By Rick Henry
Email: strawbridge88@att.net

Superman Unwittingly Meets Mr. D

(This is a fan fiction story, originally created by Rick Henry and is somewhat appropriately illustrated. Main character of “Superman” owned by D.C. Comics, and contains m/m erotic material suitable only for adult/mature readers over 18. Any other characters living or dead or fictionalized are merely coincidental.)

Chapter One - An Unexpected Encounter.

Superman, being as handsome, built, hung, and endowed as he was, and with such extraordinary powers… was forever horny. Having been in love with himself (his mirror image) since a young teen, but rarely if ever able to find actual satisfactory sexual relief—besides self-fellatio, his own flexibility at self-breast-nursing, or adept anal (and well-practiced) self-insertion—was forever on the prowl for a matching equal, with whom he might have some compatibility. Geographical distance was never a problem for him, since he could cover great distances in a near eyeblink; as well as presenting his human-identity cover to others… a shy, and mild-mannered, self-effacing individual (though gaspingly well-built)… which made him well able, and adeptly practiced at living within the means of his two complete, different personalities: alien superhero and/or plain Joe (Clark Kent). And able to function quite well within those confines. Except he had an extraordinary sex drive which often left him self-exhausted and more than frustratedly alone. It was an emotional war he had to live with, and found he was rarely able to encounter another human being near up to his vague standards to engage with.

Except Batman, who was not quite as well-endowed or largely nippled, though significantly well-pected, being the heavier man. But while their shared engagements were few and far between, they were always strained due to on-going interruptive time constraints and normal business routines which needed to be attended to. Not to mention, Superman didn’t care much for occasionally sharing Bruce Wayne’s bed with his regular lover, Dick Grayson, or his other flirtations with several society women. Then, there was Thor and Aquaman. Both of which were living in far apart realms of their own, and equally engaged with mostly women, so the feasibility of their intimate unions was rare and of a remote nature at best. Leaving the sex-starved Superman worse than alone continually—and while joyously able and insatiably so to pleasure himself—it could be a boring and disappointing process, which wore on his psyche to no end.

And truly, so hung, nippled, and built as he was, he surely didn’t dare allow himself the idea of engaging with a female, though that Lois Lane at the Daily Planet where he worked had left more than enough hints she might be willing to explore something with him, even if he didn’t seem to have the assertive “balls” she preferred in a partnership. (To her, the boyish cameraman, Jimmy Olsen, seemed to exude more testosterone than the big-chested, broad-shouldered reporter, Clark Kent.) Thus, disdaining him as much as she found him oddly intriguing…. Baggy suits and all, hiding something?

So Superman was chronically addicted to m/m porn sites, ever searching for a comparable other. Only most built men shown did not have overly impressive endowments, their posers sadly lacking; nor did their developed, commendable pectorals reveal too often hardly more than puny pimple-sized nipples. A pure disgrace to the massive muscle they so vainly sported, (along with walrus, steroid-bloated abdomens also showing up after their contests). Clark had to laugh. His own tiny 30-inch waist like carved marble, and his enormously heavy pecs (¾’s densely hard, male sculpted muscle, and ¼’s composed of a softer, and wider under-curved fullness—almost feminine—with outrageously long-thick nipples), so ponderous he could sometimes almost lose his balance crossing his living room. But being the prolific milker that he was, from both upper and lower decks, it was more than understandable. And forever had to wear some sort of compressive torso garment/shield for protection or modesty… whether as Clark at the office or Superman strutting his stuff. As well as a customized under-cup for his prodigious genitals.

Another configuration he’d had to learn to live with, although the general anchorage of his genitals was sufficient to keep him on a well-weighted even keel… and more than proudly so. Yet it was also annoying and somewhat aggravating for him to get thickly, flagpole huge when viewing the wonder of himself naked. Or bare-chested. Those abnormal, so intoxicating tits he had! And had to keep well-covered and compressed in his uniform, protected from assault at all costs. Or they could do him down faster than Kryptonite—the wrong, swiftly clever hands suddenly onto them. Paralyzing him with ecstasy in mere seconds, they were that sensitive and powerful to control his system. And equally eye-riveting wonders even so: the expanse of his pecs, and the no less than spectacular mound of his carefully cupped genitals in genuine need of modest constraint. All packed into a very revealing, not at all modest, skintight suit barely containing his phenomenal musculature. The display of himself so boldly a continual egotistical aphrodisiac to friend and foe alike, the sight of which near instantly disarmed many, or sent others into cloaked shudders of lust hardly containable.

(He, also, secretly often near swooning at, by, and over his own narcissism, too... both a bind and a glory. But that was Kal-El, the “unconquerable Superman,” from the planet Krypton. His other persona, Clark Kent, was “outwardly” another man and being entirely. Or so he thought. Although sometimes in his head they got rather mixed up. Hmmmn. )

At home and alone, preparing for a quiet night in, he took a hasty, quick shower; a show he wanted to see on tv., and was in a rush to get to it. Unloaded the take-out dinner he’d picked up earlier, popped it in the microwave, and literally prayed he’d get no “calls for assistance.” In a nice thick robe and comfortable slippers, he settled down on his leather couch, turned on the tv. Had even uncorked a fine bottle of Sangria, and proceeded to relax. The show was not as intriguing as he thought it might be, so he began in short order to channel surf. He was tired, boring day at the office, Lois always yapping about some Congressman or other, then he hit on a weather forecast and instantly noticed one the commentators there with rather complimentary bulge in the front of his trousers. A new local guy, too. Oh, darn! Out of the question…. This got him thinking back to himself again. Still enjoying the Sangria. Again, thinking. Darn, darn, darn. Soon headed to his small-niched office. Turned on the computer—fatal mistake.

He scanned the normal run of his rounds, remembering one Batman had recently mentioned he might find of interest. The Bat, not against a few extra adventures of his own, but always within the parameters of extreme discretion. And as Bruce Wayne, an overly public figure, he was ever beyond cautious about any outside involvements that could jeopardize his standing in any way. Oddly, Bruce had not been heard from for several days now, so confirming anything out of the ordinary here could neither be validated or corroborated. Checking with Robin, Supes only got a vague answer that he was off on something clandestine, and hadn’t even informed him about it. With a shrug of dismissal, knowing he always showed up unexpectedly later, and often closed-lipped. Nothing unusual.

Searching the site, still nursing the Sangria, he paused on one that definitely caught his eye:

“Ideal!” he exclaimed to himself. “Someone with taste and discretion, expensive, but with apparent integrity. And hung!! The Bat could never match me that much, few can… with a great build, too. Don’t have to show my face, say who I am really. Just pay and go. Worth at least one shot. No one really knows me in Ark City. Could get away with jeans and a sweatshirt, loose jacket, sunglasses, snug cap. Now where’s my camera…. Gotta be careful, shirt and shorts can’t be too tight. Reveal too much. Might even scare him off—.”

* * *

(While yes, wearing a sheer, compression garment under his tee and over his pecs, so as not to appear too formidable [and a little against his better judgement, though unable to quell his natural narcissism]—hoping to present himself as notably irresistible, and more than anxious for some significant contact, he’d sent this personal picture— which indeed, neither as Clark or Superman, had anyone had the privilege to see him like this [except Batman]. Voilà! Courtesy of mphillips12000, Deviant Art.)

The reply was faster than expected. “Bring cash. If not pleased to complete satisfaction, no pay expected. Leave—no problem, no return. Memorize address. No notes to be left behind. This is an out of the way place, well-cloistered from prying eyes. Small rural property. 4 P.M. next Saturday only available time. Directions enclosed. Accept or cancel. D. Jones. ”

Last Thursday, he’d sent the note and photos. It was Tuesday after work he received the reply back. He had a wide smile, got to thinking. Couldn’t help it. Had to go to his bedroom, strip out of his clothes. Started by grazing lightly over, then finally tugging hard at his oversized knockers; then sucked himself off three times, he was so excited at the prospect. His own 14 ½ x 8 ½ ” member so hard, his imagination going wild at the idea of being handled or plugged by a good 15-er from a muscular other, younger and strong. And then as usual, when having expended himself a bit more than normal, three sets of triple orgasms each—his breasts and prostate in tandem—overly depleted, he lapsed into a fitful yet encompassing sleep. Practically drunk from expelling and partaking of so much of his milk and semen. Weakening him drastically if awake… but hyper-replenishing him after, while he slept.

* * *

He could have flown, but didn’t want to deal with a hiding/change of costume later, or going thru the traceable hassle of renting a car from the local municipality. Maybe another time. If there was to be one…. He drove his beloved silver 2001 Porche Carrera 911, cramped though it was, but adaptable; and intermittently flexed his huge pecs while driving, to keep them pumped, primed and ready, knowingly how gasping they would appear to a first-time user/seer. Although he did not truly plan to reveal them to some weirdo stranger. And supposing he could be parking a good three blocks away from wherever. Except that didn’t go according to his plan, and found he faced a private drive he was forced to have to navigate a good half mile of graveled road to reach his destination. A really nice, rustic type cabin structure, surrounded by some varied trees, brush, some field-ish areas, smaller outside adjacent buildings, perched on the edge of a small lake. Private and idyllic for sure, provided it didn’t snow much. And the idea of even, at last, skinny-dipping with a truly nicely built, hung other, who had not a clue who he was… was enticing. In warmer weather, of course. It was now edging November, the tail end of Indian Summer. So a bit too cool, yet. Today rather warm.

Another car was parked alongside the cabin, a red, late model Corvette, which he didn’t like, thought they were too ostentatious for the most part, but conspicuous nevertheless. His Porsche wouldn’t thus be too out of place if anyone might drop by. All appeared calm and good. The day quite sunny and warm. He approached cautiously, feet crunching on the finer gravels, his mildly tinted sunglasses in place, jacket partially pulled apart at the front top, allowing his pecs to announce he was no pansy. Tightened his lips and knocked.

He knocked once and waited. Knocked again. Detected some classical music. Once more his fist on the door, this time quite forcefully. If there was no answer by the fourth time, he was leaving. He was nobody’s fool. Knocked again. Then turned. A movement caught his eye, he braced himself. A quite handsome young man with longish blond-brown hair, and a very lean, but carved marble-ish, muscular build, trim waist, widely dark areolaed and desirably developed pectorals, and sporting only a dark flowered, Hawaiian thong that looked like it was beyond overloaded confronted him—with a shotgun levelled at his chest! Superman gasped, not only in surprise but true wonderment. His nipples immediately filling, hardening, as well as the weighted tool he was hefting between his own thighs. But only semi-so. I mean, was it fight or flight, what was he dealing with? His eyes riveted on the guy’s humongously slung assets. Dazzled.

“Ahhh,” the apparition grinned broadly with schoolboy innocence. “Fourteen flaccid, but seventeen actually, when erect. Didn’t wish to scare too many. Recognize you from your photo. Welcome, Mr. Klein, ” extending his hand, lowering the weapon. With a smile that would have charmed a dozen Mr. Olympias and the devil, himself. Then shouldering against the door as he turned the handle, pushed it open with a sigh. “Was out back feeding the rabbits. But ever cautious of intruders. Come in.”

Clark stumbled through, still appreciating the glory he’d just viewed. Swallowing dry-mouthed, and his mind going in spirals of anticipation. Seventeen, yeah, he could take that! With a little practice, he was sure. Being used to his own, which was way less. And hadn’t he more than once had Batman in tears, who still begged him not to stop, gritting his teeth for more?

“Call me, D. – Dee Jones,” the young man said. “A moment, while I slip on a robe. Getting cool, though still nice.” A fine, silk-ish, jungle print garment he retrieved from where it had been flung over the back of a tannish velour lounger and slipped on, reaching to his mid, well-formed calves. Clark, reluctantly watching him cover the wonder of himself, as he was directed to ease his own self into a sturdy leather couch—not failing to notice some dangling leather straps from the sidearms of it, as well as some near the bottom edges. But not concerned. After all, by Jove, he was Superman! Not even a shotgun blast could do more than maybe make him cough if direct enough.

“And you, Mr. Klein, what would you like me call you? Big arms, big pecs, big dick… Albert, George, Wonder Man? Some guys like fetish names.”

“Uhh, uhh, Clark,” he sputtered, without much thinking. Oops, darn, he shouldn’t have said that! Too late, it was already out there. He’d previously responded to the ad with just C. Klein. But what the heck. “Clark, would be fine,” he mumbled.

“Not many guys named Clark,” D. mused, raising his eyes, pursing his lips.

His mouth a sobering pair of orange slices, that begged exploring, or to be explored by. Clark had to blink. He was already so distracted he was nearing lightheadedness of a sort.

“Let me get you a drink, relax you bit. I never consider the first half hour. Want my guys comfortable, first. Scotch, bourbon, gin, Budweiser?”

“I really don’t drink,” looking around. Liking very much, the rustic, Western motif of the place. A cross between Bonanza and Arizona chic. Warm, masculine, but cultured.

“Everybody drinks,” the young man pshawed. “Pepsi, Sprite, Brandy, maybe?”

“I, uh… if you have some Martel, that would be great,” Clark hedged. Knowing that the smooth warmth of the cognac would help him relax without undue worry, ease his apprehensions of what was to come. Good Lord—seventeen inches?! Could he even suck it?! And how much—of his own only 3/4’s worth, when he was determined! But never to the balls…. Craving and eager to try. Knowing his capabilities were mind-blowing, when he really wanted to do something.

“Bingo!” D. popped a small handclap. “One of my favorites, for the discriminate. I like that. Tells me you have class…. After all, I don’t deal with just anyone.”

Clark grinned shyly. Seated on the couch, the tumbler in his hands in no time, sipping generously, with steady unveiled looks without pretense, searching the depths of D.’s sparkling brown eyes. Hardly able to breathe, thinking of him, what he’d already seen.

They discussed a bit of politics, sports, the latter which Clark was not at all keen on or informative of. A few good films.

Then, with little preamble the younger drew near, and finally leaned across his thighs. “Mr. Clark, I believe you need to get rid of that jacket, those sunglasses. Discard the disguise. Light’s already pretty dim in here, hey?”

“Uh, yeah… yeah.” Allowing the assistance of his jacket removal, the taking off his dark glasses. “I, uhh, usually have trouble seeing without glasses, though,” he lied. Knowing if he ever came back, he’d still have to wear those clunky clear ones of his disguise. But, later. Later. And now with the youth still robed and near him, one of his arms encircling tentatively at his back, the other thrown wide with the cognac glass at his chest, the young man practically in his face… he gave out an unexpected moan; who with D. now, closing in, was unguardedly allowing the almost innocent exploration of his thick-wide pecs. Knowing it was preliminary foreplay.

“You do have quite rack there, guy. Could hardly believe what I was seeing, the pic you sent. Shouldn’t hide it. But I don’t do deep tissue with clothes on. You know?”

“I, I know. But, need to keep my shirt on. My thing, okay…?”

“That’s what you want. But, oh, hey… man, what have you got under there? Damn, that’s a fucking set, indeed.”

“I-uh, am a little abnormal. Need to wear a sheer compressor for my chest. Even at work could be a problem, if seen.”

“Ahhh,” D. smiled. “No problem, a little gyno, big slabs of muscle. Suits me.”

Clark tensing, groaned, unable to stop from involuntarily thrusting his pecs out more and more, as D. very slyly, cautiously, barely grazed over the giant nipples he’d detected being hidden by Clark’s compressor and loose floppy sweatshirt. Although the protrusions from his pecs could not be hidden, D. astutely aware his client was being coy. Finally then, being a shade smarter, more aggressive, he realized he’d struck his guy’s weak points. Obviously had him!

“You know, had a guy here few weeks ago. Massive, yet very honed and built, a few shades bigger than you—you seem practically as fine, not quite as densely bulked—had really giant pecs, waist not as trim as yours, overly big arms. But while big , his nips were just only a very thick two inches. And yours, damn … can tell—wow, more than double the size of his!! Feels good, eh, Clark?” All the while assessing, caressing over Clark’s outrageously paired, swole-filling assets, so lightly, so carefully. As if appreciating a favored dog or pet.

D., smooth-talking him, while he expertly began arousing Clark to high heaven. Just feathering at his huge, so hard, overly tight, full nipples… ever lightly up and down, up and down, up and down, through the thick fabric of his shirt. Clark sighing, beginning to moan freely, softly: “Oh-uhh! Oh-ohhhh! My nipples. My, my so huge, wonderful nipples!” Getting very pliable, mindlessly acquiescent. “How, how’d you know?”

“The pic you sent, your obvious calling card, what’s important to you—.”

“Yes. Very, very sensitive…” Clark mumbled, starting to go ballistically out of control, thrills rushing deep into his perineum, all through, upwards into his prostate and beyond. So hot, cock-hard and desperate, as much as craving the young man’s “wonderment”—to see it, feel him, know it… while unrelenting, D.’s skillful working of Clark’s incredulous chest driving him further to a no-return. D. up close against him, and Clark thrust back into the couch in willing surrender, though his mammoth pecs were more than jut-quivering, quavering, surge-aching from the stimulation… yearning to bare them, offer forth the treasury of their milks. “Ohhh, aahhhh, ohhhhhh…!” unashamedly moaning. Slow rolling his head in overcome ecstasy—Superman and Clark truly captive . Unable to do anything… as if hypnotized, completely depowered, and allowing the taking of his prized alien breasts in still cloth-protected, yet helpless abandon. His groans of pleasure more than telling.

“And this guy was also nutsy about having his nips played. Would get so wacky and pliable, like you… craving me to never stop. And then, when I loosed my super cock, inserted it between his thick, hairy pecs, while I was riding his so much smaller dick inside me, him under me, face to face, he was crying over and over, “Please, please, shoot your hot juice all over my big man-tits—your juice, all over my tits, my chest, my nipples… oh, oh, ohhhhh!!!! ” And I would. And he’d practically pass out, me on top of him. Eyes rolling, gasping for breath. My jizz all over the front of him. And he’d smile and say that was so wonderful…. Next week? And he’d always pay double. Imagine that. Double my initial fee, no matter what we did, or didn’t. Kind of miss him. Hasn’t come around lately…. Only ten and half inches, though.”

A wisp of alarm fluttered in Clark’s head. Really? Couldn’t, couldn’t be! Could it? While D. continued his plotted manipulations. Anything of import evaporating from Clark’s mind. “Sloppy seconds…?”

[D., thinking it was such a shame. All that muscle. All that money, he paid. Brought with him same day I snuffed him. Left his cash in a small canvas bag. Boy, were his eyes big!! And was he strong!! Those huge arms, big thighs, great torso. Put up one hell of a buck and struggle—to no avail, after I whiffed him a few times. Gave me such a desperate, pleading look. In pure disbelief. Once I had the duct tape over his mouth. Hands and ankles bound. As if to say, “No, noh! Oh, God, no!! Na-ohhtt meeee?! Who I am!!” Then, only two fingers holding his nose shut—our eyes locked as he struggled. Snorting hard, writhing like crazy… eventually eyes rolling wanly back; going stiff, spasmed, jerked…. just faded away simple as pie. Heavy as hell getting him in the box; wheeled him outside on the trolley. Like a load of cinder blocks.]

Dee’s words, and fingertips… only through his clothes… bringing the hapless Clark to a body-staggering orgasm, whose big tits somewhat painfully spurt forth their rich nectars, and his own sizeable dick spewed out his potent power-giving resources, confined surreptitiously in his own guarded thong, into his pants. Soiling himself irrevocably. From neck to knees, almost. Was left gasping in wonderment, as no one had ever brought him to such a height before, merely manipulating his colossal teats. And through his clothes, at that! Weaving his head in stunned after-bliss.

D. knowing he had his man where he needed him. Himself near cumming, too. “You’ve got more, don’t you?” he knew.

Clark, hound-eyed and woebegone, murmured yes. “Yes, much more… please? ” Reached around to the side of himself, under his sweatshirt, to loosen the snaps on his breast gear almost like a woman. More fully allowing D. to get to him, his wondrously under-strutted, huge nipples falling out, still hidden. D. then slowly, cleverly jacked off Clark’s monstrous tits just with his fingers through the fabric of his shirt, his client blasting forth another huge volley in almost no time. Afterwards, Clark tried valiantly to rise, stand to his feet, but collapsed, quick to the floor. More than exhausted, his clothes a wrecked mess. Mumbling, “Too much, too much. My so big cock, my over-large tits…. Help me.”

Arms finally under him, D, helped him stumble into the bathroom. His hour was more than up…. Not even daring to take a quick shower, bare his nudity, he accepted the clean sweatpants and shirt offered him, and swiftly changed out of sight in the bathroom. Told D. to dispose of the clothes he’d worn. And though not leaving the way he’d expected… did tell him he had been satisfied, and was looking forward to another engagement. If acceptable. Would pay him double.

“Sure you’re okay to drive?” chided D.

“Oh, yeah. Just when I blow too much. Knocks me a bit silly a while. Will gradually be fine. Okay, now. Told you I’m a bit of a freak.…”

“Could tell, minute I laid eyes on you,” he joshed. “Overly big muscle guys, always a little weird.”

Clark grinned. His trust secured, the way he’d been treated. Darn, this guy; such a charmer.

“You’re sure?” D. teased. “Didn’t get what you came for.” Still robed.

“Uhh, next time. Maybe, without the robe…?”

“Maybe. If without your shirt—a true massage you want. I don’t do clothes.”

“We’ll… we’ll see. Uhh, you okay with that? I am kinda shy.”

“So I could tell. That rack you have. No reason to be, if we’re friends… .”

“Friends, yeah,” Clark breathed; thinking hot again, all over. “Friends.”

And reluctantly headed for his car. Wanted to stay a month, bare everything completely. Hadn’t felt this way since his last time with the Bat. Only there was Robin. And Bruce didn’t have as huge a pair of nipples nor as big a dick. But as he’d heard, with Robin at a very fine eleven, they seemed quite an enduring match. Superman, generally, for the Bat, was merely an extraordinary, outstanding interlude… “an alien,” always enjoyed. Wondering too, again, if Bruce had actually fucked with D.? Something he’d said. Hadn’t Bruce also been the one to lead him to the site where D. hung out? While not mulling much on the issue, he allowed the thought to slide away. Didn’t even think to memorize the numbers, run a check on D.’s plates.

Yet an alarm went off so faintly, almost unnoticeable in his head.