The seething sun continued to boil through the afternoon. Twice more the storm crescendoed, the building groaned and shook. Shafts of amber light penetrated the room as dust filled the air. Bound to the rough wooden post, his arms wrapped tightly around it in a parody embrace, chest and abdomen held firmly against it, Superman's exhausted muscles cramped and ached. His legs were also roped so that his thighs partly straddled the post, and his heavy, sensitized crotch rubbed up hard and close against it. Several times he felt again the almost overwhelming waves of nausea, but as his legs weakened and gave way beneath him, the rasping effect of the wood tore at his costume (normally not feeling anything through it; but this was not normal!)—scouring the flesh of his biceps, chest, stomach, thighs and genitals… causing him to grimace and push himself sharply upright. This brought hoots of derision from his captors, who delighted in shouting insults at him, and threats of what they planned to do if Lev handed him over to them.
Through it all he remained stoically silent, refusing to respond to the taunts. He tried to zone in on whatever conversations were happening beyond the door where Levkowicz and his lieutenant, Stan, presumably were negotiating his future with Don Lucio Lucifero. But try as he might, his super-hearing had all but deserted him, along with the rest of his remarkable powers; X-ray vision non-existent. Instead, he turned his attention to the men in the room, listening to their accents and trying to discern their origins; anything he could learn which might ultimately contribute to his survival, thin though his chances seemed.
Terry, probably Thierry, was obviously Quebecoise. Helon and Obo were Nigerian; Yuri, Brazilian. The younger man, Austin, who had prevented Lev from blowing out Superman’s brains in the street, was a Scot, probably Glaswegian. His darkish red hair, freckles, and muscly-ripped build (broader and thicker, though wondrously similar—as if they could have passed for not twins, but at least close-aged brothers), were an astonishing reminder of that special young redhead from the Daily Planet, who shared his bed and life: Jimmy Olsen. The shocking realization that he might never see Jimmy again was a painful reminder that “friends” were a long way off, and there would be no help from any. He was a true alien, and surrounded by men who would gladly slit his very vulnerable throat given half a chance.
He was trying to judge which South American countries several Hispanic men were from, when the door opened again and Lev and Stan re-entered the room. The men stood up expectantly.
“Well, Boss? What did Don Lucio say?” asked Terry. “Will he pay out?”
“He's very interested. Wasn't easy to talk. This crazy solar business is playing hell with communications. But we managed enough to agree that if we can truly deliver Superman, alive and intact, the Don will pay… a billion dollars!!”
The room erupted in whoops and cheers, and the two Nigerians began to sing triumphantly. Superman gritted his teeth, and tried to think: ‘alive and intact,’ the Don had said. That, at least, was some guarantee of protection for the immediate future, although it probably meant no less rough treatment further ahead. He shivered as he thought of the sadistic torments the master criminal had enacted on foes who had fallen into his grasp, and the purported, horrific acts he had sworn to perpetrate on Superman should he ever have him in his power. Now, the day had come. He was theirs; his guts jolted.
“First, though,” continued Lev, silencing the cacophony, “Don Lucio wants proof that we have the real Superman. The pics I managed to send are not enough. He wants something physical—not yet his cock…. That will be his pleasure. So, I promised to send him a singular piece of evidence, a part of the alien costume. Remove his cape.”
Several men immediately began to untie the ropes in order to remove the cape, keeping a tight grip on their captive as they did so. But the thought of his impending, eventual de-cocking! (or likely complete castration), lanced Superman through enough to put up more than a token, valiant struggle. While he was strong, he must fight! He must!
To no avail.
“Say goodbye to your pretty red cape, asshole,” mocked Stan as the ropes were removed, and Superman was held in upright thrashing place by five brawny jeering criminals. Terry tugged at the cape, but it wouldn't release. He tugged harder, and the former Man of Steel's head was jerked violently back and forth, causing him to gasp for breath, nearly choking him.
“Let me,” said Austin, and he plunged his warm hand into the neck-hole of the unitard where the cape was attached. He explored, found, and released the subtle catches and pulled the cape away, throwing it across to Lev.
(Savoring at the same time, the touch of the captive’s mounded musculature; Superman himself was unexpectantly jarred by his touch—realizing an unexpected sensation that ran through him: Austin’s similarity to Jimmy—up close, his touch nearly as intoxicating. It stunned the decloaked MOS. What?!! A slight gentleness; yet powerfully male. Even the smell of him.)
“Good!” laughed Lev. “Don Lucio will examine this and verify its alien origins. That should be enough to satisfy him.”
“Hey, Boss!” called out Terry, his eyes suddenly alight with sadistic pleasure. “Why just the cape? Don't you think the Don would like the whole costume?”
“Yea!” yelled out several voices at once.
“Why not?” agreed Stan. “I'm sure he’d appreciate the souvenir.”
A cruel grin spread across Lev's face as he looked directly into the defiant face of his prisoner, who appeared non-compliant, stiffening.
“I'm sure he would, Stan. Ok, boys, STRIP HIM!”
Instantly, Superman found himself being roughly wrestled to the floor, multiple hands pulling at his clothing. He struggled courageously, already weakened, and fought back as much as he could, but it was hopeless; he was vastly outnumbered and overpowered. His grunts and gasps were unheeded and ignored beneath the shouts and laughs of the assembly of assailants denuding him.
The boots were quickly removed, then the yellow belt and red briefs, all thrown across to the grinning, snickering Lev and Stan. The unitard proved a little more difficult, but the neck-hole was soon stretched wide and pulled down over his arms and upper torso, revealing his magnificently sculpted upper body and alien pendulous nipples, richly nestled in a beautifully fine covering of dark hair. Several hands held onto his head and shoulders as others continued to wrest and tug downwards on the blue costume. His huge arms were now free and immediately pinioned to the floor as the violent disrobing continued… over the belly then down past the crotch and ass to the knees. As much as he struggled, he couldn't prevent the humiliating exposure of his most private, cherished parts now on full display before a crowd of jeering, murderous enemies.
“Aye! He is a big boy! ” shouted Austin at the sight of the 10½ inch long, flaccid-thick organ and tennis-ball sized gonads; the gang roared even louder. And all of them, Lev included, had to crowd in to get a good look at the humiliated naked hero, pinned with arms and legs stretched wide, his body reduced to a spectacle for the amusement of the vicious criminals.
“Ha!” shouted a rough Hispanic voice. “Now we know Kryptonians, like Jews, cut their dicks. Disgusting!”
“Nice, tapered mushroom head, though! Tasty!”
“Austin, you’re such a fag!” laughed Stan, as the young Scot reached down and gave the exposed slack, and more than a handful impressively large head and shaft an appreciative, firm squeeze.
“And damn,” Austin cooed. “Look at those fucking tits!” In awe, at the hero’s larger than thumb-sized udders, protruding notably downwards from the hair-massed mounds of his pecs.
Superman was now more than naked, far more vulnerable than ever before: male-ly, personally, emotionally. He cringed. Suddenly, shockingly embarrassed—yet inherently ego-proud. Jimmy was the only human who’d ever seen him with his shirt off. And took him ever boldly, paralyzing him… the ribald joy of his breasts in his mouth. Rendering the MOS helpless in his arms. (How they’d remained indelible lovers, once it had happened.)
Terry suddenly interjected, “His must be bigger’n that damn Lois Lane’s! Ten to one, he’s a fag, too. Probably takes his own, instead of hers!”
Austin lifted a silent, knowing eye: Superman turned a violent shade of red, all over.
“Looks like you hit a button,” Stan sneered.
“If it were me, Boss, I’d cut them off. Send them to the Don,” said Terry.
Superman’s stomach flipped crazily, and he went pale white. They might, they could! Oh, God—help me!! NO!! Please, no!!
“Stupid idea,” Austin chimed. “‘Intact’ means intact! You want to be losing a billion—over that?!”
Lev cocked his head, considering.
“Alright, boys,” said Lev. “Nicely done.” Then, to the cowed MOS, “Not so super anymore, eh, Superman? No need for that prissy costume. Get used to being naked—as the dog you are, freak bitch! You’re lucky Don Lucio wants you alive and whole. Otherwise, I'd have you neutered, here and now!”
Superman inhaled in deep relief, and swallowed. Still quaking at the thought of what might happen later. Austin’s eyes caught his though, and held. What?
“I’m sure that's a consummate pleasure Don Lucio wants reserved for himself, Boss,” grinned Stan. “Ok, boys, this costume needs to get to the Don as quickly as possible! He's in Vienna, and we can't use the planes or choppers because of the solar interference. So it will have to be by road. I want five of you in two cars with me now.”
Within half an hour, Stan had departed with the costume and five of the men. Superman was once more tied to the post in the same position as before, forearms and hands tighter, his naked flesh now completely unprotected from the tough, splintery surface. He tightened his lips hard in an attempt to suppress his pain at the rasping discomfit of the raw wood against his torso, arms, thighs… and especially his now fully exposed genitals. Lev had positioned himself in a chair aslant on the far side, so that the bound hero was forced to look in his direction. The arms dealer leaned back, smiling.
“I always knew you’d have a fine muscled ass, Super-scum. Just the thing for a good spanking! What do you think, boys? Want to give this proud, soon-to-be-gelded fuck a pounding? Teach this flighty brat a lesson he won't forget?”
A single roar of approval from the remaining members of the gang told Superman that there would be no mercy in this. He steeled himself for what was about to begin.
Without further warning, he felt his hair grabbed hard from behind. Terry's voice hissed harshly in his ear as he felt a hard slap on his exposed buttocks.
“Been a naughty boy, have you?”
Unused to feeling pain or impact, the power of Terry's heavy hand and muscular arm took Superman by surprise; he gave an involuntary “Uhn-uhhhh!” and his whole body jerked and scraped along the rough post. The sting in his ass was matched by the scratching of the wood on his heavy cock, and he moaned aloud, much to the delight of his assailant and onlookers.
“Don't like it, eh? Well, it's only just beginning, bitch!”
And with that, the burly Canadian began a rapid series of massive hand swats against the naked buttocks of the once invulnerable hero. Superman tensed to counteract the blows, but it did nothing to ease the pain. The other gang members watched with eyes agog as the beautiful round gluteals turned a deep red, and the muscular thighs quivered involuntarily. From his position on the other side, Lev drank in the sight of the handsome face contorted in pain, the teeth biting into his bottom lip in an effort to resist crying out. But it was all too much.
Finally, after tortured minutes, tossing his head back and looking up at the ceiling, Superman opened his mouth and gave a deep, long howl of pain, misery, and defeat, which filled the whole room. Then, turning his eyes on the laughing arms dealer again, trying to regain some sense of his hero-ness, he panted out in a gathered rage the first words he had spoken since his capture: “Levkowicz, you sick animal—I’ll see you pay for this! One day! ”
His choked cries torn from within him, unlike his normal demeanor. After all, he was an implacable hero—had never dealt with anyone on any sort of personal revenge level. But his spirit had been piqued to the core. He had now been wholly embarrassed, his masculinity compromised, shamed.
Would he even be “male” by the time this was over?
“Ha, ha, ha, ha! He doesn't like it at all!” Lev laughed. “Well, too bad, you miserable sack of shit because this is just the beginning. There's a long night ahead. Lucio may want you alive and in one piece, but there's a lot that can happen without jeopardizing that. Take a rest, Terry. Who's next?”
Helon and Obo leapt to their feet as one, while Terry took a seat, laughing and showing his reddened hand, shaking out his tired arm to the watchers… a sign of the effort he had put into the spanking. The Nigerians had already planned their method of attack, and took positions on each side of the roped victim. Singing loudly, they began to beat out the rhythm of their song on the glowing ass, taking one buttock apiece, obviously competing to see who could land the most forceful blow. Sometimes the blows fell simultaneously, sometimes on alternating beats, and occasionally with a syncopation which made it impossible for Superman to predict when the pain would come, or prepare himself for it. He tremored.
His whole world now was a sea of continual pain emanating from his pulverised rear and filling his entire consciousness. He could no longer control his reactions, but jerked and squirmed, keened and moaned, without restraint. The formerly invulnerable creature never knew such agony could exist—now he was experiencing it in spades. Pun aside.
By the time the two Nigerians had finished their song, Superman simply hung at the post, a limp, heaving, unmanned mess. His well-muscled butt glowed a brilliant red and throbbed incessantly, the abrasions on his body from the rough wooden post stung and bled freely. He hardly even noticed Helon and Obo leave, to make way for the tall handsome Brazilian, Yuri. The change was brought sharply to his attention, however, when Yuri began his assault. He had found a long thin curtain rod on the floor by one of the windows, and snapped it in two to create a make-shift cane. It was that which whistled through the air and struck the now purpling ass low and close to the legs, leaving at once a long angry welt.
Superman’s whole body jerked in a violent spasm, and he unexpectedly screamed!
This was a new level of pain. It stung like nothing he could ever have imagined. But before he had recovered from the first swat, the cane fell again, this time a little higher, creating a second welt parallel to the first. He cried out again, and involuntary, unmanly tears flooded down his bloodied, sweat-matted face. Rapid convulsions shook every fiber of his now tenderized, vulnerable flesh. Again, and again the cane fell, creating patterns of stripes at first parallel and then criss-crossed, until his entire gluteals were covered in angry, burning welts. It was beyond too much. Searing, horrifying. Wailing, he almost wished he could die.
“Stop! Stop!” he pleaded, broken. “Please, stop. I can't… can't….” even shamed by his tears. He, the once most powerful man in the universe: a snivelling boy. Blow after blow.
But there was no stopping, until Yuri, his sadistic fervor sated, returned relaxed and grinning to his seat.
“Austin,” called out Lev, “you're next! Your turn to have some fun with our pathetic, Super-wimp. Cries like a fucking girl lost her doll.”
“Uhmm, thanks, Boss,” replied the young Scot. “I was wondering, though—might we try somethin’ a wee different?”
Lev raised a quizzical eyebrow, gave a shrug. “Sure. Treat our guest. Nice, now!”
“A true Ukrainian special,” grinned the rakish red.
And from the depths of his barely conscious mind, his existence awash in agony, the quavering Superman, knowing that brogue-ish voice, instantly thought again of Jimmy—steeled himself to imagine that it might be him , inflicting this new, unbearable punishment (who would really never do such a thing to anyone!)—wondered what his next tormentor would impose? And shuddered, almost knowing what it would be…. Inevitable!
His final desecration.
Then, checking his watch, turning to the seated Brazilian, Lev spoke quietly and nodded. Yuri and the Nigerians had other tasks, and moved off momentarily to attend them.
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