DC comics owns the rights to the major characters named within. This is fan fiction for mature readers; male/male sex explicitly described. An original story by Rick Henry, 09-2021. Artwork by jero2tek, Deviant Art.
Being so well-endowed was an ever-continuous problem for the great Superman... otherwise known as the mild-mannered, rather self-effacing reporter at the Daily Planet , Clark Kent. Who was also notably, unusually very well built (considering his profession)—no matter what he wore; though he did his best to cloak his assets, and appeared affable, easy-going, and no threat to anyone. Always when asked giving excuses for his not-to-be-missed physique, and attributing it to genetically large bone structure, and the steroids he had to take for an as yet undefined, unnamed lung condition. Which, of course, enhanced his “being,” without him being known to be some kind of abnormal gym nut into bodybuilding. Though he did work out, but usually in baggy sweats or at odd hours when few others were around. Professing he did have some equipment in his expansive three-bedroom condominium he far preferred to use, when he had the time. One room his home gym, another his private library/den, the other to sleep in.
But speaking of his endowments, beyond the muscular, they were a problem. Unlike most earthly men, with his Kryptonian heritage (Krypton, his long ago home now destroyed, in a star system far away), the men there apparently did not come into full sexual maturity until the age of 20-22. For otherwise when growing up, he seemed as normal as anyone going through puberty, except his dick was just merely seven inches flaccid, and about hardly an inch more erected. Until his alien heritage kicked in, and he was practically doubled in size within two years’ time! Quite something as an adult he’d had to get used to.
Not to mention, the sudden alarming protrusions from his pecs, astoundingly large nipples that caused him just as much concern, until he got used to them. Growing larger than the pair of his thumbs, just as long, just as thick, and extremely sensitive to the slightest touch. Which he tried to avoid, even in the shower, causing him instant erections, which seemed to overwhelm his senses, and he didn’t always have time to deal with... ever worried that he was truly worse than “weird,” completely . At first, he’d ever wondered why there were wet spots on his sheets when he awoke in the mornings, and his chest all damp-haired and kind of slippery. Until he shortly discovered the natural clear-ish nectar that poured from them when stimulated, very much like his Cowper’s flow, yet with an almond-peach flavoring, and how wondrous they felt, and quickly learned to partake of and enjoy them beyond ecstatically—finding it also shockingly was related to the major source of his now unearthly strength, surpassing that of normal men. His male teats, which soon became an insatiable addiction he could not do without (sucking and chewing on them one or more times daily), rendering him helpless with a stratospheric joy and an unquenchable narcissistic desire.... Also being as flexible as a Cirque Du Soleil performer in other areas, too—enabling him to self-enjoy himself beyond standard imagination. For him, natural as breathing.
Not to mention, from what he’d observed on the internet, he was in much the same category as large breasted women and well-hung men who savored their assets unashamedly. If they could, he could—why not? As long as he kept it private, was not out doing the neighborhood, he could still retain his status as a veritable righteous man, even if he took himself a dozen times a day. No evil to it. It was when self-indulgence became one’s paramount focus, or ruled out all common sense, desiring to spread one’s sexuality around like tossed salad... only then could it be considered immoral or wrong. His conservative upbringing had instilled in him a sense of honor and decency to be cherished, cultivated at all times. He was not an animal. But no less vulnerable to sexual temptations as anyone; and kept a tight restrictive lid on himself as he’d been taught.
A note from his Kryptonian father, not discovered until he was in his mid-teens among his alien effects, salvaged from the small stellar vehicle which had brought him here (to land on a wide expansive wheat field in Kansas), had read: “When you are growing and grown, your physical assets may become alarming and more than wondrous to you, and the envy and admiration of many others. Just remember to cherish them dearly, use them judiciously and wisely. Without love, they are wasted; and can destroy you. If treasured and given/shared with love and caring, they will make you and your chosen partner beyond ecstatic and greatly fulfilled. Live, and love carefully.”
Advice he had come to adhere to religiously. Observing the world around him, and its continual degradations... he concluded it was always better to be safe than sorry. No one could become an exemplary being without discipline and true self-control. Immorality was not an acceptable equation.
So then, with the wonder of his overly large genitalia, and finding that the seed from his own self seemed to also equally recharge all his other powers, which needed to be recycled constantly, in conjunction with the absorption of solar energy from the sun... he had inescapably become an adept, singular, self-serving man-lover all his own. After all, what were his options? To waste his seed or essences with an earthling would be next to fatal for him as the touted Man of Steel , most powerful man in the known universe; and what earthling could there be to have the same superior physiological system quite able to support and blend with his? Maybe over time there could come to be between them an infusion of their DNAs enough to make it possible for mating or a union of some sort, but until then, he didn’t really dare to explore the possibilities, if in the process it might lead to his demise, or a curtailment of his powers. He yearned for sex dearly with another; albeit he craved a matching equal, really, and not much less... and who on the planet could even partially match all he had to offer? Sure, there were beautiful women, of which he seemed far too large to be accommodated by... and handsome bodybuilders by the ton. But would they seek to truly meld with him, or merely try to destroy him, by becoming his equal... or somehow gain mastery over him? It was a concern. Because being at the top of the world was one wanted for who they in reality were ? Or for what association with them might lead to? Something never known, until usually too late—.
Thus, for his garb as Superman, he had to come up with some exceptional ploys that would prove workable. For his chest, and the over-abundance of his male teats, he had to fashion a flexible shield that would press them rather flat against/or back into his pec muscles, and absorb any wetness they might produce, as well as fit well into his costume, without making him look like he’d gone to Mexico for chest implants.... For his genitals, a pair of testicles easily each the size of a ripe peach, and his phallus, flaccid at twelve inches (and erect at fourteen and a half)... he’d had to have a flexible cup custom-made, with which to contain himself both protectively and “modestly.” Even tucked-in snugly, he would truly have to avoid any thoughts which might arouse him and cause great discomfort, which he could never allow: either at the Daily Planet, his day job, nor as the caped do-gooder Superhero he was, known the world over. For this, he managed to fashion a sturdy, but adaptable, padded graphene, micro-latticed mesh inner thong; not hard, but soft-curved, yet still as notable as if he had a near-cantaloupe mound at the juncture of his thighs. For the days he was merely Clark Kent, and not always wearing his superhero uniform beneath his clothes—yes, there were days he went without—he merely strapped himself firmly against one of his legs, and made sure to wear loose trousers, and a comfortable, adequate undersling.
Nonetheless, living with two distinct personalities—man and Superman—created within him an also forever raging battle: to be, or not to be ... “whatever he was”—an eternal question and conflict. And, in essence, made him far more vulnerable than any human would suspect. Oh, how very much he yearned for the freedom: with no consequence, restrictions, labels, or pretense, to merely live... share with, and enjoin his whole being and assets with another: each for each, for keeps!! But it seemed as if for him it might never occur. And so mighty as he was in all respects, he still carried within him an underlying depression. Dark clouds of insecurity often interfering with even the simplest of his thoughts. The “man who had conquered Everest”—but was still utterly alone. Who to caress his cheek, or he theirs, nurse from each other’s breasts, savor the bounty of their malenesses?
A quest that might never be ended.
Besides the wonder of his body, an undeniable, intoxicating mass of muscle-sculpted, ego-proud masculinity, the other and only major joy in Clark’s life was his coveted 2001 Porsche Carrera 911, two-door convertible. It had cost him $38,000 (with only a pristine mileage total of an equal amount), including the completely re-upholstered black leather seats, and the alteration of a little more for the comfort of the back two, which almost no one ever sat in—though occasionally if he were transporting Lois in the front, and photographer Jimmy Olsen in the rear, he wanted whoever in it to be as comfortable as possible. But it was surely not something Porsche had initially cared much to design for. The exterior was a stunning Seal Grey, in modern terms Silver Gray, which had a softer “dove” quality than hard steel... which he thought, as the Man of Steel suited his image just perfectly. How he loved to tool around in it when confined to earthly territory, and it gave his Clark Kent image an edge that was most often missing to many others. The lines of the vehicle were sleek, sharp, noteworthy, and classic. Similar to his own reality, from hairline to boot soles, and all the mysterious intrigues thereof.
Still, questions would invariably arise as to how a simple Daily Planet reporter could afford such a luxury, when oil changes alone would have cost most people over a third of their month’s rent? Or a battery $800. Then there were tires, brakes, and etc. Clark countered this by saying he’d received a bit of an inheritance from selling off some of his parents’ farmland in Kansas, since he wasn’t there to take care of all that acreage, and had leased the property to some tenant farmers, who did pretty much as they pleased. And good grief, what was it to anyone anyway, this little indulgence of his, when a new Grand Cherokee could have cost $40,000 or more fully loaded? Questions about his personal life, from his physique to his sexuality to his car, were more often shrugged off with a sheepish diffidence... giving soft none-of-your-business slanted answers that were inoffensive, but neither revealingly correct. So what was the deal? The less people knew the better. After all, he was living two lives. He had to keep each distinct and compartmentalized for his own safety.
And almost as intricate was the chore of living alone, yet being defender and champion of much of the universe he had fallen into: ever a dual conflict. From thwarting the near-crash of a 747 to the disarming of a mis-fired nuclear weapon, to taking a shower... each thing presenting its challenges. Yet to look at his magnificent body in the mirror caused him both the deepest grief-filled anguish as well as the most mind-boggling joy. Triggering forever his desire to be mated with a matching equal, which seemed not to exist. Thus, to even take a shower could be, well, disconcerting.
He often tried to avoid the too thorough washing over of his huge chest when soaping himself, letting the water alone do most of its work, because at the slightest brush of his outrageously protruding nipples, his manly largeness would immediately become erect in seconds, and once stimulated, it seemed to be something he had to take care of immediately... or it might take way too long to subside. Most usually then, it was merely a matter of placing one hand under a pec, bringing the turgid nipple to his mouth, begin to savor the infusion of his strength from his breast-nectar—then nearing cock-eruption, bend forwards and accept the rush of his seed into his mouth as he came, recharging himself also with the other components of his unique physiology—further enhanced by the absorption of light from the sun. While the whole process could most usually be completed in seven minutes or less, there were surely times he prolonged the enjoyment of his indulgence. But mostly, if in a hurry to get to work on time, or having to catch a deadline to an important engagement or meeting, it could be an inconvenient truth he had to deal with: could not dismiss, nor in reality do without. Wasting his seed was not an option! If so, he found himself generally quite weakened too quickly after. Thus to recycle himself was the desired protocol, but the need too often seemed to arise or happen at unplanned for moments, and he was forever having to adjust and reconfigure the proper times and ways he could allow this necessary luxury, without undue consequence.
For his hyper-alien sexuality had to be controlled at all times. And most of the time he was very good at it. But at other times it perversely overtook his senses, and if he was not astutely careful, it overwhelmed all his brain functions and rational reasoning. Therefore at work, and on missions as Superman, his touted other identity, he was geared to an iron-clad control he rarely dared let go of, and kept himself reined in like a well-trained male horse . (Of which, he coyly considered himself to be, as it were. With a chagrined smile. And testicles similarly larger than theirs.)
* * *
It had not been the best of weeks. Lois had been given a feature assignment on covering a new monorail system about to be incorporated into Metropolis, by none other than Bruce Wayne from Gotham—with whom Clark had had a crush on for ages, and was miffed at the pass-over, aching to get near the one man in the whole earth he craved to be close to, that he’d ever seen. Knowing in reality he was Batman. Though Bruce had suspicions, he did not know Clark was the famed other hero, Superman. Clark desperately wondered how he could ever reveal himself to Bruce, and at the same time express his undying desire to be united with him, physically—and in all ways, were that ever possible. But since Batman had no less than Robin at his side and in his bed (besides the occasional woman)—only an idiot would not know that was true—the MOS ever had tight jaws to handle the acceptance of it, and hold his peace. Continually lusting for Bruce from a distance; now, the further separating wedge of Lois getting the plum assignment he’d craved did rankle him, and Clark was not happy. Instead, he was given the silliness of covering two of the city’s biggest bank mergers, which would be effective for all state-wide transactions of the future, extending into another four-state area... as well as doing some sort of undercover exclusive on massage parlors: were they legitimate, or fronts for other clandestine activities? For as such had they often been known to be. With the full awareness, Clark himself was a client at one of the most exclusive of those clubs in town! An extravagance he’d allowed himself. And was now caught in the web of what truly went on in such places.
How he was going to manage this one he didn’t know. For he himself was now committed to reveal what he must. And had surreptitiously been one of those whose most secret of activities might now be brought to light. And wished harm to no one. For had he suspected anything there as something to be hidden or ashamed of, he never would have allowed the embrace of it... or his very cloaked, once in a while, personal indulgences (carried on strictly between him and his favorite masseur, Muscle Eddie). The idea of opening this can of worms, or how he could avoid it did cause him some distress. He was skating on thin ice: to be insightfully truthful, and still keeping his nose clean at the same time.
It was a Wednesday evening and he had stayed late, working on another project he and Jimmy Olsen, the newspaper’s sterling photo-reporter, had tangled with. One of Clark’s favorite targets was the notorious, ever elusive Lex Luthor, and his many very questionable enterprises. (As much as he himself, as Superman in his other guise, was the similar elusive quarry of Lex’s—how he wished to capture and destroy him!! A veritable pain in Luthor’s ass forever, who had been thwarted in several instances from becoming the biggest crime boss in the eastern part of the country, if not the whole country, if he’d had his way—often challenged, and his activities halted because of Super-Fairy’s interventions! Which infuriated him.) It was discovered Luthor now wanted to get into pharmaceuticals, and give Big Pharma a run for their money. He was having a cancer research facility built on the edge of the city, and Clark was all eyes and ears. And had enlisted Jimmy with covering everything as photographically inclusive as possible, both from within and without the property. But they were not yet ready to make any sort of expose at the present. It was merely something in its early stages that had become a bit of a hobby for both of them.
The two men were close together by Clark’s desk, pouring over the latest batch of photographs of laser equipment Luthor had acquired, trying to determine how he would effectively use it to cure cancer—or destroy something else, if he were successful. No question about it. Luthor never did anything with an up-front motive. It was always the underneath that had to be uncovered: which could include the manufacture of biological terrors, possibly to be sold to a foreign nation for less than humanitarian purposes. One never knew what the man might be up to. He bore watching at all costs.
The young Jimmy, ever enthralled with the massive Clark, did his best to lean in and against him. The warmth of his lean young body did spark something within Clark, who while he craved another huge muscle stud as himself to be intimate with, also had an equally secret yearning to be sheltering with a much younger man, who might absolutely worship him, and he could take care of, mentor, or protect. That the younger, lesser, could truly satisfy him was relatively doubtful. But the lure of taking a handsome younger fellow against him, just to hold and caress... was quite stimulating. A strange thing to think about. And feeling warmly towards Jimmy as a friend could often give Clark an inexplicable erection, which he swiftly tried to curtail, dismiss, and ignore. He put his arm around the acquiescent younger man, held him close a moment for a comradely squeeze, and let him go. Straightening, “Well, I guess we can call it a night. Been a rough few days, hey, Jimmy? I have an appointment, for a nice massage. Guess I need to be going.”
“At this time of night?” Jimmy quizzed, still feeling the warmth of Clark’s large physique against him. Craving it might be him to be giving the larger man some solace in a relaxed way and space.
“Yeah, once in a while I drop in at the club. They give great massages, and at later hours, for those who can’t get away, tied up during the day. They charge extra, and few people are around. So it’s nice and quiet and private. Just the thing to unwind. A good sauna, whirlpool, massage and shower.”
“Sounds cool,” Jimmy mused. “How much?”
Clark grimaced, nonchalantly, “$200. But don’t tell anyone. Don’t do it but once or twice a month.”
“Dang! Must be good, then. How can you afford it?”
“Still got some of my inheritance. Not the sort of thing, like a Porsche, “reporters” can often have....” Though unbeknownst to Jimmy, as Superman, he’d acquired a nice little stash of gold nuggets he’d picked up on some of his worldly travels. So whatever he wanted as Clark was usually no problem financially. One of the perks of being an other-worldly hero.
“Tell you what, Jimmy. You’re such a good pal, I’ll take you with me next month. My treat.”
“Wow, you mean that? Wow, Clark, that’d be super!”
“Bout time I paid you back for all your help.”
“Wow, Clark, that would be terrific. I’d like that.”
“My pleasure. Providing someone doesn’t ambush me on a dark street, and steal my Porsche—.”
“That would be awful, really. Be careful, Clark. Guys like you with such great cars are always a target, wherever you go. Be careful, man. Be careful.”
“I will. See you tomorrow.” With a short wave, he grabbed up his sports coat and sauntered off.
Jimmy watching him, for the last time. Good grief, it was already 7:30. A soothing massage this late at night would put a Rottweiler to sleep in seconds. Next month, it’d be his turn. Hot damn!! Jimmy re-foldered the photos, slipped them into a drawer of his desk, and called it a night. He, too, was tired. Would have to be back at 8:00 a.m., himself. He stifled a yawn, headed off to get some Chinese take-out. That Clark was really a heck of a good guy. He really loved him.... Still wondering why he’d never hooked up with anyone. Not even Lois.
Rolling down the freeway, Clark let most of his troubles go. Less than six miles, enjoying the feel of the car, the plushness of the leather seats and the smell of them. His legs a tad cramped, his ass well-cupped. As he often did, and at odd spare moments driving, he tightened and flexed his glutes, rolling his hips forwards, crunching down and in with his abs. Dynamic tension exercises, otherwise known as “isometrics.” It kept his marvelous physique in shape with the simplest of efforts. (Plus his equipment back at his apartment.) Another thing he liked to do, his hands about 12 to 14 inches apart on the steering wheel, he scrunched his huge pectorals together in the center of his chest, bringing in his elbows to almost touching, though they couldn’t... the mass of his triceps hitting on and against his big nipples, causing him to get aroused in moments. Feeling the joy of them; the unalterable glory of his pec muscles strained, relaxed, and tightened up again. He had to stop, though, his damned cock was getting too hard. And he had an appointment, which he had to get through as conservatively as possible.
He hit the exit, was off the ramp, and smoothly navigated the darkening streets to the club. It wasn’t far, though not in the most up and up part of the city. A newer building in a renovated part of town, once a slum area, now being reclaimed. Several other clean buildings were also in close construction or already completed. Still, the streets were not as finely lit as they could be, but the club had its own enclosed parking facility, and that took the worry of leaving his vehicle on the street from any sort of plundering.
He’d called ahead to confirm his appointment, tired as a well-run dog. And was informed his spot had been reserved, but there were some changes. Muscle Eddie was not available—out with the flu, and would not be back for two weeks, so as not to contaminate any of his customers. But someone else would adeptly be replacing him. Not to worry. They would follow his carded instructions, and be as surely thorough and accommodating “as he wished.” Which caused him to raise his eyebrows. How accommodating exactly? This wasn’t for less than seasoned adults.
This, indeed, caused him some apprehension. A newer, younger masseur—how skilled was he? Few had Eddie’s strength and proficiency. Not only that, Eddie was as discreet as a clam glued shut with Gorilla Glue; and Clark didn’t wish to reveal his nakedness to someone not disposed to the same possible standards as his trusted body-worker, whom he knew he could trust... and would not yap all over town as to what Clark Kent’s nudity might look like when revealed to unprivileged eyes. Proud of his physique as he was, few on earth had ever seen him stripped as Clark, and never as Superman! So this was a touchy venture he was not thrilled to be embracing.
The place was empty, basically. Only one other car in the garage, a newer model Beetle, light blue. Being the odd, late-night Wednesday, he figured it must be the masseur’s. They would be closing by ten o’clock, and his appointment was at eight. Clark knew he was the only client this night, so he didn’t expect any others. Wednesdays were the only ones he could book privately, whereas other nights might have two or three others in the queue. He entered by the back door, was buzzed through as usual. But he was a bit unprepared for the young man at the desk who greeted him with a warm smile, someone he hadn’t seen before. His nervousness somewhat heightened seeing him, and yet mellowed into a warm delight. An intake of measured breath.
“Raleigh Baker, your temporary man, Mr. Kent,” he grinned, extending his hand. “Eddie has a bad case of the flu. I’ll take you in, let you get ready. We’re in number 5 tonight. Preliminary shower, five to ten minutes, then just buzz me when finished.”
The younger man was similar to his pal Jimmy Olsen. About the same height, hitting 5’10”, but with a more filled out muscular build, lean and symmetrical, at about 180 lbs. Clark guessed. Very striking looking, boyishly handsome, but with a trace of street-wise demeanor, no innocent (who might be very workable for his needs ...), gold-tinged, yet rich strawberry colored hair, and a rash of endearing light freckles all over him. He was slim hipped, dressed in white trousers, no belly, a nice compact bulge; a white polo top, not very dominant pecs or arms, just nice and well-worked, obviously. Like a college senior jock, maybe? He led Clark to the room, laid out a rash of fresh towels, and left with a friendly wink.
Soft, non-intrusive music was playing overhead, that one wouldn’t much have noticed unless you stopped to listen for it—which Clark liked, and wished more places were that considerate, not having to have blasting vocal screeching going on all the time. This was soothing, calming. Even a trace of Far Eastern mysticism to it, a few chimes and twangs, sea-surf waves, breezy and light. He slipped out his clothes, almost instantly aroused, but quelled the urges his nakedness and heavy heft always caused him, locked his things in the combination locker, and sauntered into the small shower cubicle for a good warming soap and rinse.
While his client was showering, and Raleigh could easily tell “the man was built,” even in his dress shirt and tie, he was instantly intrigued and appreciative. At least he’d have a real body to work on, someone who’d appreciate his newly acquired skills... and quickly scanned through Clark Kent’s preference card. No prude, he wasn’t expecting more than a simple, thorough massage, and planned to keep it that way. He did have a regular girlfriend, out of town at another college, and his forays into anything else were minimal, though enticingly delightful when they occurred, which was almost beyond rare , and not his regular forte. (Though he had, with his slim waist, been a regular, easy self-sucker of his own 7 3/4 inch long by 5 3/4 inch thick around cock since he was 16. Having seen on the internet guys with bellies and only six inches taking themselves quite adeptly. Something he considered not at all gay: just simple oral masturbation at various and sundry times. And he’d recently also started the art of jelqing. Hoping to hit 9+ eventually.... With as much interest in enlarging his genitals as he did for his muscularity. (What the heck, they were intrinsically related.) Regardless, he knew the club would get the $150, and he the $50 for late night services. And if this Kent tipped him $20 more, that would be really cool. But his brow wrinkled, reading the card.
Not sure whether to be nonchalant, or cautiously concerned. An unconventional man, indeed.
-- Clark Kent, reporter, Daily Planet. Dark hair, moderately hirsute.
-- Extraordinarily well-built male, 40 plus. But no contest bodybuilder/athlete.
-- 6’2”; 240 lbs.; 34” waist. Quiet, good-natured.
-- Be extremely courteous/respectful.
-- Do NOT comment on his physique unless in general admiration (regarding arms, shoulders, legs only).
-- AVOID mention of his pecs, and protrusions—or his overly large genitalia.
-- Massage strongly, thoroughly, intently; very business-like, nothing personal.
-- NEVER, NEVER, NEVER touch his nipples—or you may have a fist in your teeth!
-- NEVER dare massage near or at his genitals, unless “asked, or presented gentlemanly & okayed.” (Generally avoid them, even to “mention.”)
-- ** In very rare cases, he may request gentle manipulation. But NEVER unless spoken of, no matter what ... unless initiated by the client.
-- He does NOT like his buttocks exposed or handled in any way.
Well, he did have quite a guy on his hands. The buzzer buzzed, and Raleigh swallowed hard, closed the computer file, and headed his way.Next page