“I’ve heard enough of your sick, twisted, perverted fantasies, Martin! Have it your way,” replies Superman as he angrily steps away from Martin and faces Bomba’s cell; he grabs the dark iron bars and prepares to rip the barred door off its iron frame.
“Wait, Superman… please, no more damage! It’s hard to get a repairman out here, and it’ll take ages to get the brig’s entrance replaced,” begs the old fat man with mock sincerity.
“Then open this cell door, or I'll tear this brig down,” demands Superman.
“Here, look, I have the key, Superman,” offers Bill as he produces a key from his pants pocket.
Superman releases his grip on the iron bars and steps back and away as Martin produces the key. “Make it quick, Martin,” orders Superman.
Bill rubs the key between his fat fingers and then looks at Superman slyly. “Did you know there’s a native witch doctor, Moro, that lives on my island? Quite powerful, too.”
“Moro?” asks Superman. “No, I do not. I don’t have time for guessing games, Martin. Now open these cell doors, or I’ll rip them off their hinges!” warns an impatient Superman.
"Well, come to find out Moro knows a great deal about you , Superman! Moro's the old gentleman who caused that awful spell you experienced… on that far away jungle airstrip you were on a day or so ago, Superman,” explains Bill slyly, as he re-pockets the key and withdraws a strange looking leather pouch in its place. He certainly now has the famed, suit-strained muscle stud’s attention. The strange pouch made of seasoned brown leather is marked with oddly-weird symbols drawn on it in bright green paint! Superman’s eyes inexplicably drawn to it.
Superman’s bold demeanor seems to have markedly diminished as Bill has re-pocketed the key and produced the pouch. He stares concerned at the strange pouch, then quickly rotates for a 360 degree circular scan of the area, instinctively looking up and around, assessing the strong stone walls of the slave's brig... nothing he can’t handle! Yet an uneasy wave of apprehension edges in, wants to sweep through him! He turns and asks the fat old man dumbfounded, “How did you know about that? It was a continent away on a remote jungle airstrip! No one else was within 10 miles of that airfield!”
“What’s the matter, Superman? Having second thoughts about having rushed to the “rescue” of your two pals?” asks Bill as he gestures at the leather pouch with his bullwhip. Relishing the frown lines he sees forming on the alien’s forehead. “Moro gave me this pouch, Superman! Moro tells me it's very big magic . Oh, how I’m going to enjoy taming “the mighty Superman” with this!” laughs Bill as shakes his bullwhip at Superman and prepares to spring the trap.
Emboldened by the powerful magic he possesses, and his prey’s sudden noticeable reticence... the fat man audaciously steps in close to Superman. Even in his hat he is barely up to the titan’s shoulder level. He teases at Superman’s trademark red and yellow “S” symbol emblazoned on his powerful chest with his coiled leather bullwhip handle as he admires the handsome man standing before him, who remains distracted as if trying to perceive what is in the pouch. He grins wickedly as he mulls over the many possible, humiliating scenarios of sexual perversion he might force the muscularly over-built man to enact for his twisted pleasure!
Piqued, Superman swallows hard, and shifts strangely nervous, as Bill continues to caress the coiled leather bullwhip across his powerful chest. Acquiescent, Superman, lost in dark thought, contemplating if magic is a real threat to him. What had happened to him before! And so effective, at such a great distance from here?! No way!
"Magic?!" ponders Superman softly, under his breath (charmed by the lure), continuing to stare somewhat hypnoidally at the strange pouch which Bill holds in his hand. Beyond intrigued, concerned. The idea... next to lunacy.
Superman, then becoming more aware of the man’s close proximity, the coil of the bullwhip’s leather seductively caressing his well-developed pecs... slipping slowly over the protrusions of his quite now evident larger than normal-sized nipples. The gross older man leering at him lustfully, studying the noticeable quaver of his tall muscular frame intently. The younger man no less alarmed by the swift, arousing sensations of the tightly braided leather as it rubs the thin elastic covering of his righteously proud chest. The slow, disarming tease: his nipples erecting larger than a pair of thumbs—one of his truly secret-hidden weak points! (And so soon! Their sensitivity causing him to emit a slightly embarrassing gasp…. Ultra-distracted —so near this, this odious, corpulent “objectionable person?!”) Chagrined, Superman shudders, his stomach tightens—he instinctively steps back from the intrusive man’s coiled whip and his uninvited, lewd advances. How dare he--?! Who I am!!
“The taste of leather, like Scotch, is an acquired one, Superman,” mocks Bill as Superman backs away. “In time, you’ll learn to savor the bite of my whip,” promises Bill as he eyes the contours of the strapping, caped man’s body-revealing costume. Hardly believing the staggeringly large bulge no less prominently curved at the base of his pubis (unable to hide its obvious stimulation from his chest play). And the no less still prowed wonder of his tremulous, jutting pectorals. A fine creature, indeed.
“Pervert!” snorts Superman with a look of disgust, and growing discomfit. Grimacing, having allowed himself to be caught so off-guard. Yet his stomach still churns, a reaction to the look of lust in the unpleasant fat man's eyes.
“I assure you, you’ll learn about my inclinations first hand, Superman. Anyway, where were we… ah yes! Big Magic, Superman! Moro used “magic” to bring you to your knees on that jungle airstrip. And I have that same big magic , right here in this pouch—! You have blundered into my trap, Superman! It is you who will be locked away in prison! Not me,” promises the fat man as he shakes the coiled bullwhip in Superman's direction. Waves the pouch enticingly.
Superman warily recalls the excruciating, unexplained agony he suffered momentarily on that faraway jungle airstrip... and begins to piece the puzzle together: Martin, calmly waiting for him here this evening at the slave's brig—Shawn revealing the brig’s exact location! This is a trap! Tarzan and Bomba are the bait! But Superman has put the puzzle together too late . The snare already closing.
The frown on the alien’s face… mulling a strategy. Not soon enough. As Martin strikes.
“Voilà! Showtime!!”
Bill gestures magnanimously, and quickly tosses the strange pouch towards Superman. Though faster than a speeding bullet, his thinking off-track, the alien muscle man remains mesmerized, rooted to the spot. The pouch lands on the stone floor near Superman's heavy red boots, its open-end instantly explodes upwards in a bright, blinding green flash—spraying the startled Man of Steel with sticky, bright green powdery granules that coat his boots, costume-front, face and hands!
“Didn't your daddy ever teach you to look before you leap?" asks Bill gleefully as the colored powder spews over the hapless Man of Steel.
“Uu-oohhh! Aah-uugghhh!!” Indeed, caught! Superman coughs and gags as the green mist rushes up and out, then slowly dissipates. He spits out some of the sour green goop that has sprayed into his mouth, his bright teeth gnashing. “What the...!” exclaims a flabbergasted Superman, tasting it’s bitterness numbing his tongue, as he extends his muscled arms and looks at the garish green granules splayed on his hands; then looks down over his broad chest at the powder adhering to his pecs, abs, legs and boots. He squints and wipes the bright green substance from his eyes with his large forearm. He chokes and coughs, shakes his head, as he tries to clean the adherent mess from his arms and chest. Accompanied by a cold, yet warmly-numb, seeping abomination he can feel penetrating... even through his suit, into his skin… assaulting his senses, his equilibrium. Like an unshakeable poison. His eyes gone wide and desperate.
“Ohhhh, no, no, it can't be!” shouts the green-dusted Superman fearfully, feeling suddenly as if being robbed of his great strength! His legs going unsteady, mind in swirling shock. And swept through with the same unmistakable foreign nausea of before—on that faraway airstrip. Some toxic witchery into and onto him?! A truly tingling, benumbing sensation.
“NO, NO!!” Superman quickly turns again towards Bomba's cell—grabs the bars and pulls back hard, in a rising panic—must reassert himself!! —and grunts loudly. A volcanic queasiness in his guts. The tall caped man's biceps and leg muscles bulge in the elastic fabric impressively, his marred red boots twist futilely and dig into the stone floor. But the waning, depleted Superman is unable to pull the iron bar door from the frame! In shocked surprise: THIS CAN”T BE!! Sensing his sapped ability, the stunned Superman finally stops, relaxes, his hands yet remaining tightly gripped onto the bars as he lowers his head and stares through the iron at Bomba sleeping naked—hooded as a dog. In a last attempt, he tries valiantly to use his super-vision to laser burn through the bars.... Nothing! His stomach contracts biliously at the realization Martin has indeed somehow stripped him of his superpowers!! Stupefied, Superman groans disbelieving; he releases his grip on the bars and stares again at the green horror on his hands and arms. His legs quivering like jello. — Was this magic some new form of Kryptonite?
“Old age and treachery will overcome youth and vitality every time, Superman,” gloats Bill as he waits for the magic spell to take full effect. Suddenly Superman’s body jerk-stiffens and his eyes grow wider with a re-knowing fear; he swallows hard, doubles over slightly and clutches his stomach as a sudden intense wave of vertigo, nausea, and weakness sweeps through him.
"NO-oh-ohh!" howls Superman as he brings one hand to his forehead, another to his temple, waves of unsteadiness engulfing him. Superman shakes off the dizziness and again frantically tries to wipe the debilitating gooshy green from his chest arms and thighs as Bill laughs hysterically at the panicked alien-wonder’s predicament.
Superman suddenly realizes it is useless to try to wipe the clingy goop from his costume; the more he rubs the more it sticks—he now instinctively yearns to flee, swim it off in the sea?—at all costs, must escape this fat lecher’s “magic” trap! The Man of Steel weakly turns and slowly retreats away from the laughing rotund man, staggering more and more woozily down the stone hallway using the bars of the empty row of prison cells for support... floundering, tottering. He must get away!! What is this thing happening—not to him??!!
But the gross old man has anticipated Superman’s move and he uncoils his long, thick-braided bullwhip! “I insist you stay with me, now that you are here,” snickers the billionaire, as he hastily toddles after Superman; each of them breathing heavily from their exertions. The fat man’s face with a broad smile as he begins to deftly whirl the bullwhip menacingly above his head; the trying to flee, spectacularly muscled hunk’s face now distorted with true fear.
"I said, I insist you stay , Superman!" repeats Bill. His disgustingly layered belly shakes and jiggles as he lashes the whip expertly in the direction of the retreating Superman. There is a loud crack as the bullwhip strikes Superman’s powerful neck and wraps tightly around it several times. Superman’s handsome head and body jerk backwards as the fat man pulls the whip taut. The caped hero cries out at the sting of the bullwhip and instinctively reaches up to free himself from the corded leather wrapped securely around his neck; his captor is ready, and quickly pulls back hard again. Superman's heavy boots slip on the smooth stone floor as the whip pulls him hard—whirling an unsteady and stunned once mighty Superman around 180 degrees. Bill does not allow Superman time to recover. He instantly yanks again, and Superman loses his balance, stumbling forwards in loud distress. His eyes jolted with disbelief. “Ah-ahhh-agghhhhh!” choking, falling heavily onto his hands and knees on the paved stone of the brig’s hallway.
The fat man does not let up for an instant; knows he has the strapping, failed hero tightly ensnared. “I’ve used a bullwhip since I was 12, Superman!” brags Bill as he quickly reels in the whip, using it as a leash. “Now crawl, Superman… crawl back to your pen!”
The fat man whistles softly as he turns and proudly waddles down the brig’s stone hallway, dragging a gasping and sense-weakened Superman behind him, who crawls disoriented on his hands and knees, weakly clutching with one hand now and then at the leather wrapped tightly around his neck.
“Yes... I’m very proficient with this whip, Superman!” Superman tries to resist; he stops crawling and valiantly raises both hands to his neck, urgent to loosen the murderous garrote choking him. The fat man turns and pulls up hard on the bullwhip tightening it further around Superman’s neck. Taking him down again.
“You still have a little strength left in you, hey, Superman?” squeals the fat pervert as he yanks the whip back even harder, dragging the hero forcefully down onto the stone floor. His blue clad, big chested captive hits the pavement hard, chin-scraped, and wanly lays there breathing heavily, desperate to draw in a full breath of air. “Just for that, you can crawl on your belly the rest of the way to your pen, Superman!”
Bill inhales deeply and farts loudly, jerking again on the bullwhip leash, forcing Superman to crawl on his belly, using only his elbows and knees for traction, the rest of distance down the brig’s hallway to his cell. It is an odd scene that transpires in the centuries’s old plantation brig. The mature, strapping and so powerfully built Superman, the mighty Man of Steel (paragon of all the masculinity in the universe) in his prime—forced to crawl on his belly... hopelessly secured on a leash held by a bald, older, weaker, and disgustingly obese man. His symbolic unfurled cape limply bedraggled behind him.
Intense waves of dizziness, weakness and nausea continue to rake through Superman, no less sweating profusely, and affecting his brain, barely able even to think… as he finally reaches the iron bars of his cell door in the slave's brig. Fat Bill pulls up strongly on the leash signaling for Superman to stop crawling. Superman halts his arduous crawl and collapses, his face caved to one side on the cold stone floor, still gasping. The whip that is wrapped cruelly around his neck burns savagely, as well as restricting his air. More than beyond the ability to even think: what to do, how to escape? Benumbed by the lack of blood and oxygen to his brain, the failing resources of his incredible body, he lays there shaking, exhausted.
Bill unlocks Superman's cell door and smiles down at the powerfully built alien he has completely depowered... sweating, struggling for air on the floor below him. The old man teases cheerfully, "Home sweet home, Superman,” as he swings the cell door wide open. “I was expecting you tonight, Super-Boy . Having had Vince and Shawn send you to me here, straightaway."
"Superman looks up at Bill from the floor, his face and hair streaked haphazardly in an insidious green, with a dazed and pleading expression. He raises the hand of his powerful right arm to his throat and tries to futilely loosen the braided bullwhip from around his neck so he can breathe easier. Bill laughs and responds by reigning in the bullwhip to draw it tighter around Superman's neck! “‘How the mighty are fallen!’ hey, Superman?” remarks the pervert coldly as Superman feebly tries to dislodge the evil whip-cord controlling him.
“No… the bullwhip stays wrapped tight around that strong neck of yours, Superman—until you pass out from lack of air… kind of a like a wrestler’s sleeper hold,” explains his rotund captor. “Then I'll be free to grope and fondle all those magnificent muscles that are now are my property , to my heart's content, Superman!"
Superman gags and involuntarily belches as his stomach re-sickens at the thought of being “owned”—slave to a flatulent, fat pervert, appearing to soon be able to plunder his honed, male-wondrous body at will! (His previously, only privately treasured assets, to be so unrighteously exposed, lasciviously abused! The idea more than he can bear.) With his great strength curtailed, his defenses departed from him. Knowing now it can and will happen! His heart and mind aghast, spirit inconsolable. The door to his cell wide open.
"Yes. I told Vince and Shawn to send you to me, Superman! I even told them to tell you where I was holding Tarzan and Bomba. You’re here tonight because I wanted you here, Superman! Right next to your pal, Tarzan!" brags Bill as he pulls up on the bull-leash jerking Superman’s head hard, and tightening the whip momentarily to keep the strapping man from getting any relief!
“Na, no… please. Na-not me. Who I am. Mercy, Bill. I-I-I’m… Superman . Help me . Please—!!” he gasps out haltingly. “La-let me… go-oohh. Pa… puh-leeasee…?!” Still unable to believe what’s happening—. Not to him!!
“Super-shit , is more like it,” smirks his owner. “But ‘mercy’ is here, your time has come. Now, crawl into your pen, boy! I’m going to let go of your leash. I want you to crawl into that pen willingly. On your own! It will be an act of your submission to me, a demonstration of my dominance over you, Super-fuck. And you will forever remember, it was you who got you here. I didn’t lay a finger on you, putting you in your new home…. If not, I’ll make your pals suffer; and you can watch through the bars of your cell! Go ahead .” And Bill magnanimously drops the end of the whip.
Superman gulps audibly, then groans loudly. Feeling the tension relieved from his neck. He then obediently—unable to do otherwise, acknowledging his never imagined, impossible defeat—uses his remaining hazed strength to crawl on his belly past Bill to the center of the small cell, the whip draggling along behind him loose on his cape. Fat Bill follows, waddling slowly behind the cowed Superman as he beams with self-pride! When Superman reaches the center of the cell, Bill once more regains his control, reclaiming his end of the whip, and jerks hard on the reacquired leash signaling Superman to stop his slow crawl. Smiling at how easily he is already being taught to obey.
“Take a closer look at the presents on the floor I got just for you, Superman,” sneers the fat man, as Superman stares, still disbelieving, at the impossible ball gag and rubber clown hood he'll soon be forced to wear. He must be hallucinating—how could this be happening?!
“Say thank you for the gifts, Superman,” demands the old pervert. “Or you know what happens to your buds!”
Superman hesitates, and then chokes out the bitter words as he tries to catch a deep breath, his psyche near crumbling. “Thank... you, for... for the gifts .” His shock and fear overcoming him.
"Oh, you’re welcome. Anyhow, to make a long story short, the magic goop spread over you will keep you weak and powerless. After it penetrates more thoroughly, there is no getting your superpowers back, Superman," explains Bill as pulls back once more on the whip roughly forcing Superman up onto his hands and knees. The fat man toddles back and yanks on the bullwhip hard again, this time bringing Superman fully up onto his knees. Superman, worse than exhausted, falters, kneels powerless before the old fat man—his big muscled arms wanly at his sides and his head down, completely drained of his fabled strength! Bill rubs his fingers across the bright green tainted curly locks of Superman’s head and notes, “Still tacky… but almost dry, Superman! Soon you'll be permanently stripped of your alien powers. Become a merely compliant... very earthly ... automaton!”
In disbelieving terror, an encroaching horror—shearing through the MOS’s mind, spirit and emotions. Feeling the green—still benumbing, de-manning his whole being . He stares... mouth partially agape. Lips and body tremoring. No, no, no, nooohh!! OHHHH, NOOOOOOHHHH!!!! Unable to articulate his inner failing comprehension.
The fat pervert grabs a fistful of Superman's sticky, green-marred hair, twists and pulls back hard, stares down sadistically into his defeated Hercules’ stun-shocked eyes, and coldly says, “You can't snap iron bars like strands of uncooked spaghetti anymore, eh, Superman. The iron bars of this cell will now keep you imprisoned here! Moro says I can't kill you—you’re still indestructible. But if you have no superpowers—you can now feel pain, fear, and humiliation! Be hurt! Though with most of your brain gone... will it matter?”Superman does not answer, in a state of psychic disarray. The Man of Steel’s blue-cringed eyes can only gaze at the old fat man with a look of dumb incomprehension. His massive body and build in an incongruous posture of abject subservience before his new master. Bill snickers at the captive Superman’s vacuity. Who is still struggling to even breathe normally. The coils of the whip firmly yet in place.
“Once we’re finished here, I'll return in few days... after you’ve had time to get over the “adjustment” of what’s happened this evening, Superman," continues Bill. “And all that green finally soaks in… eating up most of your brain . What a shame!” He releases his grasp on Superman's hair, allowing his matted head to droop down, and hang listlessly over his once startling broad shoulders, hugely out-thrust now sagging chest. Stepping back a few paces, “By then you'll be ready to take a turn pushing my stone-grinder’s wheel under a baking sun in our brig's punishment yard, Superman! Then we’ll see how strong you really are without your super strength! See how tough those wilting, navel-orange sized balls really are. .. anything’s left. After I smash them down a bit.”
Barely able to speak, the terrified, failing Superman pleads, “Merr… cy, please. Oh, Bill—no! Spare. My, ma-master. Merc-eee! Save—!!” His last fading words to be heard. (Moro said.)
Bill then yanks the whip again, Superman's head jerks upright. “Pay attention, boy!” he demands. Superman gazes meekly at Bill, with a numb-gone expression, still strained. Unable to raise his powerful arms from his sides anymore: half unconscious, nearly strangled. Cannot speak; clearly in a state of benumbed conquest. Weakly again he lowers his head, continuing to stare dully towards the grotesque rubber hood the fat old man has threatened to confine him with. (The horror that awaits… him! HIM?!!)
“Remember Superman, it was you who challenged me to try and put that hood over your handsome head… I accepted your challenge, and witness the result! Now it is you, who is down on your knees,” mocks the fat pervert. “Where is your so-great strength, your confidence , now?”
Bill waddles back and around, and pulls the whip taut and forward; the weakened Superman plunges back down onto his hands and knees. The fat man quickly re-rounds Superman and drives the foot of his stubby, strong leg hard between Superman’s shoulder blades, covered by his crimson cape, applying the full weight of his mass, and easily driving the MOS’s face down to the cell floor! Superman chokes and gurgles, as Bill uses his fat leg to push Superman’s chest hard into the stone floor, while simultaneously pulling as hard as he can on the leash wrapped firmly around his neck. “Time for my version of the old sleeper hold, Superman!”
The corpulent man breathes hard and farts loudly at the exertion. Superman squirms urgently on the cell floor. His powerful biceps and triceps bulge in the skintight fabric of his costume as he instinctively tries, paws uselessly, to save, free himself from the bullwhip unmercifully coiled around his neck. Plunging him into his fate. “Guh-guggh, guugghhhh!”
"Lights out, Superman!" taunts Bill to Superman.
Snorts and desperate gurgles are all he hears from the impotent, shattered Man of Steel, who is writhing frantically. Fingers wanly pawing. The final shreds of his strength, powers, and senses… being robbed from him.
Bill keeps his foot planted squarely between Superman's caped shoulder blades, the tension of the bullwhip leash drawn taut, cutting off his captured man’s air supply, the blood to his brain —who makes renewed, but feeble murmuring sounds of resistance. In less than twenty seconds it is over.... Ensnared and depowered, the largely muscled Superman finally succumbs to the weaker pervert’s hold, body failing, collapsing into an irredeemable, unconscious state on the stone floor. His inert, incredible mass barely twitching, tremoring. Destroyed .
"Well... that was easier than I thought. The “would-be rescuer,” to suffer the same fate as his boys in distress!" gloats Bill. Confident Superman is no longer a threat, he drops his snare, allowing the bullwhip's handle to slip away and steps off the fallen hero. Bill snickers and breathes strenuously, bending to use his arms, then his shoes, to roll Superman off of his stomach and onto his back. Superman’s big arms and hands flop slackly to his sides. Bill smiles down at the insensient Man of Steel, limply displayed with the alarming, green powdery granules that are smeared into the red and blue elastic fabrics of his costume, nearly covering his face and head.
The old fat pervert rubs his hands together as he gazes at his overwhelmingly muscular prize and licks his lips; his dream has come true—Superman belongs to him! No doubts, no question. The fat man again grunts and coos loudly as he lowers his lumbering frame to kneel behind Superman’s head. The pervert lifts Superman’s slack, green-coated head and drops it into his lap.
“Time to shut you up for good, boy,” soothes the fat old man as he rapidly un-wraps the bullwhip from around Superman's neck and then tosses it out into the brig's hallway. “No further words from you! ‘Oh, please, mercy… I, I’m Superman! Help me.’ ” And snorts. “Was—were. No more…! Your wimpy last words.” Bill grabs the ball gag and quickly shoves the black rubber orb deep into Superman's mouth and buckles the leather straps as tight as he can snugly behind his neck. The hard black leather straps bite deeply into Superman's cheeks and retain the cruel ball in his mouth gagging him.
Bill then quickly retrieves the heavy rubber clown mask and looks at it with satisfaction. The mask is made of thick, pure white rubber and has only two air holes in the nosepiece, a small one at the mouth, and minimal eye slits—effectively rendering the wearer nearly deaf, blind, and speechless. The rubber hood has curly orange hair implanted on the top; it has a bright, red ball nose, and wild, crazed-looking plastic green eyes inset into the main face. The hood also wears a perpetual big, broken-tooth smile surrounded by thick red lips.
Bill drops the rubber hood next to Superman's head. The old man holds Superman’s head in his lap and uses his fat hand to rub the tacky green powdery goop more deeply into the sculpture of Superman's face and richly thick, dark hair... until his head is completely encased in green. He then rolls Superman's head from side to side in his fat lap as he studies the now painted, yet still chiseled features of Superman's face. "No one will gaze upon this handsome face again, pretty boy," promises Bill. “You were no match for Moro’s big magic ! I have dragged the great king from his throne… now, I’ll make him my jester!” crows Bill aloud. “Dumb as a post.”
As Bill's words echo through the brig he turns his leering gaze at Superman's powerful chest, large biceps, and thighs tightly contained in the blue elastic fabric of his bodysuit. He cannot resist the urge to trace the S on his chest with his finger several times as he admires the magnificent body that is now his property. He reaches across and pinches one of Superman's well-developed pectorals and feels the hardness of the large muscle, the surprisingly huge, beyond giant-sized, olive-like, erected thickness of one of his nipples—then the both of them,
simultaneously, now rock-thrusting hard through the mussed green-stained fabric. Superman stirs instantly, moans softly through the ball gag; one of his last to be made very clear sounds. The oft, well-played and self-treasuring of his own so productive, prominent man-breasts now obvious… an ecstasy he will never freely know again. His torso arches involuntarily, and begins to exude large dark splotches of wetness across and through to his front. “Ohh… my so, so big nipples—my, my ultra-huge cock. Greatest of my power sources, most wonderful of joys!!” Bill imagines Superman saying. Who arches and tremors silently to be appeased. His unconscious body as if inherently on automatic to respond.
“Imagine, a bonafide milker , too!” Bill observes. Self-loving fag-bitch! And chuckles. “No more nursing from you—whoever, either,” Bill gloats. “Bet it was just you who did it, anyway. As Moro insinuated. Never known to have been with a partner, gossips say. Don’t even think Thor could compare.”
The fat hand again drops further, cupping over the staggeringly large, yet firmly pliable mound between his captive titan’s thighs in its stirred increase. Once more, the downed muscle-god, from which is elicited definite, unconsciously groaned-sighs of manly pleasure—his hips surging forth, genitals yearning for embrace.
“Oh, my, oh, my...!” Bill coos. “BIG boy, indeed! But alas, once Moro’s magic has destroyed your nuts, as he said it would—what do you need them for anyway?—your “tower of power” may barely ever rise again. Could cut them off. But more interesting to see them flop around uselessly. Although you can still bend over, be our island’s main receiver . What I’ve always had in mind.” The garblings rising then fading, as he ceases his explorations. The famed azure eyes securely closed, only a few deep rumbles from the alien’s chest and throat.
"Go back to sleep, Superman. I have you right where I want you... weak and powerless: a prisoner in my brig! Right where you belong." Satisfied beyond satisfaction. Contemplating the intricacy of the fastenings, he figures how to undo them, manages to remove Superman’s cape and tosses it aside. “Ahh, later,” he muses. “Stay dressed until your display in the yard. Then you can have your cape back, nothing else. Not even a thong. But I wonder about that “sun thing.” If you’ll gain back too much strength? Oh, well, we’ll just use more of the green, keep you tidy.”
“Now... the main event!” Bill smiles and picks-up the thick, heavy rubber hood and studies it for a moment. “Great movie,” grunts the fat man as he spreads the sturdy elastic bottom opening apart, and fits the rubber hood onto the top of Superman’s head that lies face up between his kneeling fat legs, stretched wide atop the broad, defeated torso of his victim. The obese man grunts and again passes gas loudly as he struggles to get the tight-fitting hood down over Superman's head. After several attempts, Bill succeeds in getting the obscene item over him, totally encasing his head in the form-fitting mask. Once the hood is in place, he quickly buckles the hood's constraining collar as tight as he can, turning “its” head from side to side as necessary. Then he locks the hood’s restraining buckle in the rear with a small padlock. Even with hands free, or in a normal man’s strength, it can’t be undone. Not without a key—or perhaps removing the head on which it sits.
Bill admires his handiwork for several minutes as he rubs Superman's powerful shoulders. “The green goop is completely dry!” observes Bill as he continues to rub a shoulder. “Now… the spell is complete! Superman’s superpowers are erased permanently!” smirks Martin. The much lesser man, having proven himself the more clever—who has vanquished the invincible, invulnerable, once mighty Son of Krypton!
“I'll leave you with your friends now, Superman… you all must have a lot of catching up to do… hey, boys?" laughs Bill as he grunts loudly to raise his obese frame to stand. Superman’s hooded head drops out of the fat man’s lap, clunking dully on the stone floor as Martin manages to raise his lumbering frame to his feet. He then and snickers loudly at his handiwork. “What a day! Superman, a prisoner in my brig… stripped useless of his great powers, and now hooded as a clown! The joke’s on you, Superman,” cackles Bill as he slowly circles around Superman kicking his powerful arms and legs wide apart so that he is displayed stretched-out face up. Not even chained or tied. After all, where can he go? Or how? Impotent as a wilted daisy.
“Good night, muscle boy… I’ll be back to give you a personal tour of the punishment yard in a few days,” promises Bill as he ambles out of Superman's cell and then closes and locks the cell door. He looks from side to side at Tarzan and Bomba still sleeping naked on the cold stone floors of their cells, oblivious to Superman's failed rescue attempt and smiles. He takes one last look at the humiliated Man of Steel—laid out cold, and spread-eagled on the stone floor of his cell—sprayed a garish bright green, and wearing his clown's hood. He snickers and rubs his hands together. Satisfied with the evening’s work, the fat man turns away from Superman’s cell; he grunts loudly as he bends over and picks-up his bullwhip.
Bill looks through the prison bars at Superman as he re-coils his long bullwhip and remarks, “Now that you’re a clown, the name Superman just won’t do! I’ll have to call you “SuperKlown” from now on. Yes… your name is now the great “SuperKlown!”” beams Bill as he admires the latest addition to his collection of humiliated heroes.
“Capturing Superman was easier than I ever dreamed possible—magic , who would have thought?! Chains, guns, knives, and missiles could not stop Superman... but a small pouch of green powder kicked in his face, let an old fat man like me beat the crap out of him!!” laughs Martin as he trundles down the brig’s hallway, dragging the handle of his coiled bullwhip along the bars of the empty cells... satisfied his growing collection of heroes is safely locked away for the night. “Hunter will now be forced to fulfill our bargain, and bring the Dynamic Duo in chains to me here… payment for taking and neutralizing Superman—I mean, SuperKlown—before he had the chance to jail Hunter and his friends for kidnapping Tarzan and Bomba!” he muses.
"Is it me, or is Robin, the Boy Wonder, hot?” asks the jubilant wacko as he approaches the brig’s entrance. He stops momentarily and surveys the extensive damage Superman inflicted on his brig’s entrance... noting the crippled iron door frames and then the tall heavy ornate iron bar doors smashed and strewn over the jungle floor.
“This damage was uncalled for. I offered to open the gate—but no, the big hero had to get all macho and show me what his muscles could do. I’ll just have to devise a fitting punishment for SuperKlown,” promises Bill as he tosses the bullwhip onto the passenger's seat, and then squeezes his corpulent frame into his Jeep. He pats his belly, flatulates again, and takes off.