The Telemachus Story Archive

The Extermination of Superman
Part 2 - Opening the Lock
By Rick Henry

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By Rick Henry.


What he saw, he would never forget as long as he lived. Of course, the other videos and films of later (and all the processes thereof), would remain a library staple for ages to come. Recorded for all time: the most beautiful man who had ever lived. Or almost, surely—making mad passionate love... to himself!! (And more than well able, at that.) As well, later, the recordings of his eventual destruction. No matter. They would be the ultimate proof Lex Luthor had been successful. The relics for the Smithsonian further reinforcing the conquest.

Not expecting “this,” but with Luthor’s grin non-stop across his not unattractive face, it gave the doctor some trepidation. He was ushered into the office casually, motioned to sit, drinks already by the leather consoles. Again, Luthor just smiled. Beaming like a schoolboy. He sat near the doctor, stroked the younger man’s thigh a moment in high anticipation; Marsden simply smiled back, and grasped his whiskey sour like a life raft.

“And now, I present the great Superman, in all his un-before-seen glory! And my, what he does with it: astounding! Also, a bit sad... when you think of it. He must be lonely as hell. But services himself, nicely, nonetheless.”

“But how could you have come across such, or gotten it filmed?”

“I told you, I am not without resources. I simply discovered his hideaway, where he goes locally, while playing “human” with us. And had the place rigged, while he was on a far mission to Cape Town. Notwithstanding, we had to be quick about it. But I also stirred some trouble in Hong Kong to keep him sidetracked, just to be sure. Naturally, it entailed figuring out who he was, in order to be able do so. Not hard when you think about it. With shoulders and pecs like that, they aren’t easily hidden in a floppy suit jacket, under a pair of thick, clear-lensed glasses. For years, I was sure it was that reporter, Kent. But never could track him down, specifically. Until he made the fatal mistake of renting a penthouse, through a lawyer, to hide his true identity, in one of my very own, but not publicly known, properties. Simple then to record all the ins and outs, the goings-on of the residents. When Clark showed up, too often to be coincidence, I knew his salary could not sustain such an expenditure.”

“My God, Kent! Who would have thought?!”

“Nice fellow, actually. And I feel a bit of a cad. Violating his privacy like that. But, all’s fair in love and war—and this is truly not love . Though he’d be one helluva fuck, for the right man. Not me, exactly. Just so you know. But even his hoped-for fuck days will soon be curtailed. What a waste! As you shall see. His time is very short, now.”

“I can’t wait.” Dr. Slagschuster had not been so excited since his first kid days at the premier of Star Wars. Or was it E.T.? A film to reset the whole industry.

What he saw took his breath away. Appropriate classical music seemed to sweep through the background, another Luthor device, while the 60-inch main monitor switched on.

“I present to you... Super-Queer, the magnificent! Poor bastard. Soon to be dog meat.”

“Whaaaa...” but the voice faded in his doctor’s throat, enthralled with the dimmed lights, the orchestral accompaniment, the view on the screen.

* * *

A few shots. The bespectacled reporter, looking for pimples in his bathroom mirror. Then in a robe, and letting it hang open, ogling his incredible, muscular hairy pecs a moment, flexing, tightening, caressing them... refastening the belt. Blank screen. The full-suited figure: blue, red, yellow, swirling cape on the terrace... disappearing into the night sky. More blanks. Later then, the figure tired-looking, shrugging out of the lycra, nylon, spandex—whatever the hell he wore. Bullet proof, water proof, heat and cold proof, or was it his skin? Who knew? They were not there for the wardrobe.

Then, good God... he was fully naked. In his bedroom, surrounded by mirrors every-where, save for the headboard by the bed. The cameras, strategically placed in each corner, both high and low, and at equal intervals between each other, caught everything. How he had not detected them was a mystery. Luthor said they were all lead encased, only the lenses open, and placed so skillfully between the mirror seams, as well as in select two-way mirrored panels, not even Superman would know they were there. (Chuckle, chuckle.)

And he didn’t. He had combed the place when he leased it, checked it thoroughly every week, and after six month’s stopped being so vigilant. No one knew he was there. He even tried to make his entrances and exits in a variety of disguises, except for the times he simply went aloft, and dropped down quietly onto his own terrace. He had another apartment, yes, to keep up the Clark Kent guise. But this was his in-town lair. And no one knew about it: he had to be sure.

An unalterably, beautiful physique. The mass of his arms, thighs (though not weight-lifter bulky, but more tapered), the staggering breadth of his shoulders, the cut, mounds and curve of his pecs, the small tuck of the waist, ridged with ladders of muscle, the narrow hips, and well-rounded buttocks....

“He puts every Mr. Olympia to shame,” the doctor commented. “Not as huge or bulky, but beyond earthly. Sculpted, massive, yet defined. And so well-hung, too. Amazing.”

Superman’s cock fell easily a full ten inches flaccid, by seven inches thick, down from his pubis. His balls were a pair of avocados, slung low and heavy, but not beyond the length of his penis. The nipples on his chest were wondrously wide as a woman’s, broad and thick-budded, set high above the curve of his pecs, projecting a full two inches outwards, the nubs an inch and an eighth in diameter. Male teats beyond compare. More than half the size of his thumbs, small dicks in their own right. Obviously, the flexible titanium cup covering his pubis, and the tightness of his uniform had kept his assets from being too much noticed when in public; though it had always been noted he was endowed—such a bulge! But then his arms and pecs were as stunning to view, as well. Not to mention his face. As Superman, he seemed to have a glow Clark never emanated. Maybe it was some sort of genetic projection he could muster, depending on the situation, or at will? Facing himself in the mirror, one was struck by his incomparable beauty. Not of perfection, but of a masculine refinement few men have, looking rough as a lumberjack, cool as a Navy Seal, with a twinge of GQ, and John Nerd thrown in. Eyes as blue as wild orchids, richer than lapis or tanzanite. Dark hair in waves... and cascaded all down the front of his torso and belly, thick at the pubis, nicely matting his legs and arms. Not too heavy, just right. Buttocks tight and firmly rounded, even slightly concaved on the sides.

He walked up close to the mirror and stared, gazed into his reflection. Sighed. Stretched his arms up along the glass. Fell in against the mirror, breathing heavily. Let his arms drop slowly, reaching out, as he pressed against the silver sheen of it—himself, tracing with his fingers along his reflection, the jawline, the lips, the mouth... touching at the reflected nipples, leaning in close, as if trying to embrace his own image. Tears were forming in his eyes. He was crying. It was beyond obvious, he was craving the mirror image of himself. He pressed forwards, his mouth met his own, but it was hard and cool and flat. He slipped down along the sheened surface, almost caving in to the floor. Reaching out, tracing again at the mirror, murmuring softly, “If only, if only.... My God, where are you? How can I find you?”

He took a deep breath, rose again to his full height, perhaps only 6’2”, 255lbs. He watched his erection lengthen, lift, expand. His chest and cock against the mirror, rubbing against, turning, aching, his eyes still wet. His twelve inch by eight inch malehood was wondrously long and hard, standing high, eager, already releasing his natural flow. He moved languidly to the edge of the bed, sat, began to easily flip-play at his nipples, his head going back and up and around, side to side, audibly gasping, as he indulged himself, ahhhh-ing, his face to the ceiling. Then, down... he was!! Bending forwards! His cock shaft higher than the base of his pecs. His mouth slipped over his glans, no problem, all the way down over his cut line, as he tucked his torso in tighter, the bend under the ribs, not the waist, taking in as much of his cock as he could, and well over halfway.... Then laying back, pulling his legs up, pillows behind him, torso propped, his rivering phallus captured between the mounds of his pecs, he crossed his arms over himself, wrapping his big cock beneath his forearms, began fondling his nipples... squeezed, teased, milked them, as he sucked his cock, and came in less than seven minutes.

They could see him as he bucked, enthralled in his juicing, his orgasms deep into his throat. Amazed at his dexterity, and the long, continued spasms of it. He relaxed. And finally lay back, straightened out. Then, he began to fondle, tug at his nipples once more. He sat up, was able to get his hands under his big pecs, push his nipples closer to center, and upwards—his large nipples and areolae, naturally set high on his chest... his supple neck, allowing him to draw, suckle them in, chew on them. Not having a short, bull neck, he could do so with ease. And it was surprisingly noted, they were also exuding an abundant clear nectar! He seemed intoxicated by it. Shooting his semen again in great spurts after but a few minutes, quick to take his glans into his mouth, not letting any of himself be wasted.

***What they didn’t know then, that was the secret of his true strength. Being able to seed himself, recycle his essence... without which, he would be as an ordinary man. Would lose his powers, could be easily overcome. Would be only just another strong-like bodybuilder, but no superior being. Even his skin cellular structure would begin to deteriorate, he would be vulnerable to wounds, weapons, anything. Even a knife, or a needle. It was part of his alien genetics, his physiology. Hyper-sexualized, but a major element of his Achilles Heel. If controlled by another, he could well become their pawn; if his seed were expended without replenishment from an equal, or his own, he would be fatally overcome. It was why he could not mate with just anyone—an anyone, without love , could destroy him! For once he exchanged his seed with another, they would be bonded in their DNA’s. Become part of each other. It couldn’t be just “any” other, it had to be someone he trusted with his whole breathe and life and existence; or he would cease to be. No longer Superman. Just a built, hung man, goodlooking, strong, intelligent. But little more. If he lost his semen, he would lose his life. And the power thereof.***

(But this was revealed later. Too late for him, and the final cincher for them.)

The video didn’t end. More blanks. And finally another time, where he was seen easily inserting his semi-soft, magnificent cock deep into his own male-chute, then letting it get hard. Half sitting, half lying back, fucking himself, his eyes closed, one hand manipulating his member, his other, fingers wide-spread, rapturing his nipples till he came, in great jolts. It was an amazement to watch. A man perfectly capable of being his own best lover! And another one, later. How he could lay back, bend in, bring his feet up over his head, sucking his own balls, sucking on his huge nipples again while he jacked; and the volume of his ejaculate bursting onto his chest beyond what they knew a man could produce. Noting how he eagerly took it up in his fingers, still warm, feeding himself into his own mouth. (He, knowing it was his “source,” cherishing it.) The residue, he smoothed into his flesh, through the crisply fine hair of his chest. It would absorb into his skin. Groaning deep and contentedly, a well-sated lion, his strength and joy renewed.

“There must be something to that, I wonder?” the doctor noted. “Unless he’s just narcissistically depraved.”

Watching further, how he fell asleep so quickly afterwards, after doing a “strange” sort of massaging at his balls. They wondered. It appeared to put him to sleep almost instantly. Hmmmn. But then, on another clip, they saw him do a similar thing. After undressing, he did a few hasty, light squeezing movements deep into his scrotum... and it was as if he were suddenly electrified, instantly erect, and yet as waningly relaxed as if he had been drugged into oblivion... barely able to move, falling back onto the bed, hardly able to slowly jack his huge member to eruption with both hands, his eyes rolling up in nirvana. Ahhh, but on closer inspection, with zoomed-in angles, they saw the difference. Bringing him to instant arousal, and full erection, yet as if partially paralyzed... they noted how his center three fingers massaged down into only the inner globes of his balls, deep into his cock root, tracing the cords and structures therein, stimulating them. And then after, to put himself to sleep, how he caressed his testicles more fully and completely from the outer sides, placing only a firm, slight pressure on them, very gentle... which seem to lull him off quite quickly.

If he were that vulnerable, no wonder he had to wear the titanium cup to protect himself. Both men were fascinated. An exterior weapon, indeed!

Interesting way to get instant sleep if craved; or an instant hard-on if desired. Again, he had an amazing physiology. The doctor wanted to study him for a long, long time. If Luthor wasn’t too hasty in terminating him. Would be a shame, if he did. Perhaps they could work out an arrangement. The contributions to science could be astounding, and Luthor’s wealth could be grown at the same time, no hindrance. Once the bull was penned, de-horned.

Or castrated.

But that might be a problem, if one could not penetrate his skin. They didn’t know how.

“So we can see he is quite sexually vulnerable,” Dr. Slagshuster commented, when the images had run their course.

“Exactly. I just have to find the right method.”

“You still need the air-evacuation chamber. How will we lure him in?”

Luthor smiled. “Ahhh, my good doctor. You are an intelligent man. But sometimes, you need “to think.” Really think.”

“How so?”

“We won’t need to lure him in. That will be just a safeguard. I’ll have him carried in. Delivered. Like a baby in a blanket.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I don’t kid, Marsden. I’m serious. He’ll be sucking my cock, as good as you suck mine. And he will beg for it. Only you and I... share a mutual joy. For him, it won’t be as pleasant, I assure you.”

“This, I have to see. Imagine, him craving his equal—and ending up with you! Quite a switch. You nutting the bull, and the bull milking you, his enemy. Ironic.”

“Touche! And now... on your knees. Show me how it’s done. The practice will be sweet for both us. I’ll do you next, nicely.”

* * *

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