Metropolis, the city of dreams and ambitions, the city built by its hardworking citizens, the city blessed by its protector, was bathed in the soft, golden glow of early morning light. At 7 a.m., the streets were just beginning to stir. The gentle hum of life filled the air as birds chirped on telephone wires, and the occasional clatter of footsteps echoed on the sidewalks below. Vendors set up their carts, their voices light and cheerful, offering fresh coffee and pastries to the early risers. For a moment, it was the most peaceful time of the day in Metropolis, as the city's usual hustle and bustle had yet to awaken fully.
In a crowded but lively residential area, nestled among the labyrinth of fire escapes and brick buildings, stood a shabby old apartment complex. Its faded paint and creaky staircases spoke of decades of wear. On the third floor, one apartment in particular looked unassuming, barely noticeable. Its windows were wide open facing a dimmed abandoned valley, letting in the crisp morning breeze that danced with the faded cream curtains, making them billow like sails.
At first glance, the room within was ordinary. Modest furnishings—a small dining table, a sofa that had seen better days, and a few bookshelves packed with newspapers and magazines. Nothing special about it that almost everyone would say its occupant led an ordinary life. But then, on a chair near the window, a vibrant burst of color caught the light: a red cape draped casually over the back, its golden 'S' insignia gleaming faintly, attached to a bright blue and red Superman suit. The sight was almost comical in its juxtaposition with the otherwise mundane room.
This was Superman's home, but to most people, known as Clark Kent's apartment, hidden in the heart of Metropolis.
From the bathroom came a faint sound of running water. Clark Kent was showering, the soft patter of droplets breaking the morning stillness. The steam from the hot water curled out through the semi-opened bathroom door, mingling with fresh breeze. Inside, Clark hummed a tune to himself, his voice carrying the cheerful notes of Singin' in the Rain. He couldn't help but imagine himself as Gene Kelly, twirling through rainy streets, carefree and laughing. For a moment, he let himself pretend—pretend he wasn't Superman, but just a regular guy dancing without a care in the world.
He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation of warmth against his face, letting it roll over his broad shoulders, down his chest, and along his legs to his feet. An unalterably, beautiful physique. The mass of his arms, thighs, the staggering breadth of his shoulders, the cut, mounds and curve of his pecs, the narrow hips, and well-rounded buttocks. His fingers couldn't help brushing idly across his incredible, muscular pecs, tightening, caressing them, tracing to his tight abdominal, to his crotch.
But then, mid-thought, his fingertip touched against something unexpected at the base of his half-erected penis—something not quite skin. It was firm, almost rubbery, and definitely not supposed to be there. Clark paused, his humming abruptly cutting off as his eyes snapped open. His smile faded into a puzzled frown as his heart sunk to the bottom.
It was the penis ring—his father Jor-El's warning, his restriction—given just hours earlier in the Fortress of Solitude.
The memory flood back like a raw but forgotten wound getting touched accidentally, shame and anger surging from deep within him from his crotch to his mind. Suddenly, everything felt surreal, blurring the line between reality and illusion.
Just hours ago, he had endured a brutal lecture—emotionally scarring and physically draining—from his father. Now, back home and stripped bare, he still felt uneasy in his comfortable area, his confidence shaken.
He quickly pulled his fingers away from the cock ring, an anxious flicker of fear sparking within him at the thought of accidentally activating it. But nothing happened. The ring remained still—no shrinking, no pain. His penis hung flaccid, long but soft, while his heavy ballsack swayed low, water dripping onto the spaces between his strong toes.
"Okay, okay, all good, Kal. No need to worry. Focus. Be a hero. You can do this," Clark muttered to himself, his voice wavering as he tried to summon courage. He inhaled deeply, letting the warm water cascade over him, though his gaze remained fixed below.
"Be…a hero…"
He couldn't help but stare at his manhood—a true marvel even in its relaxed state. Light teal veins traced across the cavernous tissue, and his X-ray vision accidentally engaged as he studied it too intently. Beneath his skin, he saw the frenetic movement of sperm swimming in his urethra and scrotum, a sight he had never witnessed in broad daylight but only been able to take a glimpse through his body, underneath his skin. Yet still, those powerful sources of power were so close and dear to him, even though he had never touched them, felt them, held them, or even tasted them.
Maybe he never will.
The realization hit him hard: his body, god-like in power, felt alien to him. He could never truly control or embrace this part of himself, could never masturbate freely or even ejaculate—not without Jor-El's permission. The thought poured over him like icy water, a suffocating sorrow creeping in. Would he ever experience release? Could he ever truly feel human in this way?
"No," he growled softly, shaking his head as if to dislodge the thought. "It's not the time for that, Kal." Clark turned off the water immediately. He couldn't bear even one more second staring at the harsh truth between his godly thighs. He couldn't allow himself to be immersed into such hopeless and shameful musings, although he must face it one day.
"Think about the city. Your people. They need you. They love you." He stepped out of the shower, forcing himself to focus on brighter thoughts. "Think about Jonathan. You dad, he loves you. Think about…Jimmy…"
As he dried off, Clark turned on the radio sitting on his cabinet. He needed something, anything, to distract himself and take his mind off the desperate truth between his thighs.
"... Faster than a speeding bullet! More powerful than a locomotive! Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound! It's a bird! It's a plane! It's Superman! "
The radio crackled to life, and the familiar opening theme of the Superman radio drama filled the room. It was the crown jewel of Metropolis Radio: The Adventures of Superman. These were imaginative stories lovingly created by fans and brought to life by talented voice actors. Sure, real-life stories of Superman saving the day happened all the time, but you couldn’t underestimate the enthusiasm of his admirers. Kids especially loved hearing about Superman’s daring, heartwarming imaginary stories, which were far more exciting and personal than the stiff reports on the news.
"What's a better way to start the morning than with some fan fiction?" Clark thought and chuckled, shooting red laser beams from his eyes into the mirror, using the reflected beams to neatly shave off the stubble on his face.
Clark, of course, was also a huge fan of the radio show . He tuned in regularly, though with a hint of amusement and curiosity. He wondered how ordinary people imagined his life, or, whether their version of his adventures was more exciting than the ones he actually lived.
Yet, what Clark wouldn’t readily admit was that he felt a peculiar thrill listening to those heroic tales. He was, after all, the very main character in the broadcast, the lovable figure hailed as the greatest hero, the strongest man on Earth, invincible and the ultimate champion of justice and truth.
Yes, he savored the fiery devotion, the bouquets of admiration and love that people showered upon him. Despite his public modesty—every time he saved the day, he would humbly declare, "I’m just your friend, a helpful neighbor"—he couldn't deny the immense satisfaction he felt inside when basking in the applause and cheers. His ego was insatiable when it came to praise.
The stories might not have been entirely real, but the adoration they carried was. It fueled a part of him he rarely acknowledged: the part that reveled in being worshipped. It made him weirdly excited, not only in his heroic mind, but also in his little red briefs.
"Yesterday, we witnessed a remarkable moment as Superman's former archnemesis, Dr. Dedalus, chose to turn over a new leaf after Superman’s heartfelt appeal. Not only did Dr. Dedalus provide life-saving treatment to Superman in his time of need, but he also went on to invent a cure for cancer! Has Dr. Dedalus truly become Superman's ally, or is there a deeper, more sinister plot at play? Join us today as we continue The Adventures of Superman!"
Turning up the radio, Clark reached for Superman suit draped across a chair in the corner of his room. The vibrant red, blue, and yellow seemed to shimmer in the morning light.
As the radio played the story of Superman and Dr. Dedalus teaming up to battle underground monsters, Clark donned the suit, pulling it over his powerful frame with the practiced ease of a man who had done so countless times before. Once his little super buddy with its "cursed" choker was tugged comfortably right in the cradle of that smooth red briefs, Clark turned to the full-length mirror mounted on the wall.
"Hooray!! With Dr. Dedalus's help, Superman has once again saved Metropolis! The greatest hero in the hearts of the people, the embodiment of justice! It's Superman!"
Meanwhile, the real Superman, dressed in his skin-tight suits, proudly stood in front of the mirror, listening to his imaginary story and people's praise, drinking in his reflection. Clark's eyes scanned the details of his physique, lingering on every muscle, every curve, every detail that set him apart from mortal men.
"I am the hero! I'm Superman!"
A grin reappeared across Clark's face, widening as he struck a pose, puffing out his chest to emphasize the iconic "S" shield. He pivoted slightly, admiring the way the cape fell perfectly over his shoulders, then adjusted it minutely for maximum effect.
"But wait! Just as Dr. Dedalus and Superman were examining the remains of the monster in the lab, Dr. Dedalus sneaked up behind Superman and switched on the large green light above him! Oh no! That’s a Kryptonite beam! Superman’s greatest weakness!"
"Kryptonite!" The word suddenly pulled Clark’s attention back to the radio drama.
Kryptonite. It was the very thing that had appeared in his dream earlier that day, the reason why he had received the cruel punishment from his Krypton father. Superman stood frozen, holding his breath, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Involuntarily, Clark's gaze shifted to his crotch. The outline of his super member on the red briefs slowly began to take shape, swelling and elongating before his eyes.
" 'I 'm h-hhh-hhorribly weakened and... pained... by the rays!... turn them off! Doctor, have y-yyy-you gone out of your mind!' Oh no! the Man of Steel collapses on the floor! 'You're in super trouble! You fell right into my death trap! ' "
As Superman's pained groans echoed through the apartment from the radio, the intense desire Clark had felt in the shower suddenly surged back again, as if a monster had caught him off guard, seizing his throat from behind and leaving him utterly powerless.
" 'You...Devil! Ow...ow-ww! Ow-ww! ' Superman, no!!! The greatest hero struggles in vain as Dr. Dedalus straps him to a bench, with bands of metal containing, also, Kryptonite! 'Ha ha! How simple it was to outwit you! Resistance is hopeless, you fool!... Pardon me, while I turn up the power of the rays a trifle! ' Dr. Dedalus raises the power in these rays to its full strength, making Superman cry out in agony! Get up, Superman! You cannot give up like this!"
"Why my scream... No, it's not mine. But why does it sound so much like I was in the show...Oh...no..." Clark thought to himself, breathing heavily. Superman's scream sounded almost like it was voiced by Clark himself, the real Superman.
" 'Aaaargggh! Stop... oh...no...Please!...It's killing me....Aaaaaargggh! ' "
The scream from the radio crept over Clark, igniting an excruciating urge inside. His gaze fixed on the reflection of his now throbbing erection. He wanted to touch it, his glorious bulge, to tame that howling tiger in his red underpants.
" 'I was... a... fool... to trust you... Ow-oww... Please... Stop it... I'm begging you!....Stop... ' Oh... How come our hero reduces to this. He is begging his enemy for mercy! Dr. Dedalus claps and cheers while watching our hero suffer a big time! 'Aha! Your skin has begun to turn green as the Kryptonite fever rages within you! ' What a twisted cruel cruel man!"
As the plot thickened, Clark's mind spiraled into a maddening, torturous haze. Catching sight of the faint outline of his ring beneath the red briefs, his rational mind screamed that there was no way he would touch that erection like he used to do. He dreaded that the penis ring would tighten its unbearable constraint once his hand landed on it.
Now, the real Superman was almost as hopeless as the hero in the show.
As the scream from the radio intensified, Clark found himself involuntarily leaning closer to the mirror, his hand hovering just above his reflection. Slowly, he reached out, fingers brushing the cool silver surface of the mirror. They traced his jawline, his lips, his mouth, and then lower—to the powerful bulge beneath the red briefs. Tears welled in his eyes, betraying the raw hunger and frustration simmering within. He wanted to touch, to feel, to be free.
" 'At last!! After all these years of vainly trying, I'm finally going to kill you, Superman! Your glorious days are over! Now, face your inevitable doom! ' ’’
Clark's whole body quaked as the show reached its climax. Leaning closer to the mirror, his lips met the cold, hard, unyielding surface. His chest, firm and broad, pressed against the glass, the cool sensation stark against his heated skin. Without a second though, his hips moved forward with his glutes tightened, his breath quickened, and his desire only deepened. Finally, his huge bulge touched with the hard surface of his reflection and lust. A strange but overwhelming warmth began to blossom at the core of Clark's wood-stiff manhood, radiating outward like a rising tide.
"Oh, no! Superman turns completely green and his struggles are getting weaker and weaker. He is dying! Dr. Dedalus is killing Superman! "
As the radio show painted a picture of an imaginary Superman falling into the hands of death, the thought of his own downfall, the death of Superman, sparked a powerful, almost intoxicating rush. It surged through Clark’s body like a current—electric and unstoppable—spreading from his chest to the very tips of his fingers.
"Superman's weakening breath ceases! His whole body is now turning into a glowing green, lying motionless on the bench! Has Dr. Dedalus really succeeded in killing the Man of Steel?"
Those terrifying words were like a giant invisible hand, pressing Clark against the unresponsive cold mirror, and yet he felt something burning in his every cell and every nerve.
"Why does it feel so good... hearing the story of me... dying... helplessly... at the villain’s hands? Oh no..."
Clark couldn't help but tremble, standing slowly on tiptoes, giving his crotch a further push against the mirror to increase the pressure. The warmth suddenly turned into an explosion, as if the blood were rushing in his body at the speed of light. The news of Superman's imaginary death has made Clark burning, dizzy, weak, and helpless, but he knew he could keep doing it until the end of the universe.
The cruel story in the radio continued...
"Is Superman dead? Dr. Dedalus begins to examine the hero's limp form. 'I must make sure Superman isn't just pretending to be dead, to trick me into turning off the rays! Hmmm... this super X-ray disclosed all things in his body. The organs and his blood! All turned green! He is very, very dead! DEAD! ' "
As the final word echoed through Clark's mind and soul, the warmth in his body turned into an intense surge of flame, like a raging inferno. Clark pulled back slightly to look down, while the bulge stayed pressed against the mirror. His eyes fixed on the growing erection in his briefs—a vibrant and swelling red. It lifted, pressing hard on the mirror, stretching as it’s hardened, thick and full. He rubbed it against the mirror up and down, from left to right, while his hips instinctively pressed with such precision so that the mirror wouldn't break under his superhuman strength, seeking more friction, more connection. Harder and harder.
" 'I just killed Superman! I've destroyed the mightiest man in the universe! ' "
While the cold, stiff body of the imaginary Superman lay dead, the real Superman was reaching an unparalleled, earth-shattering climax, unlike anything he had ever experienced. His manhood stood fully erect now, long and solid, straining against the fabric, craving for escape. Superman trembled violently and moaned like a teenage boy masturbating for the first time.
A moment ago, Clark thought he would never feel it again. He thought the punishment, along with the ring, took away his right of self-touching for good, as well as his right of sexual climax. But now he could relive it once again, hand-free, in the illusion of his own imaginary death. Finally, he could have his only private moment without activating that damn dick ring! He wept like a reborn man.
"Superman is dead. There is no way to save him now." The narration voice from the radio started to tremble, then suddenly gave way to Dr. Dedalus's chilling laughter as he announced his victory to the world., " 'People of earth! I, Dr. Dedalus, have killed Superman! This is no hoax! It's absolutely true! Now, I own his dead body. It will be my greatest trophy forever! ' "
"Oh... Why it makes me so hard... What he will do to my body... Oh great Krypton... Cut off my head... make it into a trophy...Oh great Rao..." Clark couldn't help but think about what the imaginary villain would do to his lifeless body. Meanwhile, the pressure on the tip of his penis had almost reached its maximum. He was ready to release his natural flow.
"Now, my audience, please remain silent for a minute. We mourn the loss of the greatest hero..."
As the room suddenly fell into silence, Clark closed his eyes and pressed his whole body onto the mirror. Suddenly, the ring began to vibrate. It was shrinking.
Clark let out an agonizing howl, and tiny cracks started to appear on the mirror..
"I don't care anymore! I will die from the radiation on my dick ring. It will kill me, emasculating me on site. But I DON'T CARE! Let me have it, father! Let me have IT!!!"
The surge of precum building up to the tip of his urethra.
But as quickly as he came to the verge of collapsing, the sharp ringing of the phone cut through the quiet, snapping Clark out of his sexual spiral. He jumped back from the mirror and glanced at the desk where the phone sat, but before he could answer, his old answering machine clicked on with a beep.
A voice crackled through the speaker—Jimmy Olsen, his colleague and ever-enthusiastic partner in journalism. But today, Jimmy sounded anything but upbeat.
"Clark! Clark, are you out for work!" Jimmy's voice was rushed, almost frantic.
"Listen, you've got to get down here right now. Something big is happening, and it's bad—real bad. The East-West arms control talks... they've broken down. Completely collapsed! The President is about to make an emergency address to the nation. It's all over the news, man. The Planet's newsroom is in overdrive. Perry wants everyone on deck! And Clark, the streets are saying something big is gonna happen in our office. Something catastrophic. Just get down here, okay? Hurry!"
Clark jumped towards the desk, almost ludicrously, scrambling for the phone, and said "Hello," hoping to get a hint from Jimmy about details, but he had hung up. He was talking to a dial tone.
Clark's jaw tightened as he stared at the desk, his mind racing.
"Something catastrophic…" he whispered; his voice barely audible. The words jolted him like a sudden burst of clarity, snapping his thoughts back to reality. The lust and vulnerability that had consumed him moments earlier slowly evaporated, leaving behind a sharp focus. His vision, blurred moments ago from tears and sweat, cleared. His hearing sharpened, catching the sound of streets beyond his walls. Energy flooded back into his body; the sluggishness of indulgence replaced by the vitality of purpose.
In that moment, a warm voice from the radio filled the room once again, "Well, let's not feel too badly! After all, this was only an imaginary story!... Folks, the chances are a million to one! It will never happen! Just a quick reminder to our audience: all Kryptonite on earth had been collected and destroyed by our government over a year ago! So right now, Superman is probably safe and sound, listening to our show, entertained by our little story! Again, the hero will not leave us! And by the way, just last night, Superman saved three Russian astronauts from a deadly collision between the space station and orbital debris," the announcer cheerfully continued, "The Man of Steel not only repaired the station but also escorted the injured astronaut safely back to Earth. Truly, a hero for all humanity!"
The words washed over Clark, a quiet reminder of the reality, right here, right now.
Yes, there was no way that somebody could defeat him, let alone kill him! The only Kryptonite on earth probably was just that tiny bit in the penis ring of his. He is Superman—the symbol of hope, protector of a fragile world. He is the hero that will always stand against evil. There was no time for indulgence, no room for hesitation. The instinct of a big boy scout surged within him, obliterating the remnants of his earlier misstep.
Without wasting another second, he carefully tugged his Superman suit beneath his reporter's attire: a crisp white shirt, a modest tie, old-fashioned suit trousers, and his signature thick-rimmed glasses. He glanced at the mirror one last time, not as Superman but as Clark Kent—mild-mannered journalist, no trace of the crazy turmoil he'd felt earlier. To his surprise, his body had calmed entirely, his khaki-colored trousers loose and unremarkable, no evidence of his earlier arousal, no trace of that once throbbing bulge.
There was no time to linger. Grabbing his satchel and suit jacket, wearing his hat, he bolted out the door, bounding down the apartment stairs two steps at a time and into the bustling streets of Metropolis.
After Clark left, the apartment returned to its peaceful, serene state. Sunlight streamed in through the wide-open window, casting a glow on the tiny cracks left on the mirror.
Clark never noticed, but those cracks were like an omen. The repression of his hyper sexuality over the past thirty years was beginning to take on an unexpected but extremely dangerous form. From his narcissistic admiration of his own body, to his obsession with the allure of strong male bodies, and then to a secret yearning for pain, torment, and humiliation. And today, after enduring his father's cruel punishment, something inside him had surfaced. It was something darker and more twisted: fantasies of his own death, at the hands of his enemies.
But Clark was too cocky, too full of himself, to realize what the series of events that had unfolded that morning truly meant for him. He was still reveling in the thought of being the strongest hero in the world, completely unaware that this new thing, lurking in the back of his mind, a dangerous fetish, would lead him down a path of irreversible destruction.
Now, the awkward and naive young reporter from the Planet Daily was making his way through the bustling crowd, heading straight for the subway station.
There was no room for distraction. He had one thing in his mind:
The world needed Superman.