The Hunter and company have departed for NYC to capture Spiderman, who is destined to become the 6th ensnared, unwilling member of Bill’s Martin’s abused menagerie of captive heroes, which he keeps on his private island of San Miguel. Bill ends a call and tosses his cellphone onto the wrought-iron table under the shade of the large, blue cotton tarp which provides shade from the blazing tropical sun. His chair creaks under his prodigious weight as the old man leans back and gazes out into his brig’s sun-drenched punishment yard. For the old deviant’s enjoyment, he has Superman performing for him today. Thus, for limited hours under the blazing tropical orb, the former demigod, Superman, the Man of Steel (although absorbing the rays of the life-giving, muscle-strengthening sun, but which yet cannot, however, renew his shattered psychological/spiritual, and/or waning sexual destruction)… the vanquished alien struggles mindlessly alone to push the great grinding wheel around its stone track, supervised by the ever-attentive Raul, Bill’s cruel combination jailer-overseer.
Superman, stripped of his awesome superpowers by Moro’s apparently more powerful “island magic,” is naked except for his scuffed-up torn red boots, and the tattered remains of his dulled crimson red cape adorned with its yellow “S” symbol on its outer side. The long-gathered (like a twisted pony tail), drenched cape adheres to Superman’s sweat-soaked skin, clearly revealing the still wonder of his powerful muscular shoulders, massive triceps, cut lower back, amply-sculpted small buttocks, and cord-striated thighs; his ownering old man smiles as Raul puts the lash to Superman’s backside. Even at a lesser weight, his sustenance restricted by his survival liquid diet, the sculpture of his body is yet remarkable. Some days the cape is allowed as a mild protection; other days it is not. Nonetheless, the conquered alien’s beautifully large and heavily-bound testicles, hung approximately eight-inches-plus below his richly dark-haired pubis (and behind/beyond his gaspingly large, ringed penis), are almost daily brush-coated with Moro’s evil green—keeping him effectively castrated (and demoralized) as he breathes.
Even when abused, as he is most often, any shred of joy he could possibly have experienced by thickly ejaculating... is thus relatively diminished. (His Cowper’s flow, and prostate juices still functioning copiously; but the abundance of his potent-rich seed ejaculate has been severely impaired.) Martin has effectively gelded him. Sure, he could have had the testes tied off tightly instead, until they withered and fell off completely; but however preferred to observe their still unusual manly mass... gloating, that by his very own clever hands! – while overly large, they have been rendered completely impotent! As was his also further thickly-long, twelve and a half-inch flaccid penis, dangling in front of them (now hanging even further due to the heft of the Prince Albert encumbrance), and which no doubt could have erected to fifteen inches or more when he was free and alone, previously. A pendulous reminder of his male-uselessness, conquest, and thorough de-manning, unable to truly thicken and rise magnificently as before.
Now only seen by other observers—his genitals being experienced as rather weighty appendages of little consequence to the once MOS himself, most of the time. And indeed when abused, they have become somewhat of an inconvenience to deal with. (Only secretly, in his cell at night, though very restrictedly, he has managed to treasure them significantly more than expected… becoming the true and only remnants of his former alien self, their limited sensations allowing him to keep but a minimum shred or two of his sanity alive. [And wanly hopeful of some kind of future rescue. Impossible as it seems. ] Unless his wrists are fastened behind him, which they often are, when locked away... just for the hell of it.)
The crack of the overseer’s whip is heard aloud over the sweltering jungle’s din (but not by him). The lash strikes Superman, further shredding at his sweat-soaked cape which hangs haphazardly and sticks to his powerful backside. Superman stiffens at the stinging kiss of Raul’s braided leather bullwhip—he gives out a muffled cry, more of a sharp groan, through the ball gag inserted and retained deep into his mouth between his teeth. In response to the lash, Superman’s once polished bright red boots now marred instinctively dig deep into the sandy dirt. His leg muscles contract urgently and his powerful legs extend for more leverage against the great wheel. His big hands, now well-calloused, clench the rough-hewn oak handle of the grinding stone tighter, as the orange mop of hair atop his grotesque clown’s hood brightly flashes its garish color.
The fallen champion shifts his body weight to bring his muscles to bear against the task at hand. Superman lowers his hooded head to put more of his broad back into his task. A fine sheen of perspiration covers Superman’s great, haired chest, and his still titan-like biceps, triceps and calves, extending out from beneath the damp-laden cape. The well-developed muscles shimmer gloriously under the bright tropical sunlight. The rippling sinews and muscles seeming to dance a ballet of their own, as they continually expand and contract in their effort to keep the great wheel moving. Barely able to see, and in a relative, unable to be spoken-through silence within the confining hood, Superman continues the arduous, endless task to keep the great wheel moving and be spared further punishment inflicted from Raul’s nasty whip. If he has any thought processes at all, they are geared in his darkness to avoid unnecessary pain at all costs—having never known true pain, prior to the horror in which he now exists and founders.
Island Boss Bill takes another soothing sip from his iced drink as he sighs contently at the scene he has waited a lifetime to witness. The mighty Superman subjugated—made into a slave, forced to perform hard labor for his amusement! Martin’s complacency is rudely interrupted when Superman unexpectedly stumbles and falls hard to both knees in the sandy dirt completely exhausted. The wheel immediately grinds to halt as Superman kneels panting on his knees in exhaustion—his muscled arms limp at his sides and his hooded-head lowered. A particularly hot day, headed into hurricane season, Superman is tanked; he is not even able to stand unassisted much less push the great grinding wheel any further today. Superman remains kneeling in the sandy dirt, his heavy pecs and genitals drooped forwards—his bare knees and legs covered with sand that sticks to his wet skin. His cannon-ball shoulders and broad back are draped in his sweat-soaked cape, which covers his bare buttocks and pool over his red calf-high boots that support his carved gluteals.
Raul is furious and begins to swear loudly in Spanish through the cigar clenched between his teeth. He draws back his bullwhip prepared to exact punishment from Superman for daring to stop. “Raul! That’s enough!” bellows the pervert from his shaded observation post overlooking the exercise yard. “Give him some water, or we might have to carry “Fairy-Klown” off the field—pussy-fuck!!” he snorts in disgust. “Then, stock Superman until sunset. Let the blazing sun punish him for being disobedient! Raul, after you stock him… get him excited… make him squirm for me. You know!”
Raul takes the worn cigar from his mouth and tosses it to the ground. “Si, senior,” shouts Raul with a pleased look as he fastens his bullwhip to his waist, and grinds the simmering cigar into the dirt. He takes off his white canvas safari hat and wipes his brow with a white bandana. He pockets the rag and returns his hat to his head. Raul swears an obscenity in Spanish as he grabs Superman by his sweaty biceps and raises him roughly to his feet. Raul is shirtless and wears worn jungle camouflaged pants and black polished combat boots. He is a big, strapping Cuban, though shorter, with a roughly muscular stocky build, similar to the Man of Steel’s, but never nearly as fine, nor defined nor massively beautiful—quite several years younger than Superman, and certainly never as favorable to look upon. He was a wrangler and rodeo rider by trade, who did a few gigs with the Mexican Rodeo. Now, he is employed by Bill Martin to run his rodeo of defeated superheroes—tasked with overseeing the billionaire’s growing collection of both younger and older fallen heroes. Much like a Nazi.... Then, regrabs at his whip.
Raul grins as he leads the thoroughly trounced Superman roughly by his arm. The former Big Blue is disorientated as well as confused; Superman is completely unaware of what is happening as he is completely mute within the thick rubber clown hood, and unable to hear any verbal commands. Raul leads Superman staggering, unsteadily towards a set of medieval wooden stocks nearby. Superman is a pathetic sight shuffling and stumbling weakly along, once proud shoulders bowed, led by a strapping shirtless younger Latin bully! Superman’s thick, hirsute breasts heave up and down as they expand and contract trying to take precious air into the cruel hood’s small nostril holes… still adorned with his sag-pierced, enormous nipples, longer and larger than cow’s teats now, relatively useless. (Most of the joy and productivity of them long gone. But their pain when abused, pulled, twisted, or yanked near excruciating.)
Superman’s Latin overseer is a master at the art of humiliation. He keeps his Gringo prisoner mostly naked, regularly forcing him to wear his crimson cape and faded red boots. A constant reminder, if only by the touch of them on his body to the broken Gringo... how far he has fallen! Most of the world used to stand in awe of the mighty Man of Steel. But there are those like Raul who were beyond envious of Superman and his superpowers. Not to mention his magnificent physique, muscular strength, and other-earthly, exceptional endowments. For Raul it was a very short step from envy to hate—even as a well-hung man, himself... a hard nine, of which he often crows about loudly. Still ever pissed to view the overly-endowed, incredibly muscled alien daily, though smugly joyful he can’t use his assets for any true sort of pleasure, except for pissing….
While he reluctantly allows his charge to pause a few moments, inserting the thick straw in his mouth-hole, so he can consume nearly half a gallon of water, he slaps at his leg impatiently with the whip handle. Remembering the famous image of Superman, standing behind a fluttering American flag... dressed in his crisp, colorful spandex costume, still burned into Raul’s memory. Superman’s fine crimson cape billowing grandly in the breeze—his calf-high brightly polished red leather boots—all symbols of Superman’s wondrous alien greatness! Not to mention his broad, thick-thrust pecs, tiny waist, and bulging, remarkable crotch... never sought to be hidden, but rather ego-displayed! Never obscenely. But nevertheless, causing great consternation and jealousy among those nowhere near his class nor virtues—much less his assets. But look at him now!
Now the unthinkable has happened… Superman, overthrown and enslaved! The once magnificent crimson cape emblazoned with the world famous “S” symbol which Superman still wears—sweat-soaked, soiled, and shredded. The spoiled garment hangs from his underarm shoulder harness like an old red dishrag barely covering his naked rear-side—its tattered edges brushing Superman’s mounded calf muscles as Raul stumbles him blindly towards the stocks. His signature alien-crafted red leather boots now pock-scuffed, streaked, and torn... the soles worn through from pushing the great wheel for hours on end. The boots no longer fit his feet properly; Superman’s feet flop loosely around in the stretched boots when he walks. And they hurt constantly, blisters forming, broken, re-callousing over, from day to day... even if still somehow healed by his exposure to the yellow sun—but never completely.
Ahhh, they will soon have to replace them, just to keep things going, the Latino concedes.
After his “water fill,” Raul urges him on. When the pair reaches the stocks, Raul easily slumps the strapping, caped man forwards, making him partially bend from the waist, wearing his worn boots, into the open stocks, roughly placing his neck and wrists into the appropriate receptacles. The stocks are simple in design consisting of a thick wooden support beam topped by a horizontal wooden beam with openings for a man’s neck and hands. The stock’s heavy hinge creaks loudly followed by a thud as Raul quickly brings the wooden restraining piece of the stock down over Superman’s neck and wrists. Raul latches and locks the metal latch effectively, restraining the Man of Steel, who is still saggingly standing in a half-upright position with his hooded head and wrists constrained—his head cast forward, wrists stocked to either side of his head. More than well aware now what will be happening. Raul stands behind Superman and smirks with contempt; he looks at the once superhero’s yellow “S” symbol on the back of the red-ragged cape, now adhering to his sweaty backside.
“You no Superman, now—El Maricon, Gringo,” comments Raul out loud in broken English. Raul grins as he steps in closer to Superman and reaches down to where the cape’s edge sticks to his left-calve muscle just above his scuffed up red boot. He takes the cape’s bottom edge and casually peels the wet cape off Superman’s calves, legs, buttocks and broad back; he then tosses the sweat saturated cape over the top of the stock and its captive’s head, to allow the blazing tropical sun to drench Superman’s fully naked backside. Superman well knows what is about to unfold, inwardly bracing himself. This has happened before, times past counting. As much despising it… as oddly relishing it.
Raul looks the powerful, rear-splayed form of the stocked man up and down for few seconds. Raul grins again and then kicks Superman’s torn and scuffed red boots roughly apart, spreading his powerful legs wider. He smirks as he kneels down and quickly ties off each red leather boot with a black nylon cord to hold Superman’s legs in position, and forward into the frame. He finishes securing both calf-high boots wide apart and then stands behind Superman admiring his handiwork—looking the well-proportioned muscular body up and down again. Raul retrieves his whip, and calmly relights a new cigar, then moves in close behind Superman. Raul reaches around and clamps one tight-gloved hand around Superman’s dangling, massive tool, and begins to work him. Raul simultaneously slowly inserts the bullwhip’s roughened, ivory handle between Superman’s firm sweaty buttocks with his free hand and applies inward pressure. It is cruelly hard, stiff and unyielding. No lubricant. (Other than the natural, inner inherency of the victim’s own when stimulated.) Worse than unpleasant. Superman’s soft, vulnerable anal tissues resist and try to reject the assault. Initial pain is not the word for it; soon he will be bleeding. (But he will be brought to a final and searing, rip-torn climax!)
The orange mop of hair atop the clown’s hood shakes under his cape, and Superman’s closed fists begin to twist, restrained in the stock—his leg muscles contract instinctively and pull wildly at the cords that hold his legs wide apart; his scuffed up red boots twist and grind in the sandy dirt, protesting the intrusion directed at his private parts and ass crack. Superman’s keen, but garbled screams are deep-muffled by the ball gag... and while there is a sense of sexual arousal, his wondrous cock can never but only one third harden, making Raul work him more angrily, strenuously, the whip handle penetrating further and further. (Not exactly an inner nightmare for the broken MOS, who has often plundered his own ass with his very own much larger, but smooth-slickened tool when previously free, alone, and in need—but this is an evil, unrelenting and unforgiving atrocity!! Entirely different. And hideous.) Raul smiles as Superman’s buttocks tighten desperately together resisting the rape—but he counters quickly by releasing the mostly flaccid alien’s tool and squeezing the Man of Steel’s swollen balls hard, until the captive’s pain causes his buttocks to relax…and he is free to continue the penetration.
From his vantage point in the cool shade Bill watches Raul sodomize the Man of Steel. He sighs with pleasure and adjusts his own hard-on within his stained white pants, literally drooling as Superman is sexually tormented by Raul. Bill manages to tear himself away from the debauchery unfolding for a moment; he glances at the very special lead box on the table lying next to his cell phone—a lead box the Hunter left with him before he departed. He takes the box up with his fat fingers and opens it. The old man smiles at the contents. The final stroke for Superman’s demise should he ever become unwieldy…. Even if Moro has said he cannot be killed. With this, he can.
Within the gray lead box is a green glowing, rough-hewn stone about double the size of a golf ball. Bill smile grows wider and thinks: I finally have Kryptonite, thanks to that bungling Batman! If you ever manage to regain your superpowers, Superman, I’ll be ready with this piece of green Kryptonite! You are my property, SuperKlown, and this green stone will see to it that you remain my property... until I put you out of your misery, and finish you with it, boy! You’re not proud and mighty anymore, Superman; and I’ll see to it you will never be proud and mighty again! You’re maybe still a little stronger than some juiced up Mr. Olympia, as long as you can feed from the sun; but not much more than that. Your other abilities are less than ordinary, now… couldn’t even sire a rabbit! You’ve been my prisoner for months now… soon the months will turn into years! This is your existence, Superman. So ironic! The fact that I am making you perform useless hard labor under a blazing yellow sun that once gave you most of your mighty superpowers! Yet are still reduced to being an impotent eunuch, with less than a tenth of your once great abilities. How wonderful is that?!!
Bill’s mental rant is cut short when he hears a bird’s sudden annoying screech from a vantage point high above the punishment yard. It is the second time he has seen this big black bird that is not indigenous to his tropical island. The old man first noticed the creature this morning, staring down through the barred windows at the naked occupants of his heroes’ brig; now again here, watching the punishment yard.
Bill watches the large black feathered creature closely for several more minutes and says to himself, “Bah! Stupid bird – you’re welcome to watch Superman’s humiliation, too!” The fat old pervert dismisses the nosey bird and closes the lead box containing the rare piece of green Kryptonite. He lovingly caresses the lead box with his fat fingers as he returns his attention back to Raul’s continuing perversion with the ivory bullwhip handle. He sips his cold drink again and then sighs in satisfaction relishing the scene—the once proud and mighty Superman being sodomized by the stalwart, determined Cuban bully in his employ! His warped, flaccid nipples also being voraciously pulled and milked, more painfully than imagined, those punishment rings doing their job quite well, used roughly… (but still somewhat arousing).
He hears Superman finally muffle-screech a higher tone, arch crazily in his still bent forward position... knows the hero has painfully climaxed, rivering forth a spew of thick, notable fluid, yet blood-tinged, from his still mostly slack and depowered penis... albeit its content lifeless as cactus juice, nor as pleasurable. He’d seen to that. Could have had his prostate removed, or killed with the green -- but the doing of that would have been a bit of a chore, not being a surgeon. Nonetheless, fruitless as he was now, not a lot of good it would do him anymore. Probably the only tiny pleasure left in his dismal existence, a few jangled spasms worth, even if only to be obtained forcefully and no less painfully. And watching him struggle and thrash was so much fun in the process. Recalling the gloried icon he’d once been, idol of millions. Now just a moaning, deflowered, well-bitched receiver.
Like the quailing Batman, when his turn at the wheel was due, with Robin crying, forced to watch—as his so manly, now-cowed lover, also girly screamed and wailed hopelessly, raped and humiliated weekly in front of him by Raul, or another trainer. Reinforcing to both of them how Bill would continue to keep them in line. And no less threatening to have Robin removed to a different cell, separating them from being near each other... if their compliances to their owner’s commands were disobeyed.
***************
Far away from the twisted debauchery, on the far side of the island, a tall handsome young man stands in silence with his eyes closed receiving the perverted images the bird is transmitting to him from the punishment yard. His expression is grave as his mind’s eye watches a powerless Man of Steel, stocked and naked near a brick-and-mortar brig with a large grinding stone. The captive victim, a powerfully built adult man, is partially draped only in a raggedly worn, and crumpled red cape with a strange yellow symbol, and wearing some overly scuffed red boots. The stocked white, though deeply tanned man, is being brutally, sexually violated repeatedly by a man of lesser, yet of a similarly constructed shape, shorter, with darker skin. The young man continues to watch the events transpire as he has off and on the entire day. His minds races formulating a rescue plan for the five heroes he has found to be secretly imprisoned in the island’s 18th century slave’s brig. This abomination must cease!
The young man is fair, smooth-skinned, with medium-length dirty blond hair and brown eyes – about 27 years of age. He, too, is finely tanned, and his physique is that of one more than well-made in all respects. Even his large endowment was stirred to look upon the famed one called
Superman, whom he could nearly 3/4’s match... though indulgences with his own sex had been quite rare, yet wondrously pleasant; so far he has mostly inclined to seek females for more enduring congress, though with the size of his member, not always a satisfying fit. The strong, muscular young man is clad only in short, uniform medium-wide strips of dark leather which hang vertically from a narrow belt wrapped around his athletic waist, under which he has contained himself in a notably packed undersling to protect his movements. He is also wearing calf-high, soft leather boots, and dark brown elbow-length gauntlets. Clenched in one of his big fists is a bone-white quarterstaff adorned with strange black symbols. After a few minutes he opens his eyes for he has seen enough! His expression remains grim as he rubs a small white, oblong amulet surrounded by a dark wood frame which hangs from his neck by a leather cord... between the mounds of his more than very amply sculpted pectorals, adorned with nearly two-inch wide dark areolae, thickly-budded with larger than grape-like projections, which he has long also enjoyed. And caused him to be easily roused by the sight of the other alien’s assets.
Much of why he had looked upon this “Superman,” with such awe, admiration, and no less a stirring... their similar assets comparable, though the other’s much greater. An inherent kinship of sorts seemed evident. With an inexplicable yearning, he could not identify. Were they not beings of a similar ilk? (Could easily choose him as a male partner were the opportunity to arise. The idea intoxicating.)
He turns to his companion of a bit lesser age and smaller stature and says, “The Seeress of Kreel spoke the truth! Her vision from this dimension was clear—defenders of righteousness have been overthrown by evildoers! My task is to set these defenders free; thus, setting things aright again!”
“Dar – please – I counsel caution – we do not know what forces are at work here in this strange world! I have learned there is a magic man – a witch doctor named Moro not far from here. Let me go seek his wise counsel, and see what I can learn about this evil island master you have come to overthrow.”
Dar looks up towards the sun that is yet hours from setting in the streaked, western sky. “Very well, Tao. But go quickly. Get back here to me as soon as you can. I strike the prison at dawn—I intend to free these men, and ladle out swift justice to the fat old man. But we must be swift. The portal back to our world opens only at high noon tomorrow, for the present. Thus, we must conclude our business here by then.”
“I’ll be back before the sun sets, Dar,” promises Tao as he scurries off towards Moro’s small compound. As Tao disappears into the dense jungle, Dar, the Beastmaster of Kreel, closes his eyes again. Dar sighs and sullenly bites his lower lip as the images of the sexual depravity being inflicted on Superman return to his mind’s eye. He is angered, and no less in mourning, for what he has seen the great hero endure. He must save him! And the rest.
It is midnight in Manhattan. A tower clock in the distance begins chiming the hour above the din of the sprawling city far below. Peter Parker, aka Spiderman, hides in the shadows unnoticed. The moon is full and the illumination gives the superhero an unobstructed view of the vacant rooftop of One New York Plaza.
Well… it’s midnight… and here I am like the kidnappers demanded, thinks Spiderman. The note said to tell no one, and come here alone if I ever wanted to see Aunt May again! Spiderman is not up to par at the moment; he is beside himself with guilt. It’s my entire fault… first Uncle Ben… now Aunt May! Spiderman takes a deep breath and manages to shake off the sullenness. I’m no good to Aunt May unless I keep my wits about me! But alone in the darkness his mind races abundant with unanswered questions. How did these thugs discover Spiderman was Peter Parker? I have told no one! What do they want with Spiderman? Will they release Aunt May if I submit to their demands? What do they want in exchange for Aunt May?
Suddenly Spiderman’s thoughts are interrupted. He spies a tall uniformed security officer, nightstick in hand, making rounds on the flat rooftop of One New York Plaza. NO! The guard’s presence will scare off the kidnappers! Spiderman springs from the shadows and dives towards the rooftop. Webbing springs from his wrists and adheres to a nearby construction crane. In an instant, Spiderman swings over the wide city avenue far below in a wide arc and lands lightly on the rooftop of One New York Plaza!
The startled young security officer brandishes his nightstick, and reaches instinctively for his holstered sidearm on his gun belt. The young officer quickly recovers and relaxes when he realizes it is none other than the famous Manhattan web-slinging superhero, Spiderman!
“Whew!” remarks the startled young officer as he sheaths his nightstick and extends his hand while presenting the best disarming boyish grin he can muster. “You gave me quite a scare. Good thing old Bob is off tonight, otherwise you’d be giving him CPR. I’m Ryan Blake, Spiderman.” His smile, broad shoulders, and attractive face are engaging.
Spiderman does not reply but shakes hands quickly to be polite, and then moves off to search the rooftop. Spiderman dismisses the officer’s presence – the damage the officer’s unanticipated arrival caused cannot be undone. Spiderman desperately sprints about the vacant rooftop looking for any clue to Aunt May’s whereabouts… a note with further instruction—anything!
The young officer watches as Spiderman searches the roof for clues that do not exist. The boyish grin leaves his face as he smugly adjusts his black tie and then checks the time on his wrist watch. The officer smirks as Spiderman desperately darts about the roof on a fool’s errand searching for a clue to the whereabouts of his precious Aunt May. The young security officer is a good-looking young man with a fair complexion, wavy short blond hair and bright blue eyes. He has a well-developed athletic body that even the drab standard white, short-sleeved shirt and black pants of his officer’s uniform cannot camouflage. Ryan, the decoy, casually leans back against the roof’s metal railing and produces a silver cord strung through two shiny rings. The young officer idly begins to play with the implement letting the rings run up and down the silver cord. Ryan seems absorbed, indifferent to the superhero who suddenly invaded his rooftop, working the cord into different positions to allow for changes of movement in the rings. Once or twice Ryan jerks on the cord sharply so that the rings disappear into his hand for an instant before dropping free again. In the moonlight, the rings look like shining wheels of sparkling light.
Spiderman finally abandons his fruitless search of the roof. Nothing here! My spider senses would be going crazy if these thugs were anywhere nearby. I have no choice but to wait until the kidnappers make contact again.
Spiderman is about to vault off the rooftop when out of the corner of his eye he glimpses the young officer fumbling with something very shiny. Spiderman turns and faces the guard and watches for a few seconds. Spiderman watches the rings as they slide back and forth glimmering in the moonlight. Spiderman becomes quickly mesmerized watching as the bright shiny rings slide up and down the silver cord. Whatever are those things…?
The young officer notices Spiderman’s interest and continues sliding the shiny rings up and down the cord asking, “Are you watching, Spiderman?” The rings spin on the cord flashing in brilliant bursts. “You are, aren’t you? Watching them spin and spin and spin: so beautiful! You like them don’t you, Spiderman. You like watching the brilliant colors. Almost magical.”
Spiderman nods robotically suddenly unable to think of anything else, completely absorbed in the movement of the hands and the cord and the rings! Spiderman has never seen anything so intriguing! He cannot seem to look away! He does not want to! Spiderman is vaguely aware something is wrong here and that he should not be letting this happen to him, yet at the same time he is enormously happy that it is!
“Wha… wha…?”
Spiderman tries to speak, but finds he cannot! Spiderman can suddenly do nothing but stand there and watch the rings, the sparkle of the metal as it is caught in the moonlight. Suddenly Spiderman discovers he cannot look away! Inexplicably captivated.
“That’s it, Spidey Boy. No questions, no answers. Just compliance. Just keep looking,” Ryan continues, sealing the trap. “Oh, how you love it… love those sweet rings.”
“Hmmn, hmmmn, hmmmnnn,” agreeing numbly.
“Island magic , Spiderman,” explains the emboldened young security officer coldly as he steps closer to Spiderman. “I am part of a crew of Hero-Destroyers. We bring superheroes down! You’re up next! You have fallen prey to the Hunter! Just like Batman and Robin… both now languishing in a sweltering, superheroes’ Caribbean prison! Even Superman, the so mighty Man of Steel, stripped bare of his alien powers, wondrous strength, and costume, too, I might add... and sentenced to naked hard labor! Soon you will be joining them. Just keep watching the shiny rings, Web-Slinger! Are you watching?”
Spiderman nods dumbly again as Ryan weaves his mind-crippling spell unabated. He continues chanting, “You no longer have free will. You are a slave now, Spiderman…you will obey me! You will do whatever you are told to do, instantly. I find magic is so much more persuasive than threats, punishment, or beatings!” The young officer’s hands continue to weave and the rings seem to glisten even brighter!
“Just a moment longer and the spell will be in place, and nothing will undo it. Just keep watching Spiderman! Keep watching!” soothes Ryan calmly.
Spiderman has fallen completely under the young officer’s spell… he can do nothing but stand statue-like staring at the brilliant rings bursting with color! “Just keep watching… only a little longer, superhero… keep watching… keep watching… keep watching, ” commands young Ryan. “How are you feeling, Spiderman? I imagine a bit confused, disoriented. I wager that mind’s eye of yours is flashing like a strobe light in and out of consciousness. In a few seconds, your mind will go blank, and stay dark forever, leaving a fine-tuned young body with a crippled mind! Just as I say , not as you will…” assures the phony guard.
“Big magic… Island Magic!” shouts Ryan, and he abruptly claps his hands together encasing the silver cord and rings. If it were not effective, Spiderman would have instantly snapped awake. But doesn’t. “Done! The spell is in place,” laughs Ryan boyishly as he excitedly pockets his magic implement. He begins to circle the spellbound Spiderman who continues standing rigidly staring out… at nothing. He loosens his tie, unbuttons his collar; Ryan unbuckles his gun belt and lets it fall to the roof deck. He continues to circle the hapless superhero ranting, “I should tell you I am openly gay, Spiderman. I used to be Robin’s boyfriend… but I helped make him a slave, too! Obviously, you cannot perceive it all, but please… just indulge me.”
Ryan stops in front of Spiderman and reaches up towards Spiderman’s neck with both hands. He fumbles with the edges of the costumes’ mask and after a few seconds manages to lift and pull Spiderman’s mask-up off over his head. Ryan looks at the unmasked superhero and remarks, “Peter Parker, I presume! You’re a good-looking fellow…why hide that handsome face?”
Ryan casually tosses the bright red webbed mask to the deck; he again slowly circles the tall unmasked hero appraising the young strapping man’s lean, muscular physique—form-bulging biceps, well-defined pectorals, six-pack abdominals, rounded buttocks—the fine muscles clearly outlined contained within the tight-fitting bright red and blue spandex. “And a killer, trim body to match that handsome mug!”
Ryan bends over and retrieves his black lacquered night stick from his discarded gun belt. He slaps the long stick in the palm of his hand several times while he stands proudly in front of the unmasked superhero. He shoves the end of the club under Parker’s chin and uses the stick to raise and examine Spiderman’s face like a potential buyer in an ancient slave market. Ryan looks into Spiderman’s glazed over vacant blue eyes and solemnly swears, “Before I turn you over to the rest of the crew of Hero-Destroyers for transport to superhero prison, I’m going to sample the goods! That old, disgustingly fat pervert with deep pockets down in San Miguel gets sloppy seconds this time! In a few seconds, I’m going to fuck you silly, and then you’re going to give me a blow job. I’m going to use you like two-dollar whore!” Ryan raises the nightstick higher pressing the implement deeper under Spiderman’s chin, tilting Parker’s head back. “Now strip out of that costume, and let me get a look at the goods!”
***************
From another secluded vantage point overlooking the rooftop of One New York Plaza another masked superhero, this one clad in tight-fitting black and green spandex, watches the events transpire. He packs his gloved fist into his gloved palm and then grimaces; he gnashes his teeth together as a seemingly spellbound Spiderman allows a security officer to unmask him! Green Lantern’s stomach turns in disgust as the security guard watches Spiderman begin to peel his tight-fitting red and blue Lycra costume off his athletic body. Seconds later an unmasked and completely naked Spiderman stands spellbound and mindless before the young security officer who wielded the strange silver cord and rings. Green Lantern watches helplessly as the officer slowly circles Spiderman slowly rubbing his smooth black lacquered nightstick up and down the superheroes strapping chest and powerful backside in a sort of sexual foreplay. The officer again faces the unmasked and naked superhero shoving his nightstick up under Parker’s chin to raise his head and further examine his handsome facial features. The officer seems to relish his absolute power over the once proud and mighty Spiderman; he boldly lowers the stick below Spiderman’s athletic waist. Ryan uses the nightstick to nudge and lift Parker’s ball sack several times to judge the size of the superheroes package. Satisfied, Ryan steps behind Spiderman and uses the nightstick to spread Parker’s buttocks apart to probe his ass crack.
The foreplay is suddenly over. Green Lantern watches horrified as the young officer barks a command to Spiderman and gestures imperiously towards the roof’s deck with his nightstick. Green Lantern sighs sullenly as the naked superhero drops to his bare knees on the roof’s deck and then slowly falls forward onto the open palms of his hands. Ryan grins wickedly and then unzips his fly in preparation for the sexual assault. The officer quickly kneels behind Spiderman sliding his nightstick under and around the hero’s waist. Grasping both ends of the stick with either hand Ryan uses the club as leverage while sodomizing the hapless superhero.
Green Lantern is beside himself as the debauchery unfolds. Fiend! NO! Get a grip! What did he call himself…hero-destroyer? Spiderman’s sources at the Daily Bugle were right – there is a gang hunting and capturing superheroes! Batman, Robin… even Superman has gone missing… all in a matter of months! Spiderman was wise to contact me before meeting these thugs. The vermin somehow discovered Spiderman’s secret identity and used the information to force him to come alone to this secluded rooftop. Spiderman knew he had to step into the trap lest harm befall his family. Spiderman wanted me to know his fate should he fall into their clutches… and to eventually rescue him and the others. God, I’m probably on the hero-destroyer’s list, too: along with The Torch… The Flash… Iron Man… Captain America…. Lightning Lad… even the fledgling superhero, Flex! We must act as one against these diabolical thugs! Since none of us alone should dare. Apparently not even Superman could prevail against these destroyers on his own! How did they find out our secret identities? It does not…
Events transpiring on the rooftop interrupt Green Lantern’s morbid thoughts. The officer has finished sodomizing Spiderman and stands erect, no pun intended, to keep the second part of the promise he made to Spiderman. He slaps the club in the palm of his hand and barks more orders at the naked young man down on his hands and knees. Parker obeys and rises up off the palms of his hands, crawling closer, and kneels submissively at Ryan’s feet with the same distant glazed-over stare.
“Devil!” mutters Green Lantern! He sighs sullenly and closes his eyes as Spiderman obeys opening his mouth to receive Ryan’s dirty cock. The eager and ready young security officer roughly stuffs his rock-hard soiled member into Parker’s mouth and barks another command. Parker’s cheeks concave as Spiderman begins to obediently suck Ryan off. The officer drops his club away sending it clattering nosily across the roof. He hoots with unabashed levity as he grabs Parker’s ears to use as head-handles. He keeps a firm grip on Spiderman’s ears guiding his stiff tool in and out of Parker’s willing mouth. And the sounds the both of them are making seems that their actions are mutually satisfying, knotting the Lantern’s stomach. Not because it is m/m sex, but because it is controlling and demeaning, forcefully coerced! Yet seems not to be.
Green Lantern shakes off his anger and disgust. He would like nothing better than to mete out swift justice to the unscrupulous thug who has enslaved Spiderman. However, he stays the course and focuses on what must be done! That cord and metal rings that fiend wielded against Spiderman is obviously a powerful magical talisman; my power ring protects me from its strange magic. I could easily stop this debauchery, but I must let it run its course. Spiderman knew he was bait for this trap although we never imagined he would have to suffer this level of depravity! NO! I must not intervene. I will stick to the plan and follow this gang of hero-destroyers back their lair. They will lead me right to Superman and the others. Then I will gather an army of superheroes, deal with them as necessary… and rescue their prisoners!