The Telemachus Story Archive

The Final Conflict
By Hooder
Email: hooder@ntlworld.com



The Final Conflict

Pervius stood on the top of the tallest building, his booted foot resting on the raised concrete edge. Other than the shine of his titanium belt and the reflections of the city’s twinkling lights in his black visor, he was almost invisible in his skintight black leather catsuit against the darkness of the night sky. He did not wear a cape - he’d tried it once but it had got caught up in the back wheel of his motorcycle and had almost strangled him.

He was leaning against one of the steel uprights supporting the landmark Durex sign, and beneath the visor his expression was thoughtful as he scanned the city at his booted feet. “Where are you…?” He whispered, narrowing his eyes. “I know you’re out there… and you and I have an appointment, my friend…”

The city - city of dreams, city of sin, city of the night, his city: Cardiff. Once again he grimly recited his self-imposed mission: “I am Pervius, and I vow that I will use my powers to rid this city of the sin of arrogance.” He was grimly aware, deep in his soul, that he was the only one who could do it; he was the best there was. He nodded to himself: he was also the sexiest.

Pervius glanced to the right, his attention suddenly grabbed by a movement over there, by the bus station - but no, it was something on his visor. A spot of water. It had started to rain.


Superheroes had been fine when they’d been confined to America, Pervius thought to himself, but lately they’d been arriving first in England, and now in Wales. He had no problem with their crime-fighting - in that field there was room for everyone; no, the problem he had with superheroes was their infuriating smugness . They were all, without exception, self-important, egotistical, narcissistic, vain and pompous; and - with their skintight suits, flowing capes and finely-chiseled good looks - they considered themselves God’s gift to women (or men, depending on their sexuality, but that bit was fine with Pervius: he was an equal-opportunities superhero). And that, thought Pervius, would not do. It would not do at all. If they were going to stay here in his beloved Wales, then he was going to take them down a peg or two. A little humility, not to mention a little humiliation, would make them more effective crime-fighters, he reasoned. His cock, already hard at the thought of skintight, bulging lycra catsuits and chiseled good-looks, agreed.

Pervius stiffened. “Aha. So there you are.” He wiped his visor and peered down into the street. A flash of red moved quickly along the pavement, then stopped; a car was thrown into a wall, and the Masked Avenger posed for photographs while the police carted a criminal away. Then he took off with what Pervius considered unnecessary ostentation. Pervius watched the Masked Avenger, noting where he was going. The flash of red disappeared into a building. “Gotcha,” whispered the capeless crusader, and set off down the fire escape.


He switched the Pervmobile to silent mode and coasted the last hundred yards, stopping by a skip with what appeared to be a disassembled bathroom in it. He tutted to himself: red washbasin with yellow tiles? No…

Locking the motorcycle, he quietly tried the door - it was unlocked. Silently, and with his senses on full alert, he slipped inside the Cwn Palas Dog Grooming Emporium. It was dark inside so he pressed a stud on his belt and turned his head slowly to pan the beam of light around. Stairs. And laughter coming from above. Moving stealthily he softly climbed the steps. At the top was a short corridor with a door at the end. It was ajar, and the voices were coming from inside the room. He padded down the passage and peered around the doorframe furtively.

The Masked Avenger was holding forth to a lady of ample proportions, most of which her clothing was failing to conceal. She was sat looking up at him adoringly as he stood with his hands on his hips, his bulging crotch inches away from her face. “My enhanced senses told me he was hiding behind the car so I simply threw it aside, enabling him to be apprehended by the authorities.”

She made deeply impressed noises, at which Pervius fumed. He unclipped a small canister from his belt and placed his finger on its button.

“It’s all in a day’s work. We do this sort of thing all the time.”

Pervius had heard too much already. He lifted the canister, and moved into the room. “Enough!” He cried.

The Masked Avenger turned quickly, his bulging muscles ready to spring - but then, after looking the newcomer up and down, he relaxed, and frowned. “Oh hello. And who might you be? The Welsh Wonder? The Leather Leviathan?”

“I am Pervius, And you will remember me!” He pressed his finger and sprayed the room with Anaesthol. A look of surprise appeared on the Masked Avenger’s face, and then he fell over. “Sexy costume, by the way…” He slurred on the way down.The woman was asleep too.

Pervius extracted a length of carbon-fibre cord from his belt, and used it to tie the woman securely to the chair. Then he threw a further piece over a ceiling beam, tied one end to the Avenger’s wrists, and pulled the other end until the superhero was suspended, his tastelessly red booted feet barely touching the floor. He secured the cord, then tied the dreadful red boots together with a third piece. Pervius surveyed his work, and saw that it was good. He took another cylinder from his belt and sprayed the two figures with AnAnaesthol. Within seconds they began to come round.

“So! The Masked Avenger is unmasked!” Pervius reached up and unmasked the masked man. Underneath was a finely-chiseled face. He turned to the woman. “Remember well that which you witness today, madam, and proclaim it to the masses - because I, Pervius, am about to prove that the Masked Avenger has all the self-discipline of a tart in a brothel.” He turned the Avenger so that he was pointing towards the woman, then stood behind him, put his sexy black leather arms around the garishly red hips, and gently stroked the bulging, gaudy red codpiece. It began to grow, but stopped rather sooner than the woman had hoped. The fully-hard cock responded to Pervius’s touch like a television to a remote with fresh batteries. Pervius used his superpowers with skill and expertise, and within seconds - to the Avenger’s cringing shame - his body convulsed and his face went red with humiliation as he shot his load into the vulgar red spandex.

“Hir yn byw y chwyldro!” Cried Pervius, striking a pose which ideally called for the presence of a cape - and was gone.


Pervius cruised the streets of the city of night on his gleaming black motorcycle, causing women to salivate at the sight of his skintight, bulging black leather catsuit, and teenage boys to drool at the sight of a Honda CBR600RR. He often wished it were the other way around.

“All units!” Squawked the radio. “Robbery in progress! Westgate Street Bank! Call the Masked Aven…” There was a hurried conversation off-mike. “Call Thor!”

Pervius grinned to himself. Thor, eh? One of the most arrogant of them all. Big muscles, small brain. He switched off the radio, turned the Pervmobile left onto Castle Street, gunning the bike. Another sharp left onto Westgate Street, then slow, slow. There! A van parked outside the bank, its back doors wide open. Masked figures hurriedly loading loot. Pervius pulled up well short of the action, switched off his lights, and waited.

Almost immediately there was a clap of thunder, and a dent appeared in the road close to the van. When the dust had cleared, in the centre of the rubble stood Thor, resplendent in leather tunic, blue spandex, and seriously fuck-off boots. If there was any doubt, his winged steel helmet and large pointed hammer clinched it. Pervius gazed at the guy’s pumped-up muscles - Thor’s biceps were a good deal thicker than his own thighs. Data scrolled across his heads-up display:

Thor: 6’6”, 640 lbs, high strength, long-lived, trained in the art of war, swordsmanship, hand-to-hand combat, and throwing hammers. 14” cock.

That last had been his own addition one quiet, horny night back at Pervius Towers.

A crowd was quickly growing at the scene - the appearance of Thor usually had that effect - and the robbers seemed unsettled. Their carefully-planned caper was quickly going pear-shaped. Thor turned, grabbed one of the robbers, and raised his hammer - but then he froze, jerked a few times, staggered, and dropped the hammer. He was staring, wide-eyed, into the masked face of the robber, and people were pointing to Thor’s crotch. There was rhythmic movement there - and huge gobs of spunk were oozing through his blue tights and running down his thigh. One elderly lady fainted while another quickly took a picture with her phone for closer inspection later.

Pervius blew across the end of his Instacum dart pistol, replaced it in his belt, and took off into the night.


Pervius sat at the computer, cheating at a crossword. He was putting in words he liked, rather than those suggested by the clues. He only had to fit one more word in, to finish it. “B_TF_C_ER_P,” he whispered, tapping a leather-gloved finger against his midnight-black visor in concentration. He sat in silence for several minutes, staring at the blindingly-bright screen, and then he grinned. “An omen… Oh yes…” He typed carefully, filling in the spaces. “BATFUCKERUP. Yes. Perfect!” Not a proper word, perhaps, but it would do. It would do very nicely.

Batman. The guv’ner of superheroes. And the most recent to come to this fine country too. Pervius intended to make his stay a short one. He poured himself a glass of single malt, and settled down for an evening of devious planning.

Far away, in the depths of the Welsh valleys, a coyote howled.


Bruce Wayne took a sip of his espresso, and popped another piece of croissant into his mouth. He gazed through the window glumly. It was raining - but at least today it was outside; last week a plumbing disaster in the upstairs bathroom had led first to seepage, then dripping, and finally a cascade of water from the ceiling. The study door had had to be taken away for renovation. He wished he were back in Gotham, in Wayne Manor. Wayne Cottage just wasn’t the same somehow. He went back to reading the morning paper. The front page was not encouraging: there had been a shooting in Aberystwyth, sorted by one ‘Blue Phantom’; a bank robbery in Cardiff - the villains there had been apprehended by the now discredited Thor; a kidnap in Llanfair­pwllgwyngyll­gogery­chwyrn­drobwll­llan­tysilio­gogo­goch - that was something else: why did these people use a language where vowels were seemingly so expensive? Some guy calling himself the ‘Piranha’ had been on hand to solve the kidnap; and a pack of coyotes had escaped from a zoo.

There was a respectful knock on the floor, and Bruce’s long-suffering butler entered, bearing scones, and an envelope on a small silver tray.

“Ah, Alfred.”

“Good morning, Sir. This arrived for you a few moments ago.” He placed the small silver tray on the table.

“Thank you, Alfred.” Wayne opened the envelope, extracted the single page and read it silently. He frowned. “You don’t spell ‘Impervious’ like that.”

“If I may, Sir…?” Alfred took the letter and scanned it. “I think that says: “I’m Pervius,” Sir. He placed the letter on the table where they could both read it.

../../shimages/hooder_brucewayneletter.jpg

The letter was signed, simply, with a letter ‘P’.

“The game’s afoot, Alfred,” said Wayne enthusiastically.

“Apparently, Sir,” replied Alfred drily, “Though I would recommend caution on two counts, Sir. Firstly, I have no memory of your father’s ever having visited Wales; and secondly, anyone who employs the Comic Sans font is not to be trusted.”

“Lay out the Bat costume, Alfred!”

“Very good, Sir. Scone, Sir?”


Apart from a very sexy-looking black motorcycle, the car park was deserted. Batman locked the Batmobile and walked towards the back door of the museum. It was standing ajar. He listened, but apart from the occasional coyote howl there was silence. He pushed the door open and went inside.

A shaft of dim red light was coming from further along the passage. His ears brushing the rough stone ceiling, he walked slowly forward, around a corner, and emerged into a scene from Hell. There was a mannequin in medieval clothing strapped to a rack; another in the process of being disemboweled; a skeleton in a cage hanging from a beam, and a very sexy guy in a skintight black leather catsuit pointing a gun at him. “Pop!” The sound wasn’t loud, but it was worrying, as was the dart whose tip had penetrated Batman’s latex-clad thigh.

“Batman, I presume,” said the sexy leather-clad guy. He fired again, and a second dart joined the first, an inch higher.

“Who…? What…?” Batman swayed; his vision was blurring and his balance was going to pot. He grabbed a convenient Iron Maiden for support.

An evil smile was audible in the horny-looking leather boy’s voice. “Your vision is blurring and your balance is going to pot. Very soon you will not be able to stand, and then you will lose consciousness. There is nothing you can do about it.” The leather boy replaced the gun in the shiny titanium belt that circled his hips just above the mouth-watering shiny black leather bulge and then, as Batman slowly sank to the ground, he approached the unconscious figure. He lifted Batman, slung the helpless crusader over his shoulder, and took him further into the dark and forbiddingly labyrinthine Museum of Torture.


Batman was strapped spreadeagled to some kind of frame. He was very slowly coming round. In a thick daze he tried to move, but his muscles weren’t responding at all. Through a sort of blurred tunnel vision he saw the leather boy, looking deliciously sexy, fiddling with a laptop on the other side of the room.

Pervius stared at the screen and clicked the mouse a few times, muttering to himself. “No I do not want to update to Windows 10, thank you very much.” Over his shoulder, he said to Batman, “Be with you in a minute,” then continued to mumble curses at the computer. Finally it appeared to be working. He waved his hand in front of the camera and seemed satisfied with the picture. Stepping back so that the camera could see all of him, he rested his leather-gloved hands sexily on his titanium belt and put his weight on one leg - a pose he’d been practising and which he thought looked particularly horny.

“Hello world,” he said, in his soft Welsh accent. “I am Pervius. I am Welsh. This broadcast is coming to you from the city of Cardiff. In Wales. You may not have heard of me, but from tonight my name will be on the lips of the citizens of every country on the planet.” He paused for effect. “My mission is to banish the sin of arrogance from this fair city, and to that end I’ve already taken down many of the superheroes who have invaded this country of mine - the Masked Avenger; the mighty Thor; the Angel of Retribution; and too many other superheroes to mention. Tonight you will see the downfall of my final, and greatest victim…” Another dramatic pause, “The Batman.” He stepped to the side, revealing the helpless Caped Crusader behind him, strapped to a sturdy wooden frame. “When I have proved victorious and sent Batman back to the colonies with his wings between his legs I will have accomplished what I set out to do.” He turned to the Dark Knight. “Tonight, my Caped Comrade, you will be laid low. Very low indeed.”

Pervius approached the restrained superhero, and stood, for a moment lost in admiration at the shiny grey-on-black costume; the intimidating half-mask and cowl; the pert, yet businesslike ears; but most of all the thick latex-covered - and impressively substantial - bulge. It was far better in the flesh than it was in the movies, he thought.

Hmm. There was a problem he hadn’t considered: the codpiece was made of latex, not spandex like most of the others, and so it would not be immediately obvious to the camera when Batman shot his load helplessly into Pervius’s milking fingers. He inspected the codpiece more closely, and discovered that it was attached by press-studs. He nodded - there would clearly have to be some way the superhero could have a pee. With a flourish he pulled the codpiece off and threw it to the other side of the room. Then he had second thoughts, retrieved it, and placed it carefully on the table. It would make a good souvenir.

The Batcock was indeed impressive. It nestled between the batthighs like a sleeping snake - giving Pervius the feeling that although it was currently quiescent, it was ready to awaken and pounce at a moment’s notice. He knelt in front of it and summoned the superpowers with which he had been imbued by the great Ffos-y-Fran Gasworks Explosion of 1997 (a small quantity of legendary Teleturium had been present in the coal). Lines of glowing golden light extended from his leather-gloved fingertips to the batcock, and it moved. It slowly raised its head as if looking for what had aroused it from its slumber, and it engorged gradually until it stood hard and proud, stabbing the air angrily with its purple head, for all the world as if it were looking for prey. It was fully awake, even if its owner wasn’t.

But then Batman stirred, and Pervius smiled beneath the sexy black visor. It was so sexily black that as usual he could hardly see anything through it, but there was just enough light for his purposes. The drug was wearing off, and soon Batman would be able to struggle. His timing had been perfect.

Batman shook his head and looked around him. At the dungeon he was in, at the frame he was strapped to, at the camera that was pointing at him, at the unbelievably sexy leather-clad guy who was on one knee in front of him, and finally at his own naked and rock-hard cock. “What…? Who…?”

“Do try to keep up,” said Pervius testily. He quickly pointed in turn to himself: “Pervius,” at the camera: “Audience of millions,” and at Batman’s groin: “Batcum.”

“Noooo…”

The leather-gloved fingers continued to work on the Caped Crusader’s member. It stiffened even more, and looked ready to explode at any second. Careful, thought Pervius, take it slowly - people are watching. Mustn’t make it look too easy… He transferred his attentions to the batballs. They hung like a couple of ripe avocados - though not the same colour as avocados - under the cock. Using all his super skills, he gently massaged them, encouraging the production of prodigious quantities of spunk. There was going to be a major eruption when it happened.

Suddenly there was a yell from the doorway. “Holy Fate-Worse-Than-Death, Batman!” It was Robin, the Boy Wonder.

“Curses,” spat Pervius, springing to his sexily-booted feet, “I’d forgotten about you.”

Before Pervius could stop him, Robin ran to the frame and released Batman’s right foot. Pervius fumbled with his titanium belt, trying to extract the dart gun - but before he had a chance, the Boy Wonder was on him and had his hands around his sexy leather-clad neck.

They struggled for a while, until Pervius managed to kick Robin’s feet from under him and took the opportunity to race to the doorway.

Robin grimaced in indecision as he looked from the still-helpless Batman to the rapidly-escaping leather boy.

“Go! Get him, Boy Wonder!” Yelled Batman, kicking impotently at the air with his free foot.

Robin chased out of the room, hot on Pervius’s heels.

Outside, Robin stopped and scanned the car park for the leather boy. There! By that motorcycle. He rushed over to the machine, then skidded to a stop. Wow! It was a Honda CBR600RR. A black one. Robin’s mouth fell open and he lovingly ran his fingers over the gleaming black tank. “Holy crotch rockets,” he whispered.

A handcuff clicked into place around his wrist, and was pulled to the frame of the Pervmobile, where it was fastened. Robin glanced at the leather-clad guy. “It’s…. beautiful,” he said.

Pervius ran back to the torture room at full speed, then slowed and remembered to look sexy as he came back into the camera’s field of view. Batman was still tied to the frame, and it was easy for Pervius to re-attach his free foot. “Now, where were we…?” He said.

Once again he applied his superpowers to the batcock. It was still fully hard from his earlier ministrations, and it didn’t take long to get it to the edge. He removed his fingers, frustratingly.

Batman struggled, trying to finish the job, but he couldn’t. “You… You fiend!” He spat.

“When you want me to finish you off, all you have to do is beg me…”

“Beg you? NEVER!”

“We shall see, we shall see.” Pervius stroked the batcock, and brought the Caped Crusader once more to the brink of orgasm before stopping at the last possible second.

Batman screwed up his face and howled. “No! You bastard! This is not fair!”

“I know it’s not.” The leather boy stood up and ran his hands sensuously over his skintight catsuit, squeezing his bulging cock through the thin, supple black leather.

Batman shook his head, trying to tear his eyes from that inexpressibly horny sight, but it was no good. The guy was sex on legs. “Make me cum. PLEASE MAKE ME CUM!”

Pervius lightly teased the head of the batcock. “Who is the sexiest superhero ever?”

“You are!” Moaned Batman. “Pervius is the sexiest superhero.Ever!”

“There’s a good boy.” Pervius took the cock between a single finger and thumb and, with one small stroke, made Batman cum. Batspunk jetted out in great arcs, coating Pervius, the floor, and the camera. Pervius milked him dry, then went over and wiped the lens. He posed again in the centre of the room.

“So - the world has seen the pitiful downfall of Batman. The arrogant Caped Crusader has met his match. There will be no more smugness in Wales.” He paused, allowing the watching audience to savour the total humiliation of the Dark Knight who was hanging, exhausted and dripping, from the restraints, then addressed the watching millions again. “The city has been rid of self-congratulation. This has been accomplished by the greatest superhero of all - Pervius.” With a sharp eye for direction, he went behind the camera, zoomed it slowly in to centre on the still-masked but utterly-defeated face of Batman, and finished with a voiceover: “Thanks to Pervius, the world will be a safer and better place for all its law-abiding citizens.” He considered singing the Welsh National Anthem, but he could never remember the sixth verse. He switched off the computer and picked up the latex codpiece. For a moment he wavered in indecision, but then re-attached it to the batgroin. “Here, you’d better look respectable.”

Pervius freed Batman from the frame and helped him to stand up. “Come on, let’s get you home. You have packing to do.”

Outside, the night air was cool. Pervius looked over at his bike. “You’d better collect the Boy Wonder.”

Robin was kneeling behind the Pervmobile in the throes of orgasm as he fucked the motorcycle’s exhaust pipe vigorously. There was a sizzling sound as of spunk striking hot metal. Oblivious to Batman and the leather boy, he stroked the bike, kissed it, and rubbed his cheek lovingly over the number plate. Pervius unlocked the handcuff and watched as the two superheroes, their arms around each other’s waist, staggered over to the Batmobile.

Batman turned before getting in. “This isn’t over…” He said.

Pervius smiled under the sexy black visor. “Possibly not,” He said thoughtfully as he watched Robin’s muscular but boyish young body slide sensuously onto the black leather upholstery.


“Pardon the intrusion, Sir, but you have a visitor.”

Bruce Wayne looked up from his packing. “Thank you, Alfred. Is there a room that still has furniture?”

“The kitchen, Sir.”

“There is a kitchen?”

“Yes Sir.”

“I’ll receive him there then.”

“Very good, Sir.”

The visitor was Pervius. “You!” Said Wayne, pointing an accusing finger.

“Me. There is something I’d like to chat to you about.”

Wayne considered throwing the leather boy out on his ear, but then, frowning, said, “Alfred, tea please. Serve it in the… serve it here.”

“Very good, Sir.” Alfred squeezed between Pervius and the gas stove, and put the kettle on.

Bruce looked the leather boy up and down. He was actually even sexier than he remembered. The titanium belt hung low on his hips, contrasting with the skintight black leather of his catsuit. But Bruce’s eyes were fixed on Pervius’s bulge. It was hypnotically seductive.

“Wh..” Too high. Wayne cleared his throat and deepened his voice. “What can I do for you?”

“I have a proposition. I live in Pervius Towers - you may have noticed it, it’s the large castle with the drawbridge and moat on the hill over there.” He pointed vaguely westwards.

“I’ve seen it. It’s rubbish.”

“Well, I was thinking. It’s a bit big for me, I live there on my own. I could do with a tenant. I wondered if you and the Boy Wonder might like to move in with me.”

Bruce Wayne considered this. “You mean a kind of Batman/Pervius partnership, ridding the world of crime through the co-operation and mutual respect of the planet’s two (three if you include the Boy Wonder) most powerful superheroes?”

The sexily dark-visored head tilted to the side slightly. “I was thinking more of you doing the laundry, and the Boy Wonder being my bitch.”

There was an ominous silence. This was eventually broken by the clink of two cups of tea being placed on the table.

“Thank you, Alfred, but this visor makes hot beverages inadvisable. If you have experience with drinking straws, you can come too.”

Bruce Wayne sat down heavily on the only remaining chair. He looked around the bare kitchen, then back at the bulge in the skintight black leather catsuit in front of him.

“When do we move in?” He asked.