The Telemachus Story Archive

Angry Sun
Part 6 - Hopelessly Imprisoned
By Rick Henry

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Part 6—Hopelessly Imprisoned.

The sudden and unexplained disappearance of Superman, the Man of Steel, would have been in the normal order of things the focus of intense international speculation and attention… and would have seen massive efforts by governments, news media, both private and public organizations, to locate him, or at least give a reason and/or explanation for his vanishing. It would have been seen as a mystery of the first order, a problem of the highest priority, and no resource left unexplored to solve it and find him.

But the Great Solar Anomaly (as the thing became known) meant that this was no normal time. And as important as the disappearance of Superman might normally have been, it was just one of hundreds of unexpected and shocking events that accompanied the Anomaly over time. Crop failures, sporadic pockets of starvation; birds falling in droves from the sky, fish upturned dead in waters world-wide; the turmoil of unstable governments, civil unrest; crime waves, end-times cult-group suicides. The strange behavior of the sun brought with its disruption upheavals galore to every part of the planet, and even the most devoted admirers of the Man of Steel had much greater demands on their attention than to fixate on what had happened to him, or where he had gone. It was widely known that his great powers were in some way dependent on the sun, and so it was assumed that the Anomaly had either annihilated him without a trace, or forced him to leave our solar system in search of a more agreeable environment. Were it even possible.

Certainly, there were some who fully expected his return, when after thirteen weeks, the Anomaly reversed itself as suddenly as it had occurred, and the sun and weather returned to their normal behavior. But when after another week passed, and then another, and there was no sign of him, it was assumed that was that—he was gone forever, the world would have to continue without him.

Six months after the Lev Levkowicz gang had left for Budapest with their immobilized, sensory-deprived captive, two distinctive looking figures strolled deep in conversation in the manicured grounds of a medieval palazzo overlooking Lake Maggiore. Both men wore immaculately tailored suits, and carried themselves with the air of confidence and authority that bespoke of their pre-eminent positions as masters of the criminal worlds of Europe and America. The larger, older was a man of immense size, almost seven feet tall. He carried his 340 pound bulk without any sign of effort, and exuded a sense of restrained strength and power which belied his 67 years. A full thatch of pure white hair crowned his head. When he spoke, it was in cultured English with a deep, elegant Milanese accent and vocal tones that sounded as though the voice was being dragged over gravel. His middle-aged companion, though of average height and relatively heavy set, seemed almost elven in comparison. Unlike the taller, the shorter man was totally bald. As they walked, he listened intently to the commanding voice of his huge companion, and when he replied his voice carried the same tone of confident authority, in the accent of one who, though his roots were in Brooklyn, was now truly a man of the world.

“So, Don Lucio, please explain to me how you were able to reduce the alien to a state of total obedience and impotence. The techniques must be extraordinary!”

“Well, my dear Lex, as I said at dinner, it was my relationship with the CIA which made it all possible. It was they who provided the necessary expertise to transform him from simple captivity to abject slavery. Yet, he’s not exactly impotent; he still unloads profusively.

“In the past, I had made this beautiful old building, one of my favourite palazzi, available to them as part of the hidden gulag of their “rendition” program. People assume that the CIA’s secret prisons must be dark cellars in out-of-the-way places, but they do not know the value of hiding in plain sight. I was happy to allow them use of this place. As you know, my organization and the CIA had many mutually compatible activities in the Middle East and Africa, and it suited me to ingratiate myself to them. I knew it would be an investment that would pay off.

“When I told them I had made a prisoner of a longstanding enemy, and wanted to render him incapable of ever again defying me, they saw it as a simple quid pro quo , for past assistance I had given them. And as they were not currently using the palazzo, it was agreed I would bring him here. There was only one stipulation: the prisoner could not be a citizen of the USA (and as you and I both know, the clandestine Clark Kent may be a citizen by adoption), but the Kryptonian Superman has never formalized his status. The CIA were more than a little taken aback when it became obvious just who the prisoner was; but by that time the process had already commenced, and it was difficult for them to back out. Of course, once it was known that he was no longer a “super-man” in anything but name, he was of no strategic use to them. The CIA has little time or need for sentiment. They are the ultimate pragmatists. And I, with my resources and contacts, am of much more use to them than a powerless alien!

“And so, he was abandoned into my control, and subjected to the mind-destroying techniques which they had taught to my people.”

“Oh, what a delicious irony, Don Lucio! The defender of “Justice and the American Way,” psychologically neutered, courtesy of America’s own intelligence organization! You must allow my people to also be fully educated in these techniques!”

“Certainly, my dear Lex. But more than that, I have a special proposal for you!”

The Don smiled broadly at the quizzical expression which crossed Lex Luthor’s face. “It will be my great pleasure to make “a gift” to you of the alien. But for half of what he has cost me. Say a bargain price of half a billion? $500 million? I have had much amusement from his humiliation, and to tell the truth, it had been my intention to finish him off once and for all some weeks ago. I had accomplished everything I wanted with him, humiliated him, and destroyed him psychologically—it was time for the coup de grace. You were certainly in on the guest list to be a witness to this finale.”

“I would have enjoyed that. But, Don Lucio, mio fratello, this is more than unexpected! I could never refuse—so generous! I don’t know what to say! Tell me, why did you not proceed with the execution?”

“The Solar Anomaly ended just in time to save his pathetic neck. I was over halfway through with my procedures, when his invulnerability returned, and we could not do to him as we had planned. Oh, you would have enjoyed it, Lex! I had decided to honor myself by executing the freak in the manner of British monarchs.”

“Ah, hung, drawn and quartered? Like the butchering of William Wallace?”

“Precisely! In front of an audience of his enemies flown in from every corner of the globe—hanged by his neck until just short of death; then slowly dragged, bound and naked, behind a small donkey along the long, winding gravel driveway of this estate (like Hector behind Achilles’ chariot). Can you imagine the jeering, spitting gauntlet that would have surrounded him, his incredible body, bloodied and torn, and those on the sidelines, watching his final, staggering journey to the block?”

The Don relayed his vision, Luther enthralled.

“Yes, I can! How delicious! And then, the quartering…. Castrated—his own proud assets thrust down his throat, or hung around his neck: disembowelled, dismembered, and decapitated!!”

“Yes, yes! And I had made arrangements for extreme medical support that would have somehow kept him alive, until the head came off! Can you imagine? Our mutual enemy hanging there, cock-less and ball-less, screaming in terror—feeling and watching his own “invulnerable” guts spilling out onto the ground in front of him?”

The Don’s eyes were alit with vicious imagination… while Lex Luthor’s eyes and grin widened at the thought of the horrific end that Superman had barely escaped.

“His luck, the Anomaly ended just in time! But doesn’t that now create a potential danger for us?”

“Not at all! His powers and invulnerability may have returned, but his mind has not. He neither realizes he has them, nor can he think how to use them! Let me show you.”

Don Lucio drew a large cell phone from his inside jacket pocket and began to swipe its face, leading the captivated Luthor to a stone bench by an ornate medieval fountain. The video image that appeared on the screen caused Luthor to catch his breath. The naked man huddling in the corner of the dim room was a much-diminished version of the former “Man of Steel.” He had lost a good quarter of his body weight and most of his muscle tone, his eyes and cheeks were sunken and pale, and his head practically bald, with a ragged, long-matted beard noticeably greying. His face was a mixture of gaping uncertainty and submission, like a kicked dog, and his breath came and went in arrhythmic short pants.

“Oh my God! How did you get him to this state?”

“Well, there were several phases. When he was first brought in, he was already nearly broken. Having been beaten senseless, immobilized, and sense-deprived for days. Mind already fogged with fear, humiliation, defeat, and powerlessness… for all his mighty strength which he still retained, as a normal overly-built man would, but had been disengaged from really using it, or sensing how. Rather than keep him as he was, I decided to thus give him a short reprieve. His limbs were unwrapped, allowing some normalcy to return. To eat, drink, bathe—for just three single days in solitary. Rest on a nice smooth bed.

“Then, we completely tightened the screws, to seal his fate. Physically and psychologically, strong though he still may be—or was. Destroying him day by day, inch by inch, thereafter. A full length, barred body cage had been fashioned. He was forced into it, and the latticed door sealed. It was exactly 6’5” tall, 42 inches wide, and 26 inches deep. He had to kept rigid at all times, could not turn nor twist his way sideways within it, nor raise his arms to even scratch his face, built as he was. At our pleasure, we could keep the cage upright, or lower it to a horizontal position for sleeping. Or we could slant it in any other direction or way we willed. Also, a firm collar had been secured around his neck, and fastened to the back of the cage, keeping him definitely in a singular position. A small grill portion was over the top front of the cage, to allow us to feed him. Otherwise he could barely move within it, except to do as we required. Which was to give us a half pint of his semen daily. Whether he had to masturbate once or six times a day to do it. But once we learned how truly prolific his volume was, we upped it to a full pint a day. Often times he was barely able to fulfill the quota, but we managed to get him regulated. Though it cost him dearly more than his seed.

“Naturally, he at first protested and refused. But crashed, when we assured him his friends Lois Lane, Jimmy Olsen, that Perry White, and his widowed mother in Smallville, were well within our reach and control… and could consequently be “compromised” unpleasantly. And he knew it. Though it was a purely fantasized ploy. He did not have the wherewithal to test us or disprove it, helplessly contained as he was. And complied. At first belligerently. But as the days went on, he began to truly “fag out.” Began to become rather shell-shocked, listless… vacant-eyed, simply stunned, and “empty.” He didn’t have much room to do it, his impossible endowment rising up to his pecs, mostly frotting himself, while he pulled on his huge cow-teats, moaned and thrashed. But in his position, locked in place, he could neither tilt his head, savor the milk from his own breasts, or take his own seed… which we quite inadvertently discovered was the major source of his true strengths and powers, along with the harmonics of the sun.

“In such a posture, could he not only be fed, contained, hosed clean, but the openings of the bars in the cage, also allowed for his bodily processes to be eliminated as he needed… the cage over a slanted drain hole in the floor beneath his feet. All very tidy and compact.”

“Oh, merciful heaven. No Kryptonite needed, either! So simple.”

“Practically impossible to obtain, as you know. Star Labs having confiscated all of it from everywhere, and destroyed it on his behalf. But a few remnants have remained; those we had to use, once the “Anomaly” was curtailed. We caught that just in time, though I think his brain was too depleted to think clearly when it happened. It was actually just three days prior, I had decided to eliminate a major source of his powers—once the analysis of the samples were complete, and astonished us with the potency of the results—more than his semen! And just in case the sun were to do its thing, not in our favor….

“So, I had his hands bound within the cage, cuffed so he could not move. Opened the front of it, had him securely pushed into the back of it. His neck already holding him fast. His eyes were rather dulled, yet went impossibly wide, when I brought out two large sets of vice grips. With the help of two assistants, had one each fastened onto his freak-huge udders, and pulled harshly forwards on them as far as they could go. He howled in surprise and unquestionable pain, obviously, head jerking back—then I quickly slashed off each one of them at the root, one after the other—before he realized it had happened, with a surgical scalpel.

“Oh, Dio—how he screamed, and screamed, and screamed—! “Nohhh! NOHHH!!! Not my milk, my milk. Naaa-OTT—MY MILK!!!!” Realizing I had thoroughly de-commissioned him. Sun or no sun. For all time! Almost more than if I had removed his testicles, I think. He was so horrified, in shock, pain, and anguish, he went into unconsciousness for six hours. In the meantime, we had four-inch diameter patches for healing applied to the wounds on his chest, to staunch the blood and speed his recovery. But he was never quite the same… almost catatonic, even when after the sun reversed its course.”

“You mean from his own tits, what gave him most of his strength?! Plus the sun? And now, never able again!! Astonishing. Then, he’s forever dead in the water—?”

“Nursed from his own breast milk, apparently. Those Kryptonians, a strange lot, indeed; if that’s the way they were. But, he’s still able to take of his semen. And with the sun, he’s not a useless hunk of pretty muscle. I’m sure you can train him for your own purposes. You’re not buying a sack of nothing, Lex. Or I wouldn’t have extended myself.”

“Oh, no, no. I believe there’s still lots to be done with “it.” As he is susceptible to hypnosis, I hear. And is already brain-shocked, as you say. I’m perfectly happy with our deal.”

“Another note. Before the solar reversal, for seven days we had let him roam freely naked in his cell. However, we were sure to de-male him further, while he could still comprehend it—had every shred of his body hair shaved off, removed from below his shoulders—buzz-cut his scalp to near nothing. Making that enormous penis of his look so much larger (and his balls). I considered removing them, too…. (But at the last moment spared him, for the sake of our planned, “later, final coup.”) Then, dressed him with a facsimile red cape, fastened around his neck and shoulders. And a large steel, genital chastity-rig, encompassing his treasures, which he could then no wise be able to use any longer. We played a recording instructing him to flex his muscularity, and reawaken himself to his stunning beauty—uselessly—in front of a portable mirror we had brought in, so he could still see the wonder of his physique, his genitals imprisoned, unable to pleasure himself in anyway. Telling him over and over: “This is the Superman you used to be. Now, no strength, no power—no milk, no seed. And, no hair.” It truly wore him down. Ever lovingly caressing at the might of his flexed arms, massive shoulders, striated thighs; and frantically roving his hands up and across his plate-thick, mounded pecs, brushing over his dark-splotched, but now flat, completely nub-less areolae—seeking for their former glory, so desperately. Then, after, often laying hopelessly curled into himself on the floor… wrapped in his cape, moaning softly, over and over and over. Whimpering. Ever fading. A whipped dog.”

“Must have lanced the narcissistic bastard straight to his core!”

“And, for the rest of the story,” Lucio continued, “there’s more. Once the sun restored itself to normality, we knew we had to work fast. We put him back, kept him in his cage another week, but this time, removing the steel rig, replacing it with a Kryptonite cock ring ever in place around his penis and scrotum. He was told our need for his semen was finished. His own, thus also being robbed of his “potency,” at the same time. And keeping him from sunlight, continually. Then, we resumed the final conditioning, before he had a clue his powers were actually restored, but completely dulled to the comprehension of it—the Kryptonite also keeping him in check, minimal though it was. If he ever discovered he was no longer susceptible to pain or our abuse, we would have a tiger on our hands, and we could not allow that to occur. So, while still in his state of demoralized devastation at the loss of his breast-source, emotionally near destroyed, we resumed the mummification treatment.

“The cock ring in place, we were able to once more sedate him into unconsciousness. Then, his ears were once more plugged, eyes bandaged, his mouth gagged, and limbs splinted and wrapped. As the CIA experts had instructed, we kept him immobilized and sense-deprived for several more weeks. The only communication was via physical “sensation” on his again exposed private parts and buttocks, and the taste of the liquid food which he was administered by a tube passed through the bandage wrappings and the gag. It was a classical conditioning and behavior modification a la Skinner and Pavlov. Reward and punishment…. Because words and language were not used, and he could not hear or make a sound, eventually he stopped thinking in words. His mental state declined to a consciousness based completely on sensation. This was the main element in the destruction of his personality. Once this was accomplished, we allowed him some movement, removing the splints and all of the bandaging except for the head. However, if he tried to stand, he immediately felt the “sting” of the cane on his rear and privates. He soon learned that it was his place to remain supine or on all fours. Finally, we later removed the bandaging on his head (but not in this episode), but the room he was kept in had little light, and he never heard a human voice. Watch.”

The Don tapped the screen and the image changed. Luthor saw a figure almost completely wrapped in bandages suspended stiffly in a horizontal position about a meter above the floor in the same dimly lit room. A tall, heavily built tattooed thug in jeans and singlet, holding a large mug containing a brown liquid approached the mummy. He held the mug up to the concealed face of the suspended figure where a short rubber tube extended from where the mouth would be. As the bound man began to suck frantically, the thug pulled the mug away and gave a resounding slap to the exposed ass, and another to the hanging genitals. The figure shook and uttered a barely audible sob of surprise—expectant of pain remembered, but now greatly diminished. Again, the thug held the mug up to the tube, but this time the victim did not suck. The thug began to gently stroke the mummy’s meaty exposed cock, working it expertly until the figure began to rock as much as his bonds would allow and a massive load of cum shot out all over the thug’s stroking hand. He then wiped the white goo over the nostrils of the bound figure, scraping the excess on the rim of the mug so that it ran into the soup it contained. He squeezed the straw tube a couple of times drawing a little of the liquid into the mouth of the bound man, who began to suck again, at first tentatively, then enthusiastically as it became apparent that he would be allowed to sate his hunger and thirst. As he sucked, the thug slowly fingered the muscular ass, sliding his fingers in deep, and clearly toying with the sensitive G-spot within, until the dangling horse-cock again grew hard. The thug added a second finger to the flexing ass, and then more, until his whole fisted hand was pistoning in and out, and the prisoner orgasmed a second time, just as he finished sucking the last of the nutrient from the large mug.

“I see,” said Luthor. “You conditioned him, programmed we could say, to associate sexual molestation with feeding? And his own cum is not helping him, neutralized by the Kryptonite cock ring.”

“Indeed. He now cannot eat or drink without engaging in some form of perverse abuse. For him, it has become the natural order of things. Not only that, but food and drink must bear the aroma and taste of semen, his own or others’ before he can consume it. He now actively seeks and responds to being used and abused. Watch some more.”

Again, the Don tapped the screen and again the image changed. In the same room, the mummified superhero was shown being lowered from his suspending straps. The same thug who had fisted him in the previous video, along with two others, began to unwrap him, removing all the bandages and the immobilising splints, until only the wrapping on the head remained. Still effectively deaf and blind, the unbound Kryptonian painfully flexed and stretched the muscles which had not been allowed movement for weeks. Heaving and staggering, he finally managed to pull himself to his feet but as soon as he did so the three criminals kicked his feet from under him and began to lay into him with their boots as he twisted and jerked on the floor. Once they stopped, he lay there for several minutes before attempting to stand again, and again they knocked him down and punished him with feet and fists connecting harshly with his defenseless body, paying particular attention to his balls and ass. This time when they stopped, he did not try to stand but simply pulled himself into a pathetic fetal position on the floor. The video faded to black, and a new scene began. This time, Superman was seen huddled in a corner, his head now unwrapped, his face a picture of fear and uncertainty. Two of the gang members from the previous scene approached him and tried to pull him to his feet, to a standing position. Emitting terrified grunts, he kicked and screamed until they released him, and he crumpled onto the floor on all fours before crawling back into the corner.

“Just some edited highlights of the conditioning process,” Don Lucio commented. “After the long period of sensory deprivation and immobility, the programming, as you call it, happened very quickly. Now see what he has become.” Again, he tapped the screen.

In the same dim room, the grossly dishevelled Superman lay in his corner on the cobbles, tightly curled up until something appeared to take his attention. Once more partially clad in just his cape. The defeated superhero began to scuttle around the floor of the large medieval room, darting from place to place in seeming random fashion. Luthor soon became aware that whoever was holding the camera was tapping on the floor with a long cane, and that Superman was scuttling from point to point as indicated. After several minutes of this “game,” the camera operator stopped tapping the floor and patted his own legs. Superman darted to him and knelt like a puppy in front of him, his face looming large and foolish in the screen. Luthor could see a hand ruffling the fallen hero’s hair, and patting his head like a good dog. Superman responded by falling onto his back, spreading his legs and arms wide, exposing his naked body completely for the camera. A hand reached down and patted the torso, rubbed and scratched the belly, then played with the grossly flaccid genitals. The camera moved in for a closeup as the hand continued to work Superman’s impressive male equipment. Luthor smiled as he contemplated the power he was now going to have, to be able to toy with the magnificent Kryptonian body at any time and in any way he wanted. The naked alien on the screen was hardening quickly, making animalistic whimpering sounds as his hips began to rock up and down.

“We eliminated language completely, using only physical contact and gestures,” explained Don Lucio. “We thus never speak in his presence, and any attempts he made to use words were severely punished early on. He may probably have forgotten language altogether, now. Which should further even compromise his ability to think!”

Luthor nodded his understanding soundlessly, his piggish, widened eyes glued to the screen and the glorious desecration of the once Man of Steel being acted out in front of him.

Then, suddenly Superman rolled away from the masturbating hand and knelt on all fours, his now fully erect cock rock hard and sticking out. He began to thrust back and forth as if fucking the air. The camera operator sat down beside him, took a firm hold of the tumescent penis, and began to milk it with long, firm strokes. The whimpering turned to a moaning, and Superman’s hips thrust purposefully in time with the tugging of his horse-like extremity. In just a few short minutes, he gave a high-pitched howl and Don Lucio Lucifero’s Kryptonian cum-colt shot spurt after spurt of hot white man-milk onto the floor. A now uselessly sterile fluid.

“That’s amazing!” shouted Luthor. “Do you do this often with him?”

“Oh, this is just one of the control-games we play,” explained the Don. “My men have a number of tricks they like to make him perform, and quite a few activities they perform on him themselves—individually and in groups. It really just depends on what particular entertainment they feel like at the time. Though it can become tedious.”

And both he and his American guest laughed aloud, raucously. “For the doers, or the done-to?” Lex quipped, relaxing. “I’m sure we can find ways to spice up the activities.”

“Now watch this next part, Lex. Incredible how he can blow a cupful at a time, still. Yet we have to astutely regulate his diet to do so.”

Luthor turned his attention once more to the screen as Superman bent his face to the floor and began to assiduously lick up his plentiful ejaculate. Then, he turned and scuttled back to the corner where he huddled again in an almost fetal-like position. The camera left Superman, and closed in on where he had licked the floor. It was wet with his saliva, but at the edges of the area there were clearly several globs of semen he had missed. The camera operator rose and quickly crossed to the huddled figure in the corner. Luthor could see the cane rise into the air above Superman, who gave a plaintive squeal just before it came down with a sharp crack across his back. He yelped and leapt from his corner, darting on all fours towards the pooled cum spots as the cane continued to rain down across his back and ass. Feverishly, he licked at the blots he had missed. The beating stopped, the sobbing victim made his way dejectedly back to his corner, and the video came to an end.

“That is extraordinary! Don Lucio, you have my fullest admiration. You have completely humbled and degraded our common enemy, and turned him into a plaything for sadists and perverts. I salute you!”

“Thank you, my dear, Lex. My only regret is that the loss of his mind means he himself cannot fully understand his downfall, any longer. Still, that is small bananas given what we have accomplished. The former video was taken just before the reversal of the Anomaly. It depicts the greatest depths of his degradation. Following the reversal, his muscle tone and color returned virtually instantaneously, as did his hair color. We had a few nervous moments waiting to see how his behavior would change, whether he would regain his mind and will, but he remained just as totally submissive and mindless as you saw then, so all is good. His invulnerability, and presumably his powers, have returned, but he is in no way conscious of the fact. The only drawback is that now we cannot punish him physically, since he no longer feels any pain.”

“Nevertheless, my dear Don Lucio, there is something especially delicious about having Superman with all of his powers in total and abject submission. Enslaved despite his might. How very, very satisfying. I can’t wait to take possession of such a wonderful gift!”

“Which you will do very shortly, my friend. But watch some more. This next clip is much more recent.”

The Don tapped the screen of the smartphone again and a new image appeared. Superman once more was seen huddled in the dimly lit corner, but a remarkable transformation was evident. Although unwashed and covered in grime, he was once again the glorious epitome of beauty and strength in men. The stubbled hair and beard were jet black with a lustrous sheen, and when he turned his head to the camera his rose-cheeked, chiselled film star features had clearly returned along with the brilliance of his ultramarine eyes. His muscular torso and limbs were once again a sensuous blend of Adonis and Hercules. It was the Superman that the world loved, admired, and desired, but with a clear difference. The dejected bearing and body language were those of a slave. His humbled head hung low, pecs un-thrust, his gaze dipped downwards, and his shoulders sagged in defeat and submission.

As Luthor watched, he saw a squat, swarthy, middle-aged man, one of the thugs from the earlier videos, enter the room carrying a feeding bowl filled with some sort of gray non-descript mush, which he placed in the centre of the room. The man knocked on the floor twice loudly with his knuckles, and Superman left his corner on all fours and crossed to the bowl. To Luthor’s surprise, however, he did not stop to eat, but advanced until the bowl was beneath his crotch. He then proceeded, on his knees, to unfasten the zipper of the fat thug before him, pull out his rancid cock, and began to suck it. And expertly, apparently, for the man came rather quickly in his mouth, sighing loudly. Superman then, continued, reaching between his own legs, to ensnare his large, already tumid member, and began to masturbate furiously with both hands, occasionally rubbing up one hand desperately across his chest, seeking for the traces—the now scarred-over areolae—of his wondrous body-remembered, but now removed nipples, no longer there, which would have hastened his cumming… and bucking his body as though he was humping a whore. In only a few minutes, with loud grunting, he released a copious load of ejaculate onto the food below. Then he quietly changed position, buried his head into the bowl, and began to eat.

Once the food and its fresh, warm “sauce” had all been consumed, and the bowl licked clean, the degraded superhero crawled to the far side of the room and into what seemed to be a sandbox. He squatted in the sand, lowered his hips, and relieved himself.

“Whoa!” exclaimed Luthor. “I’m not really into scat cinema. Although I must say, I’m loving the thoroughness of your work, Don Lucio.”

“It’s all part of the program,” explained the Don. “From the time we took possession of him, his life has been completely regulated by us. He makes no decisions about when he eats, when he sleeps, when he goes to the toilet, when he masturbates, or is fucked. Part of the initial training was to fit him with a massive anal-plug, a nastily thick-around seven-incher. He could only evacuate when we removed it, which we did in random fashion with no regularity, so he could never predict when it would happen. He was given no control over any aspect of his existence, no opportunity to exercise will … so therefore deprived, no need or use for will. We determine everything that happens, and when it happens. All he can do is wait and respond, as required. Keep watching.”

As Luthor returned his eyes to the screen, the swarthy man picked up some rags from a pile next to the sandbox. Red, blue and yellow rags, the filthy remnants of the once famous costume. Superman left the sandbox and knelt with his face lowered to the floor, and his ass up high and wide, slipping his facsimile cape to the side to bare himself. The man roughly wiped the proffered anus with the begrimed costume, then tossed it to the side. Grinning widely, he unloosed and pulled from the side of his cargo pants, a massive ten-inch black-colored dildo, while Superman held his position ass-high. The man smiled broadly at the camera, gave a thumb’s up gesture, then unceremoniously thrust the wicked, cock-tool deep into the slave’s man-cunt—slamming hard and fast into the muscular butt as Superman maintained his position with little reaction—his face in an obvious grimace, but mostly impassive and expressionless: an obedient and compliant fuck-dump. His assailant grinned at the camera again, slapping Superman twice on the thigh, and withdrew the object. Superman then immediately changed position, kneeling with his head back and his mouth wide open, to receive once more the same tool he had been fucked with. The man assiduously deep-throated him with no mercy… the hero gagging and gurgling uselessly, but taking it all. Almost seemed to enjoy it, even so. The taste of his own body in his mouth, Superman’s penis once more rising to full glory, and was allowed to jerk himself off again. Falling back in a daze when he came.

The man sternly indicated what he must do. The spent hero forced to scoop up and hand-feed himself with his own ejaculate once more. (Unbeknownst to his captives, actually it was a boon: a possible inherent salvation for the Man of Steel, being restored deep within him by the savor and ingesting of his own reproductive/life essences, over and over, regardless of the damage which had been previously done, by both them and the sun—though it was more of a minimal thing, than truly restorative—the Kryptonite ring of poison encircling his genital base, while gradually fading in intensity, still depleting his resources.) The thug once again gave a huge smile, a thumb’s-up gesture to the camera, and the screen faded to black.

“And this is what he has been reduced to…” mused Luthor. “I shall enjoy owning and playing with such a pet, as will my employees. I’m sure we will be able to add to the scope of his degradations.” He grinned broadly at his Italian counterpart, who winked, grinning back.

“As long as you stick to the protocols and training methods, you should be able to get him to respond in whatever way you desire, Lex. He will be your pawn to use however you want, even to be paraded before others in triumph, if you wish. Or possibly be set to rob any bank you please…. Now, as luck would have it, I can offer you a further supplement to this gift. As you recall, it was the Levkowicz gang who secured the alien for me. Well, Levkowicz has now gone into a debauched retirement in Thailand, thanks to the billion dollars I paid him. And I later learned, this scoundrel had personally lured in and dispatched most of his accomplices, one by one—so he would have less to pay out, and keep for himself. The bastard! Not, however, an unusual procedure…. But one of his favored survivors (besides Terry and Stan, and I think Yuri), a young Scot, by the name of Austin Mackenzie, has been in contact with me requesting a role here as the former Superman’s keeper. Why, I can’t be sure; his cut should well have removed him from any financial worries for quite some time. Unless he merely has a blood-lust appetite, to inflict more harm. According to Levkowicz, he played an extremely significant role in “the capture,” and the workable idea of our negotiations. Naturally, I will no longer have use for a keeper —but you may?”

“Mmmm, yes. Could be useful. You can vouch for him?”

“Levkowicz was full of praise. Said this Scot is something of a martial arts genius, who’s into sadistic gay discipline, and really got off on humiliating the alien. Raped him nearly senseless—effectively cowed him down from the beginning—crushed his superior ego! Eventually had him wailing and moaning “in actual heat.” But, why not meet him yourself? He arrived at the palazzo early this morning, and should be reacquainting himself with our degraded pet even as we speak. Upon his arrival—though I have not met him—my team thoroughly checked out his papers, and allowed him private access to the “vacuous-brained” prisoner. We recently changed him to a different cell, with a door leading to an upper outside patio, enclosed over the top with an iron grillwork, in case “it” might mindlessly try to flit away. To test whether the thing might be further enhanced or constrained by sunlight, from which he has been restricted all this time. Why don't we visit them right now?”

“That would be perfect, Don Lucio. I’m looking forward to a little ‘reacquainting,’ myself!” And both laughing, the two criminal masterminds began to make their way across the manicured lawns towards the elegant palace, which served as prison to the most powerful, yet impotently strong creature on earth.

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