By Rick Henry
Email: strawbridge88@att.net

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Superman Unwittingly Meets Mr. D

Chapter Three - “Open That Mouth”

“Can’t see you for two weeks, sorry,” D. said.

Clark stared into the phone, and swallowed. He was at his desk at the Daily Planet , had to take a deep breath.

“You mean—”

“What I said. Not till the 16th.”

“But I,” turning red, looked around. Lois, sensing a conflict, already was eyeing him from a short distance. “Was really counting on—on…”

“Look, Clarky, boy, I only run that ad once a month, two days in a row. Usually have so many offers, that’s all I need to pay the rent. Sometimes even skip a month. ‘Course, not everybody gets in.”

“But I thought—”

“Depends how nicely they’re constructed. Quite a few; often married, and on the sly. That you were “special?” Sure, more or less.…”

“The way you, uh—were so considerate.”

“I was. Wanted to be.”

“Na-not before the 16th? I have a conference then to attend in Chicago, with Lois, here. And I—”

“My dance card’s full. Another time.”

The click of the receiver was sharp and unreal.

Clark thought he would lose his mind. How long… until? When?! And who in hell was D. fucking with in between?! He gritted his teeth, tossed his head, an ache in his neck. Rubbing at it. Sensing he was jealous.

He gazed back across at Lois, who frowned. He frowned back, and shrugged. Had to go quickly to the men’s room, ease his frustrated erection. At least, pat it down, readjust the strap along his leg. Slide his hand across his broad pecs, make sure they were still there. Worthy, spectacular. Not to be dismissed.

But, he had just been!! As if he were a nobody, just some stud with a substantial dick—like how many others?! Even if D. hadn’t quite seen it, relished it, played with it yet. Oh, would he, would he—when? WHEN, to feel him against him, working his so wonderful, overly large nipples again … already beginning to leak at the thought of him. Ah-ahhhhh! Closed his eyes. HAD TO GET A GRIP!!

It was twenty minutes before closing time, when the call came in. Lois, his fellow reporter waved at him, “Clark, Clark, this must be for you! It was buzzed to me, since your line was busy. Wanted a Clark Klein, but you’re the only Clark here. Must be for you….” His stomach did a swirl, hastened over to Lois’s desk, apprehensive.

“Yes, this is Clark?”

“Funny, said they didn’t know any Clark Klein’s. How about the 22nd, 6 p.m.?”

“It’s a cover name I use sometimes,” to both the caller and Lois, since she was right there.

“A last minute cancellation. You game?”

“Uhh, sure, sure.” His countenance brightening like a light bulb. Lois noticed. It had been a male’s voice who’d called, a nice inviting baritone: heady.

“I can fit you in, then. It’s an over-nighter. More expensive—”

“I, I… can pay triple. That, that’s fine.” Elated and steaming at the same time. Even felt a surge in both of his pecs, gulping. Catching his breath. Lois eagle-eyeing the whole thing.

“The 22nd, 6 p.m. Ciao.”

“… Ciao….” Looking dazed, distractedly happy.

“Well, sounds interesting. Happy? ” Lois quizzed coyly. “Studying Italian, now?”

“Uhh, uhh, yeah. An… informant. Something personal I was messing with.”

“Hope it’s fun,” she quirked. And blew it off, still curious.

Clark, feeling his nuts ride up and down, a little light-headed, suddenly. Then pissed, who had D. cancelled with? He, he…he just didn’t like this idea of being in a queue—a selective one, at that—for the favors of a very expensive gigolo. Truth of the matter, being what it was. After all, he, in the universe (when in costume), was himself one of most idolized and sought after paragons of manliness possible, and ever overly desired to be with. How could he be relegated to having to line up, waiting for some pricey “sleep-around’s” intimate favors?! It was beyond denigrating! And tightened his jaws. No less remembering D.’s intoxicating fingers, probing and possessing the wonder of his oversized mammary-strutters. Acquiescing, offering them freely to him… without hesitation. Thrilling his incredibly knobbed-knockers beyond thrills— overwhelming his whole sexuality, being made captive by them. Then quivered. Hopelessly adrift. The wait until seeing him again hardly bearable to imagine.

Lois, cutting in on his reverie. “You know, Clark, you really want a story—they’ve been going looney over in Gotham. Bruce Wayne has been missing for three weeks, now. All his money, and nobody knows where he is! The thought is he secretly went off with some gal who has brains, fantastic legs, and big tits, to some forbidden hideaway to get acquainted out of the public’s eye, before announcing a wedding. Or he was kidnapped by a nasty group of hoodlums. Only no one has come forth demanding a ransom. Alfred, his butler, has also feigned it off as a mystery, and his ward, Dick Grayson seems quite upset. They would be the ones to know, if anyone….”

“Wayne?” muttered Clark. “I’m sure he can take care of himself. Very secretive guy, though—I know. Smarter than any six whips. He’ll show up soon.” And coming back to earth, was sure to make note of it. Maybe would have to pay Robin a quick visit over the weekend.

While D. smiled smugly to himself. Had Mr. Klein right where he wanted him, on tenterhooks, craving to be with him again. Another super cash cow…. For however-while it lasted. Have his humongous pecs played with, while being fucked senseless. Which D., indeed, was more than eagerly, intending to do. In time. In time. All in good time….

* * *

It had been just over two and a half weeks, he was nervous as a cat. And was almost unable to remember the alluring, masculine-preppy face that greeted him. Blondish hair longer, the boldly confident smile. In an overhanging, billowy long-sleeved, multi-colored top, split down the center of his barely shown, silky pectoral muscles of indeed some significance. No less accented by abdominals cut so fine and smooth they were a prized sculpture all their own. With a not to be ignored noticeable mound heavily prominent at his groin… under some shimmery, harem style lounge pants of a deep cranberry red. At the door, without a word, D. kissed him so suddenly, sweetly and long, he felt the strings of his legs growing unsteady, and his breath as if he hadn’t taken one in a week. Wanted to crush him into his powerful arms, tell him how much he had missed him, but was afraid he might hurt him… each of them only clinging to each other as if they were both made of glass, feathery and ever so fragile. Only their lips engaging, fingers laced. Nostrils flaring. As if trading their spirits into each other by breath alone.

“So beautiful,” Clark managed.

“So handsome,” D. countered. Which was true. Clark was definitely a twelve, without those dweeb-phony glasses he liked to wear. (That other muscle guy had been just as spectacular, too!)

Their hands linked, D. led him into the firelit room, the shadows wall-dancing, the flickering crackles of the logs… a warmth all-over pervasive. Dark already outside, the weight of winter falling around them beyond the skirts of their haven, safe and secure inside their sturdy refuge. Having a generous drink waiting for him as before, Clark was compliant to the lure; with an eagerness to quickly indulge, feel the relaxing soothe of the cognac, take the edge off his anxiety (which unknown to him, had been laced with a mild sedative, and an illegal aphrodisiac of some potency). Nothing harmful, or he would never trust his friend again.

(Wayne, of course, had been fed with a horse tranquilizer, curtailing the majority of his extraordinary strength and agility, affecting his cognitive faculties, clarity of mind… and hurling him into an inescapable abyss: that of a very failing, faltering [and knowing it was happening], floundering wuss. Unsteady, as much as he was in pure disbelief. His panic nearly choking him, tried to rise and flee, was astutely tackled, wrestled into submission, causing his weakness to accelerate, and thus allowing D. to easily bind his flailing so very huge and unbelievable arms at the wrists behind him, then turning his body face down, reverse-sitting atop his jerking powerful thighs, was able to secure his ankles with simple zip-ties. All the while groaning, swearing, pleading, crying. Once more turning him over. Laying him out carefully for the grand finale. And hearing the once so mighty, unassailable hero literally begging him, like a whimpering boy, to let him go. “Please, please, don’t hurt—don’t hurt me. I, I have millions, millions. Whatever you want….” And kicked him under his chin to shut him up—. Only audible hoarse rasps, and gurgles of air afterwards. Though roiling and twisting, trying painfully, valiantly to jerk-knee his way free. All the while knowing his efforts were futile. The drugs in his system, his doom at hand. Eyes more than frantic. Tossing his head. Somewhat choking on the blood in his throat.)

Ahhh, the wonderful cognac. Another full dose, his vision with a slight edging blur. The warmth penetrating through his gut, within and behind the mass of his chest, his teats already oddly tingling, his groin in a true full mode of flush, not hard but thickened, thoughts in a disarming, wondrously mellow haze of sweet relaxation. Ready for anything, so much wanting D. to come to him, not sure how to approach him, or if he even should, first. It was D.’s place, D.’s home, D.’s unfailing invitation. His eyes ever going to the bare strip of flesh down D’s front, those fantastically chiseled abs, the prow of his unseen chest obviously nicely packed with muscle, the enticing forever over-bulk of his malehood, surely soon to be displayed….

Clark finding himself almost drunk. After two drinks?! Another ceremoniously, quickly placed in his hand, D. clinking at his tumbler, urging him to up and at it. An enveloping warmth seeming to cocoon him, from ankles to ears, hardly hearing a word D. was saying. Knowing he felt unsteady on his feet for some reason. Oh, so much yearned to be leaned in against him, for D. to bare his chest; he, to reveal his, show him the glory of his bountiful man-breasts to someone who would surely love and cherish them, partake of their sweetness, gasp at the largeness of his genitals… revealing his, too, to him at long last. D. moved very close to him, drink in one hand, pulling awide the front of his own bloused top with the other… his very lesser but exceedingly well-shaped pectorals, fine and large areolaed, over the ridges of his belly, loomed like desirable beacons of enticement, at last bared. Clark feeling the stir of his erection, swaying with the idea of their mouths joining, breasts meeting, hands over the shape of their arms, treasuring the richness they offered, each to each… groins to engage, thongs to be seen near bursting—.

As expected, D. pressed into him close, his wondrous hands already at his shoulders, the crest of Clark’s upper pecs, anticipating their lush, teasing slide down and over his very thick, mound-muscled plates of delight, headed for the outrageous protrusions surely below… which he did, finding them still bulky-wide and soft, unprotected, and spreading his hands then pushed in on them, flattening their tubular ridges semi-roughly and hard against his diaphragm. D. knowing he would, felt Clark arch a little, as he rubbed over them lightly… Clark’s “Ohhh-ohhhh’s” as expected, chin going up, head back, eyes closing, larger, stronger hands seeking D.’s forearms to steady himself.

Ready for “his catch,” D. couldn’t help but let loose with a “Huuhhh-ummmn,” of his own. Conquest at hand.

Their mouths met with an odd, lingering jerk, D. swiftly then pulling back and away. Befuddled, Clark felt a change of temperature, the strange sensation of cool metal links being slipped over his ears, his head, and down around his neck. And being fastened to him: a chain- linked collar like for a Rottweiler’s, with several loose other ends dangling from it. One along and down his back, two shorter others down along his front. His then next astonishment: his shirt was being cut off, sheared apart from the front, and pulled off his arms, exposing the entire front of his torso. His giant mammaries, so big cock-tits, nearly like sausages, drooping forwards and out—nearly a foot apart, wide-angled, heavy and astonishing, to the left and right sides of his torso. D., indeed, could have paused to stare in pure wonder at what he was seeing—but moved swiftly, while Clark was no doubt half-hazed, and with the two short, frontal chains, secured some rather almost hurtful large metal clamps onto each of his astounding nipples. So in this way, he could easily be controlled by another short one, going from one chain to the other across the breadth of his chest, linked to the ones attached on his gaspingly huge teats, effectively harnessing them together, and able to be manipulated singularly or both, at their controller’s whim.

“Don’t move, until I say so. The pain will be less.”

Thunderstruck, Clark calmly obeyed. Disoriented out of his tree (his realm of true belief). Wanting to please his friend D. at all costs. Something in his head saying, “NO, NO, NO!! GET OUT OF HERE!! NOW!! While you’re still strong, able!!” Dismissing it as a fanciful, rootless alarm. He was with D., D. would be good to him. Had always been. Nothing to worry about. Just some game they were playing. And so proud, to at last be revealing his titanic tits, which he knew D. would really like and enjoy playing with. Maybe suck, chew on….? He hoped. Yes, he had to! Had to! MUST!!

The next wonder: D. had him hold forth his hands in front of him, together, at waist level… and with sturdy steel braces cuffed his wrists! Clark looked at them, amused. Nothing he couldn’t get out of. Nothing to worry about. Whatever D. wanted was fine, he could handle it. And then next, D. brandished the heavy shears, and cut down the front of his waist, and down each leg, his new sweatpants soon discarded. Clark took a deep breath, was even more pleased, swelled his chest—though the pull on his nipples was not that pleasant—kind of grinned, and relaxed. His overly ample thong was also at last on display. Surely D. would be pleased with that, couldn’t help it. His full muscular nudity was now on display, save for the exposure of his complementary, compatibly wondrous equipment, anchored below his groin, well beneath his staggeringly huge nipples.

This time D. did pause, he, too, as if thunderstruck. Scanning the behemoth before him. Anticipating his guy would be spectacular—but no one ever on this order!! This, this Clark Klein… was a miracle of masculinity to behold. Hardly believing his eyes. How richly massive his muscularity was, with such an astoundingly small waist and hips, yet so finely sculpted, Michelangelo had never produced a work of art this fine… his skin like silken tissue paper, though covered with an encompassing sheath of fine, dark hair all over, beneath which nearly every striation of his anatomy could be seen when he moved, breathed… the breadth of his shoulders, and incredibly, deep, sinewy-shaped pectorals (with a noticeable trace of femininity to their sides and lower fullness), adorned by those humungous, milk-giving teat-rods… with a movie-star handsome face, flexible, not overly thick neck and traps… accompanied by a blacksmith’s more than mighty pair of arms, and superb muscular thighs, wondrously tapered—and with such a low slung, heavily packed thong (not able to contain even the half of his balls and flaccid cock, as Superman had carefully pre-chosen his attire)—D. could not but barely be accepting of what he had to work with. Otherworldly, indeed!

“I’ve seen built men before, and hung ones—but never such as you. Mr. Olympias would weep in envy at your condensed mass, symmetry, honed-striations… not withstanding your good looks, sexual assets, which put even me to shame—knowing I’m hung a bit larger, but not as fine. You are a miracle, Clark! What’s your secret?” Deciding he wanted Clark’s harness removed, and proceeded to cut it off without protest. The big guy just standing there, noticeably looped.

“Uh, uhh… well, thanks. Just lucky, genetically, I guess. Supplements, working out; but not a gym nut,” Clark stammered. “Gifted, unusual parents.”

“Those pecs/breasts, unbelievable nipples—plus the rest of you! Not of this earth .”

“Bu-but where else could I be from? Just, uhh… unusually gifted.” He had to play this carefully. Had to be super cautious, his identity hidden at all costs. Even woozy-brained, he was getting nervous.

“I’ll say, very gifted! You know, even that big muscle guy used to come here, told you about. Really pounds heavier, denser built, maybe stronger, but never as well-equipped. Kind of reminded me of you, except much more macho-like. Indomitable; a bit pushy. Though played right… I think you two would have made a great pair. Believe it or not, top though he was, think you could have cored him silly. Made him a wuss in no time. Like he begged me— . What I have. ‘Course, why else did he answer my ad? All that muscle, good-sized cock, too….”

Clark didn’t know what to say. Standing there, slowly sobering.

“Need your shoes off,” D. directed. “I’ll help you. Give you another drink.”

“I-I think I’ve had enough. Enough, for a while, anyway…”

“Shut the fuck, up. You’ll have another drink! Do as I say.” Sternly eyed him.

Clark shivered. Strangely.

How had he allowed this? Cuffed, collared, and chained?! Incredible. He was Superman! He was Clark, hiding as Superman. Superman, hiding as Clark. Wanted this, found he truly did. What he wanted—to, to… to be taken. Used, worshipped, pleasured. Told what to do—? Offer up the wonder of his breasts, the richness of his seed. To one who truly wanted him. Maybe, maybe much like that other muscle guy D. had mentioned? They, they… were the same?

D. refilled his glass in moments. Had him take more than a few extra slugs. Clark was beginning to feel foolish, how he must look. Practically naked. In chains—and cuffs?! His nips were really starting to hurt. Needed relief… attention. Shuffling his weight from foot to foot as D. relieved him of his athletic/clunky shoes…. But warm, very warm. So nice and calm and mellow. So relaxed. D. would take good care of him, he was sure.

What he didn’t then expect, that long thin chain down his back, and D.’s sudden hand behind at his perineum. He tightened, twisted, tried to turn.

“Stay still!” D. commanded.

Clark felt the hand pulling at the lower part of his cupped thong, shugging the blue silky material aside—then the stern handling of his balls, a reaching up and over the front at his definitely, unmistakably thickening cock base, “Ohhhh, oh—he, he was going to jack him?!”

“There, now.”

And knowing a thin leather strap had been affixed to his privates, snugly encompassing his large cock and globe-heavy balls securely, with not a lot of slack in it… attached to the chain from his neck and down his back and running now firmly through the cleft of his glutes, causing him to keep his chin in a fairly controlled position, upwards, to ease the tension on his genitals.

“I believe my boy’s ready….”

Then moving to the front side of the contained Clark, D. slipped off his shirt completely. A good five feet apart. Then, undoing the drawstring at his waist, allowed his trousers to slowly drop away. He kicked them aside with a slight movement. The glory of his own thong now the star attraction. As big and thick and long as Clark’s, but yet even shades more. And just as minimally contained, his partial soft shaft beyond stunning; though his testicles rather less than Clark’s (whose boys were heavier, more longly slung, yet fastened controllably)… D.’s like nectarines, free and lusciously full; Clark’s more like ribald avocados.

“See we have the same problem, finding things that fit. Refreshing to find a similar other, not just all built muscle. Lots of those around craving to fill their posers. Mine need to be custom made. Other guy I told you about, substantial indeed, even if I have six plus beyond his. But so many—that’s the best they’ve got, even with 20-inch guns. You?”

“Yeah, yeah, me, too…” somewhat shyly, “custom made. Twenty-two’s. Bu, but below, a full 14 ½ by almost 9 now—”

“Impressive!” D. offered. “And no need to pump? Like some do?”

“No, no, all natural. But did learn a few exercises; used to just be 12 ½ by near 8.”

“And those nips?”

“Ju, just grew, I guess. From sucking them, milking out…. Couldn’t help it.”

“Bet I can help you. More. And more… to keep them out there—.”

Clark gulped and gave a slight tremor. Imagining D.’s warm mouth over them, drawing them in. But was momentarily more focused, what was before him. What they were talking about. Instantly blood-heatedly alert, feeling the largeness of his filling cock; beyond anxious to view, partake of D.’s wonder about to be revealed. His breath quickening, nipples piqued at the surge of his expanding chest. Could feel the tell-tale quaver within his pecs, knowing the source of his milks were also on alert. But what was he going to do—in these cuffs, these chains? His mind scrambling for some sense of what was unfolding.

D. now took a step closer. Reached out, grasped the chain attached to his nipples, and tugged at it lightly. Clark groaned, the feeling becoming too much to handle. The situation. The buzzed mellowing of his senses, brain unsure of what was going on, his blood warming terribly. His want nearly having him on the verge of begging for help, for mercy—to be taken, fondled… touched.

“What you came for,” D. teased. His hand as if ready to release the prize of his awaited genitals, edging down his thong below his darkish-blond pubic thatch, his rod more and more seen, the thickness of a young boy’s forearm. Clark’s, certainly not smaller in that respect.

“Nnn-nnnhhh! Nnnn-hhhh!!” Clark soft-gabbled, mindless. Desire near choking him.

“Now, please me . Do this. Why I had your wrists put together. Those sausage tits.…”

Indicating, with his hands together, that Clark should raise and lower his arms in front of him from navel to collar bone, close-rising them against his oversized, hirsute breasts, each up and down cadenced movement causing his inner wrists and forearms to be rubbing then against his enormous, growing very hard teated projectiles. Their corrugations filling out, the skin of them becoming silky smooth.

“Slow and easy, slow and easy, slow and easy. That’s it.” Over and over, over and over.

Clark instantly moaning at the slow savoring of his own twin-milkers, knowing they would soon begin the natural flow of his nectars—embarrassing him, and arousing him to high heaven at the same time. Might even cause him to come, if kept up for very long. His sexuality being primed and gear-thrusted into overload. Ever gazing at the handsome, nearly nude blond, finely muscled, and with as equally much and more in his thong than Clark had, which he was frantic to see, know, possess. Be possessed by.... By his fifth stroke, his nipples were seeping wet and dripping.

His keening moans more and more audible, his forearms already slickened with his breast juices, looking forlornly for reprieve at his master, D.—orchestrating everything. And his Superman’s thong about to rip out from the front of him, helpless to control his need, his arousal. His head very much buzzed and unclear.

“Now suck them,” D. commanded. “The milk from those tits, what makes you strong. Makes you who you are. Yes? Like you do at home.”

(How could D. possibly know that ? Only someone knowing he was Kal-El of Krypton?!)

But he dismissed it—no way could D. know anything about him; except his shy Boy Scout demeanor, contrasted with his staggering “adult” assets. Knew he was an enigma to many, even as Clark. Much less in his truer reality. D. had to be joshing him. But truth was truth, and he admitted it almost thoughtlessly. The milk from his breasts, his potent seed, radiation from the sun: his main power sources. Not to be frivolously wasted!

“Yes, yes! Oh, I must… I must! Please, let me. ”

As if oddly seeking permission, numb to everything beyond the moment. Not aware he’d given up one his greatest secrets as Superman—Clark Klein, indeed! Suspected, but not confirmed. A self-nursing faggot with huge tits. Like women seen on the internet who do theirs. Oh, well…. D., knowing as well, being so largely endowed as they were, with no trouble or restraint, each self-fellated themselves regularly. No question.

And Superman did as commanded. Yet practically being choked, the chain at his neck, his bending forwards. Nursed from his own breasts as directed, arching high his pecs, his still cuffed hands pushing upwards under them, one at a time, until he could no longer help himself, tearing aside those outrageous, confining clamps, and savoring both of his nipples together at the same time. Their wondrous, erect rubbery appendages crammed easily into his mouth. From which he sucked/chewed on eagerly as if intoxicated. Murmuring. Drinking voraciously, until he gave a loud half-cry, arching higher, and climaxed… nipples pulsing from his lips, spurting forth crazily, while his nearly ripped-off thong again received the abundance of his seed. His groans and moans, whimpers and sighs indicating he had indeed cum… still on his feet, shaking, tremoring, writhing muscularly, but yet in some control of himself, his senses. Hands still urgently working, soothing at his man-breasts.

Thinking he should be embarrassed, but finally wasn’t. D. had wanted him to do this, see him. Pleased that he could please his friend, allowing him to observe the wonders of his abilities, as well as show him how fruitful he truly was. Both within… and out of his control. If he was not thinking clearly, he was unaware of it.

And next was ordered by D. to refasten the clamps to his still sensitive nipples, which he did, wondering why; and oh, how they seemed to hurt more than before, uncomfortable from their just recent use, tender… yet no less arousing. And being the prolific user that he was, felt he was for surely ready to climax again, if D. allowed him. Wanted his permission … his thong though thoroughly drenched and dripping, to be set free from it, and further engage with the taunting D. before him, why he had come here.

Wasn’t it, wasn’t it?

“Good boy,” D. smiled enigmatically, his hand slipping down at the edges of his male containment, Clark’s breath growing a little desperate, on edge, eyes ever focused between the orbs of each other and the wonders they were about to reveal, share. D. beckoned him closer. As if mesmerized, which he was, Clark came nearer.

D. grinned. “Your reward,” he said nonchalantly. His wondrous cock falling out, released, kicking off his flowered thong, his member thickening, filling, truly the size of a young boy’s arm growing turgid but low-angled, yet no less erect. Superman thought he would bust a nut then and there. Such a glorious one he’d never seen, though his own was quite as near a comparable match, would stand higher, a shade thicker, but not as long… the slimmer aspect of D.’s shaft making his appear even that much longer. He was cut, too, with a truly luscious glans… slightly swaying his hips in front of Clark, whose lust was overwhelming him, mouth agape with desire and envy.

“What you came for,” proudly presented.

Clark as if frozen, locked in place.

“On your knees, puss! Suck it.”

The command struck home. Orders given—the so mighty, incredible Superman, paragon of masculinity… verbally guided, caved to his knees, helpless. Utterly lost. Lips parting, hands reaching, mouth immediately onto, urgent at D.’s glans, deftly, lasciviously, without qualm or hesitation.

“Have taken your own often enough, eh? Like me. Only this time, a little more than you expected.”

And as the alien rapturously worked him, taking as much of him in as possible, the long withheld intensity for the craved moment infused into each, both of them soon rising to very swift unquestionable climaxes—D. beyond enthralled as this huge, otherworldly, stripped muscle hunk serving him now so hungrily, willingly, obediently—on the verge of his orgasm, grasped his sucker roughly by the back of the neck, and thrust himself harder and deeper into his throat. A domineering move of surprising shock. In sudden panic, Clark tried to withdraw.

“This time, cocksucker, balls deep! Or else!”

And the struggling Superman knew he had met his match, was irredeemably caught. Unexpectedly, hopelessly so. Had not taken in a sufficient amount of air. Unable any longer to breathe, D.’s humongous shaft more than fill/stretching out his throat, down the full channel of his esophagus, and surely into his stomach, regardless of his adaptive alien abilities— was killing him! In pure disbelief, seventeen inches of wondrous, incredible maleness was being irrevocably forced deeper and more inside him, bit by bit, doing him in! His panic and terror peaking. He fought desperately, hands bound, but his master owning him, would not let him go. Holding him by his ears, the back of his neck. Even his heart as if bursting. He thrashed, groaned, keened, could not free himself. Was beginning to see myriad blots and bursts of stars. And he heard D’s cry of utter ecstasy as he began to unload the volume of his seed into the hapless Clark, who was also coming, but dying… drowning on D.’s semen, unable to free himself, gurgling out strange sounds. Failing away in less than a minute from D’s last thrust and hold.

Then everything going dark and black, as the expiring alien collapsed with a resounding crash, falling away limp and slack on the beamed floor at D.’s feet. Copious streams of rich white gushing from the sides of his mouth, face down and aslant, cheeks pressed to the wood… dribbles gradually fading, his massive body completely failed—twitching, a few residual tremors, eyes still wide and open… cuffed hands bunched uselessly under him, big thighs asprawl atop his own magnificent, heavily pouched blue thong, filled with the erupted, waning essences of his own once so very potent life-giving sources.

Heart and brain, shocked. The big muscled Clark… lay inert, quiet, and still. Not breathing.

He was dead.