Clark Kent stepped off the elevator into a strangely quiet Daily Planet newsroom. The hum of typewriters and chatter was conspicuously absent, replaced by an eerie stillness.
"You're late, Kent!" Perry White's familiar bark shattered the silence. He stood outside the conference room, arms crossed, his scowl deepening. "Now, where's that draft on Superman saving those Russian astronauts last night?"
"Uh, yes, sir!" Clark scrambled to open his satchel, only for a stack of soggy, sewer-soaked papers to spill onto the floor with a wet plop.
Perry's eyes narrowed in horror. "Kent! What in tarnation—?"
Clark turned crimson, hastily gathering the dripping pages. "I—I can explain."
In fact, He couldn't. Clark had found his suits and satchel abandoned in the subway tunnel, completely soiled in muddy waters. It took him some time to dry them out using his super breath, but clearly he forgot to check the inside of his satchel.
Perry didn't bother listening. He planted a polished leather shoe firmly on the wet manuscript, grinding it into the floor for emphasis, "Is this some kind of joke? Because I'm not laughing."
Clark stammered, "I promise I'll fix this—right away, sir!" He bent to retrieve the papers, but Perry slapped his hand away.
"Don't bother!" Perry snatched up the soggy draft, crumpled it into a ball, and lobbed it into the trash. "You're why we have an entry-level department, Kent. Maybe you should reapply for it."
Clark shrank under Perry's withering glare, crossing his hands in front of himself like a chastised schoolboy.
"Now get your sorry behind into the conference room!" Perry barked, storming inside, "Don't make me regret keeping you around!"
Clark shuffled in after him, only to find the room packed. Jimmy Olsen waved him over, patting the seat next to him. "Tough morning, huh?" Jimmy whispered, sliding a cup of steaming coffee toward Clark.
"You have no idea," Clark muttered, giving a weak smile even though he felt so comforted by Jimmy's kind gesture.
At the opposite head of the table, a sharply dressed man sat there, exuding authority and arrogance in equal measure.
Clark sidled over to Jimmy.
"What's everybody doing here?" he whispered.
"Allow me," Jimmy said, pointing to the strange man. "The silver fox is none other than Mr. David Warfield."
Clark's mind raced, "You mean that tycoon who owns all those sleazy tabloids that used to be good newspapers?" Clark and every other responsible reporters in the business were saddened every time they saw a good newspaper become irresponsible just so it could have more readers. Good newspapers found their news stories and wrote about them. Sleazy newspapers made the stories up and wrote about them.
"Correction, Clark," Jimmy said. "Warfield owns all those sleazy tabloids, and he is one of the shareholders of the Daily Planet."
Jimmy leaned over to Clark's ear, "He made his money the old-fashioned way. He inherited it from his father. The richest family, the Warfields. They have been doing military deal for generations"
While Clark considered the implications of that news, he watched and listened.
Mr. Warfield had a neat business look, greasy silver hairs in a slick-back style. Perfect skin but matched with cunning and unpredictable eyes. In his hand he held an unfinished cigar.
"Alright, everybody's here. Mr. White," Warfield cleared his throat and said, "I have been reading the ledger of this newspaper. The Daily Planet hasn't made money in three years!"
"But the name of the game is making money," Warfield continued, "But don't worry—Today, I have a good news for all of you here"
Warfield smiled, a cool and unsettling edge to his expression. "I've acquired the shares from the other stakeholders in your newspaper. As of today, I'm the new Chairman of the Board of Directors. From now on, Mr. White, I will be here to help."
"Helping me?" Perry said, aghast.
Warfield ignored him. "Once upon a time, the Daily Planet was a nice paper," he said, "Now it's just tiring. I've had a new layout designed." he reached into a portfolio and brought it out.
He held in his hand a tabloid paper, half the size of the old Daily Planet. The top half of the front page was a headline, reading:
IS WORLD AT BRINK?
The bottom half was a photo of a glossy, muscle-bound blond man clad in nothing but a camouflage thong, holding a bazooka as Metropolis burned behind him.
Clark's jaw dropped at the huge bulge. He looked away quickly, his face turning red. "That's… uh… bold," he managed, clearing his throat. Even though he admired that beautiful body, but thought that model ought to be wearing more clothes.
"Bold sells, Kent," Warfield said with a smirk, "And sell it will."
"Sir," Clark interjected, trying to keep his voice steady, "The world isn't actually at the brink. Don't you think that headline is… well, misleading?"
"Maybe," Warfield said with unaccustomed honesty, "But it's a heck of a circulation-booster!"
Perry White's face went from pale to pink to red and was nearing a deep purple when Clark spoke to him.
"Mr. White don't do anything rash," he advised.
But Perry was beyond calming. "Rash!" he sputtered, "There's the rash that infects world journalism!" He pointed to Warfield. "If you think I'm going to let you — "
Warfield cut him off smoothly, "Mr. White, need I remind you that yesterday I brought the majority of this paper? You'll find your contract very specific about your responsibilities."
Perry sputtered incoherently for a moment before storming out, slamming the door behind him.
Warfield smiled triumphantly, "Well, then. Let's get to work, shall we?"
One by one, the staff filtered out, leaving Clark and Jimmy sitting in stunned silence.
"You two, stay here." He suddenly turned to Clark and Jimmy, a strange, chilling smile spreading across his face, "I have a new task for you."
Warfield leaned back in his chair, his grin widening as he gestured for Clark and Jimmy to sit beside him.
From a nearby shelf, Warfield picked up a thick and heavy folder and slid it on the conference table toward Clark and Jimmy. "I know you two are Superman's best buddies. So, I want you two to work on our special issue about that big blue boy scout. I have some raw materials for you here. "
Clark's stomach tightened as his eyes flicked to the folder. He already knew what it contained—his superhuman vision had caught the words on its cover long before it landed on the table. Still, he forced himself to feign surprise as Jimmy, seated beside him, leaned forward with wide-eyed curiosity.
"What's this?" Jimmy asked, his voice tinged with both intrigue and unease. He didn't wait for an answer as his eyes scanned the bold title on the folder:
Superman: The Greatest Hero or a Useless Coward.
Beneath it, in smaller, sharper print, was the subtitle:
The Undisclosed Archives of Superman's Ignominious Defeats
"Superman's... defeats?" Jimmy said hesitantly, glancing back at Clark. Clark's expression remained stoic, but his jaw tightened ever so slightly.
"Exactly," Warfield said, clasping his hands behind his back as he began pacing the room. "The world loves a hero, sure, but what it loves even more is seeing that hero brought down a peg. Humiliation, shame, vulnerability—those are the stories people crave. And what could be better than showing the so-called Man of Steel is made of something a little more... breakable?"
Jimmy frowned, clearly uncomfortable, "But Superman always comes back. He always wins in the end."
Warfield stopped pacing, leaning over the table to loom closer to Jimmy, his sharp gaze unwavering. "That's not the point, kid. This isn't about his victories; it's about the moments he fumbled. Those moments are raw, real, and irresistible. They humanize him. And you know what sells better than a perfect hero? A flawed one, a defeated one, or a dead one." He began to snicker, chillingly.
"Now, let's enjoy the content shall we?" Warfield smirked and opened up the folder.
"Here's a classic. The first time Superman ever learned a hard lesson." He pointed to the first photo. It showed Superman, head-deep in water, straining against a glowing green chain around his neck. The setting was unmistakable—Lex Luthor's lair, with the infamous kryptonite necklace dragging him down. Warfield tapped the photo triumphantly.
Clark's eyes widened in terror but he tried everything he could to remain calm.
"Our alien savior, undone by a tiny green rock. Look at him, floundering like a fish out of water. Lex Luthor, the genius he is, found Superman's Achilles' heel and didn't hesitate to exploit it. Doesn't that just make you wonder how fragile he really is? Not Super anymore. But a drowning dog." Warfield couldn't help but chuckle.
Clark's hands curled into fists under the table. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. But what's more pressing to him was the fact that he could nearly feel that tingling sensation crawling up his manhood. The increasing pressure between his growing penis and the red briefs was undeniable. His shame and arousal, both were burning like Kryptonite against his skin, just like the wet dream this morning.
Warfield flipped to the next page. "And here's a rare gem," he said, his tone gleeful. The photo was slightly blurry but unmistakable. Superman was chained to a massive bomb, the Kryptonite necklace still visible around his neck, screaming helplessly. The device was airborne, soaring over a canyon.
Jimmy's hand flew to his mouth in shock. "I... I can't believe this," he muttered.
Warfield ignored him, his grin growing even wider. "This," he said, pointing to the image, "was right before that catastrophic earthquake. Do you remember that tragedy? Lives lost, cities in ruins, your lovely co-worker Lois Lane dead—and all the while, where was Superman? Bound to this bomb, helpless and utterly defeated."
Clark bowed his head, his eyes fixed on the table. He couldn't bring himself to look at the photo again. The memory of that day was etched into his soul, and now it was being paraded before him like some macabre trophy. Part of him refused to experience the shameful feeling again, but part of him feared that such humiliation would awaken something inside of his suit trousers.
He almost felt pain from his already stiffen, swollen, and lengthened Super-phallus.
Warfield, unaware of the storm brewing inside Clark, let out a hearty laugh. "Gentlemen, let's keep going," he said, flipping to the next page with a flourish.
The photo on display was another brutal snapshot of Superman's lowest moments. It was the day of General Zod's invasion of Metropolis. Superman lay sprawled in the rubble, looking as though he'd just been dragged from beneath a crushed school bus. His usually pristine red cape was tattered and smeared with dirt. Towering above him, General Zod pressed one heavy boot down onto Superman's iconic red briefs, a maniacal grin plastered across his face. Superman's head tilted back unnaturally, his eyes rolled upward, and foamy streaks were visible at the corners of his mouth.
Warfield snickered as he pointed at the image, "Look at him. Can't even tell if he's in agony or in orgasm." His laughter echoed around the room.
Jimmy sat frozen, his face pale and expression unreadable.
Clark, seated beside him, kept his head bowed. He didn't need to look at the photo—every detail of that day was seared into his memory. The pain, the humiliation, and the way Zod had toyed with him as if he were nothing more than a beaten dog.
Yes, Clark knew more than the photo revealed. He remembered what had come next, the details too mortifying to ever surface in Warfield's twisted archives. Zod's crushing boot had forced him into such despair that he'd lost control of his bladder, the sharp sting of humiliation accompanying the warmth spreading beneath his yellow belt. He had soiled himself in front of the tyrant. And then Zod's voice, cold and commanding, demanded he clean the mess from the boots. Broken and desperate, Superman had obeyed.
Now, sitting in that conference room, the echoes of those shameful but weirdly arousing memories collided with the present. His face burned, not just from reliving the humiliation but from an unwelcome, maddening sensation in his own body—a tension pressing outward beneath his suit, just below his yellow belt.
His helpless throbbing erection couldn't stand no more. However, neither Warfield nor Jimmy could know what he was enduring…or enjoying?
Warfield, relentless in his cruelty, turned the page with a theatrical flair, smirking as he leaned forward. "Now, this one is my favorite," he said, tapping the photo with his index finger.
Clark's eyes drifted reluctantly to the image, his stomach sinking as he took in the horrifying scene. The photograph depicted a massive supercomputer sitting ominously in a cavernous lair. In the center of the chaos, Superman being lifted up unconscious, bound tightly to the control panel by countless wires snaking around his body. His face, eyes, and mouth were obscured by cables that seemed to pulse with energy.
But that's not even the most unsettling detail.
A cyborg stood in front of Superman, aiming a searing laser directly at his groin. His signature red briefs bulged outward, aching for a release. The outline of it shone bright under the relentless power attack. Worse still, the image hinted at something far more invasive—though blurry amidst the electrical flashes, it appeared that the wires had torn through the fabric of his briefs, leaving his lower half exposed. Some of the cables looked as though they had... invaded, creeping unnervingly toward his most private areas—his buttocks.
Clark's breath hitched. The knuckles on his fists whitened beneath the table as a wave of confusion and horror washed over him. He couldn't recall this moment, couldn't remember being bound, attacked, or humiliated in such a grotesque way. Yet, as his gaze lingered on the image, something stirred—a faint, indescribable sensation deep within him.
His mind spiralled into an unwelcome introspection. Was this why? he thought, swallowing hard. Was this the source of those strange, fleeting urges that sometimes surfaced? The quiet curiosity about his body, the unspoken thoughts of... exploration about his anus? He tried to shove the ideas away, but they pressed harder. The uncomfortable tingling in his lower spine, from his buttocks to his prostate. The imagined weight of Jimmy's or someone else's dong stretched his arsehole, and he wrapped the tip of it tightly with the muscles of his intestinal walls?
Warfield's voice broke the silence, snapping Clark back to the present. "Fascinating, isn't it? Even the mighty Superman isn't safe from humiliation. Just look at him—helpless, pathetic, violated."
Jimmy's eyes darted to Clark, concern etched into his face. "Clark, are you okay?" he whispered, his voice low but urgent.
Clark forced a tight-lipped smile, nodding stiffly. "I'm fine," he lied, his voice strained. Inside, the storm of emotions raged on, leaving him questioning not just the image before him, but the depths of his own identity…and that helpless desire.
Warfield flipped to the next page, his grin widening as he relished every moment of Clark's discomfort.
The photo showed Superman dangling limply from the roof of the Daily Planet building, his once-mighty frame withered and frail, his iconic muscles shrunk to pitiful shadows of their former glory. His cape hung tattered, fluttering weakly in the wind, while his skin appeared pale and lifeless. Clearly, he soiled himself again, as the fabric below his groin darken into a huge patch of yellowish indigo. Beside him stood Parasite, grinning triumphantly, his grotesque purple form radiating with the energy he had drained from Superman.
Warfield turned to the next image, revealing an even more gut-wrenching sight. The photo showed Superman, battered and bloodied, being dragged into the Metropolis Police Station by Metallo. Superman's costume was torn, his face streaked with tears as he seemed to cry out in desperation. Mid-plea, his hands clasped together as though begging for mercy.
"And this... this is art," Warfield, enjoying himself immensely, flipped to another photo with a sinister grin. The image displayed Superman in an impossible state—flattened into a two-dimensional form by Mr. Mxyzptlk's chaotic magic. His body was cut into several pieces by magic, with his head, legs, arms, chests, and crotch, scattered within the drawing frame, as if he were part of some twisted art installation, now a surreal painting, hung in the city's empty museum. Despite the bizarre transformation, his face still bore a horrified expression, frozen in time.
Jimmy looked ill. "This... this is too much," he murmured, glancing at Clark, who sat unnaturally still. But to his surprise, he saw a tear drop from the corner of Clark's bloodshot eyes.
Clark gritted his teeth so tight, his heart pounding fast in his chest. He tried to suppress the wave of shame and climax that threatened to overwhelm him. At this, his sizable cock stood straight up stiff in his tights, juddering with excitement. He already felt the penis ring gripping hard on his helpless erection.
The desire to relive these experiences had once secretly crept into his dreams. In those dreams, in those memories, pain and humiliation—Superman seemed to be treated like a swollen, stinking garbage bag, casually trampled, crushed, and torn apart. Now, he yearned for them so much that he even wanted to jump onto a table right now, rip off his disguise, expose his ridiculously colorful hero costume, and then howl like a dog toward the Warfield. "Toy me, despise me, humiliate me, destroy me!"
"No! Fight it, Superman. Fight it" he murmured these words without even moving his lips. Now Clark was tense all over, like he had used every ounce of his strength to keep the beasts inside him under control. Of course, that included the beast underneath his blue and red tights. Stomach turning upside down, his hands were gripping the fabric of his pants on his knees so tightly that he seemed about to snap like a taut guitar string.
"You... are you okay, Clark?" Jimmy asked cautiously, extending his hand, and gently placing it on Clark's clenched fist. Clark suddenly felt unease with the unexpected touch, but that discomfort also pulled him a little out of the dizzying state he'd been in.
"I'm... I'm fine, Jimmy," Clark said, hastily wiping the tear from the corner of his eye with his other hand. "I just... I didn't know Superman had been through so much... had suffered so much. I didn't know."
Jimmy, turning to Warfield, was visibly rattled. "Sir... Please…stop!?" he stammered,
"Talk about being put on display," Warfield ignored Jimmy's plea and said to himself. "Superman was literally turned into a piece of art. The great Superman, helpless and cut apart."
Clearly, Warfield wasn't done. He continued flipping through the folder, revealing more images of Superman's defeats—each more degrading than the last: Superman crumpled in the arms of a Brainiac, barely conscious; Superman, bound to the bow of a pirate ship and gagged with a grimy towel, was paraded like a trophy across the sea; Superman passed out in a filthy sewer, suit tattered, face scratched, mouth covered by blood and filth, his cape like as a homeless man's rag...
The horror and hormones were still gripping on Clark's phallus, not knowing the end of it all.
"Please make it stop…please…" The despair in his body almost made him scream...
"Gentlemen!" Warfield said with a flourish, closing the folder, "I think you see the angle we're going for. Even the invincible have their moments of disgrace. And those moments? They sell."
Before Warfield could finish speaking, Clark slammed his fist down heavily on the table. With his head lowered, he muttered, "Mr. Warfield, Superman... is people's hope. By tearing apart... what Superman stands for... you're… no different from a monster."
Warfield straightened, adjusting his jacket with a dismissive chuckle. "Oh, Kent, you're so noble. But this isn't about Superman's struggles. This is about giving the people what they want: a hero who's just like them. Imperfect. Vulnerable. Mortal."
Jimmy hesitated, trying to comfort Clark but his whole body couldn't stop shaking. "Where did these even come from? These don't look like public records."
Warfield smirked but said nothing, his silence more telling than any explanation could be.
Clark suddenly slammed his hands on the table and stood up, staring wide-eyed at Warfield. "Mr. Warfield, what you're doing... is no different than... killing…Superman!!"
But then, it seemed like Clark couldn't hold up anymore. His body collapsed, and he slid off the chair, tumbling to the floor. Lying on his back, twisted and still, his eyes filled with terror and agony. Saliva uncontrollably dripped from his mouth. At the same time, a large, dark, damp stain appeared and spread on the lower half of his suit, even dropping a few of stinky bodily fluids into the carpet.
Yes, Clark just wetted himself in the meeting room.
"Clark!!" Jimmy let out a scream and crouched down to check on him.
Clark was the only one in the entire room who knew what had just happened.
As he jolted to his feet, a rush of the suppressed lust inside him surged straight to his skull crown. His huge erect penis began to quiver uncontrollably with the friction of his sudden rise, meanwhile his entire being began to feel a tremendous pain from the rapid tightening of the ring. The energy building up in his urethra was almost ready to burst through all the barriers to release it free.
The words escaped his lips before he could stop them: "Killing Superman." But as they did, he realized it was too late. A sharp sensation spread through him, while his prostate fluid began to spill uncontrollably from the tip of his nearly inflamed glans. It was at that moment that the penis ring began to do its real job, exposing the kryptonite radiation from its core.
A sudden wave of unprecedented pain hit Superman hard in the crotch as if it were a heavy punch, a pain that was almost fatal, as if someone had impaled Clark's lower body with a sharp sword. The pain knocked Clark straight to the ground and caused him to temporarily lose control of his bladder. Unstoppable spring of urine replaced his few drops of precum and squirted out of his manhood, uncontrollably.
Watching the scene unfold, Warfield couldn't contain his laughter. "What a joke! Superman's best friends, huh? Looks like he's not the only coward in the room, Kent!" he jeered, his voice dripping with condescension.
Soon as Clark experiences this irreparable disaster, his erect penis instantly subsides . Thankfully, the ring on his penis also stops its momentary torment.
Clark snapped out of his brief stupor, looked at the concerned-eyed Jimmy in front of him, and muttered under his breath, "I'm sorry, Jimmy. I might be sick. Sorry."
"Clark, you really scared me! Are you okay?" Jimmy said hastily.
"I don't know," Clark muttered, his voice breaking. His mind swirled with thoughts of failure—failures to his father, to Jimmy, to the symbol he was meant to uphold. He clenched his jaw, tears forming in his eyes. His hands trembled as he tried to steady himself. His khaki suit pants, which had turned dark brown, were still oozing out fishy-smelling urine.
"Second time today…first my father…now Jimmy…this must be a very, very cruel joke…." Clark thought to himself.
The plain shame now flowed back to fill up his mind. How could he let Jimmy see all that foolishness? How could he break his oath to his father on the first day of his testament?
Maybe his father was right. He was a failure, a shame to the House of El.
Jimmy placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Don't apologize, Clark. Whatever's going on, we'll figure it out. You're not alone."
Jimmy's words smooth and tender, somehow wiping away the clouds hanging in Clark's mind. Maybe Jimmy did care for him.
Warfield, unimpressed by the display of emotion, stepped forward in disgust and tossed the folder on the two men and headed for the door, "Don't forget the deadline. Make the issue happen. I want the first draft on my desk by Monday, documenting every one of Superman's failures."
Warfield stared at them with a disdainful sneer "Don't forget what I said to Perry before. I own all your contracts. Even if you quit, I have a hundred ways to make it impossible for you to find your next job."
Warfield stormed out of the conference room without looking back. At the same time, he pulled out his phone in the pocket, two unread text messages from General Todd…
Just as Warfield opened the door, the important news of the morning suddenly came over the conference, and the President's voice floated in from the television:
". . . and because the Summit has failed, we have no choice but to strive to be second to none in the nuclear arms race."
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