The Telemachus Story Archive

The Extermination of Superman
Part 14 - Poor Jack!
By Rick Henry

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By Rick Henry.

Chapter Fourteen: Poor Jack! –

It was but hours later. They had managed to get him up, hose him down, washing off the blood, the crud, what had happened. No sense to really scaffold him. He was a useless, powerless lump of clay, could hardly stand on his own feet. But stand he did, and they strapped him once more against the upright single beam behind him, fastening him to it, bound with just a leather waist-belt to keep him upright. Since his arms were so pulverized, no reason to fasten his wrists to the crossbar; no reason to restrain his ankles. He wasn’t going anywhere, restrained or not.

Dr. Slagschuster kindly injected him with some pain medication, but just minimally. Their plans were to torture him much further; only sometimes too much shock at once can be rather fatal. This, they wanted to prolong. Since his mind was practically gone now, it was simpler and simpler. It also seemed to remove the captive’s identity ever further away from them, as much as it had been from himself. No, they shouldn’t feel guilty about destroying the most wondrous man on the planet, idol of millions, heartthrob of thousands, paragon of justice and all that was good in the world. Whimpering, fucking boy-scout, shredded, super-muscular alien, righteous, intervening pain-in-the-ass... narcissistic queer. He had had his day. Time for termination.

The creature, in definite pain, mind very hazed, stood stolid as a doorpost, and just as calm. Not sure or even caring what was to happen. Dr. Marsden Slagschuster then further carefully began to inject numbing medication all around the two and a half inch diameter circlets of the alien’s beautifully dark, silky areolae. Those wondrously wide, sensitive parts of his male breasts, from which protruded those impossible now three inch long male teats, an inch and a half across in thickness. The silvered nipple rings piercing them, and the weight thereof, had caused them to increase phenomenally more in size, to an almost freakish level. They were magnificent, actually; but the doctor concluded purely useless now. (As much so as the heavily slung genitals between the creature’s thighs—incapable of erupting further sperm for ejaculation. Now merely decorative appendages to enhance his beauty, but not his life.) Yes, the fondling, milking, caressing of them might well continue to give the being spontaneous inner climaxes, as apparently they often had before, when he had something to spew forth. Yet, without the fluid ability to do so, he could still experience pleasure within, no prostate needed. Still, in his case, no pleasure needed anyway. Their thicker than thumb-sized buds would make great specimens.

Completely inured to sensitivity now, and well able to see what the doctor was doing, Superman watched in a dulled listlessness, mind almost in a trance, as the doctor pulled firmly on the silvered rings, tugging the rich buds of his male-udders out as far as they would go from his chest, one at a time... and deftly removed the glory of each of his huge nipples with a scalpel. The electric cautery seared the flesh instantly as it cut, so there was little bleeding. Only a deeply, sharp tingling, far into his groin, until the overly-sensated nerves were forever shut off. Now, there was a broad, nearly three inch round, dark red splotch of exposed tissue on each side of his massive pectorals, looking very raw and flat and strange.

The doctor pressed a small hot plate over each of them to further seal the bleeding, scorching the flesh. In time, they would scab over and heal, and smooth new skin could be grafted on. But, the alien would not live that long. No problem.

The Man of Steel felt little. Though his mind registered somehow, a great and irrevocable loss within him. Not fully comprehending. Knowing only something drastic had been done. Barely feeling it, mind numb as he was, he had no reason to dwell on it. Just watched the doctor apply healing salves to the wounds. And saw with great curiosity the liquid-filled jar in which the doctor placed his removed teats, still anchored in their silvery rings... and the larger, deeper container beside it, ready to receive some other specimen, obviously.

Marsden turned to him with a soft smile. Patted him soothingly on the shoulder. “Didn’t feel a thing, did you?”

“No, no. No... I didn’t. What, why did you...” he didn’t finish.

The doctor cut him off. “The other one is for your genitals. You will feel that. But, no matter. You don’t need them, anymore. We’re practically done with you, anyway. Just relax. It will all be over before you can hardly think about it.”

“My... my... genital—”

“Those things, that extra weight between your legs. Won’t be needing them, really. Where you’re going. So we’re saving them for future reference.”

“Saving them...?”

“For posterity. For display. To prove we’ve done it—the impossible.”

“Wha, what ‘impossible’?”

“The dismantling, and extermination of Superman.”

The captive blinked his eyes vigorously.

“You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?” teasing the confused donor.

“Yes. Yes, I think... maybe—”

“Of course. You used to be him. He used to be you.”

“I, I... I, used to... still am, I—”

“You’re an alien. A non-human, narcissistic queer. Not fit for continuation on this planet. We need to make an example of you, your kind. Take samples, to prove we are the superior ones. We, the “super-men.” Your Master desires it, Zero-zero-zero-one.”

“My Master,” he nodded his head, “whatever he desires. Yes.”

“Fucking fool,” the doctor spat. “Oh, well. Have to get a few things. Back in a few minutes. Enjoy your last look at those big danglers... things no longer needed between those mighty thighs. Later,” cruising out coolly through the sliding glass doors.

He had watched the place carefully the past two days, awaiting the opportune moment. The building was not easy to crack, but he did know a back entrance by the garage, where a few drums of something and other materials were contained. It was the easiest, least guarded or suspected point of entry. When one of the men came out for a smoke, he quickly overwhelmed him from behind. Chloroformed and gagged him, bound his hands and feet, dragged him aside. He needed the key-card access, or it would have been impossible, otherwise.

He slipped in warily. The corridors were empty. When he saw Marsden leaving the main lab chamber, he flattened himself against the wall. The doctor was so preoccupied, he wouldn’t have noticed; maybe he should have struck then. Less complications later....

He knew every moment counted. He hoped he was not too late—obviously something serious was afoot. He held his breath, and plunged in. What he saw pierced him to his core.

Jack stealthily entered, stood almost speechless in front of the Man of Steel. His lover, nearly broken beyond repair, the massive, beautiful physique of his alien friend: bruised, battered, beaten, defeated, pride-less, horribly abused... the hideous seared patches on his mounded pecs, from where the glory of his nipples had been removed.

Without thought or caution, Jack’s arms went up and around him, closed his head against Kal’s shaved-smooth chest, looked up, and kissed him, over and over. Mouth on mouth, all over his face, his eyes. The man hardly stirred, ever in wonderment, until Jack said, “It’s me, Jack! Oh, Kal, Kal, what have they done to you? What have they done!? Love you so much....”

“Jack... Jack?! ” And the memories flooded back in a rush. Jack!! the name that had not been thought of by Luthor to erase, nor even mention! Superman weakly tried to embrace him, his eyes flooding with joy, relief, love, care, but his arms still were non-functional. “Jack, Jack...” saliva slipping out the side of his mouth as they kissed, “want to—can’t hold you. Help me, touch you?”

Jack had to help him lift his big arms so they could press around him. Superman was ecstatic, but... thoroughly whipped. Still too limp and powerless. “They’re killing me,” he whispered. “It’s almost done. Have robbed me—my nipples, destroyed my prostate, ruptured my balls. I-I’m... I’m useless. No good. Can’t love, mate —done for. Defeated.... They’ve taken my strength, my... powers. My, my... seed, my life.”

For oh, God, Yes, he remembered! Making love to Jack, and Jack loving him! His heart breaking, his spirit... for how could he ever know that love again—claim it, take it, share it, express it? He started to sob, to shake, and Jack held onto him.

“Don’t worry. As long as you breathe, you’re mine, and I’m yours. Now, help me, how do I get you out of here—?” He hastily undid the leather waist restraint, freeing his man.

“YOU LITTLE SON-OF-A-BITCH!! How did you get in here!!??”

Dr. Slagschuster had returned was pulling and jerking on Jack’s arms, ripping him away. But he was quickly disarmed and thrown to the floor in shock, as the stronger, younger man fought back, asserted himself, then jumped onto his chest, pounded at him mercilessly, banging his head into the tiles. The doctor tried to defend himself, but was no match for the agile, determined blond, who in a rage, knew he was going to kill him. Jack’s hands were at his throat, avowed and steady, squeezing out his life.

The doctor’s frightened face turning red, purple, being choked.

“You’re the sonofabitch! You God-damned monster! You’re not going to kill him, he’s mine! My love!! And we are getting out of here—!!”

“Oh, Jack. Poor Jack!” he heard the words, felt the cold barrel of the gun at the back of his neck.

Luthor pulled the trigger. There was no time. Only instant blackness.

Jack fell forwards and to the side, a small trickle of blood at the base of his skull, no exit wound. Arms crumpled, body slack, one side of his face to the floor.

Stupified, Superman had drawn closer, looked on. But somehow it didn’t register.

Jack lay dead, a blot of red staining his thick, blond hair. His handsome, young musculature forever gone—relaxed.

“Shit, Marsden! I’ve never killed anyone before! NEVER! Ever!” Luthor was, indeed, distraught. Perplexed. He helped his lover to regain his feet. The doctor clung to him, even kissed him. Lex reluctantly returned the kiss, breathing, “I guess I do care, a little. What happens to you.” And he moved aside, shaking his head. Stunned. What to do, what to do?

He pushed Superman away, still a block of stone.

Ahhh, yes. The solution. So simple.

He called two of his guards. Told them simply, “Dismantle him.” Gestured at the body, nodded towards the steel colored machine visible on the partitioned side of the lab. They raised their eyes, frowning. “Do it!” he screamed at them. “No traces left. Get this mess cleaned up!”

They wrapped some towel’s around Jack’s head, and dragged him off.

Dr. Slagschuster was sweating like a well-beaten pony, fingering the collar at his neck, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. “Whew! That was close! Lex, you saved the day. My life, that damned fool was trying to kill—”


Lex was shaking. They both were.

Superman, like a forgotten statue, naked, scorched, bruised, bewildered. His mind trying to grasp, but couldn’t, what he’d seen: what he had thought he felt, what he had remembered.... But, Jack was gone. Erased?! Some kind of a memory?

Jack. Jack...?” was all he could mumble. Distressed. Confused.

“There IS NO Jack!” Luthor howled. “Get back to your place! Against the pole. Now! You faggot, alien garbage!!”

He looked sternly at Marsden. “Get a grip! Go ahead, do it! This pussy’s finished...” indicating Superman. “By the end of the day. We can can them both.”

Slagschuster took a deep breath, straightening. An laconic shrug, a snide smile. “I guess, “love” never fails....”

Luthor threw him a sour expression, refastening his captive to the beam.

The doctor shrugged again, headed off to get the last of his equipment.

Superman was placed against the scaffold support once more, only the leather restraint at his waist. Barely able to move his arms, which still seemed functionally mostly useless... then, he was hearing a strange whirring sound from the other side of the lab partition. And then a faint, grinding sort of crunching. Whatever it was... made little difference to him. Just a new sound. Nothing to worry with. Just odd.

Lex was pacing, waiting for Marsden to return. The sliding glass doors opened suddenly, one of the men with a dark, small plastic sack in his hand.

“What do we do with this? Too bulky to fit—.”

He held up Jack’s blond head by his hair... eyes partially open, the dumb-startled look still imprinted on his face—when he’d been shot.

“Acid,” Luthor said. “There’s a small drum of sulfuric acid by the garage. Put him in that. Dissolves everything. And don’t splash it on yourself! Capiche?! Or you will be in trouble.”

“Right boss,” the man leaving with a bow-legged walk.

Superman, in endless shock, saw. Was numb as a stone. Shattered as glass.

“Ahh, the wicked doctor returns,” Luthor snorted at him before leaving. “Castration time, Fag-dick.... I hate the sight of blood, so I’ll view it through the monitors. No more self-sucking for you. Besides, no juice left—where’s the fun? Couldn’t lick it anyway, Dog Man.”

He passed the doctor with a nod. “Make sure the sutures are nice and clean. Remember, this is our major trophy. Besides his head.” And left.

* * *

The muscle-battered alien watched in some fascination as the doctor sprayed shaving cream onto his pubis, above his largely hung genitals, and began to remove the last of his hair.

“Need to have you nice and clean for the display. Ease of removal,” Slagschuster told him. He did a fine job, no nicks at all, moving the ponderous heft of the captive’s cock and balls out of the way, from side to side, even fondled them somewhat appreciatively doing so... a slight sigh of regret. “If only more men had as much; we’d all be in heaven. Though difficult to do cystos on—too large for most tubes.” The Dane, talking to himself, as he worked.

It didn’t take long, most of the hair having been shorn from the magnificent package days earlier. He dried off the questioning stud with a soft towel, patting him sweetly as he did so. And with no one looking, bent down, and sucked Superman’s flaccid cock into his mouth... just to note what it would feel like. Almost lost himself; the alien not stirring at his touch, as if numb and incapable of being aroused; amazed and fascinated he could barely take him as he was, the slackened member far thicker than his own or Luthor’s when erect. It caused his own to harden quickly, but, no time for that. If he didn’t watch himself, he might beg Luthor not to do it. Let the creature keep his glory, why disfigure him? Only... well, without his head, or his body... fuck, there was nothing to retain, nor a reason to do so.

And for the Superman, able to view his final destruction—should make it a far more piercing defeat, to say the least! Rubbing in the victory only that much deeper: vanquishment of the invincible. The horror, further murdering him from within.

“Now, #0001, I will need your help. Can you move those arms, even just a little bit?”

“... Yes. I think so. Just... a little.”

“Good, then. Let me also call you Superman in the process. Just enough to refresh a vague memory. Think that will do much for you?”

“Su... Superman. A little. If you say, a little... some memory, yes. Coming back.”

“And who was Superman?”

“... The mightiest. The most handsome, built, hung, powerful. Hardly any finer on the planet.... Me. I was, am—was... still am . I-I’m... not sure. Am I?”

“Yes, you are. Were. But, no more. Only the memory. Not the ability.”

“No. No, strength. No... power. Can—can’t...”

“Can’t even get a hard-on, anymore. Can you?”

“No. No... more. Don’t feel. No, can’t. Won’t... why ?”

“You don’t need it anymore. Just an inconvenient weight between your legs. Serves no purpose but to piss through. Right?”

“If you, I guess... say so. No, don’t feel it much. Just a little. Heavy, yes. And... beautiful, though. I can see—remember, but...” His voice trailed off, almost as vacant as the blood in his cock, not stirring.

The doctor injected him around the pubis, circling the area with fine, tiny jabs of numbing medication. He winced, could feel it, not pleasant, not terribly painful, since his whole body was a seething mass of discomfort anyway. This was mild in comparison. Just sort of gritted his teeth, alternately watching in the mirror, chin lowered down to observe the doctor’s ministrations.

Since he was on a raised platform, a bit higher than the floor, Dr. Slagschuster would not have to kneel to perform the operation. He could stand comfortably, sleeves rolled up, scalpel-cautery at hand. He reached forward, caressed the wondrous hang of the huge testicles, sighing again, looking up into his victim’s blue eyes.

“Dumb as a post, aren’t you?”

“Post... what post? Do you, dumb—me?”

“Yes. Zero-zero-zero-one. Superman.”

“#0001... yes, Super... man.”

“Help me,” the doctor directed. “I need your help.”

“Yes. Anything.”

“Move those arms now, bring them forward. Your hands, can you?”


“Hold yourself, now. In your hands.”

Superman brought his hands around, enclosing them over his thick genitals.

“Not quite. What I need you to do, turn your hands palms down. Now, grasp your cock and scrotum firmly, with your thumbs and forefingers. Make a circle.... That’s right. A nice tight grip. Now pull, down and out. Lifting your cock and balls upwards, forwards.”

The Man of Steel in compliance, wondering exactly what to do. The tug on his mighty genitals was firm and secure, using both hands on himself.

“Beautiful, beautiful! Now hold them firmly, tight, don’t let go. No matter what.”

“Okay, yes. Okay.”

“Now, Superman, you will remember. Who you are. Just a little. And this will hurt; but don’t let go, whatever you do! We don’t want any nasty, unsightly cuts here. All nice and close and even. Ready...?”


And as he held himself in his hands, his massive genitals outward from his pubis, the doctor began to sever them, cut them away from his muscled groin.

He grimaced, then began to moan. “Oh, doc, doctor it’s hurting... burning.!”

“Yes, I told you it would. Just hold tight, don’t move.”

“Ohhh... ayyyyhhh-nnnnhhhhh—aaaahhhhh! Nnnnnhhhhhhh!!!!”

“Got it, Superman. See what I’m doing, feel it?”

“... Yes, nnmhhh! Yes, ooohh-aannahhhh!!” His eyes widening, remembering. The semi-soft heft of his once male glory, wholly relaxed in his palms. Detached from his body, now. Looking down at them, fully severed in his own hands. Could not understand, comprehend—his!! His—

“N-no-nooohhh! No!! What... have you done to me—?” a quiet, child-like cry.

“Give them to me, Superman. That’s it. Nice and easy.... Damn, must weigh almost four pounds! While I suture you up. Make it nice and smooth. Give you a nice closure, stop the bleeding.”

The doctor laid the dead-soft mass of Superman’s genitals to the side, onto the table, while he astutely brought together the skin flaps from where the removal had taken place, and neatly stitched the emasculated area together. Making it nice and firm, mounded and smooth, between his pubis. His captive was mesmerized, somewhat still moaning softly. The waist restraints had helped immensely, keeping the man’s hips still and anchored, otherwise his knees might have buckled, sagged. The castrated superhero, stunned... in disbelief, in a trance.

“I’m giving you just a tiny pee hole, here,” he said, suturing in a miniscule tube (after he’d already drained him), “but you won’t really be needing it.” Marsden murmured more to himself than him, finished up, tidied the area, wiped away any blood. He also reinjected his captive with more local numbing medication. “I can’t stop the complete pain, but most of it should remain rather numb.”

The alien remained bound to the beam, an almost hammered-in-the-forehead look to his eyes. Arms limply to his sides now. He was trying to comprehend the altered appearance of his physique in the mirror, while still watching as the doctor then resumed at the table to stitch up all the ragged areas of his penis and testicles, containing everything into a nice large, singular fleshy pouch... finally inserting two steel rings at the tops of his ball sac on either side, above the hanging appendage of his once proud cock... so they could indeed be hung together for display on the t-bar rack to be placed within the tall, clear rectangular display case, immersed in preservative fluids for all time.

Before doing so, he held up the severance of Superman’s former glory to his face. “Remember this? Superman? It used to be you—still is, but only a “were,” now. Would you like to kiss it, suck those big balls one more time... here, go ahead?!” With one hand he lifted the heavily relaxed genitals a little higher, the other tilting Superman’s chin, “Go ahead. Give them a last goodbye kiss, a last suck, a final caress.... Jack also loved them, didn’t he? Almost as much as you.”

Superman’s mouth opened, dazed, and hungrily took in the remnant of what he used to be. More by instinct, than knowing what he was doing. Savoring the thick sweetness of his own well-loved flesh, the corrugated wonder of his own rich balls... remembering now, more than he dared, wanted to, could accept!

He almost strangled on himself, in sudden, shocking horror— terror—panic at what had been done to him!—what he was doing now!—lanced to his core, with the overwhelming reality! It WAS him, himself!!—his, his very own—!!

It was oh, God! his glory and strength, his person, his being , his malehood—violated, removed from him—destroyed forever!!! The source of his seed, his life, torn from him!

He was going to die. Was literally dead! Nevermore... to be alive!!

“No, no, no! Nooooo-ooohhhhhhhh!! ” His whimpering cry, turning into a gagged scream, though muted... at the same time, his own severed maleness still in his mouth, his throat, he involuntarily reached vainly, tried to fondle at his nipples, without even thinking... no longer there! No longer there, no longer there!?? Pawing frantically, then, sliding a big hand over the mounded smoothness of his denuded pubis, his cock and his balls no longer there!— not where they should be!! The sudden panic, the impossible horror!!! What had they done!??!

He keened, unearthly strange sounds, deep from within.... Hands desperate to reclaim what could not be claimed. Watery tears rushing mournfully from his eyes. His senses, hazing. Could not think, feel, believe... knew it was done. He was finished....

Dr. Slagschuster withdrew the alien’s member from his face and mouth. Let the heft of his package remain in momentary sight, then placed them into the container.

“Ahhh, Superman, tsch, tsch! Super... no more! Just Zero-zero-zero-one. No nipples, no cock, no balls, no semen, no prostate. No mind, really....”

He noted the sagged superhero was no longer able to stand properly, the waist restraints the only thing keeping him upright, crushed in spirit and body and soul, limply useless before him. Not even the alien’s hands moved, his drooped shoulders and head, face streaked with silent tears, a dense darkness under his eyes, etched into his features. Handsome, but lifeless. His spark gone. Fading.

“So, now. To the final round,” the satisfied Dane concluded. “Was that nine? I really wasn’t counting. Should actually be quite painless. Only—not in your mind.”

Slagschuster had to leave, call for some help to reposition the mass of the alien into the proper alignment.

The men arrived, straightened Superman up. He was transferred to a rig with a larger backboard on it: straps would be needed this time for each of his calves, his thighs, one at the waist, his biceps, his forearms. The final touch was a head harness. His head had to be kept in a very still position, upright, chin immovable: all of him fastened to the slanted board. He would only be able to see anything, his head locked into place, by viewing himself in the full length mirror, which they repositioned conveniently for that purpose.

And oh, yes, tubes...once more inserted down his throat to keep him breathing to the last minute. A heart and lung machine was wheeled in. Circulation would be more than tricky. He was to be kept alive at all costs.

Luthor wanted him to know... to see everything.

* * *

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