by Rick Henry , March 2021. (Enhanced/expanded/rewritten from an older story by ashtonjacobs15; original author unable to be located or found for comment or permission.)
This is a work of fan fiction; Superman and Batman are properties of DC Comics and Warner Bros. For mature readers only: strong depictions of male/male sexuality are displayed, expressed, and explored.
Superman was sitting alone late in the offices of the Daily Planet, distractedly mulling over the information he had accumulated during the past three months. He was also relatively worried trying to come to terms with what had been happening to him—what he had become, or “was becoming”… more and more. It just didn’t seem possible. Ever since that strange night at the Metropolis' Media Awards.
As Clark Kent, he had been at the Awards that evening and played the part of the “loser” to perfection. It sometimes now, looking back, made him feel as if that were the truer role he had been sent to earth to play. As it was a constant battle to wage, between being personally realistic and also having to perform in his “ultra-other” alien-persona, the unconquerable Superman—ever in the spotlight, and idolized beyond reality. Not only that, but this newer chain of events was shaking him to his core. Bringing into sharper focus something he had carefully hidden: what he had strangely, and somewhat guiltily, secretly craved—to explore the possibility of a close involvement with another muscular, similarly built man—and how much he yearned to be the object of their attention, desire, and masculine-pleasing approval. (After all, the magnificence of his own naked body, at home in his mirror, was a distraction almost unbearable to deal with: his own 9-plus-inch flaccid-hung member and plum-sized beauties stunning him, stirring within him strange, “forbidden feelings” with also big manly nipples, which electrified him into instant arousal if touched. So, he avoided doing so, even when bathing or toweling off after a shower—a forever ordeal, trying to curb such desires.)
For himself as Superman, this was indeed something out of the equation; as much as it was for also being Clark Kent. (Though of all the people in the world, Batman was his near closest rival and match. However, as much as they might be acquaintances—more so than friends— this was certainly never a topic to be broached in each other’s presence.) And now this Glenn Thompson guy was rather unwittingly causing a breach in his defenses. Was getting into him and onto him much too uncomfortably… although it had been an evolving, innocent intrusion. He was a likeable enough fellow, but had shockingly opened doors in ways never before considered, and Clark feared now he was stumbling into strange territory.
Clark hadn’t always been that way, and had never been raised to think along abnormal lines. But as he’d matured, the increased wonder of his genitals and overall physique, seeming to sprout wild-firedly anew when he passed 20, well beyond puberty (which had it happened then, might have easily “captured” him at an earlier age, and thrust him into something he could not possibly escape… or more simply just dealt with)—now equally alarming, pleasing, and fascinating him! Being an ardent admirer of male beauty, his own physique rivaled that of the most beautiful bodybuilders around—not the bloated pumped-up ones, but the more aesthetic, leaner, yet massively symmetrical ones—and he’d really not had to do anything to gain such. (Just a few token workouts, couple of times a week; nothing heavy duty like most.) He often wondered if all Kryptonian males might have been the same way, if naturally built and endowed, were he to be on his home planet. Maybe then, his emerging feelings might have been simply natural—ordinary? To consider close companionship with other men of his own kind, and then to further more commonly unite with females? (Or both?) Yet being earthbound here, it was an unsettling human consternation.
But then, his strict penchant to ever do well, live and act respectably, always won out in the end—ignoring what he knew were considered highly unmanly, disreputable thoughts, and he must discard them. So, he continued living-out and relishing his superior guise as “earth's greatest champion.” He was ever guarded, proper, and never allowed sexual thoughts to entangle or control him. And, as the astounding alien, Superman, he had powers both hidden and overt beyond imagining. It would never be right nor fair to misuse or abuse them towards any other beings so inordinately less blessed. (Except when confronting evil or evil-doers, or utilizing his great strength when rescuing those in dire peril.)
He had run into Glenn Thompson only a few times, liked his ready wit, affable manner, and lingering strong handshake… the man who acted as the emcee for the evening, and whose main job was sportscaster at Metropolis Tonight , the flagship show of Edge Communication's, ENN. He was a typical type “A” personality, who enjoyed ribbing Clark every chance he got when their paths crossed at events like the awards show. Clark tolerated the ribbing because he knew deep down if he exercised himself as Superman, he could put Glenn in his place quickly, and with little effort. Their bantering was kind of fun in a way, harmless “good old boy” kidding around.
Of course, there was another odd reason, which the Man of Steel would only admit to himself. It was that a part of him enjoyed the taunting, enjoyed knowing that he could (even as the most spectacular male on earth, besides Batman), be lulled into feeling “inadequate and well-tamed” in the real world, in and through his Clark Kent disguise. By allowing himself to be a loser—well, there was no more the ever-constant pressure to be the epitome of perfection like he was when masking as the “champion of the planet.” It was rather amusing, playing his role of the wimpy dupe. Living two so very separate lives.
Glenn was ribbing the Man of Steel playfully about his loss as “Best Beat” reporter. No, it had not gone to Lois, who was not in attendance, but to another fellow from New Jersey. It was a regional award that he continually lost out on year after year. Glenn could see that Clark appeared unusually dejected as he ambled out to catch a cab, after. So Glenn decided that perhaps he could let Clark in on something, cheer him up. Yet, the never-to-be-missed, cloaked muscularity of his friend, so often in ill-fitting suits, was ever a mystery to him. And he had sometimes strangely thought of “unmanly” plundering him. Though he was not at all gay. Only Clark’s soft and easy, though somehow solid demeanor, often gave him “strange” ideas…. (More like a power thing: the idea of being able to dominate a far bigger, more muscular man, setting off tingles within him. And Clark was oddly, nearly as handsome as that strong, also very well-built Bruce Wayne from Gotham, who had half the women in the country sighing—being also rich as Croesus.) But that he would even “think” to do so was another mystery. Wondering if they, too, might be as well hung as he was, or better, considering their physiques….
He invited Clark back to his hotel room, and the two of them spoke into the wee hours of the morning. (Occasionally, Glenn finding himself getting a hard-on, the more they drank and talked closely. But he put a lid on it.) Probing further, this mysterious aura Clark seemed to have, or was he maybe shielding something? If Clark’s dundering nature was deeply genuine, how could he then be such an incisive reporter? Something he guessed he’d soon find out, and carefully launched his pitch. He then told him all about “The Order,” about its ancient beginnings and its many rules—exceedingly cautious not to let on this was anything “untoward,” but rather a group of powerful intellects, who really had the world’s good at heart. He told him that it was mostly a clique of relatively mature men, some of the most powerful around, and this included a who's who of Metropolis’ elite, and beyond. No names were mentioned specifically, but the Man of Steel’s mind could make logical leaps as to exactly who might be part of such a group. At least, locally.
He told Superman about their many “benevolent” schemes, but avoided any of the actual nasties and pacts, which included vote-fixing, sports-betting, and many other crimes including prostitution, price-fixing, insider-trading, and money-laundering. This could only be revealed to those in the know… if they approved of any new person’s membership. Otherwise, if “unapproved,” well, they could be tagged, eliminated, or disappeared from existence—depending on how much knowledge they had been privy to, or if thought to be ultimately dangerous to their involvements. But Clark was never told this. Although he had an inner unease “something weird” was in the wind about it.
The guise was of a benign Order, similar to the Masons. And a good reporter on staff, the carrot he was being dangled with, could no doubt enhance their reputations, laud their efforts to society… (and coerce the public into thinking all was well, while they did their dirty work out of sight). Again, none of the members were directly implicated, and yet the Man of Steel was curious to learn if any of them could somehow be construed as actual malfeasants, and thus open the possibility for him to curtail their evil machinations, once he knew more—or if such undercover things might even be occurring? It got his brain going overtime. Were they good guys, bad guys, or a “mix?”
“I am going to put you up for a novice membership, Clark.”
“Me? I’m just a humble reporter; no great brain. No one of note.”
“But you have great journalist skills, some “super” ones, ostensibly untapped? And certain key stories leaked to the press might be of great benefit to the membership. Don’t sell yourself short. Lois Lane is not always the prize reporter. You just need the right scoops at the right time. You might find yourself rising higher than you know, and become an invaluable asset to The Order? Of course, only if you play along in agreement.”
“And, if I don’t?”
“Let’s not even go there. You could “drop out,”” he said, with raised eyebrows, a slant to his mouth. A shrug. “Simple: play well… rewards are forthcoming. No arm twisting. No wasteful frivolity. It may, however, even do wonders for your libido, under certain circumstances. Shy man that you are.” A ragged, somehow knowing smile. “Mature, but rather monkish, I suspect? Nothing forced, nor unethical. We do screen our initiates carefully.”
It was the intriguing promise Clark was left with that evening, and true to Thompson’s word Clark was invited to a secret meeting the next week. He was to tell no one about it. And it was the night his own surveillance began.
He wisely borrowed some miniature devices from Wayne Tech Inc., even though it meant a three-hour flight by United—but only 20 minutes for him via cape and costume—from his friend and fellow crime fighter, Bruce Wayne. He had to tell Wayne his reasons for needing the technology, thinking he was indeed onto something deeper than appeared on the surface. And after a stern word of warning was told he must never trust anyone from The Order. Superman, being Superman, with little restraint or worry, took the comment under advisement, but routinely dismissed it. It may take him a little juggling of personalities as Clark, the back and forth he’d always lived with, but he was sure he could get what he wanted to explore further, without ever being in danger (or any of his secrets being revealed). Lex Luthor was currently imprisoned in New York. So some sort of Kryptonite entrapment was not on his mind; Star Labs having control of all of it on the planet now. Locked up tighter than Fort Knox. Not even the President had access to it. What a relief!
Bruce alone was the only one who had a trace of it, hidden in a miniscule device, should something ever happen, and the MOS (either damaged, or in some way maybe might need to be “contained”), could be kept from harming either himself or others. Remote as that possibility might be. Bruce, knowing vaguely, too, the powerful alien was also with some vulnerability to being clandestinely hypnotized, or influenced by some “evil magic.” Luthor and others had tried that, and almost very successfully, at one or more times! He was nonetheless with some pragmatic concern for his friend.
******
The first evening at The Order was tense, but the Man of Steel in his Clark Kent disguise passed the plotted evening without revealing any particular too personal secrets, nor ascertaining any of theirs. (His recording device hidden securely in the heel of his shoe.) It seemed much like a “good old boys” private club. A bit stodgy, but with a cloaked risqué twinge to it he couldn’t put his finger on.
Eventually, he’d easily gotten through the first two months without an incident, sharing general pleasantries on a weekly basis, yammering about a host of seriousness and trivialities, from a South American soccer scandal, to the idea that oil was going out, and electric cars were going to take over…. It was then a night that the hero was invited to partake in his first rite of passage. He must prove his mental acumen in a game of chess, against one or more of the club members. Though it was acknowledged all men were not great at chess; it was to see how well he could think in a tight, complex situation: win or lose, how strongly or poorly. There would be three rounds, with three separate men. Good grief, he wondered, one of them could well be an accomplished master? But he said he was game to try.
He was unexpectedly flounced thoroughly by the second man, the first he had passed with relative ease; the third had stalemated him, but it took three hours, careful not to make it look too bumbling or too easy… his superior mind seeing the moves before his opponent made them. But he allowed the check, cautiously. He could not afford to arouse any suspicion of his true acute mental proficiencies.
The next week he had to prove his sexual acumen, though known to be not that great at it, by picking up an attractive woman from one of the city’s swankiest hotel’s bar and grill. A designer’s clothing show in near progress… he arrived for that challenge looking dapper and composed, no one expected him to be successful. His strangely astute ploy, though, of offering an appropriately alone blonde, downing daquiris like water, a drink or two, and then of presenting himself as a just-jilted lover, sadly propping his arm-popping suit-sleeve on the counter, and constantly slow-stroking at his trouser leg, as if to ward off a monster boner… when he received the free-wheeling model’s number and an invitation back to her penthouse apartment. She, commenting, “It so nice to find a solid chunk of a man near one of these events, instead of limp-wristed fakes in trousers.”
Thus, he was one test away from being asked to join The Order. He naturally never carried through—he had never picked up any woman, really, other than a frazzled affair of sorts with Lois, and he wasn’t interested in vacuous sex with pretty strangers. He’d thus begged off for the moment, saying he had a must-meeting for a final time later that night, to get his ring back to that “conniving, two-timing floozy” of his, and would call her the next night. Which he never did. Oh, well.
The final test would involve a night of suggested possible “physical involvements,” with all cautions throw to the winds. It might be wild, harmless horseplay with other men, or women… and could be construed as to assess how exactly he would react, or constrain himself, with some very daring challenges. To maintain, or indulge? Would he be a shrieking prude, a take-control “man of steel,” a slobbering dim-wit, or a nonchalant, “give me whatever you dare, I can handle it” participant? No sweat; or buckets of it?
The rule was: he would have to imbibe anything which was offered by a senior member. After all, they were his mentors, protectors, leaders… their wisdom in all choices exemplary. A slice of cake, a pill, a sniff, a shot, a drink, a hand full of worms…. They would be doing these “things” in no particular order, off and on all night at the clubhouse. And in the morning, whoever survived intact, without passing out or leaving in an unpleasant state before the sun rose, would be voted on by secret ballot, to earn their preliminary membership. He hadn’t known it at the time, but there were actually two other men going through the same process; their identities and persons having been carefully cloaked and concealed from each other. All each believing all of the others were actually members, whether strident or quiet, and not newbies. (One, a burly homicide detective from Chicago, the other, a frail nuclear physicist from NASA.)
Clark/Superman was not okay with it, but he had to take the chance (to glean more important information about the group), certain he could control his Kryptonian physiology enough to keep from garnering any of the terrible effects of “whatever it was” he may be required to take, and it might have on him. (Undoubtedly some form of drugs, whether mild or very potent.) He figured it would be wise for him to seek help in procuring an inhibitor for his alien superpowers. He certainly couldn’t take the chance of himself getting mindlessly high or drunk, throwing a couch across a room, or tossing an SUV onto the golf course, just for fun, to impress his Order “buddies!”
He thus paid Bruce another visit, and the Bat had what he’d requested ready for him. He was told to take half the dose before the night began, and if the “drugs” or whatever were still not having any effect, he was allowed to take the second half. Bruce didn’t like it that the Man of Steel was making himself so vulnerable to compromise—but who was Bruce? Just Batman. And he was Superman! What the fuck? He thanked his friend, and left in a bit of a huff. He loved the guy, but he was Superman, wasn’t he? Invincible to all human machinations. He had it all under control.
(Even how much semen he allowed himself to shoot, once weekly, four times a month! More was… well, not feasible. Weakened him too much. So he kept himself in tight control. It could make him silly; and a raging erection could get him too often, with some alarm to think unwelcome, strange thoughts. No matter how good it felt; he had to maintain his MOS’s grip.)
So, he took the first half of the dose before arriving, dressed in the costume of a Roman serf, a plain, sleeveless yet body-revealing tunic, overlaid with a loose-covering toga. The evening was billed as a Roman Orgy —a fact that had not even been known to Glenn, until he arrived with his Praetorian costume earlier. He whistled an approved surprise. Wondering how his protégé, the uptight Clark would take this! There was some obvious concern when his friend arrived. Instantly, Glen then had something shoved into Clark’s mouth… causing his head to begin to go swirly, unrighteously. And his loose toga fell away shortly thereafter. Glenn utterly agape at the muscled hunk he saw before him, and almost, uncharacteristically, hardened like cement. Himself having a nicely worked gym physique, but no trophy winner, indeed. But, Clark—!
“Fuck, you on steroids, man?”
Clark shied away, “Well, yeah for a lung condition. But I do work out.”
Glenn rolled his eyes, comically coy. Though his attention was more glued to a huge breasted redhead across the room, with cleavage to her navel. And was on his way.
The night of the orgy was one of a full debauched decadence, which was nothing like Mr. Clark Kent could ever have expected. The “masked” senior members had soon discarded their former stoic and staid reservations, and were engaged in many shocking near flagrant couplings, some heterosexual, but a surprising amount were homosexual…. The first half hour though, Superman, wobbly high on ecstasy, tried to shield his eyes from the blatant depravity (more often than not, rather shunted away in curtained cubicles or corners), exercising as much of his super-will as he could, and wandered vaguely in a semi-stupor about the secluded estate, which was said to be owned by the wealthiest member of the Metropolis’ Chapter of The Order.
But it wasn’t long before the drug was making the hero relatively sensuous-minded, from viewing all the people who were engaged in nearly-overt or obviously-overt carnal acts of lust in more and more open display. He came to a dimly lit study off the main hallway where there appeared to be a throne. Superman saw a senior member sitting atop it, while before him an assortment of half-clad, well-muscled young studs were taking turns sucking the regal-looking leader’s exceedingly large knobbed and ugly, but not terribly long phallus. (Surely, they were well paid hustlers, not the ilk of those normally seen at regular meetings). The hero could feel his cock stiffening uncontrollably; a shock, though, thinking it had more to do with his arousal at such an erotic display, than it did with any effects of the room’s also infused, pleasure-heightening aromatics. He could feel his own alien-prize thickening between his legs, though loosely contained in its cloth-sheath, afraid it might tent out incredibly too much forwards. His mouth began to water, and he felt the inquisitive eyes of the regal, enthroned member staring at him from behind his elaborate gold mask.
He was an older man with a bit of a paunch, and his cock wasn't anywhere close to the beauty or size of Earth's flight-worthy champion. But the salacious scene slip-worked into Clark’s senses, and he found he was enjoying the row of studs paraded before him, many removing their thongs, revealing erections from nicely average to better, their mouths to be used however the enthroned figure desired. As he watched, another of the older members, maybe in his early 50’s, looking to be in very prime shape, came upon the hard-cocked staring Kent—now a bit tenting his short tunic, making clear that he had an enormous hammer. The new, older member, with a warm arm suddenly around his undeniably broad shoulders, and a smile from under the edge of his mask, gave him a couple of new pills… to make sure his erection didn't dissipate, telling him mystically: “For increased, much longer pleasure… though already “ready.” As I can tell.”
The hero, cock and scramble-mindly aroused, didn't ask what they were, as if vacant of all concern, simply took it. The newer stimulating effects made his manly flesh-rod instantly heat, pulse, “vibrate,” and tremble. The older member then grabbed the handsome Man of Steel by the back of his neck, his available black locks, kissed his ear with no compunction—startling him a few seconds—and led him off into the kitchen. He followed dumbly like an ox hit in the head with a mallet. Nearby, a handful of young nymphets were getting passed around by another seasoned member, atop the flat steel tables. They paid Superman and the older member no mind, and the man leading him laughed. The pair ducked into a pantry, and before the Man of Steel had a chance to think/fend off the advance, the coolness of the mask pressed against the hero's lips. He found the man's tongue prodding past his lips, and the surprised, blood-heated Superman granted it entry. Blushing like a fool, accepting… but who cared? His cock was beyond hard.
He had never before engaged in such an encounter, but his overly stimulated body was feeling amazing waves of pleasure, roiling through his greatly muscled form. The older member reached back, going up and under his short tunic, and squeezed hard on the Man of Steel’s beautiful ass. Strangely ignoring his already wet cock, completely. He ground his own nicely firm, robe-clad midsection into Superman's throbbing groin. Rubbing up against Clark’s mighty rod with his lesser own, which the flushed reporter loved. Through their hungry kiss, and their co-joined loins, both men were thrust-moaning with pleasure. Then, the man removed his mask, he was very maturely good looking, and the kiss became instantly more passionate. He felt the man sneak his fingers between the glorious mounds of his Super-flesh, formed where his legs met, cupping his swollen, thickly gnarled plum-nuts and onto the base of his superior-heated rod. The hero could feel his engorgement begin its normal rivering flow with a steady trail of pre-jism, while he grunted, the other’s male-desirable tongue invading his mouth. He tried hard to restrain himself, yet could not keep from wanting to give up or into the pleasure this man was giving him. It was a wilting battle of wills. And the Man of Steel felt the stranger slip out from beneath his costumed robe. He broke the kiss and whispered to the hazed alien-Clark in his ear.
“On your knees, pledge,” and was now standing boldly, desirably nude before him. With a beautifully large erection.
The order was firm, commanding; inviting, but not cruel.
Superman sunk willingly to his knees, glasses removed, and his mouth fell open instinctively. The Man of Steel reached up blindly for the cock, and guided the impressive but manageable male into his salivating, opening cavern-lips. The man's knees wavered as his malehood felt the hero's mouth slobber all over it as it went smoothly back and forth inside the cherishing warm vessel. The slow, gentle sucking that his cock was receiving quickly turned into a more violent throat-fucking. The hero then found himself having to try desperately to breathe, swallow and suck on the pleasurable organ in equal kinds of rhythm. A rather new situation. (But after all, hadn’t he secretly, no less self-practiced on his own huge boy bi-monthly? So other than the size difference, and this one nicely large but so much easier… it must be okay?) He found himself acting like a practiced fag, and his hands eagerly sought for, fondling the other’s heft-warm, aching cum eggs, yearning for their discharge.
The Man of Steel’s mind was reeling, unable to quite believe he had taken this position so easily. It felt natural physically, but in his mind, drug-addled as it was, he kept thinking that this was very “unnatural” —that this was no place for a man like him to be ! But the hero kept sucking… the drugs speaking inside him, telling him if it felt so right, it had to be a perfectly normal thing to do, considering the circumstances. He surprisingly had always felt that he was a clear and staunch “heterosexual”—even with no true experiences to really draw from. And even though he clandestinely did engage in the wondrous largess of his own flesh at home (but rarely)—it couldn't be argued within him as he continued his first blowjob, that he wasn't ? It felt too good! (So, he must be “bi?” ) He truly wanted to be fed the man's life-giving nectar, his baby-maker’s juice. Thus, he sucked and stroked, all the while the man standing above him proudly cooing, calling him a good cocksucker, a vigorous fag. The names he was being called somehow really made him want to do the blowjob better. The Man of Steel clearly loved the adoration, no matter how it had to be earned. This strange denigration: him, pleasing another masculine man.
“You’re so good at this. You have an amazing mouth, big stud. Suck my cock—earn it, earn my load, you slut!”
“Ayhh-uggghhh! Mmmm-ummm . So hard. So good. Please, feed me your nuts. I-I love, need , really love your fine cock,” Clark almost incoherently mumbled back.
The words unpracticed, all sounded completely sincere. The hero truly wanted the creamy load. A steady flow of syrupy pre-cum escaping the cock tip, the Man of Steel groaned, wrapped his lips around the fine veiny erection, in and out of his dick-drunk mouth. It was a rush… to feel/be so good, even without his powers, though as a massively built male not unaware of his inherent strength and the wonderment of his body, he was clearly adept at being a queer. It surged him with prideful confidence to do such a good job, no matter the supposed “condemnatory,” degrading nature of the task. The drugs were clearly depleting his shame center. (This was surely no way for “Earth's champion” to be behaving! But why should he care? All he wanted was this delicious male-scented cock in his mouth, and for it to blow-shoot forth, to drink from it. Mmmmm!! Yes, yes, yes!! )
Superman was sure he was about to be rewarded. But unexpectedly, while still on his knees, he was sharply disappointed when the cock was suddenly withdrawn from his gaping mouth. The man’s penis, then expelling torrents of cum all over his face! The next thing that happened, the superhero, also too stoned and horny to prevent—the pantry door was suddenly ripped open, and a flurry of flashes from a camera caught the cock-sucking face of Superman—his face so chiseled and rugged, reduced to a landing pad for gobs and gobs of exploded masculine seed. The hot cum welcome, but this other surprise... not at all !!
Therefore, this was how The Order often kept their members in line. Or destroyed them (if not physically, thereafter), for any infractions of policy. A fact that had been concealed from him by Glenn, when he was recruited. After all, The Order was on the up and up: such things would never occur…. Such happenings never even conceived of! When the photographer had finished the task of capturing the phallic-dazed pawn… no one had yet to realize that it was actually Superman they had caught in such a damning position! And it scared him, deeply. A lightning jolt to his gut.
Shook him to his core.
The Man of Steel was still stewing about it three months later. I mean, without his glasses, Clark Kent and the Man of Steel… could they not be twins!?! Or at least, brothers? Even the dumbest of C.S.I. photo-matchers could surely figure that one out, if they looked close enough—if privy to the photos!! A nightmare he didn’t ever want to have to deal with. He was going to have to find a way to snatch them back.
But—he wasn’t a thief , either! A real quandary.
After spending most of one late night stewing, the Man of Steel left the Daily Planet’s offices behind shortly before ten. He was intent on getting in a good patrol, he needed it. His preoccupied mind was focused mostly on the past several weeks and the effects his involvement with The Order had had upon him. Especially, that damned “orgy.” A creeping control of sorts, undermining all his rationality: akin to an insidious interior-home invasion.
For he had slowly found himself neglecting his usual frequent nightly patrols, in favor of getting lost in fits of “ecstasy.” He had the inhibitors that Bruce had given him analyzed at the Fortress of Solitude, and had been able to make more on his own, so as not to involve Bruce further, or having him to stick his nose into the Man of Steel’s business. He thus would inject/dose himself with the substance, and then surreptitiously spend a good portion of his evenings scouring the seedier parts of Metropolis. Or even often, another city completely. He was on the prowl for whatever could give him the feeling he’d first felt that night back at the estate. The incredible feeling he’d gotten, being on his knees—totally submitting to the will of another! Someone in control.
At first, the pursuit of that euphoria, never before experienced, led him to adult-only bookstores. He would spend almost a hundred a week on all varieties of magazines, then retire to his apartment to flagrantly, uninhibitedly suck himself off, milk-abuse his growing larger nipples, or masturbate the rest of the evening away, trying to recapture that feeling of arousal that had struck him that very first night at the estate. This was clearly out of line for him, this self-indulgence thing. Not only weakening his normal super powers, but elevating his sparked libido like never before. And finding he was gradually more interested in looking at other men’s cocks, than he was at women’s tits or vaginas. Unless those tits were really, really fine! Even men’s pecs and nipples turning him on more and more, too. Especially the very built ones, with fine and thickly stiff members. Though most of the muscle-hounds he viewed were often rather small.
Still pictures, of course, were not enough for long, no matter the beauty of the participants. He gradually became unable to achieve much arousal at the simple sight of regular, naked flesh in congress. They had to be more than passingly “notable,” beyond just the ordinary. He then moved on to films, all heterosexual ones, of course, and watched in rapt attention at the bodies in motion copulating with one another. These loveless acts he had always been taught were shameful, and degrading… but with each emptying of his mighty balls, and each night after he’d collapsed in a naked sweaty mess sprawled out on his couch, it became clear that he was much happier than before, though deeply frustrated… and didn't care. Thinking overall, that the men were more attractive than the women, unless they had small waists and enormous breasts.
He was flying high above Metropolis, the wind rushing through his mane of hair, making him feel more like his old self than he’d felt in a while. And his thoughts were clear and introspective. He hadn't been in contact with the Justice League, or any of its civilian members in the weeks since, and he barely had time for keeping up appearances at his off and on weekly nights’ out with Jimmy Olsen, Lois, and Cat Grant, their clique from the Planet. All that he wanted lately was that rush of sexual release that he had only been able to capture in the throes of “ecstasy.” What exactly was going on inside him? He was still trying to figure it out.
He attended his meetings at The Order regularly, but his status as a new Level One member didn't give him access to the in-depth meetings of the Ancients as they were referred to. This was where all of the big deals happened, or at least that was what Glenn had told him. He actually felt foolish for trusting Glenn as blindly as he did, especially after that Roman ordeal. He hated that his trusting nature led to these miscalculations from time to time. When in reporter mode, especially as Clark Kent, it was normal as breathing taking people at their word, expecting them to be constantly truthful and forthright. But as Superman he needed to be astutely more careful.
It was this thought that troubled him the most. The thought that despite his new found status in society circles, he really had not changed all that much. He was still the same good-natured, overly-trusting fool some had always pegged him to be. If they only knew the real me. The duality: living with two conflicting personalities.
As he patrolled the skies, he found himself craving another dose of that orgasmic bliss. He needed it like a junkie. He felt so weak, even as he guessed it might be his mind, overworked, playing tricks with him…. He was beginning to feel lightheaded as he continued his super-soaring flight. He had never had this feeling before, and he was frightened. Was it his fantasy-craving, sudden hard-on, short circuiting his strength? Had he really been expelling too much of his life-source, his semen, which was placing an unnatural strain on his once indefatigable might? Could that be it—a true drain of his alien-great powers? He slowed his pace and found himself descending rapidly. He braced himself for impact and was thankful when he was swallowed by the relatively soft embrace of the cool sea at Metropolis harbor.
He felt, though, that he needed to surrender again to this craved orgasmic bliss, and he began swimming toward shore, determined. From there it would be a quick flight home, and then the chase would begin.
******
He was standing in the shower back at his apartment. He was luxuriating under the hot steam, and the warm torrents of water felt good on his skin. His Superman senses had fully returned, but he was still considering how to obtain the release of orgasmic delight. After rinsing the soapy suds from every inch of his nude, hard body he stepped out and reached for a towel. He then went searching through the medicine cabinet and found his next dose of the inhibitor. He placed the capsule under his tongue and swallowed hard. The warm release of all his powers greeted him like a warm bath, and a contented grin curled his lips. He finished drying off and left the towel on the rack. He stepped out of his bathroom, and found that he was not alone. His eyes went wide, and his anger rose.
The good looking, trim Glenn Thompson dressed in a black tuxedo, bowtie undone, was sitting on the cream-colored micro suede chesterfield in the center of Superman/Clark’s living room. (Here he was, the man responsible for the secret recruitment of Superman into one of the planet's most corrupt and sinister organizations—still unbeknownst to the hero—sitting on Clark’s own soft colored sofa as if he owned it. The balls!! And the fact that no one yet was aware of what they had in Clark Kent… an undiscovered joy that lay ahead. Which could also be a fatal mistake for all involved.)
“Looking good, Clark. I knew you worked out. Hiding that body under those ill-fitting clothes you wear—my God, what a shock! Knocked me over at the party.”
“How did you get in here?!” Clark’s ire snapped. How dare this man invade his privacy!!
He was regretting taking the inhibitor now, as he stared daggers at the man who had helped to bring him so “sexually” low. The man responsible for his addiction to depraved lust, the surface of which he as Superman/Clark was only scratching. He wanted to walk across the room and level him with one shot. Of course, he knew as Clark Kent such a display of anger and rage would be completely out of his nature. Though even for him now, being just a more normal well-muscled dude, Glenn would be no contest.
“I picked the lock.”
“Impossible. My lock is especially pick-proof, with enhanced security tumblers. Or only via a special master's-maintenance key.”
“Well, you caught me. I bribed the doorman. He wasn't sure you were home. A thousand dollars was enough to clear up any doubt. I told him I’d been your college roommate.”
“Pricey, that I’d be that important. I’m sure being a celebrity helped.”
“Well, it does have its advantages. Of course, you’ve already seen some of those benefits. Your work is getting more exposure, you got that raise you were asking for.”
“And you paid a thousand bucks to tell me that? You’re joking.”
Clark hated to admit that he was right. His life had gotten better, Perry had given him better assignments, he was making more cash, drove a nicer ride. Glenn was really the only one who knew about—and what—that first debauched night had done to him. No, no one had yet recognized him when he went trolling the jerk-off booths at The Skin Castle. Nor had anyone paid him much attention at the fetish Kink Club, when he showed up wearing a doomsday mask, asking to submit….
A still hidden truth: the heroic Man of Steel had been brought to his knees by his new found “kinks.” Thirty-two years of NEVER reveling in the pleasures of the flesh, hitherto unrealized, or admitted to, and suddenly unleashed… had done a number on him that no villain had ever come close to duplicating. These things, still needing to be hidden.
“What do you need, Glenn?” through his teeth. “It’s not exactly visiting hours.”
Glenn just cocked his head and smiled.
“I was told by one of the Ancients to collect you. They said that they must see you immediately. When my master calls, I make sure to answer.”
“Everybody has to serve somebody, right?”
“And you, us …. Come on, get dressed. We’ll be late."
His mind stewing, pissed at the intrusion, yet enticed by the special summons, Clark hastily dressed in one of his ill-fitting suits and followed Glenn out of the apartment. They took the elevator downstairs, and were greeted by the night doorman, whom he gave a dark look to, and were escorted outside to a waiting limousine. They rode in near silence out to the clubhouse. When they reached the gate of the estate, the car stopped, and Glenn looked over at him passing him a black piece of piece of cloth that looked much like a headband.
“Put it on, over your eyes.”
“But I’ve seen this place before.”
“I’m not the one who makes the rules, I just know the consequences of what happens when they aren't followed.”
The urge to punch Glenn square in the face was rising again; of course, he knew it was ridiculous to think it. Glenn was not as strong as Clark, nor was he being really mean, poor wuss; but Clark was clearly not strong enough without his powers to make the blow one which would incapacitate Glenn completely, overpower the driver, and allow him to flee as if vanished into thin air, like he’d never even been there. Yet, this was silly… he needed to calm down.
The Man of Steel normally would not have cared, but since he was depleted of his more special powers, his x-ray vision was voided as well. Reluctantly he took the blindfold, allowed Glenn to fasten it tightly, before the car lurched forward once again.
It rolled to a stop shortly, and Glenn took the Man of Steel’s hand and acted as his guide leading him inside the front door. Glenn mumbled the evening's password. The heavy oak front door opened and they were allowed entrance.
“Not much further now. Just to the secondary great room.”
The walk was a tricky but thankfully short one, from the door to the designated room. But the darkness was disorienting and filled the Man of Steel with a sense of unease he had rarely experienced—especially since he had already unwittingly de-powered himself. Finally, they arrived at the destination. Chamber music began playing, and almost in shock, unexpectedly, suddenly the Man of Steel felt hands all over his body. At first, he squirmed and tried to resist, but voices told him in whispers, “Don’t, it’s part of the process. Just go with it.” They were slowly almost tearing his clothes off, but then even this sensation was somehow not unpleasing. Just being touched was triggering all sorts of impure thoughts. When he was left without a stitch of clothing, except for his prodigiously filled thong… Glenn untied the blindfold and let it drop. The sudden light was a bit startling, and the sight.
In front of the Man of Steel, wearing same-like death masks to conceal their faces, were a group of men wearing long, flowing robes: Black for the central man, robes of dark Red for the first pair, forest Green for the next pair, and Royal Blue for the last. Seven in all, “The Ancients of the Metropolis Chapter of The Order.” The Man of Steel had likely seen these same men the first night at the Roman Orgy, but had not noted them much since. He felt he recognized for sure only the one on the far left as possibly the one who had been responsible for baptizing him with his semen. He was wearing Royal Blue, and had the same gray-brown sprinkling of barely seen hair, as the man who had fucked his mouth.
“Member 8079, how are you this evening?”
“Confused, O Great Leader,” addressing the man in black.
“Why are you confused, 8079?”
“Wouldn’t you be—invited to a clandestine meeting, in the middle of the night— practically stripped naked without a word or reason? Why am I here? Have I offended you, or the Upper Order in some way?”
The masked elders burst out soft-laughing. But in a friendly way, not raucously. It eased the Man of Steel, despite the way it made the gruesome looking masks appear.
“No, you foolish boy. We have stripped you naked, and brought you here to see if it was true.”
The vagueness of their allusions worried the Man of Steel. He was sure that something was coming just around the bend, something he could not see, and something he wondered to himself if he would enjoy at all.
“To see if what is true, O Great Leader?”
“That you were truly built, as well you were noted to be at “the Party.” That perhaps you might be a worthy choice to compete as our Champion? Your body is very impressive and seems clearly in peak physical condition. However, sights can be deceiving. Are you as strong as you look, or merely a steroided, pretty boy piece of window-dressing? Tonight, you will compete in the feats of strength.”
A burst of light exploded behind the men, and everything behind them was illuminated. A pair of brown-robed heavies stepped out from behind them, muscled hands grabbed at the Man of Steel’s wrists, and led his near-naked flesh and form down a flight of stairs through a hitherto unseen, now opened door in the wall. The seven members of the upper council stalked close behind. One of the “hands” released him when they got to the floored bottom, but then the other sharply twisted his arm, and tossed him adeptly down onto the floor. The brown-robed men slipped out of theirs, and the Man of Steel looked up to see the two monoliths who had so easily manhandled him, stridently standing there wearing only loincloths made of roughish leopard-type skins. He was a bit self-annoyed, having allowed himself to be so easily handled, with no resistance, but focused his mind on the task at hand. After all, the “inhibitor” had kept him in check; his true powers subdued. He couldn’t allow anger to change his Clark Kent’s softer demeanor.
“These men will be your trainers. They will lead you through the feats of strength. If they feel you have earned a chance, you will then be returned one month from this evening to compete in the battle to see who is truly the Alpha of our chapter… and if you have earned the right to be called “our champion”. — “Do not take it easy on 8079."
They all unceremoniously departed, and a previously unseen hard steel gate was slammed down shut from above, locking the three men in the room. The two grabbed the Man of Steel and dragged him over to the treadmill. One man placed medical reading devices on his chest, biceps, and thighs, and another fiddle-punched in numerals regarding the speed, intensity, and length of the first test. For the next half hour, the Man of Steel was doing an all-out sprint at speeds from five to close to fifteen miles an hour with a thirty-degree incline. He was given ten minutes to regain himself, a liter of cold water, before he was roughly pulled away from the machine and tossed down onto a hard mat. He grunted, sounding weaker than he’d ever remembered.
“You have the next ten minutes for pushups. Any number less than five hundred is unacceptable! Pace yourself as you please.”
The Man of Steel began the task regretting very much not having his powers, however he was able to accomplish the task. He found himself on the near verge of collapse, and to make it more difficult, each of the oak-tree shaped men were using one of their legs on his back, acting as a pressuring weight for the last fifty. He was truly gasping for breath by the end of it. Next, they picked up the worn, muscled Man of Steel and tossed him into an icy cold bath. Not at all pleasant! Seven minutes passed, and they grabbed him out soaking wet, with only a momentary wipe-off, and dragged him to the bench press. Four forty-five-pound plates were on each end. Already half-shot, he swallowed hard.
“You must do at least ten reps, four hundred and five pounds, counting the bar. Our last champ did fourteen. Though we have seen a smaller man weighing only 185, press this at least four times. But strength like his, rare. And you’re at least sixty pounds heavier. Should do fine. Unless you’re a true wuss… all show.”
The gauntlet thrown down, the Man of Steel managed twelve, but his arms felt like lead afterwards, and he was then thrown into a warm hot tub. Ten minutes later, and he was dragged over to another work out station, and instructed to hammer out twenty lifts of four hundred twenty pounds with his legs. His whole body was barking fire after topping the number by three. Nearly unable to walk for the moment, from there they dragged him back to the ice bath, and after a subsequent ten-minute break, allowed him to thoroughly towel-off, before being taken to another room.
There the men surprising removed their loincloths, both noticeably endowed, and ripping off his own thong, attacked the Man of Steel. Naked, so there would be nothing to grab onto except hard muscled flesh, or their enticing genitals… they were both tough and had thighs like tree trunks, shoulders broad as bulls, hefty chests thick and wide, moderately-waisted. One was bearded and hairy, the other clean shaven and smooth, both with blondish hair and blueish eyes. He didn’t know it, but they were actually brothers, and lovers. Singly they must have been 260 pounders. The MOS only around 245, himself. And were going to work him over big-time.
They rained down rights and lefts, and the Man of Steel turtled, covering his face from the blows. He felt more like a fool than ever for taking the inhibitor. These men were having their way with him, and he was ashamed. Even sometimes pounding into his cock, and heavy balls; though his own sense of honor forbade him to do the same to them…. The most other disconcerting thing was the slight tinges in his loins that accompanied each ounce of pain, starting to chub and moderately engorge his penis. All of them breathing hard, he did put up a good struggle; finally, the one tiring most he made a lunge for, striking the bearded one a hard stun to the jaw. He pressed the advantage, but was not quick enough to guard his rear, and was quickly gathered up from behind in a crushing bear hug by the clean shaven one. He lifted Superman up and tossed him around with ease. The bearded one worked into his abs with crippling shots, which made his eyes flood water. He was helpless against them, and they knew it. His strength wilting.
“What's the matter, big floppy-dicked loser?”
“All for show—want your mommy? Want to suck one of ours, gain some strength back?”
He managed to wrench free, but they were still onto him from all sides. He was shaking his head desperately, rather cloud-brained and disoriented. They teased and taunted him, and he struggled raggedly to ward off their assault, which continued unabated for ten minutes more, before the Man of Steel in the midst of having his back stretched in a Boston Crab by one of the behemoths, and his shoulders joints being pounded by other—cried out in agonizing pain, tears streaming down his face, howling fiercely. And then, with them turning him down onto his knees, the smooth blond crush-clamping deep into his traps from behind, the other fast holding both his wrists from in front, his big arms rendered totally useless, he cried out for mercy… admitted they had bested him. And collapsed face down in defeat, almost unconscious.
The feats of strength were over, and the Upper Council members returned. Of course, they had watched it all, in close-ups, big-screen monitored from afar.
“You have fared very well,” the one in Black announced.
Gasping still, “But they defeated me, O Great one.”
“After such a grueling workout, against two professionals… it was inevitable 8079. We enjoyed watching the show. Oh, the fear and shame on your face as the men worked you over. Was it not humiliating? Being stripped completely: of your pride, your clothes, your strength—regardless of your phenomenal physique, and made to feel weak in front of these other titans? Mercilessly attacked?”
“It did, O Great One.”
“Good. Despite your greater development, you are not invincible 8079. You are but a man. And “flesh” can be destroyed. You will remember this humiliation, and it will drive you to perform better next month. If you fail next time, then “more than humiliation” may sadly await. Don't fail again. We don’t want to send you home in a box….”
Superman gulped at the implication.
“A defeated muscle hero is hardly worth the flowers, after. Unable to smell them.” It was a veiled, sinister threat. The dark, but hidden smile behind the mask chilled him.
Wasn’t this supposed to be a benevolent Order? A truer alarm went off deep inside him, telling him to be more guarded, aware. Something more than strange was happening here.
The hero, exhausted, was assistedly dragged upstairs in a semi-daze, and placed in a cool soft bed. Still impressively naked. Given a pill. He expected to sleep. The room went dark, and his eyes closed… they did not stay closed for long.
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