It took a while for the nearly murdered Superman to come around. Which made sense, even for the most stalwart of men. Complained he had great trouble breathing, the inner core of his chest still as if afire, and mis-firing… the most pitiful look of resignation in his eyes, realizing he had for all of his once touted magnificence been rendered worse than useless, his so wondrous musculature and strength unable to save him. The ball was completely in D.s court, even the entire game… players, included. Another round like that could finish him, no question. Knowing even his “invulnerability” had been breached, sensed it. Like any man, could be killed.
Is that what D. was going to do?
Fumbling for words, his last desperate hope. “You, you can save me… if you will. Or—or, I’m done for.”
“I know,” D. said.
The quiet was palpable. Their eyes engaged deeply. As if exchanging all they were or could be, into and through them.
“It might take a few days. Lay me out in the sun. I can… could recover. If you feed me.”
“How?” D. joshed. “Steak and eggs? My … jizz? Or from yours I’ve collected—?”
“I… I think so. If you—will?”
“Why should I?”
Not the response he’d hoped for.
“Be-because… you want to?” His last card played. “We, we could be good together.” Once reestablished as Superman, and he in control. “If nothing else—a regular, on-going joy in our lives.”
“Guess… I could think about it,” with a wan smile. “More coffee?” Already knowing what he must do.
“Sure, yeah. Yes, please.”
The snare at last closed.
Clark accepted the coffee gratefully, swallowed it urgently. Unwittingly, sealing his fate. D.’s eyes and his glued into each other’s. He sighed, feeling content, re-invigorated. Sparked with possibility. Yet still bodily sluggish. The additional tranquilizers in his drink fatally depowering him further. Although oddly once again as though his libido had been recharged. The reinfusion of more Viagra and the other potent aphrodisiac into his system surging through him. His nipples beginning to extend, swell, tingle with an insatiable want to be taken.
“Think you’d like to try for another go? Seal our deal. Promise I’ll make it easier, till you’re more used to me. Not balls deep this time.”
His words, giving the still no less effectively bedazed Clark a much needed shot of hope.
“Yes, yes… if you’ll please untie me. Loose my hands, feet. And, and if you will… allow me. Once more… to again savor my own breasts, and cock… while you do me. Would mean so much—to experience that again. Replenish, some of what I’ve lost? You’ll, you’ll have to help me get into position….”
Grabbing at straws, thinking there was yes the possibility of re-ingesting enough strength and power from himself to perhaps break free, end this nightmare. Even if only to regain enough as befitting the very built man he was, that he could easily overcome the lesser, younger D. who had bound him, without any need of his “super” powers, which could take a considerable amount of time to restore. Although he had no desire to harm him—merely to reassert himself, who he was.
D. for a few moments reconsidered Clark’s plea. Figured things were well under control. Superman no longer any threat whatsoever. Nor the big muscled Clark. Both contained… and on the way “out.” But he wanted to be sure, test the failure of the alien’s systemic vulnerability.
“Sure,” he said, moving closer. Then swiftly lunged, grasped hold of his muscled captive’s huge teats, deep into his pecs, right behind the black encircling bands he’d placed there at the rim-bases of his areolae—then pulled, and squeezed as hard as he could. Clark arched and bucked, shrieking. While he followed that with his mouth, the nipples jerked hard and tight together, and into his mouth, and viciously began chewing on them like a fine steak dinner.
Clark could not stop screaming. For while the ecstasy was incredible, the pain was beyond more so. “Oh, please, please, stop!! STOP, DEEEE—OHHH, STOHH-PPPP!!!! Please, please—you’re KILLING ME!!!!” The big alien writhing uncontrollably. Incredibly desperate. Near fainting.
His mouth full of Superman’s wondrous nectars, and traces of blood, he stopped. Pulled back and swallowed the wonderful richness he’d taken from him. Observed the rivers of milk streaming from his ravaged pecs, tiny rivulets of blood interspersed within them. Content. Mission accomplished. The alien’s “shield” of protection more than demonstrably shattered. He gazed down at the quivering bulk of muscle under him still tossing, groaning… then sweetly, gently kissed over his nipples, caressing them with a true fondness, easing the man into an equilibrium of reprieve. Till he relaxed, began sighing, cooing, “ahhhhh-ing” once more.
Then moved to unfasten the cuffs from his wrists and ankles. Clark grateful, thanked him over and over. “Free at last. Free… to love, be loved… properly.” And weakly hugged him.
It was that moment, D. regretted the whole of everything. Wanted Clark in his arms, forever. But gritted his teeth. Had to get on with this. And while helping his appreciative man to get into a better position on the portable gurney, also managed to get the rest of his gear to the side and in place, so things could be done efficiently, quickly… with as little fuss as possible. The back of the bed was adjusted so it was at a slight incline, and the knee/thighs part raised complementary, also.
“Can you, with no problem—?” D. asked.
“Yes, I think so.” Clark’s overly wide lats comfortably against the mattress, one hand going forth under one of his pliably, burgeoned pecs, pushing upwards, simply tucking his chin to swallow in the full length of his nipple, down to the confined, still banded shaft, then drawing back. “Tilting my hips to receive you… tucking forwards, my glans easy into my mouth. Ought to do it.” As if seeking approval. (His hope springing to the rafters. Could he, could he?! Did he have enough within—to restore, renew? He must, he must—it must happen. Be enough. Even minimally.)
With a jaunty “Permission to come aboard, sir,” D. stepped forwards, and began the ascending/descension between his man’s willing, already spreading cord-thick thighs.
“Aye, Captain. My so well-hung, wonderful Captain. As you will.”
“Never fear, my huge-breasted alien. Big-cocked paramour. I will be gentle. Have come to serve you, fill you to your heart’s content….”
D., kissing him, almost desperately. Clark with much the same fervor. So wonderful, so wonderful— surely this could not end! D. would save him! Must!! Their lips, tongues, breaths, salivas exchanged with a more than willing eagerness, an urgent and acute union-ing. Their cocks rubbing, engaging together, rigid and swollen, already rushing forth their Cowper’s flows like well-tapped rivers. D. caressing, sucking, lightly nipping at Superman’s undeniably colossal breasts, their rubbery-titted thicknesses beginning to easily pour out their wetness into his insatiable mouth; while Clark was teasing, devouring the whole of D.’s ridged, monumental glans-cap, and even further down to his cut line… both of them making rapturous, animalistic noises, arms fastened, torsos adhering.
Finally, D. needed to readjust himself, had to seek shelter for his member within the confines of Clark’s starving ass, and once getting himself in rather securely, at least halfway… then attended to assisting the frantic Clark to receive his own humongous nipples into his mouth more easily, both teated projections at the same time, watching him drink voraciously from them. (Knowing that when ready, he would disengage them and clamp his mouth over his cock to receive his life-generating seed.) Meanwhile, D. proceeded to further core his paramour deeper and deeper, careful not to hurt him, while also engaging in the still freed, joyous deep-throated fellating of Clark’s huge cock as much as he could. His own heated rod driving them both near crazy and close to orgasming…. Thrusting and swirling, thrusting and sucking, loving, and drinking from the bounty of their combined founts as much as humanly possible, in mutual intoxication.
Both of them truly drunk on the wonder of it all: each from each, and their own.
Their bodies in perfect harmony, rising to their crests of bursting joy with shrill moans, intense muffled cries, together in tandem. His teats still spurting wildly, Superman releasing his paired mammaries then, to engulf with his mouth the beginning rise and rush of his own life-laden ejaculate—D.’s life-making jizz exploding also within him. Each of them gulp-gasping as their physiques spasmed, jerked, and expelled their essences in multiple successions of release… finally easing down into the relaxation of post orgasmic bliss, their arms wrapped around each other. Wonderfully sated. But suddenly disappointed, Superman hopefully strove forth, was trying to rise, and found he still couldn’t… just partially wriggle up a bit. No, no, no—he hadn’t received enough back yet! Had previously expended much too much of himself, would require more time! More time! Still… trapped! Still D.’s prisoner.
And D., ease-withdrawing his softening, lathered member from him, however then strangely piled in across the front of him, spreading his own tapered thighs wide, anchoring his weight over Clark’s hips, who was struggling to aright himself… the both of their heavily, slackening and expended cocks lying entangled together, gloriously thick, still semi-hard, scrotums relatively meshed and co-joined: Ahhh, the wonderful bonding warmth of them, their preciously weighted potencies…. D., now silkenly caressing again, and so lovingly… at, across, onto and over Clark’s still streaming unbelievably big nipples.
In his semi-sitting position, mouth yet ajar, his nips which were well-sagged and hanging even to below his navel, Clark was yet able to thrill at D.’s so astute feathering touch, who was rapturously gazing at the wonder of them. “So beautiful,” D. murmured, lulling him in. “So strength-giving. Which you’ve enjoyed so long, so long.”
Mystified, but accepting, Superman straightened a bit. “I, I have. Endlessly. And love them so much! They could be yours, too… whenever you want. If you help me? Have… patience.”
“I’d love to. But—” and shrugged away. Reaching vaguely over towards the side table.
Clark continued. “But who are you? Really? Not just “D.?” Must be more.”
“You’re right,” D. smiled. Straightening back, something indiscernible in his hands. Engaging Clark’s eyes fully, commandingly. “It’s D.—Dee for Dex. Dexter, ” he said.
And moved like lightning, climbing higher atop him. Clark felt as if his gut had been rip-pierced by a barbed-stiff ice pick. Suddenly sensing something worse. Was barely able to comprehend, accept. “No, no, no… NO!!” he tried to cry out.
The thick, clear plastic bag already over his head. Three quick looping curls of one-half-inch, fine nylon rope wrapped swiftly, securely around his neck, under his jaws, being pulled tight. Tighter!! Tight!! Tighter!!! D. holding firmly onto. Had he regained his strength he might have made it. His fingers frantic at the closing death on his throat, unable to grip, claw his way to freedom. “Unh, unh, unhhh!!” In irrevocable, horror-filled surprise. His panicked gurgles easily heard through the suffocating, wrinkly plastic, his feet slipping, seeking traction, kicking, sliding on the slick sheets. D. watched Superman’s beautiful mouth trying to say something, saw the in and out movement of the sides of the bag, felt the incredible strident bucking of his powerful torso, neck and head desperate to shake free… while he pushed back, held the weakened titan down, his full kneed weight onto those magnificent still oozing pectorals, glorious, massive arms flailing like wet spaghetti under him, frenzied fingers clenching and unclenching, plaintive, reaching out for mercy… as his eyes rolled, body spasmed—arched, stiffened… tension failed. A quick darkness engulfing him. Went quiet and slack.
Blood flow to his brain instantly cut-off, no longer able to breathe. A now deflated mass of beyond handsome, male, masculine extraordinarily sculpted, incredibly breasted and hung muscle, flat on his back. Envy of all viewers, desired by millions. Most wondrous of men in the universe. Extinguished in an eye-blink. Simple as pie.
Took less than thirty-five seconds, D. surmised. Quicker than the Bat, who because of his lesser compromised strength had been a much wilder ride. This one as planned had to be dosed down to barely functioning. Must be, before moving in for the kill. Unable to resist even a ten-year old, no doubt. And true to his word, quick: no pain. Although with some chagrin, and definite remorse, he groaned aloud. He’d really wanted to save this one, spare him. Looking at his so magnificent body, knowing who he had been, what they had shared—he felt the pangs deeply. Surely, he wasn’t that bad, that he’d needed to be exterminated! Was the world crazy?
But if he hadn’t done him in, once the contract had been issued… it’d have been himself, instead. He had to get on with it.
* * *
The rain had stopped, though it was nearing dark. He’d wanted to wait, make sure. Pulses long ago ceased, still observant of his handiwork. More photos taken. Had to be absolutely certain. The body still warm, a tad flexible yet. Must be part of his genetics he figured. It had been a good six hours. To insure all was well, he got his hunting knife and made a deep slash on one of his arms. The blade went through clean and sharp. Not even a tremor or a twitch. But there was still some prolific blood flow. Which he knew he had to take care of. The finale here now had to be final.
With great reluctance he proceeded, his instruments ready. Whistling a bit nervously, he picked up his scalpel, hovered over that mighty set of pectorals, the monster nipples lying slack and spread thickly wide from them, dangling down like sausages well below the curve of his pec line. He measured them at five and a half full inches; undoubtedly having been stretched further from all the pumping done to him just recently, and surely quite longer and thicker than when he had first seen them; Superman telling him they were over four when they first met. Quite a feat of increase, he mused. Then taking the scalpel blade firmly and deftly up close against the areolae, behind the rim of the black rings which he himself had earlier attached to the unconscious Clark—severed first one then other (rings still attached) from his superbly, gigantic chest. The blood and milk flow was minimal, which he carefully cauterized, and placed the removed trophies in a fitting plastic bag. Once removed, they seem to look even more remarkable than when they had graced the alien’s torso. Ruing, of course, he had sucked from them… could never more again. Nor would Clark.
Next, he moved further down to confront the sizeable appendage which was Clark’s startling penis. Damn, a hunk of malehood, indeed! Sort of shuddering to think of what someone could or might maybe one day do to him . His naturally greater, but the alien’s had been a colossal prize to be sported by any man, few on earth so generously blessed. And most that were, most usually kind of warped or skinny or relatively misshapen, even curved. This one had been remarkably thick, straight, un-foreskinned, with a bulge-worthy glans of well and oft savored pure delight. No wonder the man had self-sucked like a maniac when possible, considering he’d met almost no one to match him, or had wanted to engage with. (Except the hungry Bat, whose endowment was generous, but his not quite the equally matching complement.) Clark’s hardly any different he considered than himself, truth be told. Can’t fault any man for enjoying his assets. And he, like the one he’d just snuffed, couldn’t hold it against him. Not to mention those fantastic tits of his. Knowing if he’d have had such a fruitful set, he would have been as looney as Superman sucking his. And if they gave him such incredible strength, the milk from them, he’d be a winged-out fool not to.
Then, the issue of his scrotum. Another enormous wonderment, and beyond prodigiously productive. That fucker could have bred and raised an army like himself; wondering why he’d never attempted it? Certainly an enticing thought—how to rule the world. But being both so demure and unprepossessing, such a wan Boy Scout as Clark, combined with the powerhouse alien that he was… it must have done a continual number on his mind and psyche. (As he’d rather proven, how he had bound and put both the great Superman and the indomitable Bat into complete subservience with little ado. Just because of his winning smile, and his beyond outrageous cock.) However, his own apple-bag, while impressive, was still not on par with the now useless Clark’s. The alien’s nut-sac hardly believable, two oversized avocado’s dangling between his thighs… must have made every move he made a constant stimulation, an ever-craved desire to be sexually satisfied. Feeling the ever additional pressured weight of his member, and those out-thrust pecs flopping around in his suit, even if “judiciously” contained.
And so as before, he astutely, surgically removed Superman’s outstanding giant penis, and gaspingly heavy, fruitful balls. With great regret. Cauterizing everything tidily. The idea was, even if by a miracle he recovered, came back to life… missing his power sources’ abilities would cause him to be an eternal eunuch, incapable of little more than just breathing, existing—for little reason or to no effect. These, too, were put in the appropriate containers, bags to be nestled at his feet. With one last parting stroke.
Finally, gathering a bevy of buckets, placing them around appropriately, he went to the nude, still gorgeous, de-manned and sexless Kent-man, without the ability to seed-fill, breast feed or nurse anyone ever again (not even himself), and gripping him under the arms pulled his body forwards until his neck and head were lolling off the edge of the table, down sagging and vulnerable. Legs and feet elevated a bit, also. Buckets in place… still not the slightest rise and fall of his chest to indicate he might somehow yet be able to breathe. He pushed rudely on his mounded pectoral plates, and did see a rushing seepage of his milks still, even from the cauterized areas, but worried not, no “rise and fall” of air, and knowing his inner sacs would eventually dry and wither to nothing… kept unstimulated and unused. No more muscle-nurturing juices for him! Nor to give from.
And thus, properly positioned, he grabbed up the small power-saw. Cutting carefully below the bag line, and lower down towards the shoulders, he removed Superman’s head with little trouble. The gaping mouth yet ajar, shocked blue eyes still seen wide and open in the bag… desperate and fearful, cascading into a life-failing repose. He placed his final trophy in another larger bag, and positioned the buckets to catch the flow of blood which was still quite evident and profusive. All that muscle with such a large supply and reservoir of it would be normal, he figured. Would now leave the body to drain its contents overnight. To be certain. Not failing to take the necessary trove of photographs. Evidence of his conquest.
Exactly as they had determined: no air, no blood… no life . Superman had lost. Was done. For him, no possibility of return. Nor resurrection.
The next morning, the sky cleared, a strong wind helped with the firming of the ground, yet he still considered the spreading out of ashes from the fireplace would help ease the roll of the trolley down the path to his grave. Blood buckets emptied down the shower drain, he sponged off the headless, genital/nipple-less massive body which had been Superman’s. Even in repose and marred, he was still something incredible to behold. Again D. gritted his teeth— why, oh, why had this needed to be done?! Shaking his head sadly… rolled the pine box next to the gurney, and with a careful, strained shove, flip-rolled the alien’s lifeless form into it with a resounding, noticeable thud. Not quite fully on its back, he had to tug and twist to get the failed bulk of it into the proper position, legs straightened, arms to its side, sear-marked chest fully prowing up and out. Then, considerately, not knowing what else to do, took a bottle of his favorite cologne and doused it over the inert, muscled titan which had been Superman. (He’d thoughtfully done the same with that Wayne guy—these two having been his most regretful, yet most accomplished kills—ruing he couldn’t have saved them, kept them alive. Orders being orders. Had gotten ten million for the terminated Bruce, was to get twenty million for eradicating the unearthly Kal-El from Krypton.)
Remembering how he’d even longingly kissed the Bat’s, heavily thick, cold, wonderful cock, before fastening his coffin lid over him. Only with this one he couldn’t do the same. Just held up the trophy bags one more time, gazing at them with a pure sense of awe and no less appreciation, what they had been, how they had been enjoyed… tears in his eyes, before nestling them into the box between the richness of his victim’s shapely-haired thighs. Slipped on the closing lid, nailed it shut. Hoisted the so unwieldy load of him onto the trolley and guided it outside into the cold. Wheeled the last of Superman out to his final resting place, dumped the heavy container into the hole already prepared. Fired up the earth-mover, and had the once wondrous Superman covered beneath eight feet of dirt.
When finished, he went inside, washed his hands, and got a huge slug of whiskey to recap all that he had done. Then went further into his bedroom, turned on his computer. There was a message blinking for him. He frowned, opened it, read it with a gasp—. Dated more than twelve hours earlier!
There suddenly flashed before his eyes, the distraught, desperate face of Clark, unexpectedly caught—the so handsome snared Superman’s startled visage through the plastic, as D. had unrelentingly coiled the nylon cords tighter and tighter, securely around his neck… the over-built, but weakened alien muscle man’s muffled gasps… his strength-waned panicked fingers reaching out to him, begging reprieve. Lips moving, shocked, vibrant blue eyes wide and pleading. Could at that moment… have yet saved him—. Seconds before too late.
It was now snowing heavily outside. One of his mantel clocks chimed ominously.
D.’s guts did a rushing churn, he curled forwards. Then went cold all over. Straightened. Tossed his head up and back—fists pounding at his temples.
And screamed.