The Man of Steel had no idea how long he had been out. It could have been minutes, hours, or possibly only seconds. He didn't hear the door open, or feel the figure crawl into bed next to him. Though however long it was, it wasn't long enough for his superior powers to return. No, unfortunately for Clark, he was awakened by the sensation of something being forced into his nostrils.
“Just take a deep breath, big guy. I promise it will feel amazing.”
He was keenly aware that this was likely not the best course of action; he was not sure if the inhibitors had worn off, or even what time it was. It didn't help matters that whomever had joined him and crawled into the bed with him, also had a strong pair of hands around his throat. The voice was barely above a whisper and the Man of Steel was unable to place it. But a dim bell rang, it was the man who before he’d engaged with at the party—in the pantry. Had to be. The warmth of his big penis felt familiar against him.
The man kissed the hero on his chest and tongued at his nipples, still holding firmly to his throat. Superman resisted as long as he felt was possible, fearing the fingers would soon start to constrict, and afraid he was actually too weak to save himself. (Was the man going to strangle him—why , if he was caressing him so attentively? Or wanted to rend him unconscious, once he was hard—maybe fuck him with no resistance? The idea worrying him….) If he had been unable to sense the intruder climbing into his bed, even in the pitch black of the room, he feared he now was too worn from his ordeal, and no longer strong enough to fight the mature, finely-muscled man off. He struggled in a strange haze, but the man was stronger, more dominant. His own muscles no longer ached, but were failing him, still felt weak as a kitten lying there. It did not help that the man's kisses were starting to have the desired effect. Despite all his efforts, he was unable to keep his huge, eleven and a half-inch alien male pride from rushing to life.
He did as he was told, and suddenly his body felt completely alive, as the poppers fell away from his face. He tried to curse himself for being so stupid, clearly his self-imposed inhibitors had not yet worn off because the drug was starting to take its hold. And unable to resist, however, his body was hit by a wavery feeling of intense joy. The man released his throat-hold, replacing his strong hands with his lips, and began kissing the thick striations of his neck. Superman squirmed with delight as the man sucked on him, long, slow, and deliberate, near driving the Man of Steel insane. The man finished savoring his corded, sexy neck and moved back down to his pecs, capturing the swell of his enlarged nipples, tonguing, kissing, and nibbling onto them, growing hugely hard and wondrously sensitized by his mouth. With this, the Man of Steel was writhing, and moaning hopelessly. His cock was also getting so hard, he could feel his shaft beginning to rage and flow copiously from his turgid glans. He reached down, urgent to ease himself, but the man grabbed at his wrists, pushing both of his massive arms up, back, and over his head, and pinned them down with just one of his own hands. The simplicity with which he had been immobilized so easily was more than disquieting… curtailing his once great strength. This, however, found the hero gasping, getting oddly more and extremely excited. His conquest at the hands of a lesser, but definitely strong, very desirable man.
“Ah, my cum-hungry boy. Hands off that massive, beautiful cock. I think, instead, you really… crave mine. Told me you love to suck.”
The hero's mind was reeling. He knew that his behavior went against the moral code his upbringing had instilled in him. Sexual relations were one thing, but anonymous sessions with “strangers” was what was more than undeniably wrong…. It wasn't his fault, though, he reasoned, he had been drugged! And then, well, this wasn't really a stranger , was it? Once again, chasing that high from the first night… the captive Superman found he couldn't help himself—his self-image being slowly corroded and shattered by the pleasured touch and kisses of this hard-bodied mastering man.
Releasing his mouth-caressed nipples, the wonderful lips returned north to the Man of Steel’s beautifully chiseled face. Their wet, eager mouths met, and they kissed one another deeply, hungrily. The pleasure centers in his brain were going wild, and the hero felt the man climb on top of him. Their cocks were now pressed together like their mouths, and the man began grinding his cock against the hero's, entwining and frotting them together. They were soon lost in lust, skin to skin dry, yet rivering in their thrusts with one another, madly kissing like two closeted high school kids in their parents' night out bedroom. Superman could not believe how intense and erotic the actions felt. A part of him knew he should fight against these feelings, but his mind was only just coming out of the fog of his first dose of uppers. Gradually as those effect began to wane, and his control seemed to be returning, their grinding became less mutual, and the man clearly noticed. He broke the adherence of their mouths, whispered his hot breath, while dancing along the hairs on the back of Superman's neck. “You really need some more uppers, baby. To keep you going—make you feel… so, so good. Right, my exquisite muscle man?”
The Man of Steel wanted to resist, but his strength felt too worn and strained, knew he wasn't in any state for even the slightest physical battle. His mind not even with him, all clouded and foggy. He was still drained from the earlier feats of proving his strength—depleted, and the beating he’d endured at the hands of the two titans who’d manhandled him. He listlessly reached for the container of uppers, which had fallen aside, letting the man service him, inhaled deeply, repeating his earlier submission, and fell back subdued. Just as his partner wanted. Just… as he, too, wanted .
Their kissing and grinding dance resumed in barely moments… both men clearly intoxicated, enjoying each other’s bodies immensely. Their cocks, slide-kissing, their mouths urgently tongue-fucking. Steady flows of pre-jizz were running out from each of their members, marrying with the sweat from their overheated bodies, making both his top and the hero slick to the touch all over… their bellies, their chests, their groins.
It was thus so far the most prolonged erotic experience of the hero's life, and he found himself in a strange war in his head. His struggling awake mind was telling him he was a proud, heterosexual hero (or was supposed to be)—but his body was betraying him. His enflamed cock, torqued nipples, roving fingers. Male mouth to male mouth, so fine, so wonderful. These were not the actions of heterosexual hero! The drugs were helping, but he was realizing they were not to blame. The hero had unwittingly allowed himself, submitting—fallen into such a position, and willingly now, entangled with his sweaty partner… hopelessly enjoying, giving in to it.
At the edge of orgasm, gripping himself to pause it, the man atop straightened, his well-trimmed, muscled body glistening in the vague light, and backed from off the hero. Then began to crawl forwards up over him. The hero stretched and used the pause to take another glorious hit of the drug, letting the caps fall safely on his pillow for later use. The man climbed up over the naked stud, strong thighs straddling his heaving chest. He leaned down and kissed the Man of Steel in the dim-darkness, the hero found himself loving the feel of his conquest. His largely-long, rich thick cock was throbbing. He had to reach down for it, below and behind the other’s buttocks, and started masturbating, allowing it to also rub along the other’s cleft and cheeks. The man on top of him could feel and hear the sounds of the hero's hands at work on his mammoth organ, and he lifted back up with a soft laugh. Pulling his face away from the hero's, he heard him give a short, but soft, audibly dissatisfied grunt. But before the MOS had much chance to be overly disappointed, the man's lips against his were replaced by his finely impressive erection.
“Give me a fine wet kiss, big guy. A good suck. Show me how much you adore my cock. Like you did before. No cameras this time.”
No questions, only sighs. The superhero stretched his neck, and gave the mushroomed head of the nine-plus-inch dong more than a few savoring kisses. The man on top “Ahhhh-ed” with unparalleled joy. Superman unconsciously began stroking the man's pubic base-shaft with one hand, placing the juicy-heated frontal glans fully into his mouth… treasuring his own shaft with his other hand.
“You feel so... good . Obviously; remember, we’ve done this before.”
“Hmm, uhmm-hmmmn .” Superman didn't speak only murmured with satisfied delight. The cock slipping in and out his mouth, “Just a little. Enough to know, I-I do like it. ”
Surprised as hell he’d said that. Suddenly blinking, feeling himself returning to normal, almost getting embarrassed. But he continued kissing on the beautiful dick, up and down its notable length. The man, grinding his buttocks into the hero's chest, his flesh still stimulating onto and over his nipples, near peaking him. Superman just laid there taking it. Then feeling his ecstatic fog beginning to lift, to drift, deciding—the urgent Man of Steel reached again for the poppers, inhaled deeply. And “Ahhhhh-ed,” euphorically.
“Don't worry, baby. Big daddy has just what you need. Deep breaths. That's it, nice and deep.” Guiding the hero further into his captivity. While also taking a few snorts of his own. They smiled, glaze-eyed into each other, their cocks dominating them equally.
The hero foolishly took more and more breaths, almost too many, not wanting to displease. And oh, how he ached, to have that wonderful manhood in his mouth, his throat! Nearly on the edge of unconsciousness, he woozily grabbed the man's veiny cock and opened his mouth, and guided it fully into his yearning cavern…. The man on top howled with delight, and determinedly, easily, began face fucking the Man of Steel. But what he thought could only be a few inches at a time, gasped as the muscle man beneath him began to swallow him whole, balls deep. A relative, mesmerizing shock.
“Oh, wow! What a fag, you are! That's it, big muscle-slut, suck my big man-cock. My balls, too!!”
The words seemed to drive the hero wilder, and he began cupping at the heavy balls. They felt so full and good to the hero, who suddenly couldn't wait to taste their creamy loads. To add to his hunger, to the shock of the man above, he then took the pair of them into him as well. Savoring those luscious man-globular jewels and his crown-topped scepter all at once. The man wailed, arched, almost screamed, barely believing it, and still deep thrust as hard as he could near to complete explosion. Adding his digging hands hard into the Man of Steel’s shoulders, clutching onto him desperately. His intention had been to have cowed this big-muscled Clark-pledge into a total pussied submission—and instead, was finding he himself was now being ravaged out of his mind. Almost sucked to death. Clark had swallowed him all, his complete manhood, and was conquering him… felt himself near fainting, still thrusting as hard as he could—and blew his load uncontrollably, in several indeed hard and rupturing jolts. Crying out at the near top his voice, and falling forwards over top of him, while Clark kept swallowing and swallowing his stolen jizz.
“Oh, my God—my God! What a mouth! What a cock-sucking monster you are!” He finally was able to salvage himself from being totally destroyed, or so he felt. Still high as a kite, and suck-drained out his mind. Clark lay with a big grin, licking his lips, the man’s semen globbed out of the sides his mouth, and partially onto his face still.
“Yu-you, uhh…” still in a crazed haze, “tasted so good. Loved, loved… it.”
“Damn, I knew looking at you—after they beat you to shit, you’d be one helluva fuck! Or rather, a big willing “suck-boy.” No doubt used to sucking your own—like the guys who beat you do theirs. And each other. We know…. We screen our men carefully. But you, you damn faggot—are as real as they come! Sensed you were a true, eager cum-suck.”
“Please! Don—don’t say that. Wasn’t it… nice , for both of us? I-I’m not queer. Bi, maybe. It was the… the drugs—.”
“My ass, it was! Yeah, I have a wife, too. Bi, okay. But you—a big-muscled fake! Self-sucker, Clark Kent. Mild-mannered reporter… a real wimp, a true limp-wristed queen.”
“But I’m not —NOT a homo! Damnit!” getting riled, red-faced.
“Tell yourself that, if like, next time you take your load. Or a stranger’s in a pantry? Or a late-night, strange thug-hump in your bed? What a fucking joke! Queer as a three-dollar bill! Like so many steroided fags. Aching to eat each other’s asses. Though few have the dick you do to do it with, and use their tongues; why they’re always craving each others'—their own’s so often too damned small! All that bulge-fucking muscle, mostly fake men. Trophies, pictures on their walls… nothing in their posers!”
“That’s not fair. Not right. I take steroids, for a lung condition.”
“Didn’t shrink your cock, though, did it? Or your balls, like theirs. Or win you a trophy, wimp? Sorry about that, but if you pass the contest down the road, they might give you one. But, I don’t really think The Order is into calling “fags” any sort of a Champion. Unless you’ve got the balls to fuck the whole lot of them, if you do win. We’ll see.”
“You, you’re not very complimentary, are you? After how much I pleased you?”
“Who said you pleased me? You didn’t even cum, did you, slut? And you’re still hard. Tell you what, work me up again. Come on, take another shot. Maybe I’ll jack you off, give you some relief. Taste your jizz, too…?”
“Uhh, I-uhhh, no—it's, it’s okay….”
“Fuck, it’s not okay. I said SUCK my cock! On your knees, muscle-queen. Swallow me again.”
“Please...”
“No, ‘please’—FUCK!! Suck me, you whore. You know you want more! Down boy, down.”
And not knowing why, the big hero gathered himself off the bed, his throbbing dick in front of him like a flagpole, controlled by the one who wanted him, dropped to his knees, and sucked the man in again. Admittingly, appallingly wanting to.
“Ahhh, yes!!! Once a queen, always a queen! Right, fag-muscle?”
Just long “Ummmmm’s” from his throat, murmuring throughout. The Man of Steel trying to stroke himself, needing release badly. Turned on again.
But it only lasted five minutes.
“Oh, fuck!” the man said, and pulled out of him. Looked at his watch, stood back. “Do yourself! Though I wouldn’t mind seeing that, you suck-fag. But I have an early morning meeting. Ah, damn—! Later, Queenie! But I do… want to see you again, regardless. Don’t drown on your tool.”
He strode still naked to door, picked up the robe he’d dropped earlier when he came in, slipped it on, blew him a kiss. “Hopefully you can take it all in, too; like you did mine. Heels over head? Must be how you learned—such a good queer!” And left.
Since the light was still dim, it must have been around three-thirty a.m. or so. He didn’t know. His mind stinging, the insults sharp. The barbs had found their way in, and in his sudden aloneness, he started to sob, still kneeling, arms wrapped around himself. But it was only a few moments. Growing calmer, hunched over, still hard…. Naturally, he tucked his chin, his stomach… his mouth fully, and then more, found its way down and over his glans; both hands riding up and over his shaft. And came, three times in a row. No stopping in between. Powerful, ecstatic jolts ripping up from his core. All the while, breathing hard, tears streaming down his face. Deeply satisfied. Deeply ashamed.
Dejected and abandoned, exhausted, the hero then took to the lonely task of laying back on the bed. His mind running in a thousand directions. He vainly tried thinking about beautiful women, but his mind kept showing him images of beautiful naked men. He remembered the taste and smell and feel of his visitor. The jerk-ass!! The sight of his own magnificence, his own mouth… on his own cock…. Incredible joy—!
He shuddered—was it really, really true? Comfortingly, he roved his hands over his torso. Brushed over, felt his nipples. Played, stroked, flicked, pulled, squeezed. He was hard in no time. Cock up and between his pecs, stroking, milking his nipples, hands taking them and his glans between them at the same time. And came again. With a hell of a headache. And finally, without further preamble… fell asleep. Mouth traced full of his own jizz. An unquenchable thirst. Had to. Needed it so bad. His own breast milk, too. (Though no one knew he could actually produce, could do that, as well.) Craved it like a maniac. Normal and simple, as much as breathing.
A jarring burst of light entered the bedroom and blinded the hero as his tired eyes shot open. He looked around the room and realized he was not alone, but was still quite naked, and he felt filthy, the smell of his sweat mixing with the marked splats of dried cum on his body making him feel very unclean.
After a few seconds adjusting to the light, his eyes focused on the doorway. Standing in the opening wearing a bemused grin was an elderly gentleman, dressed in the clothes of a servant.
“Had a fun time I see, Mr. Kent,” with a knowing trace of smugness.
“I… guess I got a little carried away.”
“But, I rather doubt it's all yours—.”
The hero's face burned red as a thorn bush rose, tried not to make eye contact with the man. He had let himself succumb to his basest desires twice now in this place, and he hated to think about what the repercussions might be. The events of the night before again filled his head.
“This room is usually reserved for the “champions,” and their guests. They must have altered their requirements….” A snide remark, a condescending sting.
“I wasn’t aware I was supposed to have won any titles. Or your approval.”
"Well, our boys didn't make it easy on you, I assume. Seeing you are still in one piece, it could not have been that bad. Others have fared worse. Judging by your appearance, though, it doesn't look like you had too terrible a time… “recovering” after.”
The hero wanted to jerk this sniveling troll of a man out of his familiar tone, but maintained his sense of composure. He was sure even in his current state, it would not take much for him to discipline the toad: a mild shaking up? Of course, the hero was better than that. Clark Kent was after all no stranger to the insults of others. It was one of the reasons, despite some obvious physical similarities, no one had ever been able to put two and two together when it came to deciphering his secret identity.
“What time is it?”
“A little after 11:00.”
The hero looked at the floor for his clothes, but did not see them and worry set in. It was one thing to allow yourself to be used as a pleasure partner, but to lose your clothes in the process was something else entirely. What made it worse was that he was late for work, and he was now fearing the disturbance which that would cause at the Planet. He had been late only a few times in his career as a reporter, and he prided himself on his stellar record of punctuality.
“Have you seen my clothes?”
“Ah, yes. They are just drying. After your battle, the brothers decided to sully them for you. It is your great fortune that your benefactor is of kinder spirit than those brutes. He instructed me to let you sleep while I washed them.”
“Thank you, that is very kind.”
“Yes, it is. You really should clean yourself up. There is a bathroom down the hallway first door on the left. I don't think anyone would want to look quite as displaced in public as you appear, Mr. Kent?”
The words were a slanted rebuke. The hero could feel it, and the man saw his chagrin burning across his face, making him smile tersely again, which raised Superman's alien blood to a boil. He kept his head of course, knowing better than to let his temper get the better of him in such a situation.
He also didn't need to suffer the insults any longer, and left the room and the man behind. Naked, and not caring, he lumbered down the hallway thankful that he was out of the man's presence. There was something quite repellent about him, but he couldn't put a finger on it. He didn't give it a lot of thought; more important, he had other places to be.
He reached the first door on the left and stepped into the bathroom, all marble floors and tiling, with a stand-up shower, toilet, and bidet. It was one of the more luxurious bathrooms he had ever encountered, but paid its décor little mind. Instead, he climbed into the shower stall, and let the warm jets of propulsion anoint his marred body with steaming hot water. A calming bliss of some needed comfort. His hands unable to refrain from treasuring over the contours of his body, reassuring himself of how spectacular and manly he truly was. Hardening involuntarily; and yes, jacking himself to completion once more. This restraint stuff, rapidly becoming a notion of the past. This new awareness. Oh, so fucking reassuring. So good!
******
His clothes had made their way to the bathroom by the time he was finished. He hastily dried his muscular-beautiful body, observing its wonder in the mirror as usual, started to get another hard-on, but had to quell that—knowing that he’d spent more than enough time in this place than he perhaps should have; and toweling off, considered he might be wiser to never return. He dressed quickly and hurried for the exit. Making his way from the front door of the estate, he tried to forget what had transpired the night before. Once more ashamed—what he had done, allowing himself to be used like that. He tried to deny the pleasure he’d received, blaming it all on the uppers, and the fact that he had been “weakened,” even by his own hand; and that he was truly foolish to still be inadvertently chasing that elusive high again. He needed to talk to someone, but he wasn't sure anyone would understand. Besides, who does a Superman go to for counseling?
He found a limousine waiting at the front gates by the long winding driveway. He got in and asked the driver to take him to his apartment building. The driver asked him the address, and they lurched off, the sound system playing soft orchestral music.
He spent the three-quarter hour’s ride into Metropolis checking his phone, in case there were any pressing messages he had missed. His voicemail was empty which he felt odd, and so the hero called the office to explain himself.
“Daily Planet, Crystal speaking. How may I direct your call?”
“Crystal, it’s me, Mr. Kent. I am going to be out of the office for the day. I think I’m coming down with a mild case of the flu, and don’t want to spread it around.”
The woman was gorgeous; every male at the office seemed to be wanting to sleep with her. She had short golden curls, bright blue eyes, a playful and inviting smile. A really nice voice. She was five feet seven inches tall with a great figure, and all the things that that included. Yet he could have cared less. Stressed and anxious, he remained cordial.
“Okay, Mr. Kent, I will let Mr. White know.”
“Thank you, Crystal, that'll be wonderful. I don't have any messages, do I?”
“No. Lois was looking for you, but other than her I can't think of anything. Feel better, Mr. Kent.” He could hear the other circuits ringing.
Before the hero had the chance to return the pleasantry the line went dead. Superman put the phone back in his pocket, and rested his head against the window and tried to catch a little more rest.
******
Superman's eyes opened as the car rolled to a stop outside of his apartment. He exited and thanked the driver with a modest tip as he headed for the glass doors of his building. He walked through the lobby, and was greeted by Lois Lane standing at the front desk. She was looking her usual attractive self, but as soon as she saw Clark, her mild look of annoyance flashed to a more marked disgruntlement.
“Sick?! Well, you look like shit—but you don't look sick.”
“Lois, honestly, I can explain.”
“I would “love” to hear it.”
Wanting to diffuse the tension bomb, he kissed her, and they both felt the spark that hadn't burned in quite some time. Too stunned to speak, they made their way to the elevator and boarded it, Clark thankful that it was filled to capacity. His explanation for his flaky behavior was best kept between as few people as possible. Especially the occupants of the building he called home. He was always cordial and polite with other tenants, but certain they did not need to know the more personal details of his life.
They made it to his floor and she followed close behind, not wanting to let him out of her sight. They counted each other as great friends, but lately Clark wasn't acting like himself. It had all started a few months earlier, and Clark, now flaking out on work, was her tipping point.
They entered the apartment, and the hero and Lois were both shocked to find Glenn sitting on the micro suede couch. He had helped himself to a glass of whiskey and was smoking a cigar. Lois was confused, and didn't really enjoy the way she felt Glenn's eyes molesting her body; she almost detected a hint of jealousy in them. And waved off the rancid atmosphere with demonstrative sweep of her hand, definitely displeased.
“Glenn, what are you doing here!” Clark stammered. But wanted to roar.
“Just checking on you, buddy.”
“Well, as you can clearly see I am fine. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some things to discuss with my co-worker.”
“Sure thing, pal. I’ll see you around the clubhouse.”
Glenn got to his feet, tossed down the last of his scotch, and passed the glass to Clark, walking past him with a shrewd wink, and out the door, leaving the two of them alone.
“Do you mind telling me what Glenn Thompson was doing in your apartment? Also, who do you think you are, just kissing me like that?”
“Look Lois, I can explain everything… okay, just give me a minute.”
The hero walked over to his bar and made the both of them a few smooth brandies. Perturbed, Lois took a firm seat on the sofa and waited for him to tell his tale.
For the next two hours, the pair consumed three fourths of a bottle of Hennessey, and the Man of Steel laid his soul bare to the woman he once loved. No stone was unturned. He told her about the friendly meeting with Glenn after the awards show. From there, he told her of his slow induction into The Order, then about that fatal Roman Orgy Party—the power-inhibitors he now perhaps thought he’d unwisely used, acerbated by the ingestion of unknown drugs—how he had been duped out of his mind enough, to suck another man's cock, and been photographed!! From there, he delved into his now “lost nights,” spent roaming the streets of Metropolis, to quell his almost uncontrollable addiction to re-embrace the high he’d found that first night at the club. Ending with, and rather embarrassed… the encounter of the previous night. She looked at times repulsed, and at other times completely perplexed.
She interrupted a few times, with questions. “Are you bi—or gay, now? Who else knows about this club? Can women join?” The Man of Steel did his best to be as honest with her as he could. Next to Bruce Wayne, she was the only person on the planet who knew his alien big secret.
“Well, Clark, I’m not a psychiatrist. But possibly, this might all have to do with your actually being a split personality. Demure Clark Kent one moment, the incredible Superman the next. It’s bound to have a conflictory effect. An ever-raging battle. Throw in “sexual repression-confusion,” and I can see where there would be significant problems.”
He kind of tightened his lips, and made an odd shrug-grimace of agreement.
“Well, I won't try to understand what is happening with you, but I can promise you one thing. No matter what, we will always be friends.”
Although they had once been in love, or thought they were, and had considered marriage, they had never consummated their relationship sexually. Superman had never had the courage to ask for “help,” in his quest to have sex, and he was always worried about the risk it would might put her in—or even himself, not being of an earthly nature, or how it might affect him! Now, he explained he’d really been quite virginal all along, except for very few instances of masturbatory self-pleasuring, which he felt guilty about. And with this new floodgate of awareness and expressiveness finally opened, it had about knocked him for a loop. Of course, they both still cared for each other deeply, so her words were quite reassuring.
“Thank you, Lois. That means the world to me.”
Before he knew it, the two of them were soon making out on the couch. She was a little drunk, and although he didn't seem to be, he was clearly enjoying what was happening. It was reassuring to his ego that in spite of what he had been subjected to the night before, that she was able to get a rise out of him. Of course, his powers had returned, and so he put the brakes on things before they could go too much further… afraid he truly might hurt her, with the largeness of his exceptional member. Lois felt of him, of course, amazed. Knew she had to back off, and let out a defeated sigh.
“I don't want to lead you on, Lois. Or compromise your being with Caleb, now. I don't need him worrying about us. We need to cool down.”
It was true, Lois and Caleb Humphrey, the son of Sen. Joseph Humphrey were practically married. It had been that way for quite some time, and although Clark missed Lois in his life, he knew that Caleb could give her the life that he never could. Both agreeing, that life as the wife of a Superman was no place for a human. And she had reluctantly slipped away, Caleb none the wiser, and happy he could take her from Clark, who seemed a bit of a dunder-head, even if built beyond him like a linebacker.
They shared a final tender kiss at the doorway of the apartment before Lois left. Superman let out a long mournful sigh and locked the door. He resigned himself to a quiet night alone. Tomorrow, he would go back to his sky-patrolling he promised, stripping down, and discarding his rumpled clothes in the laundry basket. He wearily slipped into his bed, to get that finally nice long sleep he hoped for. Even though it was early, hardly 6:30pm, and planned for a good 12 hours of rest. Alas, it would not last.
Next page