse hung and hugely nippled, to boot. (The most wonderful fuck he’d ever had in his life! Though far too short-lived, and not really explored. His heart jerked. He had to clamp onto his senses.)
Too bad it was all set to be disposed of by Don Lucio Lucifero!
By now, Terry had returned with a number of pieces of trees and shrubs. They were spindly, leafless and comprised of long thorn-like twigs rather than hefty branches. Terry passed them out to the other gang members, bundling them together, keeping one for himself.
“Well, you read what Don Lucio ordered,” said Lev. “A complete, whole body birching. Leave the head alone, but there shouldn’t be a square inch untouched anywhere else. Get started!”
Superman shuddered and gritted his teeth against the expected onslaught. The five criminals began to lay into the suspended superhero, a naked target for their amusement. At the first blows, his angry protestations and steeled resistance were sustained… for only moments. Soon his masculinity wilted, all traces of any heroic stance crumbled—turned immediately into unabashed wailing! This was the worst pain he had ever known, far worse than the vicious caning Yuri had earlier dealt out. There was simply no way he could control his reactions. He yowled and screamed. And with a sense of true betrayal, caught Austin’s eyes, the wolf leers of the others: Lev, Yuri, Andreas, Terry… as they destroyed him, his wondrous and beautiful physique, once invulnerable manhood. They, in tandem, cursing him all the while.
They worked feverishly, relishing their task, whipping the spiny tree remnants against him with full force, tearing long scratches into his legs, arms, and back; chest, pecs, traps, shoulders; buttocks, genitals; from the front and rear. His whole body was soon a criss-cross pattern of bleeding red stripes, and welts, but not the deep gouges a scourge or cat-a-nine-tails might have delivered. His treasured long, thick penis, his gloriously loaded, power-giving testicles did not escape, nor his unusual, over-sized male teats… all were shredded mercilessly. While these were but skin-deep lacerations only, they were endless—and scores, no, hundreds of them! He fought within himself to maintain some sense of his once superior self, but lost it. He was drowned in a hopeless torment, begging to die. They had murdered him, slowly and still alive! Brain-shocked, body-wrecked. He was truly failing.
But their instructions had been clear: “Leave no part of his body below the neck untouched, and keep going until he passes out.”
It did not take long. The anguished howling of their victim gradually lapsed into silence. Fifteen, twenty minutes? His head hung limp, and his body convulsed as consciousness left him.
“Must be in shock,” mused Lev. “Let’s get him down, and make sure we haven’t killed him.…” Which was definitely a concern, taking a deep, wondering breath.
The now silent man was lowered from the makeshift gibbet and untied. As Don Lucio had ordered, every part of his body was a mass of myriad shallow scratches and tears, his whole frame covered in blood. From the neck on down, raw, sear-marked flesh.
“Breathing and pulse seem to be holding up—considering,” noted Austin. Sort of the medic of the team. Minimal training. “Let me give him a shot of some antibiotic. Just in case. Wipe him off a bit.”
Lev frowned. “Taking your zoo-keep gig a little too close to heart, aren’t you?”
“If he gets infected, and doesn’t make it to Lucio, yours might be the heart to worry about,” Austin snapped. “Then, we’ll be safe for the next phase. Good ways to go, yet.”
“Do it, then,” Lev scowled. Turning to Yuri, Andreas, and Terry, “Okay. When that’s done, you men get started with the wood for the splints.” They hastened to comply.
Over the next few hours, the unconscious Superman was prepared for delivery to Don Lucio Lucifero. First his ears were stuffed with putty, then covered over with medical pads. His eyes were also covered with several pads which were taped into place. Had he been conscious, he would have been for all intents and purposes both deaf and blind. A thick wad of medical gauze was placed into his mouth, forcing his jaws apart and constraining his tongue.
Next, lengths of wood were bound like splints to his body, head and limbs, so that it would be impossible for him to move or bend at any joint. He was effectively immobilized into complete rigidity. Then, crepe, coban, and ace bandages from the medical supplies were applied, wound around and around his entire body, from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. Only, as stipulated, his genitals and anus were left free of bandaging, and small slits made across his mouth and nostrils. The impression was of a B grade movie “Mummy,” totally swathed in bandages, and unable to move because of the inflexibility of the splinting.
“Well, I think that meets Don Lucio’s requirements nicely,” observed Lev. “Now, let’s get him down into the van and head for Budapest, and a cool billion dollars.”
They carried him downstairs and out of the warehouse like a funeral procession, and into the back of an army truck. Straps looped from the canopy structure held him suspended face down, hanging horizontally at chest height. He swung there like a corpse in rigor mortis as the convoy moved off on its fateful voyage to Budapest. It would take a slow, careful two days, considering whatever traffic, etc. they might have to deal with. Austin and Terry were assigned riding in the same truck. The back was canvas, but could be secured tight. A cold ride, nonetheless. Lev, Yuri, the others, accompanied in two other vehicles.
Superman regained consciousness about halfway through the journey. Though Austin had astutely slipped in a mild sedative with the antibiotic, he emerged into a sea of horrifying pain, as every nerve ending in his skin felt as though it was on fire. A silent, dark universe of pain, without sound, or sight. Panic gripped him. Where was he? What was happening to him? Had he died and gone to hell? He seemed to float around like a cork on water and yet he was incapable of movement. He tried to shout, or yell, but his mouth would not respond. Only a muffled groan was possible, which he felt through his head rather than heard through his ears. Blind, deaf, paralyzed? Alone in darkness and silence, knowing only the screaming fire of his skin. He began to weep as he had never wept before in his entire life.
What had they done to him? What more could they do?
In the stark shattering of it all, a warm hand suddenly, firmly cupped over his loose testicles. Held. Somehow, inexplicably soothed him. The touch, he knew. It could only be… but no words could be heard or spoken. Only that touch.
Fortuitously, Terry was fast asleep with the rocking of the noisy truck. Austin dared take the chance, somehow give the hero a tiny glimmer of trust, hope? He cradled the weighty scrotum, gently caressing, squeezing. The only way he could message the defeated Superman. Taking his own water bottle, he managed to slip the straw into his mouth. The bound captive could barely shake his head, but faintly nodded a thanksgiving. Drank and drank. He took deep breaths, but was helpless to do anything. Move or fidget.
He then felt the prick of a needle through the gauze near his neck. Austin was giving him a mild dose of morphine (it was all he could do). And with his mouth, kissed the MOS’s cock and testicles, and let him go. Superman felt the sudden rush of the drug, easing his pain. Still, in terror and panic, grateful for the simple act he knew only Austin would have done… he tremored.
His whole body shook. And he wept.
What more would they do to him?
Don Lucifero’s tortures loomed soon ahead.
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