GayBondageFiction

New author Wolfpek takes us on an amazing undersea erotic adventure in his series Deep Blue. Chapters 1 & 2.

Deep Blue – Chapters 1 & 2
by Wolfpek
Art by Amalaric
Series: Deep Blue

1. Deep Blue

It is not silent in the depths. The hollow crackling sound of the creatures which feed on the coral, The movement of water, and of course the steady rhythym of one’s own focused breath echoing into one’s regulator. It is not silent but it is serene, and beautiful Navy Seal Lieutenant Jason Flint wished he had time to appreciate the rainbow of coral that surrounded him, as he skimed passed a billowing lionfish floating near a giant clam, but this was not a vacation in the Seychelles, he was on a mission. Intelligence had information that arch terroist “Qube” had built an undersea laborotory near this site and was planning to denoate explosives along the tectonic plates. His assignment was to locate signs of this structure and report back to the submarine. More air-brushed than clothing the spandex of Flint’s suit recorded every ripple, and contour of the play of muscles which worked to push him smoothly through the water. Flint had not developed his body to lethal perfection out of vanity, rather the square jawed twenty seven year old warrior had devoted every hour of his life to toning body and mind to an absolute killing machine and protector of his nation. He had suceeded. For the sake of aerodynamic effciency he wore only a jock strap under his second skin of spandex, leaving each sculpted contour highlighted without interruption, and he moved, graceful, slick and seemingly uncovered as the acid green eel which darted under a brain coral in the corner of his eye. Something else caught his eye, a sharp bright something which didn’t belong. Shark like, he changed direction and darted toward it moving smoothly through bits of loose floating sea vegetation, translucent and very visible this cloud of vegetaion seemed to grow thicker collecting onto his body suit growing so dense it inhibited his movements. He counters to move back around, and try another approach, and finds he is unable to extracte himself. His steely blue eyes widen as this mysterious sea grass grows weblike, the more he struggles against it he finds the more entrapped he becomes.. A quick check at his pressure gauge reveals a concerning depletion of oxygen. A fighting machine like Flint does not panic, but he does move slowlt to test the strength of this new problem. His massive shoulders, and thin hips undulate slowly as he searches for potential weakness in his mossy opponent .

So fully absorbed with this unique equation, he does not sense a new presence swimming near him, not until he feels a sharp pinprick pinch into his neck. He turns quickly to react but sees only scales, scales and then blackness Scales which cover long thin arms which wrap around the limp form of the unconcious navy seal, carrying away the hunky prey, scaly webbed fingers whihc open a pressure lock hidden ingeneously within the coral. A scaly shoulder over which is thrown the perfect round ass outlined by sleek wet spandex, and carried up a steel ladder, wading with it’s prize into a fetid chamber filled ankle deep with water. A scaly figure which drops the dead weight of the sleeping stud face down into the pooled water covering the limestone floor. the dim light of the chamber reflecting off of the nylon covered muclses of the broad back and ripe ass. A sharp well place kick knocks the slumbering hunk face up. Liver spotted human hands tear away the mask and hood revealing the all-American buzz cut beauty, these same hands cup the granite jaw. “Ahhh, the great Lieutenat Flint. I had hoped you’d join us”

2. The Rapture of the Deep

The ache in his arms invaded his slumbering conciousness in the same way an alarm clock invades a dream, Flint’s eyes were open before his brain was able to interput the bizarre images they sent. Dim, and dappled a merucial light filtered in through the thick glass, upon the dripping walls of hhis cavern prison.A damp fetid stench filled his nostrils, smelling for all the world like cum. His eyes focused first on Qube slouching languidly on some sort of granite throne with glowing control panels on it’s monumental arms. His dainty, slippered feet resting on an odd steel ottoman with chains at four corners.The dim light shimmered of of his shaved head. His vaginal goatee twisted into a fey smirk. Other images came into view, most importantly his oxygen tank, regulator, mask and weight belt, implements of freedom teaslingly peeked from behind the stone age barcalounger. “My what a fine catch I have pulled from the ocean today” He rose languidly wafting towards his suspended prize, his loose white lounging suit flowing behind him. Sculpted limbs pulled into an mouthwatering X by the same sticky ooze which had brought him here. “What a fine muscled, virile catch in my little net” A long delicate fingertpis came to tenative rest on the massive chest, like a butterfly ready to flit away. “The question is what was such a prime fish doing swimming so close to my …hook?” The butterlfy hand flew up to wipe the hawking ball of spit that hand landed squarely in it’s owner’s eye, and just as swiftly slapped the square jaw of his defiant prisoner. “And what to do with such a prime catch?” Less, gently both hands now explored the contours of the torso beneath the slick wetsuit. “Tell me Flint, what do you seek here? I expect you are not alone.” He recieved only a recitation of name rank and serial number. The ovlivious hands continued to explore down the tapering stomach to cup the impressive cock protected only by two layers of mylon and cotton, interupting the litany.

“Get your hands off me you fucking faggot!!!” The grip of the thin hand became surpisingly strong around the outline of his cock

“An extremely accurate assesment of the obvious Lt. Flint. I am indeed a faggot, and I plan to be fucking very soon” Wide awake now, Flint began to curse and struggle frantically against his organic bonds “I’ll kill you first” Qube smiled. “The living material which currently holds your delicious wrists and ankles so securly in my power is actually a rare sort of algae. I have been cross breeding it with the jelly fish in this area. Like you, it is extremely strong, yet pliant, and strikingly beautiful. So strong, not even your Heculean “guns” cannot break them. Unlike you, I am able to control it telepathically, comme ca” Flint’s meaty arms were yanked painfully up and down along the steel apparatus like a hunky puppet. He yelped in response. The oozing bonds yanked him back into the x shape and stopped. “Ahh how your voice must sound in agony. Manly, gruff and yet vulnerable, and boyishly tender. How you must sound during sex…or torture. Exquiste.” Steel blue eyes stared back silently contemptous. “It is time for you to meet more of the locals” He clapped his hands. Flint’s face fell into a maskof disbelief as five bizarre figures entered the room, as if they had stepped of of the screen of a very bad nineteen fifties horror film. Humanoid in that they stood upright, and had two arms, and two legs. Standing at about five feet, they were covered in slime covered grey scales. Long sinewy limbs, ended in wide, webbed,, “hands and feet”. each carried an impressive spear. Unlike fish their round, yellow eyes were set forward, predatory, not to they sides of rather elegant elongated heads Obviously amphibian, gills sprouted from below each pointed ear in rows to thier shoulders. A long spiked fin ran from the top of the skull forming a reptlian tale behind the knee. The fin was repeated along the underside of their terrifyingly large cocks, whixh were rigidly erect and oozing squid black cum. “Meet my frogmen, they brought you to me.It took me a very long time to gain thier allegience, but it seems we have something in common, an appreciation for the idealized male form. Of course, they do not share my restraint. Thier all consuming lust has resulted in the actual consumption of several unfortunate young divers. You understand the laws of the ocean, hunt and consume. I have taught them to slow down and enoy all of the charms of thier prey for a long time before thier hungry lusts destroy what I consider to be works of art. In appreciation for improvingthe quality of thier lives,they now serve me” Qube was pulling on black gloves They like you, can you see how they are ‘pointing’ toward you? My presence, and continued well being are all that stands between you and their primal needs. Shall I give them a show?” He slowly unzipped the front of the stunned stud’s wetsuit. His breathing beacme shallow as he parted the clinging nylon skin to reveal the hard golden flesh it could no longer protect. Hairless armoured pecs capped by small pink nipples framed by impossibly broad shoulders. Shuddering he rested his head lovingly on the naked rock of his victim’s chest, just the way Lisa used to do gazing into the bonfire on the beach back home in far away Nag’s Head. He raised one gloved hand. “Do you like these gloves my love? They are sharkskin, actual sharkskin, very fancy, they can also adminsiter electric shock.” The hand descended upon the opposite chest. The rough substance immediatly cut tiny little paper cuts into the flawless bare skin. Flint winced. He clenched around the rounded muscle and began to rub in pressing circles over the tender nipple, while his tounge gently flicked the other hardening numb. Intermittent currents of electricity rolled through his body. Flint unsuccessfully tried not to moan. He tried to murmer his name, rank and serial number between grunts of pain. The hand moved further over the exposed ribs. toward the flat quivering stomach. Tiny red welts formed in it’s wake. Qube spoke into the nipple. “What I have admired about your body for so long is that there is nothing uneccesary about it.

No excess fat, spare. massive muscles over rippling adbominals. I can count every rib, light fingers played along the sensitive ribs, Flint shivered in reaction. You have spent your life training it into the perfect fighting machine, now I shall continue your training, into my prefect pleasure machine. Oh the things I will do to you”. Flint, to maintain sanity simply repeated name, rank, serial number..The voltage increased in intensity his body jumped within its gooey shackles. “Tell me about your sub. It is my understanding that your fellow crewmen are as fine specimens as yourself. I have dispatched some of my frogmen to greet them. if you cooperate I will spare them.” Flint knew this was a lie. “How much is known of my plan and whereabouts?” The zipper descended further, and Qube gasped. Strange howling sounds came from the frogmen whose fins flapped up and down excitedly “Only a jockstrap? Breathtaking. Did you dress to please me? Thank you my love.”

It was too big for the strap to fully contain. Flint’s dick under the cotton was fat, unusually long, and to his shame, semi- erect. The head barely peeping from its cloth cage, the curve of fat balls overflowed from the sides. Blonde fur dusted the surrounding area The reainder of the wet suit was quickly zipped away.. The heroic form of the navy seal now fully exposed to the tongue and cutting gloves of his captor heading inexorably toward the bulging jock. The gloves dived first, in front and behind, one burrowing into the golden forest of Flint’s pubic hait, the other clawed at the hard muscle of his high round right glute, leaving the tongue to count the abdominals, and taste the first line of hair beginning at the naval. Qube steppd back to admire his catch., he reomved one glove. ” I have another treat for you” He stepped back to the nearest frogman, and collected a droplet of sperm dripping from it’s bobing cock. He held it up for Flint to see, and the touched it lightly to his ravaged nipple. Flint through his head back and screamed, and a burning itch shot into the nub. Qube had longed for this sound. “Amazing stuff, isn’t it? Persnally, I find it delcious” Fliny siged as it was licked away. The gloved hand pulled the jock down, just enough to reveal the vulnerable slit.

“NO!”

“Tell me how many are on the sub” “Lt. Jason Flint. US Navy…. Ahhhhhhrrrrggghhh! ahh unnhh” The head dropped back swooning from the burn into his manhood. “Poor boy, your suffering has only begun.” He knelt reverntley before his suspended obect of worship, grasping the hard round buttocks in both hands, and pulled the rising cock toward him to kiss away the stinging black ooze. His saliva saturated the fabric of the cup, as he licked and then took the still covered cock into his mouth. A brave heatseeking finger worked it’s way to the undefended crack between the twin dimpled globes, and found himself unable to breathe. Flint’s steel thighs were wrapped viselike around his neck, cutting off his air.

“I can snap your little neck like a twig faggot! Tell your little fishies to stand down, and let me free… NOW!!!” With a waive of his hand, the frogman dropped their weapons and stepped backwards. Catlike reflexes allowed Flint to take control as soon as the seagrass shackles released him. With swift economic movements, Flint had snatched the knife from his wetsuit, and up to Qube’s neck in a matter of seconds.

“Now Mis Piggy, we’re gonna walk re-al slow over to my tank, and your little Kermits aren’t gonna make any sudden moves” He angled his would be rapist across the room, and as he reached for his tank, he was ready when the frogmen, jumped. Only two remained alive as he slipped on his tank, weightbelt, and mask. He would have to leave the wetsuit, and fins. He backed out over the bloody amphibain bodies. “Qube, you’re real lucky my goverment wants you alive. Faggots. It’s been real, but I’ll just be saying goodbye for now. We’ll be back to pick you up soon” and he was gone Those creepy little frog things were still out there, he had to be fast. Damn, one strap of his tank had been severed in the struggle, he would have to carry it. He checked his gauge. It wasn’t as bad as he thought, he had plenty to get back to the sub. It was strange to be this deep in ust a tank, and jockstrap, but goddam it was good to be free. The luminesent coral glowed in the dappled light, the colours were almost psychedleic.It really was beautiful down here. He saw a ray float by, angelic. Funny he was moving, but the scenery had not changed, or was he moving?He looked around and his vision seemed to track behind the movements of his head. His breathe into is regualtor was ringing in his ear, faint buzzing music. His mind reeled toward the ship. He had to save his men, but it felt so good here. The healing sea salt stung his wounds. Why was he still here? The tank. It was more full than he remembered. Qube had refilled it. with what?! Some sort of euphoric gas. Ticklish buzzing waves rolled through is center. Lights blinked in the corner of his eyes. He kicked forward with all of his strength. No, no he was kicking he was floating descending gently toward the sea floor. Was this what they called the rapture of the deep? Qube had won, but not really. At least he was spared the fate worse than death that the sick faggot had planned for him.He would die breathing Qube’s drugged air He felt his body come to rest gently along the sea bad, his hips met rock raising is naked ass slightly, wouldn’t Qube have liked that?. The tank fell next to him. His body was steched long, arms above his head. His thick rounded delts, stretched to impressivly wide shoulders, tapering in a complicated array of muscles to a surprisingly ting waist forming the perfect V-shaped back, flared out again into the pert full melon shaped ass, and long, slightly over-mucled legs, all stretched out in the sand and rocks of Davey Jone’s locker. Through heavy lids he saw the little nutbranks and fish which feed upon the nearby coral. He was part of the sea life now. The littel creatures surrpounded him, nibbling along his naked flesh. Nibbling into his underarms and along the rib cage, some small enough to wiggle under nibbling at his tits, nibbling at his cock sticking out from the cup, rock hard, thanks to their attention and Qube’s gas, exposed between his legs pointing to his feet. Nibbling at his balls, along the instep of his feet. Nibbling at the hairs which surrounded the hole buried between the mounds of his dimpled ass. He moaned piteouslsy into his mouthpiece.

He hadn’t gotten far, he could see now that he lay just below Qube’s window. He could see Qube watching drink in hand. He gave him a dainty wave. He understood the plan. Mind reeling in terror, he could only lie still, as he felt the presence behind him. The webbed hands, tear away his jockstrap, gasping his lats for leverage, and the fate he thought he had avoided, that immense finned cock against his virgin hole. The huge scaly rod poking into the crack seperating flawless creamy mounds, of the helpless navy seal The littel fish nibbled away With one brutal thrust, the monster tore past the rings of his tight sphincter Even the euphoric drug could not ease the pain of that invasion. Flint screamed, tensed and fell limp as the frogman pistoned into him, slamming his hips into the rock pedestal. the webbed hands cupped his pecs,and another presence pulled his legs apart and squirmed underneath to take the cock into it’s amphibious mouth. A warmth grew in the pit of his stomach and spread to his loins, and inside his thighs. A warmth that became a burining need, as tangible as a cushion forcing his hips up to meet the pounding thrust tearing into his prostate, hurting the walls of his ruined chute. A red hot burn that poured fthrough his cock into the greedy sucking mouth, in violent exhausting spurts. The frog ceature tensed, and he could feel the fiery fluid filling his bowels. The pain and the drug finally overcame the Lt. Jason Flint and he lay, deorated nay seal, naked and raped on the sea floor Once more scaly arms gathered the limp hunk and pulled his insensate form towards the villain’s lair. His suffering, as Qube had promised, had only just begun.

CONTINUE THE STORY:PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

New author Wolfpek takes us on an amazing undersea erotic adventure in his series Deep Blue. Chapters 3 & 4.

Deep Blue- Chapters 3 & 4
by Wolfpek
Art by Amalaric
Series: Deep Blue

3. Full Fathoms Five

The ice in Qube’s glass was tinkled with the agitation of his shaking hand. The other hand squeezed the last drooling droplets out of his swollen dick. It had been more than worth the sacrifice of a few henchman to witness this scene. Giant screens lining the cave walls were already replaying the brutal degradation, but nothing would recapture the aching ecstacy of witnessing the first rape of his steely tough navy SEAL firsthand. That carefully planned, image was seared into his mind for eternity. The toughguy stud, vulnerable and nude, stretched out undulating on the sea floor, like a carp on a hook eventually relaxing into stillness, his only link to life the aphrodisiac gas pumping from his oxygen tank into his heaving lungs, His steely muscles glowed blue white in the otherworldly light of azure depths. Even whiter, his firm virgin buttocks raised slightly over the rock where his slim hips had come to gentle rest, an gift from the Poseidon, framed only by the small straps of that tantalizing cup.That image alone, could have satisfied him. The straps gave to the slightest tug of webbed fingers, and the graceful line of naked rib, hip and lean taut leg lay completely exposed to the beast which hovered above to claim the treasure buried between the submerged white granite globes. The unbearable look of concentrated pain on that beautiful, masculine face, and the sight of the thin waist widening into spherical perfection, where huge finned rod speared into that tender crack sent Qube over the edge spewing cum onto the thick glass, while the unsated monsters danced the impaled hunk around, one thrusting vengefully from behind,as the other drained manly seed into his greedy maw.

Qube prayed the would not devour him after the assault, as he had seen them do to many unfortunate divers before. He had trained them very well, but he had to admit. Flint looked like a tasty feast even to him. Still, the understanding that the hunky lieutenant slumbered in the midst of such mortal danger was enough to stiffen his piggish cock anew. He breathed a sigh of relief as they carried his defeated form back to the base uneaten.

He turned breathless when he heard the airlock, and saw his captured prize, ass first, ascending the ladder. Once again hanging limp, peaceful, over the frogman’s shoulder. This time however the glorious raped buttocks were completely naked, and his for the taking. The white melons shiny with sea water which soaking the hairs on the striated muscles of his swaying legs and dropping with each froggy step as the beast carried the burden to it’s new owner, and handed him the torn jock strap.

He inhaled the wet cotton deeply and gazed upon the ruined hole oozing blood and frogman semen. A reverent whisper, barely audible choked from his parched throat “So beautiful… so .. dirty” The cotton trophy dropped to the floor, and he one wraith-like claw dug into the unyielding flesh of granite buttock, followed quickly by it’s twin, caressing the taut round muscles manipulating the drenched globes apart for better access to the ruined chute. “We must clean you” He dived face first into the heavenly vale, grizzled jaw wedged into the bruised perineum, sunken cheeks nestling deeply into the inner cleft, agile tongue plummeting full fathom past the defeated sphincter, rat tat tatting on the drum of the sensitized prostate. Deep within his nightmare the unconscious hunk, head and arms swaying upside down toward the floor, uttered the faintest of moans pulling the moist invader sounding further and further into new territory. His patient henchmen waited an eon while his master tasted all the dark delights of the depths of the captured SEAL.

Finally pulling back, he retrieved the precious jock strap, wiped his face with the juice of it’s former owner, and sighed. “Bind him for deep cleaning”

It was the sound of the whistling whip, more than the sharp bolt of pain that jolted Flint awake. As Qube had predicted the sublime music of his screams raged through his heart like a celestial choir. The suspended stud, this time in an upside down X, did not have time to draw another breath for the next manly howl, before the lash fell again, and again. In between the bursts of pain he became aware of metal clamps biting into his bleeding nipples, balls, and inserted into the tip of his cock attached to wires running to the throne. Unable to count the strikes, he could barely focus as they slowed. He saw Qube watching from his throne, feet up on his strange ottoman. Two Frogmen behind, delivering blows , and a third pointing a hose at him.

Qube began to clap. He was wearing Flint’s ripped jock strap as a necklace.

“Welcome back to our little party Lieutenant. I must say you put on a delightful show for us. Now we must clean you off after your strenuous efforts”

“You BASTARD… AHHHGG!!” The whip fell again, followed by an explosive jet from the hose shooting salt water into his wounds. Flint, struggling to maintain consciousness, barely had the ability to scream, let alone curse. “No, still not quite sufficient, don’t you agree?” Qube touched the control panel in his armrest, and lighting crackled from the clamps sizzling through the rain of salt water cascading over sleek catlike muscles, mingling with the blood pouring from his wounds to form a pink cocktail enveloping the hanging head. The stalwart lieutenant performed a frenzied jig, to the beat of the electricity surging into his burning cock, balls and nipples.

“Very cleansing no? But we have not scoured every nook and cranny, have we? And you have been a very, very dirty boy”

Flint made a valiant effort to struggle as a second hose was forced into his abused asshole. “We need you very clean for our next little drama, this is my own concoction; sea water and something wonderfully special. It will help you relax, and I so enjoy watching to pass in, and out of consciousness”

Flint could smell his own flesh burning as the electricity and and spray shook through him again, but now he felt the powerful rush of water flood into his very centre, filling him until he must burst. He began, once more to feel a delightful sense of floating, as if he were again swimming, floating free, the receding bolts left a pleasant tingling in is balls, nipples and rising cock, He felt his stomach release, and was flying in a sea of lust as he was, gently released from his bonds, bathed clean. He heard Qube’s singsong voice, a lullaby, loving and far away as hands, hundreds of healing, hungry hands caressed every inch of his nude, muscular form wafted him through the air, spinning him over and draping him face down over something cool. His ass riding high, the focus of so much desire, bonds snapped snugly around his wrists and ankles, but he continued to fly above where even the air seemed to want him. His iron dick pulsed against the metal on which it rested.

Qube turned when he heard the sound of the captured nuclear sub dock in his compound. He settled back in his throne, feet high up on his newly completed footstool, and nodded to his henchmen. “Bring the new ones to me” He looked up to his heels, resting heavily into the firm flesh of Flint’s upraised glutes and smiled. “There is so much more fun to be had”.

4. The Battle

Commander Mitch Walkers’ square jaw clenched with concern. “goddammit Jae” he thought “Where the fuck are you?” He ran an oversized hand through buzz cut blonde hair, and slammed it down impotently on the control panel. Walker’s hands and feet were slightly outsized, and powerful like a labrador puppy. In spite of his 29 years, this was his only less than mature feature. A natural leader from birth, Walker exuded a calm authoritarian presence earned only by a few older men. It was this quality that won him command of a nuclear submarine, younger than any who held this rank.

His men trusted his instincts, and his genuine concern for their well being. He was considered the best in the fleet.

Jason Flint was not only his best operative, he been his most trusted friend since the academy. It wasn’t like his old friend to be late or report a problem. Jason was in trouble.

The orders where to move on to the next sector, but he couldn’t leave Flint. He’d have to go looking for him.

His Nebraska drawl cut through the low engine rumble.

“Gianelli, take command. I’m going to suit up”

“But, sir” The dusky haired Providence tough guy, could be a bit of a hothead, but he could handle the ship while Walker did what had to be done.

“Do it!”

Walker striped of his T-shirt to unveiling a classical torso dusted lightly by blonde viking hair, and strode purposefully toward the gear to suit up. Shiny dog tags glinted against his tan naked chest.

By the time he reached the equipment chamber, he was down to small white skivvies. This cotton conformed to the efficient musculature of his hips, and sharply dimpled ass.

He skimmed efficiently out of these, the spherical perfection of his steel glutes highlighted by the contrast of his dark tan against the virginal white of the skin never exposed to the sun’s longing rays. and carefully “painted on” the legs of his snug wet suit. It took time to cover each curve with the snug nylon, he had just reached his hips when

The ships alarm sounded.

He hit the intercom button with his meaty fist.

“Walker”

“It’s Flanagan, Sir”

Wil Flanagan, the youngest member of the crew had been assigned late, and wasn’t even on the official roster. Despite his deceptively rounded baby face, the kid had promise. Clothed, one might mistake him for chubby. He was anything but. His broad shoulders, massive chest, tree trunk legs, and full round ass pulled most covering into a shape which belied his cut and tapered waist. Unclothed, it was plain that he carried nothing but muscle on his stocky 5’9 frame. In fact he prided himself on a near complete lack of unnecessary body fat. Still his youthful muscles seemed round, full, and well, ripe, like spring peaches.

“Sir, we’ve found something. I think you’d better get down here”

“Flint?”

“No sir, it’s something I’ve never seen”

“I’m on my way”

Walker’s habitual stoic calm was for the first time in his young life, shaken to it’s core by the sight of the otherworldly bodies of the strange creatures before them. His analytic mind struggled to come to terms with the scaly humanoids oozing water and slime before him

Slightly shorter than humans, with long gangly, ape like extremities. His inner self was haunted by an instinctual sense of doom probably caused by the bizarre reality of their disproportionately huge finned dicks. What were these things? Where did they come from? What had killed them?

Did the have something to do with Flint’s disappearance?

“Report”

“We don’t know sir” Flanagan was trying to keep his voice steady. “The surveillance cameras picked up these shapes on a coral outcropping. There is no sign of trauma, Doc suspects a poison”

At 36, Doc was the oldest member of the crew, and an intimidating presence due to his shaved head, 6’3 frame, and a hard hair covered body more of a body building biker than skilled physician.

“Where is Doc?”

“Gone to sick bay, sir to prepare for the autopsy”

Walker nodded, Doc was always one step ahead.

He ordered Flanagan and two crewman to bring the bodies to sick bay

“I’ll go to the bridge and report to headquarters, Flanagan remain in sick bay and assist Doc. Volpe, Waggoner, suit up after delivering the bodies, I want you out there to see if there are more of these things, or any sign of Flint”

“Yes sir!”

Still bare chested, the half worn wetsuit riding low on his hips, exposing the dimpled curve of upper buttock, he stormed onto deck, brushing past the started Gianelli, and grabbed the radio.

“This is Commander Mitchell Walker of the U.S.S Hunter. This is an urgent message”

Through static he heard a faint voice.

“Go ahead Mitch buzzzzzz… This Admir..zzzzz ..”

The connection went dead “Goddammit! Gianelli I want a signal on this piece of shit NOW!”

“Yessir”

The lights went dead, only the dim emergency lighting illuminated the chamber. Red alert was sounding. The engines began to whine. They were moving!!

The intercom cut through the blaring horn. It was Doc

“Mitch, get down here those things are alive!!!!”

“They pushed me out of sick bay! The doors barred! Get security here NOW!! They’ve got Flanagan knocked out. They’ve stripped hi.. Oh God!! NO!!

“Doc, what is it?”

“They’re….. eating him!!! They’re cutting off his a.. AGGGHHHHH!!!”

“DOC!!!!!”

A rhythmic pounding could be heard

” AAAAHHHH unng…Ungh ug.. ung… ung….huh huh huh huh ung…”

“SECURTY TO SICK BAY!!!”

No answer came.

Walker and Gianelli rushed to the portal. Gianelli was flung back against the control panel by a single blow from the frogman’s pike. There were three, waiting for them in the door, but they weren’t ready for Walker’s superior strength, speed, and lethal precision. The blonde, bare- chested commander learned quickly that these things were not exceptional fighters, slow, awkward, not especially strong, at least on land, and surprisingly cowardly.

Within seconds two of the monsters lay dead at his feet, the third in cowering retreat.

Gunshots fired in the gloom.

Walker, and a quickly recovered, but bleeding Gianelli followed in hot pursuit.

“Try not to shoot in here Dominic! Too risky, use your knife”

The ship was crawling with them. Where did they all come from?

The crew, was handling them ably, but there were so many. Water was spraying in from pipes, in the thick dim confines of the sub wet muscles strived against slimy scales, Blood, both red and black coated the floor with slippery dark ooze. Walker and Gianelli fought there way through the ship, leaving awake of frogmen in their path toward sick bay, where they found those few unfortunate enough to fall to the sudden attack, including an unconscious Doc, his body, once a walking threat, stripped naked bounced into the floor with each thrust from the invading cock of the frogman who had caught him off guard. Red blood covered the floor but there was no remaining sign of the unlucky Flanagan . Walker nearly retched at the thought of sharp fangs plunging into the young juicy muscles of the doomed crewman, and prayed Flint was still alive..

Walker quickly dispatched with the rapist. Doc, bleeding from scratches, bites, and his conquered asshole, was alive but badly hurt. He looked up at Gianelli.

“We’ve got to secure the airlock!”

They hacked a bloody path to the other side of the vessel to the equipment chamber. More creatures were pouring through.

Walker squared off against one particularly tenacious opponent. His dagger plunged in past it scales, at least four times, it bled, but remained standing. These ugly fuckers were getting bold, and Walker was getting tired. His breathing was becoming deep and laboured, and he became aware of a sweet pungent smell invading his nostrils, lungs, and head. His vision began to track, and his movements slowed. The monster seemed to slow with him, watching. A lizard tongue darted out and circled it’s mouth, licking the fanged and lipless opening. He began to stumble as if stoned, and to his amazement, he was growing rock hard. A warm, ticklish sensation washed through him with every breath. A fuzzy tingling at the base of his neck, beneath his ribs, the back of his knees, and his armpits, making him almost laugh. It spread like two small flames into his now pointing nipples, along the base of his spine, a dull throbbing ache into his twitching asshole, shooting a painful heat into his engorged dick straining naked against the snug nylon of his low riding wetsuit.

He darted a glance toward Gianelli who had fallen to his knees, and did not resist as the frogman tore open his shirt revealing wide bronze muscle coated in black hair and sweat. Other moaning comrades undulated slowly on the wet, slimy floor as their lustful attackers began to move in. His brow furrowed, puzzled as if trying to work out an equation. He could not move to help them. He caught sight of a vent.

They had gotten into the ventilation system!

They were breathing some kind of narcotic gas.

The intrepid Commander took a swing at his opponent, only to fall into the monster’s arms like a drunken prom date. His knife clattered to the floor. Thin, scaly arms lovingly unfolded the burnished cables of muscle, webbed hands bravely followed the tapering trail of waistline, and began, with difficulty, to pull the wet nylon of the muscular swell of Walker’s tight ass. The barely conscious stud groaned as his newly freed cock pulsed against the sandpaper scales of the frogman’s leg. The monster fell, wounded, onto a bench, pulling the defeated bare assed warrior over his knee, like a naughty child. The creature, froze for a moment, gaping in awe at the white dimpled globes, contrasting with the dark skin of the tapered waist above, and the black nylon which still hobbled the meaty thighs, exposed and vulnerable to it’s whim.

With all of it’s vengeful might, the webbed claw descended in a reign of stinging blows. The sensitive ivory skin blushed angry red under the punishment. Walker’s gruff moan echoed through the chamber, as the blows pounded his dripping cock against the tiny sharp scales onto which it was pressed. His blurring eyes scanned the chamber, witness to a hellish scene of rape and carnage. A webbed fist forced it’s way into Gianelli’s helpless hole, and the Italian tough joined a choir of masculine moans and screams. The impaled hunk, in agony, kicked over an oxygen tank which rolled just within Walker’s reach.

That’s it! If only he could…

With his remaining strength, he rolled off his assailants lap face up, cock pointing straight at the far away surface his smooth broad back seeped in ooze and seawater on the floor. The bleeding frogman knelt at his side, and gently scooped the limp stud, into the crook of one arm, the close cropped blonde head hung submissively backward, playing freely along the beefy lines of the classical torso. It opened it’s mouth exposing rows of sharp fangs. Walker dimly wondered if he was to become it’s meal. But the mouth nibbled softly down the path forged by it’s hand, kissing into the blonde forest at the base, and finally enveloping the helpless Commander’s raging cock.

The tiny threatening fangs only added to the burning eroticism of what had to be the most intense blow job he had ever experienced. Lighting bolts of need shot through his blown mind. His ass clenched,and he began to thrust up into the all powerful vortex. He began to writhe in horrified ecstacy, and his hand brushed against his fallen knife. From somewhere within him, he found the last scrap of self control.

“NO!”

He grabbed the blade and plunged it into his rapist’s skull.

The creature shuddered, but still sucked, Walker shuddered with it, and released a steaming load of cum into the dead frogman’s throat.

With the other creatures distracted by their own prey, he was able to reach the tank unnoticed.

He pulled the regulator into his mouth and began to breathe real, pure oxygen. His mind began to clear.

Faraway, he heard a banging and felt the ship come into a dock. All systems whirred to a stop, the alarm finally silenced. An unfamiliar pinging rang through the ship, and all the creatures stood. Each one reached down and threw a naked crewman over it’s shoulder. A nightmarish procession of naked upraised buttocks, carried by the silent monsters began to exit the sub toward an unfathomable doom.

He felt more webbed hands remove the last of his wetsuit, claim his limp form, and finally pull the dead mouth, off of his still hard and sticky member.

This was the only way to get in. He cupped the blade along his wrist. He knew it wasn’t his hands they were looking at.

Blood rushed to his head pointing down at the floor. His sweaty pecs pressed into the hunched finback, and his cock was trapped painfully between his own weight, and the boney scaled shoulder. He felt the humiliation of the cool air kissing his naked ass, pointed skyward. A captured prize on display.

His arms, head and legs swayed with the frogman’s movement, as if oblivious to his predicament. He did not react as the webbed fingers cupped the smooth hairless gluteal curve.

He felt himself carried, out of the ship through an unfamiliar airlock, and prayed he was last in line.

He counted to ten and then sank his blade under the ribs of his captor, who thankfully, made no sound, and rode the dying form to the ground.

Walker looked up and saw Gianelli’s head and forearms hanging as he was carried up a ladder. Assessing the situation quickly he pulled the dead frogman into a supply closet, and moved silently to follow his captured men.

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Ajax is humiliated when he’s forced to strip naked for an effeminate tailor during his uniform fitting.

Antebellum – Chapter 2: Shopping
by Drum
Art by Amalaric
Series: Antebellum
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We drove off through the streets of the city until we came to a big store. I was taken in a side entrance by the Master and found I was in a clothing warehouse. I want this slave fitted out with appropriate house kit for serving at table. White shirts, ties, black tailcoat and pants, socks and a good fitting pair of shoes, he never wore shoes before.’

The clerk, who was one of the effeminate men at the slave yard earlier, said, ‘It would be easier if I could measure him stripped down, Mr Richards.’ ‘Strip to your shorts, nigger.’ The Master said. I shucked my shirt only to feel the full force of my Master’s hand on my face. ‘You forgetting yourself, slave? Don’t you reply to an order?’ ‘Sorry, massa, yes massa.’ ‘Good, now you cooperate with the gentleman.’ He said. ‘Yes massa.’

‘I’ll be back in a few minutes, sir, feel free to order him.’ ‘Well, sir, I would prefer to measure him naked.’ The mincing assistant said. ‘Well tell him.’ I swallowed hard at the treatment I was receiving when the clerk said, ‘OK big boy, drop your shorts and show me what a well-hung nigger you are.’ I dropped my pants for him and stood up. To my surprise he slapped my cheek again and said, ‘You slaves never learn, your forgot to say ‘Yes sir.’ ‘Sorry sir, yes sir.’ I said, my eyes watering as he measured my neck, chest, waist and arms both around and along. He squatted down and measured my inside leg and then lifted my cock and felt my nuts. He played with my cock and massaged it until I was hard and then he measured the length and circumference. ‘Holy Cow!’ He gasped; 10” long and 7 ½” round! You ever killed anyone with that thing, boy?’ He brought his face closer and I thought he was going to take it in his mouth but at this point my Master returned and he told me to pull up my shorts and get dressed. ‘I’ll be at the Casino Hotel until about two,’ he said to the assistant, ‘Make sure they are delivered on time, otherwise you will have to deliver them to my spread.’ So, I thought, I am to be taught to work indoors.

We returned to the cart and drove on. We came to a yard, above the gate a sign said: ‘Sayers – corn merchant and general agricultural supplier’. Amos was ordered to tie the horses to a bar. ‘OK boys, shirts off, work to be done.’ We stripped to the waist. ‘That’s what I like to see, niggers shirtless and working. Only have them in a shirt if some finicky old ladies are around. Follow me. I have an order to collect.’ We were shown a pile of large sacks of grain seeds. ‘Stack the wagon and make sure the load is secure, anything falling off and you can expect a visit from the lash.’ ‘Yes massa,’ we both said and set to work loading the 30 or so heavy sacks.

The Master climbed back up and I was rechained to the decking as we set off to the more fashionable part of town where we stopped outside the Casino Hotel. A negro on the door welcomed the Master and showed him into the establishment. Our wagon with us on it was led round to the yard. We were fed and watered and dozed for an hour or so until the Master returned in a jovial mood with a friend. ‘Amos, unchain the new nigger’s wrists. Ajax, get down here, boy.’ ‘Yes massa.’ I said. ‘Wow, he is big!’ the Master’s friend said, ‘Shuck your shirt, nigger.’ ‘Yes sah.’ I said stripping to the waist and fearing another thorough look over. However it was not to be, he just felt my chest and arms and expressed a certain pleasure to the Master. ‘A fine looking young brute,’ he mused as he felt my shoulders. A negro servant from the hotel carried and lifted a large, brown cardboard box on the wagon. I was ordered back up and chained again. We set off on the road out of town to the north and not, where had come from last evening, the west, and drove well into the late evening.

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Ajax arrives at his new home, Paradise Plantation, and quickly learns it will be anything but a paradise for him. He suffers a painful branding then is forced to produce a load to test his potentcy.

Antebellum – Chapter 3: Welcome to Paradise
by Drum
Art by Amalaric
Series: Antebellum
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We eventually arrived at a grand Louisiana plantation house with white, classical columns along the front. A sign at the entrance gate said:
Paradise Plantation
No trespassing
The Master climbed down at the front door and told a slave to take us to the yard and find Boss Raikes. The slave drove the cart round and found the boss, a heavy man with a whip coiled in his belt. He went off to the house and shortly returned and ordered us down. Amos went off to his quarters and I was taken to the barn where I was stripped naked and a chain locked between my collar and ring in the wall of a stall. I was fed a bowl of spiced gruel and water and told to sleep.

The next morning started with what I learnt was the first work bell at 5 am. All slaves dressed and paraded for duties. At the second bell, about 10 minutes later, they were sent to their various tasks being careful not to make any noise round the house and disturb the Master. I was not sent out on the first morning but was kept on my chain and told to sleep until woken up later. Some time later I was fed and watered and the Master came in. He was dressed more roughly than he had been the previous day. My chain was unlocked and he told me to stand up. I reached for my clothes. ‘No need for clothes this morning, nigger, I bought you for your body and I see no reason to keep it covered.’ I followed him out on my lead feeling self-conscious of my nakedness.

We came across a slave hoeing a vegetable garden. ‘Over here, nigger.’ The Master said. The slave said, ‘Yes massa,’ and hobbled over, one of his feet horribly misshaped and deformed. ‘Tell the new nigger why you walk bad and your foot is crippled, boy.’ ‘Yes massa, it’s because I ran off a couple of times. First time I was caught the massa and Mr. Raikes branded my forehead and I got 39 lashes with the bullwhip. Second time I got that again and massa and Mr. Raikes put my foot in the wedge box and mangled it so I couldn’t run no more.’ ‘Take note of that, Ajax, if you ever think of taking off. We’ll catch you, bring you back and cripple you, boy.’ ‘Yes massa.’ I said, swallowing hard at the sight of the maimed slave. I had noticed the brand marks on the slave’s forehead and left shoulder and assumed it part of his punishment.

We walked on further down to where I heard the sound of hammering on metal. I saw another nigger working by the side of the road, also shirtless. We stopped by him and the Master said to him, ‘Sing a song, nigger.’ The slave looked with fear and agony in his eyes and made some grunting sounds. Tears welled up in his eyes. The Master laughed and said, mockingly, ‘Oh! I forgot, I had you muted after you were gossiping about life in the big house.’ He turned to me and said, ‘That was his second offence, for a first offence of gossiping about his Master he had his mouth washed out with kitchen soap. Be warned, Ajax, life on this plantation can be good for an obedient and hard working nigger and hell for one who displeases me.’ I looked at the ground and said, ‘Yes massa.’

We went into a large shed where the blacksmith was working with three big assistants. ‘You ready, Abbey?’ The Master said. ‘Yes massa.’ ‘OK, do it.’ The assistants came to me and quickly pinioned my arms at my side with a broad leather belt. I was dragged between two posts and my ankles and collar held so that movement was impossible. I was nervous about what they were going to do. Then to my horror I saw the blacksmith withdraw a yellow hot iron from his brazier and approach me. ‘No, mercy, massa, please massa!’ I yelled, my body shaking and petrified with fear. The Master slapped my face and said, ‘Shut up, nigger!’ as the blacksmith plunged the iron onto my left deltoid, my shoulder. The pain was intense and the smell of my burning flesh was sickening. I yelled in agony. They replaced the iron in the fire as I recovered and one of the assistants threw cold water over the brand. Then the blacksmith approached me again with the iron, this time from behind, and I felt it pressed into the upper part of my right buttock. I screamed again at the excruciating pain and my legs buckled and I felt my self lose control of my bowels and bladder, messing the floor and my legs with my own shit and piss.

‘Good boy,’ the Master said, ‘most niggers scream when they are branded but I am old fashioned and believe my livestock, cattle, horses and slaves should all be marked, it saves a lot of time and trouble if you stray. The sheriff knows who owns you when he sees the capital “R” brand. As a nigger you should be proud to wear my mark, in this locality a slave or any other animal with my brand is regarded as quality livestock. It is considered a mark of honour. Also, now you are marked, I can let you off your chains. But you will continue to wear your collar, manacles and shackles unless I say so.’ ‘Yes massa, thank you massa,’ I groveled, tears streaming down my face, the intense pain on my shoulder and ass still searingly hot and distracting me from the reality of his words.

I grunted as he touched my shoulder and felt the mark. ‘Soon be OK, Ajax, go and cool off in the horse pond over there.’ I looked at the pond cautiously, I had a fear of water. ‘Go on nigger, jump in!’ He said bring his crop across my naked ass hard. I ran and jumped in the cool water and found it was not deep, about four feet. When he called me out my brand marks felt a lot better but, of course, still hurt.

I followed him to a broad, well-kept lawn of deep green grass. ‘Now to dry you off, nigger.’ He said, removing a ball from his pocket. ‘When I throw the ball I want you to run as fast as you can and retrieve it, bring it back to me, understand, nigger.’ ‘Yes massa.’ I was affronted to be played with like a dog but I knew that lack of compliance would bring the whip. He threw the ball with surprising strength and I sprinted after it, my cock swinging and slapping against my thighs and balls. I ran back and handed it to him. He repeated this about 20 times and then pocketed the ball and we went on to the slave quarters. On the way he said, ‘You ever done any fighting, slaveboy? Wrestling, brawling, bare knuckle?’ ‘I have done rassling, massa, and a bit a brawling but no bare knuckle. Massa Hardy said he didn’t want my pretty face messed up.’ ‘Mm, he was right. Still, wrestling’s good enough to give me and my friends some sport when I pitch you against their niggers for a wager.’

He took me to a building I was to become very acquainted with and unlocked the door. It was barely furnished with a padded bench about three feet off the floor covered in oil cloth. The Master turned to me and said, ‘Ajax, listen up and listen well. Those two slaves, the cripple and the mute one, you remember why they were punished, nigger?’

‘Yes massa, one for running and one for chattering.’ ‘You ain’t so dumb, boy. Now here we are in the breeding shed where you will regularly be put to a wench to fornicate and provide me with more livestock. I consider all slave juice to be my property. You know what I mean by slave juice?’ My head bowed I was too embarrassed to answer and coloured up. He tapped my cock with his crop and said, ‘This is where slave juice comes from, nigger, understand?’ ‘Yes massa.’ I croaked, my voice was hoarse and dry. ‘It’s mine, boy, and you produce it only when I order it or one of the overseers in my place. If ever I catch you fornicating with a wench or whatever you ain’t supposed to be with, or just playing with it, I’ll consider it as theft of my property and I’ll send for Dr Sullivan and have you castrated, nigger, just like any other male animal on my spread, understand?’ ‘Yes, massa.’ I said, genuinely afraid because I believed he was capable of it. ‘Now I am going to test your potency, nigger. Get on the bench and get hard.’ He took his coat off and hung it on a nail. ‘Please massa; don’t make me do this, massa.’ He brought the crop down hard across my abs and said, ‘get on with it nigger.’

I massaged myself until I was rock hard. He moved my hand away and stroked my rigid cock. It twitched to his touch as if it had a life of its own. I began to enjoy the sensation as he pulled the skin back and forth and cupped and played with my balls. ‘Jesus Christ, nigger this is some mighty cock!’ He took a tin cup from a shelf and told me to carry on jacking myself. I felt his fingers stroke my nipples and after a few minutes began to feel the tingle in my balls telling me that I would shortly come. ‘Oh massa, I am going to shoot, massa.’ ‘Get it all in the cup, try not to spill it.’ I jerked as my lust hunger was satisfied and great gobs of creamy white cum spurted into the cup as I spasmed on the couch. I hollered and groaned and then fell back spent. The Master looked at the cup and smiled. ‘Very good, nigger, enough for 20 straws if we inseminated the wenches by hand.’ To my surprise he dipped a finger into the cup and licked it. ‘Mm, good quality and thick consistency. This dick is going to make money for Paradise.’

I was sent to the overseer’s office. He gave me a loincloth and said, ‘Cover yourself, nigger. I know the Master likes his slaves naked but I believe in modesty.’ ‘Yes sah.’ I said tying the cloth round my waist and between my legs. ‘You ever done fencing work, boy? Driving in fence posts?’ ‘Yes sah.’ Pick up that sledge hammer and follow me.’

I followed him out of the hut and he mounted his horse. I followed him for about a mile until we came to a long, straight stretch of road. Along one side were laying white-painted wooden fence posts. ‘There are about a hundred of them, nigger, the holes are already dug, a little narrow so they are secure. I want them all driven in to this depth.’ He handed me a piece of wood the length of which he wanted the posts to stand out of the ground. ‘You make sure they are straight, firm and regular, nigger.’ ‘Yes sah.’ I said as he rode off. I began the work and after about five or six posts the vittels wagon came up and stopped. I was given a high fibre, high protein and high carbo meal. Seems my new Master had taken on a few of Master Hardy’s ideas. I carried on the work under the hot sun and, as I was on the last two the overseer came up and inspected my work. ‘Good boy.’ I followed him back to the house and handed in the sledgehammer.

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Following the death of his master, a muscled young slave is purchased by a much harsher master and forced to work on a Lousiana plantation in this series from new author Drum.

Antebellum – Chapter 1: The Sale
by Drum
Art by Amalaric
Series: Antebellum
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Once the old Master, Mr. Hardy, was buried and his son got his hands on the property things moved quickly. We slaves were afraid and uncertain of our future. Master Hardy had been strict but fair and to be whipped or punished he demanded that the penalty was fully proven and justified. I had managed to escape a serious whipping in my life there except once for stealing food. I had always worked hard and even enjoyed his special ‘training programme’ for the bigger slaves. I benefited from the added exercises and the lifting of rocks and stones to build up my muscles and the food was better for what he called his ‘muscle slaves’. We did not know what to expect for the future. I had been born on Mr. Hardy’s plantation but I had heard bad things from slaves who Mr. Hardy had bought and set to work. They told of other masters crueler and less fair than ours.

A dealer came one day soon after the funeral and we were lined up. He chose only 10 of us, all males. ‘I only want big, strong niggers.’ He said, ‘I have a reputation for quality. Besides, it don’t do to have too many from the same establishment. They can get rebellious if they think they are numerous enough. I also only choose from one sex so we don’t risk inbreeding.’

Money changed hands and we were led out to the wagon. The dealer, who wore a wide-brimmed hat and an open necked white shirt, carried a bullwhip. ‘OK, you niggers, shuck your shirts.’ We stripped to the waist and he locked a collar and pair of connected manacles on each of us. The he snapped, ‘Get naked!’ We dropped our pants and shorts and he placed chained shackles on our ankles. Our clothes were placed in a wooden box and put under the front seat. ‘Now up in the wagon.’ He turned to Master Hardy’s son and said, ‘Easiest way of controlling them. Lock them in naked and then, if they do get free they ain’t going to get far naked and in chains.

The wagon rolled out of the yard and down to the main road. We could see through gaps in the woodwork and I saw we were heading towards New Orleans. It was the biggest city in the area and I had heard things about the place from slaves on the plantation. I knew, for example, that there were many slave dealers operating there. After what seemed like several hours, it must have been about eight or nine because it was getting dark and we had left in the middle of morning, we were in the centre of the noisy, busy city. I had never seen so many people in my life and such fine clothes, even some of the niggers wore fancy clothing. Eventually the wagon turned into a large yard and the gates swung shut behind us. We were ordered out and stood around waiting orders. The yard was surrounded by a high wall which had broken glass set in concrete along to top of it. In the middle of one wall hung a wooden notice board which read:
H. C. VIGGARS
Dealers in slaves, mules and general livestock
(established 1810)
Of course, I did not let on that I could read. I had been taught by Mr. Hardy’s daughter when she was a girl but we had kept quiet about it. Didn’t do to educate slaves. In some places it was forbidden. We were fed and watered and bedded, chained in stalls in a stable block for the night.

I woke to the sound of a club being run along the bars of the stable door and I looked around myself and remembered where I was. I turned under the rough old blanket on the clean straw of the stall I was in. I felt the iron collar and chain that was attached to the wall and stood up. In the yard the previous evening I heard a well-dressed man who was looking at us say ‘It shouldn’t be hard selling these, old Hardy always had a reputation for quality among his stock and these are fine specimens. Big, strong, hard-working stock, virile males and fertile wenches. He certainly knew how to breed niggers and keep them in good shape.’ had said looking at us as we stood stripped to the waist under the big sign. ‘He even made them do extra work, after they had finished in the fields, like lifting rocks and tree trunks, said it built up their muscles if you fed them the right food.’ He went on, stopping in from of me and looking my upper body over, ‘Certainly seems to have worked on this one, rarely seen muscle like this on a slave.’

The man he was talking to wore more day-to-day clothes and carried a whip. ‘He’s a fine looking animal, Mr. Viggars.’ My head was bowed as I had been told to stand and I saw the man’s hand come up and felt his fingers press my pecs, ‘Mm, good firm muscle.’
They fed us a breakfast of a fish gut stew with slave biscuits and we were ordered naked out in the yard. Large cakes of soap were handed out and we washed under the hose of one of the guards. The sun was already hot and we dried off naturally and quickly. We were ordered to rub each other down with some oil to give our skins a sheen. When we were finished I caught a glimpse of myself in a glass and liked the way I looked – the muscles looked even better than usual when they shone with oil. The man with the whip, who I learnt was Viggars’s head steward, saw me looking at myself and said, ‘Very good, slave what do you see in there?’ I bowed my head and said, uncertain of what he wanted to hear, ‘Not sure, sir.’ ‘I see a top dollar nigger,’ He said, ‘Now repeat after me, I see a top dollar nigger.’ ‘Yes sir, I see a top dollar nigger, sir.’ ‘Good boy, not dumb either.’ He walked away cracking his whip at some younger boys who were horsing around.

The slaves who had a craft, blacksmiths, carpenters, drivers, house-servants and such like were told to dress and then manacled, shackled and led to the wall where their collars were attached by a chain to rings set in the masonry. Those of us to be sold as field hands and labourers and, therefore, for our muscles and strength were handed strips of white cotton about four feet long and about eight inches wide and told to tie them as loincloths. They covered very little. ‘Tie them good and tight deep between your buttocks and a nice big bulging pouch – want the folk to see what fine big breeding brutes you are.’ We were fitted with more manacles and shackles the coldness of which was curiously stimulating. They were each joined by chains of about two feet in length. We were led to the wall and also chained by the collar to rings.

Soon the customers were allowed in. They mostly carried pencils and catalogues and marked down notes on each of us. I would occasionally be ordered to flex my arms or turn round and display my shoulders and back. A couple of effeminately acting men came along the row and were interested in us loinclothed slaves. They were well-dressed in silk shirts and wore shining top hats and carried canes. They stopped in front of me and one said, ‘Why holy Jesus, look at this hunk!’ ‘My yes,’ the other said, ‘Look at the muscles and bulge in his cloth. He must be hung like a horse. Flex your arms, nigger.’

‘Yes sir.’ I said. I flexed for them and they both felt my biceps over and then stroked my chest hair. I was told to turn round. ‘Look at that arse! I’d love to own him but if you tried any funny business on him he’d probably kill you.’ The first one said as they walked away. Deep inside I was amused. Little did they know quite how mixed my tastes had been influenced by my training. Or what we boys got up to in desperation when we hadn’t been given a wench to knock up for a while. Soon a bell rang and the customers went inside for the morning sale of females and juvenile males up to about 12 year of age.

Some time later a tall, well set up gentleman came into the yard. He had dark hair and wore eye glasses. He was accompanied by the chief steward and a boy. They came straight up to me. ‘Is this the famous specimen you told me about, Forbes?’ He said with a hard edged voice. ‘Yes, Mr. Richards.’ ‘An impressive animal,’ Mr. Richards said, raising my face from my head bowed stance with the handle of his cane. ‘What’s your name and how old are you, nigger?’ ‘I am called Ajax, sir and I am about 25, sir.’ He fingered my rough chin and cheeks. ‘When were you last shaved, nigger?’ ‘Two days ago, sir.’ He seemed pleased and fingered my stubble some more. ‘By his lightish colouring, high cheek bones and narrower than usual lips and nose I would say he had some human blood in him.’ Mr. Richards remarked. ‘I believe his great-grand dam was knocked up by a white gentleman, sir,’ Forbes replied. ‘Good, well-diluted but enough to please the eye.’ ‘How does he move, I don’t want one of those niggers that slouch around?’

Forbes unlocked the chain from the wall and told the boy to remove the chain from the shackles, ‘Walk and run him round the yard, Jimmy.’ He said. ‘Come on nigger.’ The boy said jerking my lead. I walked following the boy. My back was straight and I had a spring in my step, my chest out and shoulders back. ‘OK, Jimmy, run him.’ We broke into a run and circled the yard a few times before I was brought back. ‘Nice, moves well and with some grace,’ Mr. Richards said. He stroked and pressed my pecs. ‘Good firm muscle on him and, unusually, a coating of hair on his chest.’ He said stroking it. ‘Flex your arms, nigger.’ ‘Yes sir.’ I said obeying his order.

He felt them and had me turn round and I felt his hands on my shoulders and upper back. ‘Good, no whip marks, sign of a hard-working and obedient nigger. well-shaped hams as well.’ He said as I felt his fingers press my buttocks. I clenched and relaxed them a few times without being ordered. ‘Good boy.’ He said administering a playful slap on one of them. ‘Now, as you know Forbes, I am not only looking for muscled field niggers but I have an interest in breeding. It’s very profitable ever since those damned British banned the trade from the seas making imports damn nearly impossible. Do you know anything about his record?’ ‘His last Master kept details on all his livestock, Mr. Richards, Ajax was a very good breeder and produced, on average, about 10 a year with various wenches since he was about 18.’ ‘Oh, so he is keen on females, then.’ Mr. Richards said. I think I detected a little disappointment in his voice. ‘Not that it matters because we can always resort to bacon rind or bailing twine round his root if there’s a problem. Mind if I take a look, make sure he’s whole? ‘Go ahead, sir, you would not want to buy a pig in a poke.’ Forbes said. I swallowed hard, my throat dry at this indignity but, of course, kept my arms at my side and stared straight ahead. My cock was somewhat engorged at all this talk of breeding. Mr. Richards untied my cloth and let it drop to the ground. I felt him heft my cock into his hand. ‘Nice and heavy, big boy.’ He cupped my balls and gently squeezed them. ‘Big, low hangers and meaty, full of juice. Yes Mr. Forbes, a fine young stallion you have here. Of course, I’ll test his potency later. Cover yourself, nigger.’ ‘Yes sir,’ I said, my eyes stinging wet with the humiliating experience. ‘OK, Mr. Forbes, we’ll find Mr. Viggars and negotiate a price. I have no time for the auction room today.’ I retied my cloth and was chained to the ring again while they went off.

Soon I was taken inside, told to dress in my shirt, shorts and pants and led out to where Mr. Richards stood. ‘I’ll take his restraints as well, he looks good in them.’ My new Master said. ‘Got yourself a fine piece of property there, sir,’ Mr. Viggars said, ‘Fine looking animal, still young but promising.’ I was led to a wagon at the back of the dealer’s premises. A slave stood holding the horses’ reins. He doffed his straw hat and bowed to my new Master. The Master climbed up onto the bench and said, ‘You niggers get up on the buckboard.’ ‘Yes Massa,’ the other slave said and I echoed him. The Master said, ‘Amos, chain his manacles to a staple in the floor of the wagon in case he gets ideas of running.’ ‘Yes Massa,’ he replied as he locked my manacle chain to a ring on the wagon’s floor.

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Vote for your favorite stories from August & September. We are awarding prizes to the authors of the top 3 stories. You may vote for up to THREE different stories. Follow the link below the results to enjoy this month’s bonus story.

Poll closes 10/31/2016.

Best of August & September

• Todd Sanders by Amalaric (19%, 11 Votes)
• Lord Chatterley’s Forester by Amalaric (18%, 10 Votes)
• Drained by the Tutor by MattySchmatty (16%, 9 Votes)
• Afghan Hell Parts 6-8 by DonaldSteve (12%, 7 Votes)
• Sins of the Father by GayStoryTeller (12%, 7 Votes)
• The Ex-Military Police Officer by bbtallman (7%, 4 Votes)
• Superfan by Ricky Jaye (5%, 3 Votes)
• Chastity Men by Strong (5%, 3 Votes)
• Cort & Ryder – Chapter 7 by Ragnar1963 (5%, 3 Votes)

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This Month's Voter Bonus Story: Poll Closed

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Fry’s endurance is tested when Grey has him stretched tight, hanging by his thumbs in the desert heat.

Afghan Hell: Part 6 – Hanging By His Thumbs
by DonaldSteve
Art by Amalaric
Series: Afghan Hell

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Grey looked him up and down and said. “Your private hell is about to start ma wee man” He turned the winch a bit more and Fry’s heels rose, his toes scrabbling around on the concrete to make contact. Grey laughed, “I was wondering how you would take this.” He wound the winch further. The ratchet clacking as it took the strain. Grey was able watch while he worked and witnessed Fry’s body rise slowly in the air, his feet clear of the ground. He kept winding until Fry’s feet were two feet in the air then locked it all in place leaving Fry blinking into the sun, his white teeth clenched as he felt the pain building up.

Initially he felt just numbness in his thumbs but there was a terrible ache in his arms from his elbows to his shoulders. He gasped and attempted to adjust his position but nothing helped. Grey looked up at him. His arms, corded and straining were straight up trapping his head between his thick biceps. His fingers were bent into a fist but his thumbs stood up vertically inside their restraints. He hung with his legs slightly open and slightly bent giving him a bow legged appearance, and looked down on Grey with steely eyes. Through clenched teeth he said, “I am glad I gave a bastard like you a hard time Grey. I wouldn’t change a thing.” And with a good aim he spat right between Grey’s eyes. Grey wiped it away with fury and failing to find anything near him with which to retaliate he grabbed Fry’s legs and sent him swinging.

Fry closed his eyes as the agony shot through his arms and back. He heard Grey as from a distance, “This is just the beginning laddie. There is much to come.” And he walked away leaving Fry swinging in the light breeze. He called over his shoulder “ I will see you tonight. Maybe we can have a proper chat.”

The sun climbed higher into the sky and illuminated his almost naked body turning it the colour of gold. Through pain glazed eyes he was able to see over the wall to the desert beyond. Several times in that first hour he attempted to curl his fingers round the cords to give him some respite but met with failure. To be able to succeed was impossible unless he managed to draw his weight up on his thumbs. And just for once his 190 pounds betrayed him. For the first time in his life he felt fear. Not of dying, but of the pain that Grey was going to inflict on him in the days and weeks to come. He attempted to focus, to put himself in that trance like state that had helped in the cold room several days before. But like the torture sessions that had followed that first day, he was unable to summon up the will power, and the fear took hold of him causing him to shake.

After the second hour deep throbbing pains started to stab his hands. His thumbs felt as if a burning brand was attached to them. The full lengths of his arms were feeling the strain. Burning cramps attacked them causing his arms to spasm. By afternoon, after hanging there for seven hours his back chest and shoulders screamed at him. Through his half closed eyes he sensed a movement and opening them he found himself looking down on several men. Some uniformed some in ordinary clothes. He surprised himself by identifying them as Grey’s students and this was confirmed when Grey walked over to join them.

”This young man has been a thorn in my side for two years. Like me he joined the army at an early age and also like me he joined the SAS. Two or three years ago at the age of 24 he joined PEACEHAVEN with the sole aim of destroying this organisation. As you can see he didn’t succeed and has ended up as one of the subjects in your lectures here.”

Laughing he reached up high and pushed at Fry’s legs sending him spinning. Fry cried out uttering a long drawn out groan that echoed across the compound. His vision turned red and purple as the pain streaked from his thumbs to his shoulders.

“He is a good strong specimen who will I think last for a long long time. He has a good physique, which is always a bonus when you use a subject in a class. You will all be seeing a lot more of him in the next few days. I will not have him hurt by you unless I give my permission to do so. Neither will you abuse him, or humiliate him. You will respect his suffering, and watch what happens. I do not want any of you men turning your head away. I only ask that you look and learn. He has the hardest job. He has to endure and suffer.” He turned away, ignoring Fry as he swung slowly in the air. “Now lets get back to the classroom. You will see him again tomorrow.”

Grey’s words triggered something in Fry and he again attempted to find that inner self. where he could hide and control some e pain. Once again he centred in on his groin, and his subconscious wondered if that part of him was taking over, as it had when he was a child. Taking comfort in sexual stimulation when things got tough.

He wondered if he was developing masochistic tendencies, then dismissed it from his mind as he realised that anything that relieved the pain and made it almost a pleasure was acceptable. So he sunk into the deep warm world where his harrowing pain was diluted with feelings of a sexual nature.

When Grey returned with the guards at sunset Fry had been hanging there for thirteen hours. He paused and looked up at him. The full force of the fading sun was in Fry’s face. His chin had sunk to his chest and his eyes were closed. There was a spasm in his shoulders which jerked at his arms every few seconds causing him to groan and whimper. The sun illuminated his whole body and Grey’s stomach went weak looking at him. His exposed armpits reflected the rays from the sun, the thick hair fanning out and almost touching his cheeks.

There was deep dark stain on the front of his shorts and Grey was surprised to see a large bulge beneath the fabric. Grey smiled and gave an order. The guards released the ropes holding Fry and as his feet touched the ground the cords went slack with Fry collapsing in a heap. He attempted to speak, and Grey bent down in order to hear him. Fry’s whisper came out as a croak. “Fuck you” and even managed a choking laugh. Grey gave an order that he be carried to his cell and be chained there for the night.

Fry spent the night chained to the cot, his hands throbbing. Every small movement he made sent a wave of pain down his arms, creating unbearable agony to his thumbs. He was aware of the guy from the cookhouse who had cared for him the previous nights, coming to him and giving him water and feeding him. He knew too that this guy had washed him all over and dressed him.. What he remembered acutely was the guy massaging his thumbs. Bending them to bring the circulation back and he knew that he had roared with the pain. Falling into a deep coma like sleep he had also been aware of Grey visiting him and stroking his hands, but he was too exhausted to retaliate in any way.

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Fry serves as Grey’s “visual aid” in a crowded classroom of students receiving training on torture.

Afghan Hell: Part 7 – Torture Class: Painful Manipulations
by DonaldSteve
Art by Amalaric
Series: Afghan Hell

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When he awoke in the morning, though his thumbs hurt badly and were still very swollen, he was surprisingly refreshed. The guards came, lead him to the gym where he did a several cardio-vascular exercises and various workouts on his legs. After his usual shower they half carried and half dragged him out on to the compound. He was escorted to one of the larger building and entered a fully equipped lecture room. The rows of seats piled high over a platform allowing the spectators to obtain a close view. There were forty or more men seated along the front rows. Some wore uniform and the majority were quite young being in their twenties or thirties.

Grey introduced him to the room. “Ach. This is the young laddie I have been telling you about. The one who will be our guinea pig. I am fortunate to have somebody expendable. I do not have to answer for him, as you most probably will with your subjects. But this will allow us to demonstrate some methods. We are also lucky enough to have a young man in very good condition. A mesomorph as you can see. I will point out in more detail later how good a specimen of this he is.”

He told the guards to untie him and Fry stood looking warily out at the audience then back to Grey, rubbing his wrists to increase their circulation. Grey turned to him and then returned his gaze back to the students, saying, “The subject will now take off his shirt.” Fry stared defiantly at him. Grey turned threateningly towards him “I said take off your shirt.” Silence. And Grey’s normally calm countenance tuned to anger as he shouted “Now.”

Realising that Fry was not going to defer to him, he gave a nod and two guards seized Fry’s arms. He retaliated by bring his knee up into the groin of one of them who released his grip and doubled over crying out in pain. In the pandemonium that followed four more guards rushed forward to assist and grabbed hold of Fry restraining him until he grew still, his chest heaving with the exertion. While he was still being held Grey grabbed the bottom of his T-shirt, pulled it up his body and dragged it over his head. There was a collective stirring from the audience of students. Only wearing shorts now Fry‘s body looked a lot harder and leaner after his ordeal over the last few days. Though his face looked strained at times his body looked fit and muscular.

All eyes were now riveted on this man, and there was complete silence in the room as the tension mounted. Grey gave a curt order and Fry was dragged to centre stage where a thick sturdy post, topped with a wide crossbar, had been inserted through the platform. It was hinged halfway up and there were straps hanging from the crossbar. His ankles were tied on each side of sturdy uprights mounted to the platform. Then the guards quickly wrapped his arms over the top of the shoulder height crossbar buckling his wrists to each end. With the use of ratchets and levers his arms were pulled outwards until he was drum tight, his body shaped like a crucifix. He gritted his teeth against the strain trying hard to pull back but eventually a gasp escaped his lips as his arms were fixed in position. A guard worked a winch and the post stated to bend in the middle beneath Fry’s back. Very gradually Fry’s torso started to arch back over the hinge. He gritted his teeth against the pain that hit his waist and spine. When Grey thought he was he was bent enough he gave an order and Fry’s position was again locked in place. The pressure on his back was intense and he feared that something would break. He had never been subjected to this position before and he was left gasping with the strain, his eyes tightly shut and his mouth baring gritted teeth. He eventually opened his eyes and looked slightly down along his chest at the audience who were transfixed.

Grey had a long pointed stick in his hand and he used this to demonstrate various parts of Fry’s anatomy. He started his lecture on the differences between ectomorphs, endomorphs and mesomorph. He was explaining that a mesomorph was the ideal body shape. Tall muscular and broad. And he used the pointed stick to indicate the muscles of Fry’s chest and arms. “He doesn’t have the huge bulky stature of the body builder, where every muscle can be easily identified” he squeezed Fry’s left pectoral, “but his muscles are well defined, despite the abundance of all this hair. If you know your anatomy and you study physiotherapy, you can use this knowledge to induce pain on your subject Manipulations of certain muscles can be very effective to get your subject to talk. As long as you know where to touch.” And standing over Fry he laid his left hand on the side of his torso with his middle finger reaching up towards his armpit. Demonstrating to the students, he placed his right hand over on top of his left. He pinched the muscle there and with his other hand pressed down gently, manipulating the flesh and suddenly gave a sharp tap with his fingers. The effect was startling. Fry gasped, arched even further on the post and gave a huge guttural roar of pain. Grey tapped again and he cried out in agony as excruciating cramp like pains hit one side of his torso.

As Grey stepped away Fry was left gasping and choking for breath, unable to take in enough air to help him breathe properly. The silence was broken only by the great gasping chokes that overwhelmed him. His glittering chest rose rapidly as he tried to recover. Grey gave him a full minute then stepped towards him again laying his hand this time on the opposite side of his body. Fry pulled back in his bonds, shaking his head, but Grey continued relentlessly. More kneading and tapping and Fry arched his body outwards with a huge cry. Grey stepped away and watched with the students as the cramp hit Fry’s side. As he slowly recovered, and the choking eased, he groaned, his chest heaving and his stomach fluttering. He wondered how much of this he would be able to take. His back was bent at an unnatural angle arching him backward, his chest and stomach pushed forward.

As he slowly relaxed groaning, Grey moved in on him again pinching up the tight flesh of his lower abdomen and bringing his other hand into play so that together they worked on the tight muscles there. Then his fingers slipped in between the muscles and Fry heaved forward again, breathless. But Grey had not finished with him and lifting the other hand tapped down hard on the back of his other. The pain that exploded through Fry’s stomach was of such intensity that a high keening sound came from the back of his throat. His breathe was expelled with such force that he gagged, his face going a dark purple red. This was followed by a great sucking in of air that expanded his chest to its full limits; his muscles pumped up and highly defined. Thick sinuous veins showing in high relief on his arms and shoulders. He sucked in hugely, shuddering and emitted a loud roaring bellow.

Grey stepped away leaving Fry trembling uncontrollably and shaking his head from side to side. Spit flecked his mouth and chin. As Grey stepped towards him Fry tried again to shrink back, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He attempted his half trance state but was unable to get beyond the dreadful pain that Grey was inflicting on him. For the next fifteen minutes he was swamped in agony. Grey moved all over his body. Prodding, manipulating, squeezing and tapping. His chest shoulders, neck and upper arms. When he finished the session on his upper thighs Fry’s whole groin was cramped with great twists of agony. Though his genitals had not been touched, his testicles were on fire and his penis throbbed. His stomach and legs were wet with urine, mixing with the sweat and vomit that slicked his torso. His shorts stained and soaked clung to him like a second skin, moulding themselves around the bulge of his genitals. He hung almost unconscious, his eyes glazed, small whimpers coming from his mouth. Grey stood back and washed his hands in a bowl that stood on the table. “I think gentlemen that this wee man would have spilled the beans by now if we had been seeking information.. It seems unlikely that you would have to go this far to get your prisoner to talk.” He turned to the guards. “Take him away and clean him up.”

Fry was dragged back to his cell. Cared for by the chef, into who’s keeping he had now been trusted, he was fed massaged and showered in readiness for Grey’s visit. As he lay chained to the bed in his T-shirt and shorts Grey burst through the doors and into his cell, hurriedly sitting down on the end of the cot. He was in a good mood and clapped his hands together, rubbing the palms and bunching up his shoulders with glee. “Well laddie that was a very successful session today. You bore up remarkably well, and the students are looking forward o seeing you tomorrow.” Fry looked at him through glazed eyes and gave a faint smile. “I can’t wait Fry. I’m wondering what you are going to do for an encore.”

He grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut “That was bloody painful man. I can’t take anymore of this.”

Grey patted his knee and then said, “Sorry laddie. You have no choice. It will go on day after day if only to satisfy the soldiers here.“ He let his hand rest higher up on top of Fry’s thigh. ”You could make it easier on yourself though.” Fry turned his head to face him and raised his eyebrows. We could easily miss a session whenever you wish.”

Fry queried “How?”

“Weel laddie.” Grey looked slightly bashful and put his hand back on Fry’s leg. This time he gradually slid it up towards his crotch. Fry reacted by bringing his hands down towards Grey’s in an attempt to shake him off, but was pulled up by the short chains. “Fuck off Grey. I know you’re a fuckin’ shirt-lifter so don’t think you are taking me down that road.”

He elbowed Grey’s hand away and Grey stood up. “Well, the offer is there Matt. Just say the word and a lot of this suffering can cease.”

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Fry suffers through another painful torture class and realizes that he is hopelessly at the mercy of his captor.

Afghan Hell: Part 8 – Torture Class: Tourniquet
by DonaldSteve
Art by Amalaric
Series: […]

Sins of the Father – Part 1 A hot college-aged jock is abducted and sexually tortured as revenge on his father who is late paying his debts in this new series from […]

Sins of the Father – Parts 2-4 A hot college-aged jock is abducted and sexually tortured as revenge on his father who is late paying his debts in this new series from […]

Sins of the Father – Parts 5-7 A hot college-aged jock is abducted and sexually tortured as revenge on his father who is late paying his debts in this new series from […]

Superman has a humiliating experience when he meets his “superfan” who plots to take over the hero’s identity and keep Superman for himself. A hot story from new author Ricky Jaye! (Part 1)

Superfan – Part 1
by Ricky Jaye

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The lights were low. A row of candles flickered on the mantle. A full-length mirror was propped up below the shuttered window and all the doors were closed. Everything was set up the way Gunther liked it.

Gunther stepped in front of the mirror. Wait, no. He stepped back. Not yet. This had to perfect. Gunther shook his head back and forth. He cracked his knuckles. This is it, this is it, this is it. He took a deep breath and stepped forward.

Yes. Gunther looked in the mirror and saw a tall, pale man with dark hair flopping about his head and running over his wide face in a scruffy, untrimmed beard. Naked except for a pair of blue, low-rise briefs and a silver ring around his right ring finger, the man was a vision. His chest was a perfect pair of hairy domes with a deep crevasse running down the middle, his abdomen a solid wall packed tight with warm, unbending marble. His arms were cannons, his legs trees, his shoulders rocks that could hold up the world. He was perfect and he deserved everything.

Gunther stared at himself, not wanting to move. Slowly, he raised his right arm and curled it into a flex, watching as his bicep rolled into a tight ball of muscle. His other hand glided across his hairy abs and fiddled with the waist band of his blue briefs. His cock was pushing against the fabric, tenting his underwear in front of him and pointing at the man in the mirror.

Gunther turned his head slowly, slowly. He stared at his chest, tattooed on which was a great red ‘S’ set inside a triangle. Gunther smiled and caressed it. Here I am, here I am, here I am, Superman.

—

The city sparkled. Viewed from this height, Metropolis looked like a field of diamonds. It was, Superman reflected, always beautiful, no matter how often he looked down upon it.

But Superman knew that all was not as it seemed. The city sparkled, but beneath that brilliance lay a darkness that if given the chance would corrupt everything that the good people of the city had worked for. And when those people were powerless against that darkness, it was up to him to set things right.

Superman passed through a cloud. Droplets of icy water condensed on his skin, wrapping his large, muscular body in a cool cocoon. After coming out the other side, he began his descent into the city’s industrial district.

Landing quietly on a rooftop, Superman clenched and unclenched his powerful fists, pushing warmth back into his body. His cape swooped around his mighty frame and settled at his feet. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Slowly and softly, he began to hear voices coming from inside a nearby warehouse.

“…sure this place is safe, boss?”

“’Course I’m sure. I talked with my contact in the department. No cops know we’re here.”

“And what if… uh… what if HE shows up?”

“Well, then we’re probably fucked. But you think blue boy pays attention to every little transaction in the city? He’s probably rescuing some kitten caught up a tree or something. Now shut up. I think I hear our guests approaching.”

Superman focused. Sure enough, he heard footsteps. Lifting silently into the air, he glided over to the warehouse and hovered near a broken window, careful to avoid detection.

Superman caught a glimpse of himself in the shattered glass. Hanging there, his suit still moist from his descent, he looked every bit the superhero. His muscled body was large and powerful, but sleek, and capable of deadly precision. Whoever was in there didn’t stand a chance against him, but it was not his place to make the rules. He peered inside the window.

Five men, all of them armed, stood at one end of the warehouse. They wore sweatshirts, jeans, and caps pulled low over their faces. The exception was a tall, portly men who stood encircled by the others. He wore a dark three-piece suit, complete with overcoat, and a wide-brimmed hat. This, Superman knew, was Gino Castiggliani, a wanted gunrunner. He was flanked by two slightly shorter but well-built men who looked to be packing large, semi-automatic weapons. Two men in the back were standing on either side of an enormous metal crate that Superman guessed held the evening’s merchandise. Unfortunately, the case seemed to have a lead coating on it that Superman could not see through with his X-ray vision. More and more criminals were doing that nowadays.

Superman readied himself but did not make his move. Below, four young men entered the warehouse. One wore a backpack. All of them had tucked pistols into the waists of their pants and covered them with the bottoms of their shirts. They hadn’t made much effort to conceal them, and Superman didn’t need his X-Ray vision to see past the deception. One of the group, a young, dark-skinned man dressed in dirty jeans and a baggy jacket, stepped forward.

“You got the stuff?” the dark-skinned man asked.

Castiggliani crossed his arms in front of his chest. His voice was low and resonant. “What, that’s it? No hello? We’re not in any rush here, boys. The bargaining has just begun.”

The dark-skinned man shifted in place. “Look, we don’t wanna be here longer than we have too. Now do you have the stuff or not?”

Castiggliani chuckled. “Ah, I used to be like you, so impetuous and impatient. Thinner too.” The man remained stone-faced. “But I can see you want what you came here for. Yes, we have it.”

The dark-skinned man eyed the crate in the back of the room. He indicated it with a nod of his head. “Yep, that’s it,” Castiggliani chortled. “More than enough firepower to wipe any rival gang off the map for good. Straight from America’s front lines to the streets of Metropolis.” The man took a step forward. “Nuh-nuh-nuh. Not so fast. Let’s see some collateral.”

The dark-skinned man nodded and motioned to his friend with the backpack, who stepped forward. He slid the backpack off his shoulders and handed it to the dark-skinned man, who opened it and held it under Castiggliani’s face. From the window, Superman used his X-ray vision and saw that the bag was full of cash, all of it haphazardly bound up in rubber bands. This was what Superman had been looking for: the money stolen from the First Bank of Metropolis a week earlier.

Castiggliani nodded his approval. “Very nice work. Very nice. Vinnie, the bag.” The man to Castiggliani’s right swooped forward and snatched the bag out of the dark-skinned man’s hand faster than he could react. Castiggliani grinned. “We’ll have to count this, naturally. But as a sign of good faith, I see no reason we can’t load the crate onto your vehicle ahead of time. You’ve been a very good customer.”

The dark-skinned man cocked his head. “How do we know you’re not ripping us off? We should open the crate first, take a look inside.”

“My boy, I’m hurt. As if I would lie to you. Besides, time is of the essence here. No telling who might show up. You can open this crate when you’ve returned to your home base. I assure you it’ll be well worth it.”

Superman had heard enough. He raised his wrist to his mouth and whispered “Move in.” Then, as the dark-skinned man began to protest, Superman burst through the window.

“Holy shit!” Two of the gang members started to run for the door. Superman swooped down and threw them to the ground. They scurried towards the back of the warehouse.

Castiggliani’s men drew their weapons. “Rip im’ to shreds!” A hail of bullets zoomed across the room only to bounce painlessly off Superman’s body. They pinged and panged off his chest, his arms, and his face, feeling like no more than light pinches. Superman stared straight ahead.

Once the clips had run out, Superman spoke. “Please remain in the back of the warehouse. Law enforcement agents will arrive shortly to apprehend you.”

The dark-skinned man and his crew looked terrified. One cradled his head in his hands. Another had his hand at his side, ready to draw his pistol but looked too stunned to follow through. Castiggliani alone looked calm. He stepped forward. “Law enforcement? But Superman, we’ve done nothing wrong.”

Superman narrowed his eyes. “Your man is holding a bag containing 500,000 dollars stolen from the First National Bank of Metropolis one week ago. And you shot me.”

“Stolen? Well, I had no idea. I thought these boys were paying for this with their paper-route money.”

“Don’t bother trying to weasel your way out of this, Castiggliani. I don’t need to point out that you’re standing in front of a crate full of illegal firearms.”

Castiggliani didn’t break eye contact. “My lawyers will make sure it’s never opened by anyone but me. Invasion of privacy.”

Superman began to walk toward the crate. He knew what he was about to do was a little outside of his usual jurisdiction, but if it would help the police put Castiggliani away sooner, it was worth doing. He walked right by Castiggliani’s formidable frame and put his hands on the edge of the crate. With one smooth motion, he ripped the metal box wide open.

Superman’s eyes went wide. Then a fist slammed into his stomach with the force of a locomotive and sent him sailing through the air. He landed with a crash against the far wall and was promptly buried in falling rubble. He heard the screams of gang members as their bones were snapped and their insides ripped out, heard Castiggliani’s footfalls as he raced for the door, one step ahead of the game, and heard the guttural wail of the creature he had released. The box had not been filled with guns.

Superman burst out from under the pile of rubble and looked across the room. The box’s occupant was an enormous, grotesque human figure, at least seven feet tall and covered in bulbous muscle. Moving with a labored, heavy shuffle and naked except for the tattered remains of a pair of jeans, it looked barely human, an amorphous mass of might.

“No… please…” The dark-skinned man had been knocked onto his back. The monster towered over him, still holding the freshly-detached arm of one of his comrades. “Please don’t hurt me…”

“GRRRAAHAHH!” With a great roar, the creature raised a massive arm and brought it rocketing down. The dark-skinned man shut his eyes and threw his hands over his face.

The blow didn’t come. The man opened his eyes to see Superman, his legs spread wide and his muscular back rippling with effort, holding the monster steady. Superman turned his head. “Go!” he shouted. The man leapt to his feet and bounded out of the warehouse. Superman turned back to his foe, taking in the sight of its bulging eyes, protruding lips, grey skin, and mound upon mound of twisting, ropey muscle.

The creature’s other arm came down; Superman grabbed hold of it, and in a moment, the two combatants had hold on each other’s shoulders. The creature let out a primal roar that shook the room. Superman felt spittle, thick and hot, fly into his face. He redoubled his efforts. Gritting his teeth, he pushed down on the creature’s broad shoulders, trying to force it to its knees. The creature, to Superman’s surprise, pushed back. Spitting and screaming, its hands dug into Superman’s shoulders with a force Superman had rarely encountered, but it wasn’t enough. Superman tensed his back, breathed deep, and pressed himself upon his opponent. It proved too much for the monster, and the creature began to bend over backward.

It let out a new roar, but Superman continued to push. The creature readjusted its footing. Gritting its twin rows of sharp, yellow teeth, it let out a low growl, tensed up its neck, and brought its head crashing into Superman’s.

Superman broke the hold and stumbled backwards. Before he could reorient himself, a titanic fist slammed into his stomach. “Guh!” Another caught him under the chin. Superman took another dazed step back. He raised his arms into a fighting stance, but before he could act the creature kicked him in the gut. He rocketed across the room and slammed into the wall, his stomach and back burning with pain. He narrowed his eyes.

The creature began to lumber towards him, but this time Superman was ready. Bracing his feet against the wall, Superman let out a mighty yell and launched himself into a flying charge. He collided with the creature at an incredible speed, wrapping his arms around its middle and turning the both of them into a grappling, snarling projectile. The pair sailed through the opening Superman had made in the giant metal crate. They slammed into the crate’s back wall, and the force of their collision tipped the crate over so that the opening now faced the ceiling. Superman rammed the creature’s head into the crate over and over. It flailed and wailed, but didn’t submit.

“GRRAHH!” Superman kept at his work, but this time the creature, the side of its faced matted with blue blood, slid to the side and slipped out of Superman’s grip. It whirled around and Superman got one look at its wrecked, gushing face before its fist landed right on the side of Superman’s head. The hero grunted as the creature slammed him face-first into the metal wall. The creature’s hands gripped Superman’s wrists and twisted his arms into a pretzel behind him. Superman arched his back and stuck out his chest, trying to counteract the hold, but the creature only bent his arms further. Superman grunted. His joints lit up with a dull throb, his mammoth muscles all that was keeping the creature from ripping his arms from his sockets. As strong as they were, his arms felt as though they were being stretched to the breaking point.

Then he got an idea. Taking a cue from his opponent, Superman lowered his head and then flung it backward, catching the creature in its face. The hold broke, and Superman used his window of opportunity to spin the creature around and wrap his powerful arms around its head, clamping it in a sleeper hold.

The creature let out a wail that made Superman’s insides quiver. It tried to grab at Superman, but he held fast, applying increasing pressure to the creature’s windpipe. The creature groaned. Its hands batted Superman’s forearms, trying to peel them off. It began to sag in Superman’s grip. Soon the monster lost its footing. Superman got on his knees and let it droop to the floor, still applying pressure. It let out one last moan, pawed weakly at Superman’s arms, and went limp. Superman slowly eased his grip and let the creature, breathing feebly, collapse onto the floor.

Superman leaned against the wall, still in a sitting position. He rubbed his arms. The monster had done a number on him. Even now they tingled with a dim fire where the creature had twisted them behind his back.

Superman leaned forward and lifted one of the creature’s massive arms. Even unclenched, it was hard as marble. It was bigger even than Superman’s, if not so dense. Veins ran over it like a thousand tiny rivers, streaking the sickly grey skin with rivulets of blue and purple. On the underside of the forearm was a network of holes and track-marks, not unlike ones Superman had seen on certain drug addicts. Mounds of curled grey flesh marked the entrance points. Superman’s eyes glazed over in thought.

He heard police sirens in the distance and lifted his head. It was a shame he had little to show the boys in blue, but Superman had a feeling this case wasn’t over.

—

Black pants. Black shirt. Black mask and black gloves. Fake gun at his side. He had seen this a million times before. In order to become a hero, one had to make sacrifices. They would all love him. This was part of the process. Superman, Superman, Superman…

—

The Daily Planet was a whirlwind. The click-clock of wingtip shoes rang against the marble floors and phones rang like a flock of angry locusts. Metropolis’ finest news source never stopped, and this was a slow day.

Clark Kent, easily filling out a blue three-piece suit, sat as his desk. The wooden chair he was sitting on creaked under his weight, but everyone was too busy to notice. He adjusted his glasses and began to work on a story about a new mystery drug on the Metropolis streets when…

Bam! A hand hit his desk. He looked up. “Smallville!” Lois shouted, her dark eyes sharp and alert. “White’s office. Now. Robbery at Metropolis’ First.”

She walked briskly into the din, never turning her head or stopping to let someone pass. Clark stood up and followed. A robbery. He might be needed.

Perry White was leaning back in his chair, watching live news coverage of the robbery. There were hostages, and a masked man. White lowered his eyes and bent forward. “Kent, Lane.” His voice was firm. “One of you needs to get down to the First Bank of Metropolis. Second robbery in eight days. Big headline: Not For the First Time: Superman Saves City’s Favorite Bank. Huge winner. Readership up three percent. Make your cases.”

Lightning-quick, Lois fired back. “What makes you think that Superman’s gonna save the day?”

“That’s what he does. Next.”

Lois began to speak, but Clark beat her by a hair. “I’ve been doing a piece on the bank’s security, sir. I know it inside and out.”

Lois turned. “You’ve been doing that piece on the new super-drug.”

“Yes, but it involves the bank. The men who robbed it last week are involved with its trafficking.”

“Oh, whatta load of bullsh…”

“I’ve heard enough.” White shuffled some papers on his desk and looked Clark in the eye. “Get down to the bank. Lois…” he said as she started to protest. “Have the mayor’s interview on my desk by four. Dismissed.”

“Thank you, sir.” Clark zoomed out of the room so fast you’d think he was superhuman.

—

The security guard was bleeding. There was a brown-red gash about the size of a golf ball torn into the side of his forehead.

Gunther looked around. A group of frightened customers huddled behind the counter. One bank teller, a young woman, was crying softly a few feet away, cradling the security guard’s head in her lap. The bank manager, a stern but shaken women with short blond hair, tried again to make her case. “Please, sir…” she said. “We’ll open the safe for you. Just don’t hurt anyone else. We’ll give you what you want and…”

“Quiet!” The manager shrunk to the floor. Gunther intimidated her; he had seen himself reflected in the bank’s dark marble walls. He filled out every inch of his black sweatshirt and jeans. Even covered head to toe, the fabric still outlined his large muscles, moreso when he moved. The security guard had shoulders nearly half the width of Gunther’s. When the man had tried to club him over the head, Gunther had reacted without thinking. He’d spun around and smacked the man with the heel of his hand. Now the man was dying.

Gunther shifted in place. The mask tickled and made him want to sneeze. “Now listen!” he yelled as he faced the huddled group in the back of the bank. “No one needs to get hurt. This isn’t about you. We just need to wait.”

The crying bank teller looked up. “No one needs to get hurt?” she hissed, the security guard’s head still in her lap. “Look what you’ve done! Thomas might die!” Gunther didn’t move. His damn mask itched so much… “You’re a thug!” She looked right at him. “Superman will save us from scum like you!”

The mask still itched, but now it didn’t matter. Gunther took a few heated breaths. He clenched his fists. The teller looked down.

“Don’t…” he began, taking a step toward her, “talk about Superman.” He took another step, his boots echoing off the marble floor. The teller wrapped her arms tightly around the security guard. “Don’t tell me…” he breathed, “about Superman.” He bent over to look at her. “You don’t know what he wants. GOT IT?” Gunther’s yell filled the room. The hostages flinched. The teller didn’t move. She looked at Gunther, her big blue eyes wet with tears.

And then she was looking past Gunther. She smiled, and cried again. Gunther turned around.

It was just like he’d imagined it.

Superman wasn’t standing. He was hovering inches above the hard floor, his arms crossed over his massive chest. The blue fabric of his suit hugged his legs, his body, and his arms, making every enormous muscle pop with power. His red cape, the shade of which Gunther had long tried to duplicate, hung over his wide shoulders, billowing behind him as he hung in the air. He looked at Gunther with clear, deeply set blue eyes. Gunther gasped.

Superman extended a hand. “Give me your weapon, son.” He said. “Let these people go.”

Gunther didn’t move. Somewhere, a woman whimpered.

“Don’t make this difficult,” Superman said. “I can take that weapon away faster than you can blink. The police are waiting outside. You’d best make this easy on yourself.”

Gunther slowly moved his gloved hand toward the replica gun at his side. He lifted the flap of the holster, fingered the weapon, and slowly drew it out. He held the replica in his palm, and extended his hand to Superman…

…who took the gun and crushed it into a ball. Gunther stood slack-jawed. Superman dropped the jagged ball of iron onto the floor, where it landed with a loud ping. Superman spread his arms wide and addressed the hostages, never taking his eyes off Gunther. “You are now all safe. The situation is under control.” His voice was deep and rich. “Please file out the front doors where law enforcement officers will assist you. I will mind the perpetrator until everyone has been removed to safety.”

The hostages didn’t need coaxing. They filed quickly past Gunther and Superman, their fear gone. The bank teller and another employee supported the security guard between them as he limped toward the exit. As she passed, the teller flashed Superman a tearful smile. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am.” Superman was still looking at Gunther, and Gunther looked back. Soon, all the hostages had filed out onto the street, and the two were left alone. Superman alighted on the floor.

“That was amazing.” Gunther said in a rush of breath. “Truly amazing. You’re amazing.”

Superman allowed himself the tiniest of smiles. “Thank you.” He said. “Now please follow the hostages out the door. Walk in front of me. The more cooperative you are now, the easier it will be for you in court.”

Superman reached toward Gunther’s shoulder. “Wait, please!” Gunther gasped. Superman hesitated. “I mean… I just wanted to meet you.” The massive hand was still. “To see you.” Gunther reached up and grabbed a hold of his ski mask. He pulled it over his head, revealing his mat of grizzled, chestnut-brown hair and spotty, unshaven beard “I just wanted to see you,” Gunther repeated, and reached out a hand to touch Superman’s chest.

Superman grabbed hold of Gunther’s wrist. “Please turn yourself over to the police or I will be forced to move you.”

“Wait! No, just… just let me say something…” Gunther’s looked at his hero, pleading, and Superman gently let go. Gunther nursed his wrist briefly before looking up. “You’re my hero.” Gunther blurted. “The good you do. The power you have. It’s everything I want, everything I’ve ever tried to be. Ever since I saw you on TV rescuing that woman from the helicopter, I knew my destiny. I moved to Metropolis to be near you. I’ve worked to become more like you, to live up to your example, and I just wanted, just once… to see you. In person. Up close.” Gunther looked Superman up and down, from his crushing quads to his massive pecs. “To see you…”

Everything was still. Gunther gazed at Superman adoringly, and Superman, his eyes narrowed, looked back.

And then Superman turned to the side and laughed. It was a one small laugh, almost closer to a snort, but it hit Gunther like a gong. His hero was happy. “You know,” Superman said, with a small slim grin, “There are other ways to see me. I received the key to the city last week in Metropolis square. You could have come to the ceremony.”

“No, that wouldn’t do.” Gunther could feel his eyes watering for happiness. “It had to be personal. I had to…” Gunther took one step backward. “I had to see your power.” Superman towered before him in an explosion of blue and red. It was overwhelming. The superhero stood well over six feet tall, a dense wall of unbreakable muscle. Superman’s hands moved toward his hips, and his pectorals widened with gaping might. Gunther could barely speak for the thrill of it.

“I use my power to help others. That’s what it’s there for.”

“Yes, of course.” Gunther sputtered. “You use your power like a hero. You should. But it’s still yours. It’s you. You’re Superman.” Gunther hesitantly touched Superman’s right hand. Superman did not stop him. “This fist… this is the fist that pummeled Darkseid’s army into submission.” Gunther gingerly touched the hero’s abdomen. “Bullets bounce right off your stomach, like they’re ping-pong balls. We… they… people, we don’t have that power. People get winded running up stairs. But you…” Gunther pressed his hand against his hero’s warm marble stomach. He closed his eyes and whispered. “…you can move worlds.”

Gunther opened his eyes. Superman was staring at him, his smile gone. Gunther peeled his hand away from his hero’s stone-hard stomach.

“What is it you want, son?”

Gunther replied slowly. “To feel your power. I mean… just for a second, to touch it, you. To know…”

Sirens were blaring outside. The hostages had assembled and were being questioned by police. Several uniformed officers stood at the entrance to the bank, waiting but not anxious for the perpetrator to exit. After all, he was with Superman, and Superman would know what to do.

Superman looked down at Gunther. “You know that you must still give yourself up to the police.” He said quietly. “You have broken the law.”

“I know!” Gunther pressed his hands together. “Oh, I know! I’ll take my medicine, but first, oh please, oh please, Superman. Just a touch…”

Superman was still for another moment. Then Superman raised his right arm into a flex. His bicep peaked against the blue fabric of his suit. It popped into the air and stood erect before Gunther’s unbelieving eyes. Superman gazed down at the mortal beneath him.

Gunther tore off his right glove and moved his hand, hesitantly, toward Superman’s bicep. He prodded it first with his fingers, then cupped it with his hand. It was warm steel. Gunther squeezed it slightly, and marveled that it did not give nor move. It held fast, and it held strong, and it held forever. It was a ball of energy made mass, and Gunther shuddered to touch it.

“It’s amazing.” Gunther breathed. “My God, my God…” Gunther tightened his grip. “I’m sorry.”

Then Gunther sunk his fingers into the iron flesh. With his other hand he gripped Superman’s thigh. With a great heave, he lifted the Man of Steel off the ground, over his head, and threw him with all of his might toward the entrance to the bank. Superman crashed through the bank’s revolving door, bowled over several spectators, and smashed into a police car. Metal flew through the air. People screamed and ran. Sirens blared, and Gunther stepped out of the bank. He pulled his black mask over his head and advanced.

Superman was on his back amid the wreckage of what had moments before been a police car. He lifted his head and saw the man in the mask; he was tall, over six feet, and had a powerful frame. He might be an alien. He might be a robot. Superman didn’t know, but he was strong and he was a threat. His thigh ached where the man had grabbed it. He stood up. “Who are you?”

Gunther didn’t answer. He pulled back his fist and aimed a punch at Superman’s head. Superman dodged left and jabbed Gunther in the jaw. Gunther’s head snapped back. Would that he could bottle that snap and treasure it forever. Gunther punched with his other hand and Superman caught his fist. The two men grabbed the other’s shoulders with their free hands.

Superman dug his feet into the pavement. He strained his arms and bore into Gunther’s body, trying to topple him. Gunther pressed back and did not budge. The two men were close enough to hear each other breathe. Gunther looked into Superman’s eyes. He tensed his back, planted his feet, and gripped tight. He pushed against Superman with all the power he could muster. Superman pushed back, his breath coming in short puffs, but soon found himself bending backward. He readjusted his feet, pushed anew, and was bent again.

Then there was a bright brutal light and Gunther flew backward. He landed with a clash on the steps of the bank. Gunther’s black shirt was ripped open where Superman’s heat vision had torn into him, revealing his meaty, hairy chest. His skin sizzled red at the point of impact. He looked up. Superman stood several feet away. His eyes glowed a dim orange, and there was sweat on his brow. He hand was pressed to the shoulder where Gunther had grabbed him. People were watching from a distance, afraid.

Gunther rose to his feet and looked Superman in his deep blue eyes. Then he turned and sprinted up the street. People gasped and parted before him. Gunther heard Superman yell—“Stop!”—and heard the flap of his cape as he lifted off the ground.

Gunther ran straight into the mouth of a subway station, tumbled down the escalator, broke through a turn-style, and rolled onto the stone floor below. To his right was a long dark subway tunnel. To his left were a group of about ten people standing on the platform waiting for their train; they turned to look at him. He turned around, ignoring them. He itched under his mask. He felt hot all over, and his hands were trembling.

“Stop this now.” Superman demanded as he glided down the staircase and landed on the platform. For a moment there was silence while the bystanders stood by and stared. Gunther made a right fist. “Stop this now. Let these people go.”

“They can go.” Gunther said. “They can all go. Except for you. You’re coming with me.”

Superman’s never broke eye contact. “Everybody please leave,” he said. “It’s not safe.” Gunther drank in Superman’s eyes. At the bank they had been calm, unafraid—amused, even. Now they were slits. Now they were flashing with a dancing orange light.

People scrambled off the platform and up to the main street, and the two men were left alone. A shiver ran up Gunther’s herculean body, and he smiled. Very soon he would crush Superman with his own two hands.

Neither man moved. Down the tunnel Gunther heard the distant wail of an approaching train. An express, he knew. “I’ll ask again,” Superman said. “Who are you?” The train was getting closer.

Gunther took a breath. “My name is Gunther.”

“And what is it you want, Gunther?” Superman took a step forward, ready to settle the matter with force. The train rumbled closer, a wail of steel on steel.

“My name is Superman.” Gunther said, and he leapt off the platform and onto the track. He planted his feet and threw out his arms to catch the oncoming train. “Just watch!”

What happened next happened very quickly. The train roared toward Gunther, and Superman yelled out “No!” Gunther felt Superman’s great arms wrap around his middle and shove him out of the way into the concrete wall. The first car blasted by, barely missing the pair of them. Gunther immediately took Superman’s head in his hands, and shoved it backward. A car banged into the back of the superhero’s head with enough force to give anyone else an instant lobotomy. Then another hit him. And then another and another and another. Superman’s head bounced back and forth. He grit his teeth as if to grind them to knubs. His grip on Gunther slackened just the smallest bit, and Gunther leaned forward and ground the hero’s body against the passing train. Car after car screeched against Superman’s body, but all he could do was push back enough to prevent Gunther from toppling over him and train both.

The train finally flew past, and Superman had time to let out one quick breath of relief. Then Gunther landed a powerful right hook to his face. Superman grunted. Gunther sunk his fist into Superman’s stomach. Superman groaned, and bent forward. Gunther clamped his hands together and brought them down on top on Superman’s back, and the hero smashed face-first onto the concrete. Superman put his palms on the pavement, trying to rise, but before he could Gunther smashed his booted foot into the back of Superman’s head, and the Man of Steel’s face crashed through the floor.

Gunther stomped again. And again. And again and again. Superman’s face started to go numb, but in passing he felt firm fingers pulling back his hair, yanking him upright. A warm slab of muscle slid in front of his neck, and another clamped down on the back of his head. They squeezed with incredible force, and Superman knew he was in a sleeper hold. “No.” He grunted, and the weakness in his voice scared him. “No.” He kicked his legs, and the slabs clamped down harder. He tried to pry Gunther’s arms off his neck, but already he saw spots. He twisted his body, one way then the other, breathing out a long low moan, trying and failing to jerk his head out of Gunther’s grip. Then the color began to drain from his sight, and his arms slackened. And then the subway became grey, and then black. Darkness took the Man of Steel.

CONTINUE THE STORY:PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTEREnjoy the story? Send Ricky Jaye a private message! Or comment below.

Superman has a humiliating experience when he meets his “superfan” who plots to take over the hero’s identity and keep Superman for himself. A hot story from new author Ricky Jaye! (Part 2)

Superfan – Part 1
by Ricky Jaye

Enjoy the story? Send Ricky Jaye a private message! Or comment below.

Superman squeezed his eyes. He felt pain through his forehead, a persistent dull throb. He sniffed, and pursed his lips. What happened?

He felt something soft under his back, and it occurred to him that he was laying down. The man in the mask. Gunther. Superman raised his eyelids slowly. A room splintered into a thousand points of light, a kaleidoscopic image slowing take shape.

Gunther could be anywhere. He could be hurting someone. I have to stop him. The room settled. It was dark and the walls were painted a faded white color. A little light streamed in from a small window above his head. Superman tried to move his right arm and felt something tug on his wrist.

He snapped his head to the side. His wrist was bound with rope, to a wooden poll. A bedpost. He pulled again, but neither the rope nor the bedpost gave. He jerked his legs and found that they too were bound, as was his left wrist. He lifted his head and suddenly saw that he was naked, his hulking, muscular body laid bare on its back in a strange room on a strange bed. He squirmed for a moment but could not break his bonds, and then he saw Gunther.

Gunther was standing in a corner of this small, dim room with his back to the bed. He had on red boots. He was wearing a pair of blue tights over his thick thighs and tight red shorts over his muscular buttocks. A thin blue fabric Superman would have recognized anywhere was stretched taut over his wide back and shoulders, and when Gunther turned around Superman saw plainly his own great yellow ‘S’ spread across Gunther’s barreled chest. All he was missing was the cape. Gunther broke into a wide smile. “You’re awake!”

Gunther had shaved his beard and combed back his dark hair. His skin remained pale and splotchy, and his wide-set brown eyes retained their mania, but he looked cleaner than before.

He wore Superman’s suit as if he had been born into it; it hugged his muscular body like a second skin, and if anything seemed slightly too small. Veins on Gunther’s arms pressed dimly through the sleeves, and the great ‘S’ dipped and creased where Gunther’s pecs met in the middle of his chest. Gunther walked to the bedside and looked down. He was grinning. “You’re awake!”

“Gunther.” Superman found it challenging to collect his thoughts. “What are you doing?”

“I beat you!” Gunther said. “I knew I would. I’m not like Superboy or the Annihilator. I really beat you.”

“Gunther, you’ve got to let me go. There are people out there who need me. People who need my help.”

“Oh, they’ll get it. None of them will ever be in danger again. I’ll do you proud, I swear.”

Dread, hot and heavy, began to pool in Superman’s stomach. “Gunther, what do you mean?”

“I’m going to replace you, Superman.” Gunther continued to smile pleasantly, as if he had just remarked on the weather. “I was always going to replace you. Ever since I first saw you on the news, I knew my destiny.” Gunther turned around and walked toward a bureau on the wall opposite the foot of the bed. He picked up a folded piece of red fabric Superman recognized instantly as his own cape. “I was in a bad way back then. I didn’t know where I belonged. But seeing you save that woman…well, it pointed the way for me.” Gunther began to unfold the cape in his hands. “I trained day and night. I got bigger and stronger, so big and strong that I could take you down.” Superman tugged on the ropes binding him the bed. He cast his eyes around the room, looking for something he could use to escape.

Gunther unfolded the cape completely and let the end of it drop to the floor. Superman saw a glint of silver on his right hand. “Not that you needed to be taken down. You’re a great hero. You’re my hero.” Gunther turned around and stood to his full height. He threw the cape out behind him and set the narrow end between his broad shoulders. The rest curled down Gunther’s back in a majestic sweep, and Superman felt he could be looking into a funhouse mirror. “But it’s time that I have my chance.”

The two men stared at each other for a moment as the cape settled at Gunther’s feet. “Gunther, you can’t do this.”

“I already have, Superman.” He moved once again toward the bedside. “After the people have accepted me, you’ll see this was all for the best. I’m honored to take up your standard, and I promise to protect the world just like you would. Better—you’ll see.”

“No!” Superman pulled at his bonds. He thrashed about the bed, his great muscles pulling uselessly on the rope. He strained until beads of sweat dampened his forehead, but the ropes wouldn’t budge. “No…”

“You can’t escape, Superman. I’ve planned a long time for this.” Gunther walked back to the bureau and opened a drawer. He reached inside and pulled out a rock. He held it up. It was small, no bigger than a penny, and it gave off a faint green glow. Superman’s mouth went dry. “Got it while I was janitor at LexCorp.” Gunther moved closer, and Superman turned his face away. “They have a whole wing just for researching you, did you know that? One of the scientists there, he was friendly with me. He had a thing for muscles.” Gunther curled one of his arms into a flex. His bicep blasted out against the blue fabric of the suit. “All I had to do was flex for him. Once was all it took, and he would do just about anything I asked. I guess you know what that’s like.”

Gunther put the kryptonite back in the drawer. “Anyway, that should keep you from getting free. And don’t worry, Superman: I’m not weak to that stuff, and I’ll make sure Lex Luthor pays for everything he’s done.” Gunther loomed over the bed and looked at Superman with wide, warm eyes. “It’s a new beginning, hero.” He turned and headed for the door opposite the bed.

“Wait!” Superman gasped. Gunther turned around. “Gunther, if I’m really your hero, then let me go. There are things out there you’re not ready for. There are things that take…”

“A Superman?” Gunther stood in the door a moment, filling out every inch of the red-and-blue suit. “That’s what I am.” He left the room and closed the door behind him.

—

“What do you have for me, Lane?”

Lois Lane, smartly dressed in a sharp red power suit and black skirt, flipped through her notepad. “Last night, Metropolis PD found a pimp and four prostitutes buried inside a collapsed building on the south side. Only one survived.” She flipped a page. “Early this morning the cops found Vinnie Denozzo, that drug kingpin we’d been tracking, outside the station. Three of his four limbs were broken and his nose was bashed in. He’s in critical condition.” Another flip. “And we just got a report that a police chase ended when a car carrying stolen merchandise flew off Interstate 55 and crashed into a tenement building…four blocks away. It had to be the Superfake.”

Perry White sighed at Lois from across his desk. “You might wanna stop calling him that.”

“Well, I’m certainly not calling him Superman! Some stranger can’t just show up sporting the suit and not expect us to call him on it, can he?”

“I just mean that in light of how touchy it makes him…”

“I don’t give a damn how touchy it makes him. Are we here to report the news or aren’t we? What are you, afraid of him?”

“When he threatens to hurt my reporters, yeah, I’m afraid of him.”

Lois held her tongue. She sat back in her chair and exhaled slowly. “Sorry. I know it’s dangerous but it’s a risk worth taking. The name Superman means something in this town, and this guy’s no Superman. He’s killing criminals left and right, not to mention any innocent bystanders who get caught in the cross-fire. This isn’t a guy Metropolis can rally behind. He’s a dangerous head-case and the city needs to know.”

Perry leaned over his desk. “Have you learned anything new about him?”

“Not much. We haven’t been able to find any friends, family, anyone that knows him. Still don’t know how he got hold of that suit, either, or where the real Superman is.” Lois lowered her head. “We will, though.”

“I know you’ll do what you need to do, Lane. But watch your back. This guy is dangerous.”

“I will.” Lois stood up. “I just wish I could watch out for everyone else.”

—

“You sure this place is safe, boss?”

Castiggliani and two of his armed bodyguards stood at the far end of a warehouse. Meatpacking district this time. It was very early in the morning. Behind them, another man stood next to a great metal crate.

“Safe as we’re gonna get. No one in the department knows we’re here, anyway.”

“And what, if… uh… what if HE shows up?”

“Well, then we’re probably fucked. But Superfake don’t seem like the brightest bulb in the box. Probably smashing up s’more skyscrapers in the name of truth, justice, and whatever the hell.” Castiggliani turned around and eyed the man near the crate. “Now where the fuck is Frank? He was supposed to meet us on site two hours before the sale.”

A crash, so loud Castiggliani could feel it in his chest, burst from the back of the warehouse. The wall near the crate had exploded, and battered bits of brick clattered on the ground and flew overhead. A thick dust filled the air, and Castiggliani put his hands over his face to shield himself. Through his fingers he saw a hulking, muscular man walk through a hole in the wall. The man held Castiggliani’s bodyguard, Frank, himself a well-built man, by the throat, using only one hand. He let go, and Frank, bloody and beaten and barely moving, fell to the floor with a grunt. The man stepped forward. He was pale, with wild, sunken eyes and a head of dark, think hair, haphazardly combed and tossed round by the wind. He was wearing Superman’s suit and filled out every inch of it, but of course he wasn’t Superman. Castiggliani looked up and Gunther and frowned. Great.

Gunther spoke in a raspy tenor, a voice slightly too high-pitched for a man his size. “End of the line, Castiggliani. Your life of crime is over.”

Castiggliani’s bodyguards hefted their weapons and took aim. “No, boys.” Castiggliani said. “Superman here’s got us beat.”

The guards looked sideways at their boss, blinking away the settling dust. Gunther’s next threat caught in his throat. Frank remained on the floor, and bled. Castiggliani admonished his men with a wave of his hands. “Well, what are you waiting for? Lay down your arms. On the ground. Superman…” Castiggliani turned to look at Gunther, who looked back with mouth slightly ajar.
“We’ll go quietly.”

The men put their guns on the ground. Gunther, still slack-jawed, took one half-step forward, cocked his head, and spoke. “Good!” He said, finally. “Yes. Now, uh, turn around.”

Castiggliani turned in place. His guards looked at one another under furrowed brows, but they slowly followed suit. They all heard Gunther’s blue boots pad the floor behind them, and soon Gunther was behind the guard on Castiggliani’s left. Gunther pulled the guard’s hands behind his back and began to lash his wrists together with a length of rope.

Castiggliani took a deep breath. “I was beginning to think I would never be caught, Superman.” Gunther continued to bind the guard’s wrists. “The police, your predecessor. No one could ever quite get it done. Not until now.”

Gunther continued his work. “It’s what I’m here to do.”

“Of course, of course. Good job.” Gunther pulled the rope taut around the guard’s wrists and pushed him gently from behind so that he fell to his knees. Gunther walked toward Castiggliani and took hold of the Mafioso’s wrists. “A good job indeed. Will the police be swooping in soon to take us to our just rewards, then?”

Gunther brought Castiggliani’s wrists together. “Yeah. Eventually. After I call them.”

“You mean they didn’t come with you?”

“The police…” Gunther held on to Castiggliani’s wrists. “They don’t work with me.” He put another length of rope into place and slowly began to bind Castiggliani in place.

“Don’t work with you?” Castiggliani asked, his voice rising with concern. “But you’ve brought down more criminals in the past month than the last Superman did in a year. You’re wiping the city clean, by gum.”

Gunther had stopped tying Castiggliani’s wrists. “I am.” Gunther said. “I’m the best thing that ever happened to this city. I’m the hero of the people.” Castiggliani heard Gunther take a deep breath and felt the exhalation on the back of his neck. “The hero of the people.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiggliani saw one of his guards crack a small smile. He continued to press what was swiftly becoming one of the easiest sells of his life. “Never a truer statement, my boy. Never a truer statement. Why just yesterday I saw on the news…”

“The news!” Gunther spit, and he let Castiggliani’s wrists fall from his hands. “They don’t understand me at all. It’s destruction this, menace that.” Gunther walked in front of Castiggliani and turned around to face him. His cape swept behind him in the wake of the turn, and his muscled torso looked about as permeable as a castle wall. But when Castiggliani looked up into Gunther’s big, watery brown eyes, he saw a child, one of those suckers born every minute he spent swaths of his day defrauding. “And that Lane bitch.” Gunther made a fist. “She has it in for me. Doesn’t appreciate what I’m doing for this city. For her city. I should teach her a lesson one of these days.

Gunther clapped his balled fist into his cupped hand, and a shot like a bombshell rang out, shaking dust from the rafters. Guide this one carefully, thought Castiggliani, or your head’s a zit. “What they need to see,” said Castiggliani, slowly and with a kind smile, “is you taking down more criminals.”

“I’ve done that!” Gunther spread his arms, and Castiggliani noted a silver ring on his right hand. “And it doesn’t help! They hate me! The don’t even call me…”

“Superman,” Castiggliani said, calmly. “I might be able to help you.”

—

Perry White and Lois Lane stared at each other from across White’s desk. Lois had her arms folded across her chest. Perry leaned back in his chair. He put his elbow on his desk and rested his chin in his hand. “Lane…”

“No!” Lois shouted, rising to her feet. “No. I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say that we can’t print this.” She gestured to an article that lay on Perry’s desk. “That it’s too dangerous, too risky, that we could all be killed. Right?” Perry looked her in the eye. “And I say no! Since when have we ever, in the history of this paper, not run something because it was too dangerous, too risky? We cannot let this happen to our paper, Perry! We cannot let this happen to our city!”

“Lois, you want to run a front page article suggesting that this Superman, or whomever he may be, is in league with Gino Castiggliani, the mobster. That he’s been tricked into doing the man’s bidding, eliminating his competition, an unwitting pawn of organized crime.”

“And that he’s a world-class moron. Yeah, I do. And it’s all true.”

“I believe you. I’ve no doubt that it is all true, and that’s the reason we should think twice before printing it. Lois, if the Superfake is in Castiggliani’s pocket, and they see this, he will send the guy after us, after you.”

“So what then? You want us to lay low until the threat has passed, to ignore injustice until it’s too late to stop it?”

“What I want,” Perry said, and his voice rose to match Lois’, “is for you to live long enough to write another story.”

Lois stared at Perry for a long moment. She sat down, lifted her head, and stared at the ceiling. “Oh, God,” she said. “Where is Superman?”

—

Gunther unlocked the door. He had put a black sweatshirt on over his super-suit, but Castiggliani could still see the blue fabric poking out of his sleeves. “Come in,” he said.

“Thanks.” Castiggliani stepped over the threshold and into a small, gray stairwell. He had driven here alone. It wasn’t his normal policy, especially not when he was coming this far north into the city slums, but Gunther had insisted on discretion.

The entranceway was dank. The wallpaper was peeling, and there was a great brown blotch on the ceiling where the plaster was peeling away. “Is this you?” Castiggliani asked, indicating a door at the bottom of a short staircase. Gunther nodded, and opened the door to his apartment.

Castiggliani stepped through and immediately had to resist the urge to press a handkerchief to his face. The place was full of mildew and dust. The room he had entered was small, with hardwood floors that had streaks of rot running across them. Against the rightward wall, there was a stove, a refrigerator, and a sink, but no table or counter. The walls were mostly bare, except for a full-length mirror propped against an empty fireplace on the far end of the room. A weight bench was pushed up against the leftward wall and barbells of varying sizes littered the floor. There was also a dresser in the far right corner of the room, and next to it another door. Castiggliani was very interested in this door, but didn’t say so.

“Nice place.” Castiggliani said. “How long have you lived here?”

“Since I moved to the city.” Gunther walked in front of Castiggliani and paced the length of the room. “Eight… nine years ago. There used to be people living above me, but they’re gone now.” He continued to pace the floor, and Castiggliani noted that he was clenching and unclenching his fists.

I have to be careful, Castiggliani thought. Twitchy fucker like this, he’s as likely to let me in as smear me across the wall.

Castiggliani had gotten to know that about Gunther over the past several weeks. The boy was eager to please, but guarded. Over time, Castiggliani had dragged Gunther’s life story out of him, or most of it. He’d grown up in some one-horse town in Kansas, the child of a barfly mother and an absentee father. He was slow and clumsy, and didn’t have any friends. After he saw Superman on the news, he became obsessed, and left for the big city as soon as he was strong enough.

As soon as he was strong enough. That was the key. Gunther seemed to think he’d gained his great strength by working out and eating right, but any sane man could see there was more to it. His power was the touchiest topic of all. Gunther was very quick to shoot down suggestions that it was the result of anything but his own effort (too quick, the mobster thought), so Castiggliani had to be very careful with what he said and how he said it.

He had a working theory, though, and it didn’t have anything to do with Gunther’s passion to weightlifting. Not for the first time, he eyed the silver ring on Gunther’s right hand.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come up through the sewer with you,” Castiggliani said. “Don’t have the legs for it.” He walked toward an entranceway on the left wall, through which he could see an old washer and dryer. There was a large hole in the floor. “This is how you brought him in?”

“Yes!” Gunther went and stood behind Castiggliani. The mobster couldn’t see it, but he knew Gunther was smiling. “That was all part of my plan. I made that hole just so I could get him in without being seen. I knew there was a sewer line right below the building, and after I beat him I brought him right back here!”

“Well done, Superman.” Castiggliani turned around. He had been right—Gunther was grinning. “You know you’ve got a first class brain to go along with that brawn. We should put that to better use.”

Gunther lowered his eyes and laughed under his breath, and Castiggliani knew that the tide had turned.

“So,” Castiggliani said, “you’ll be happy to hear that my men have tracked down the location of Chucky E, of the South Street Gang. We think he’s holed up in the back of a speakeasy in Old Town, surrounded by his armed guards. He’s the only boss they have left, so they’re taking no chances. We’re planning a raid in a few hours—Granddad and some of our new crew should be moving into position right now. It’ll be dangerous, and you’ve already helped us out so much already, but I was wondering …”

“Of course!” Gunther said. “Let me at ‘em, Mr. Castiggliani! I don’t care if it’s dangerous. Those bullets won’t stop me! I’ll smear that rat on the wall just like the last one!” He clapped his fist into his hand, and there was a boom like a shotgun blast. The mobster still flinched when he did that.

“Fine, my boy, fine. I can see you have a talent for this work.” Gunther beamed, and Castiggliani peered past him to the door in the right corner of the room. Gunther turned his head, and spoke without being prompted.

“That’s where I keep him.” His voice was slow and soft, like he was saying a prayer. “I talk to him every day, whenever I can. I tell him what I’m doing, who I’m stopping, who I’m saving. I tell him about the work I’m doing for him…”

Castiggliani placed a hand on Gunther’s shoulder. “I’m sure he’s very proud of you.” Gunther took a deep breath. “Can I see him?”

Gunther didn’t respond for a moment, and Castiggliani didn’t press the matter. After a moment, Gunther nodded, and Castiggliani prodded him gently in the back. They walked toward the door. Gunther opened it.

And there he was. No cape, no boots, no suit. Not even underwear. Just Superman, near 300 pounds if he was an ounce, lying on his back, prostrate, his arms and legs bound to the posts of a king-sized bed frame, a black handkerchief tied around the back of his head and wedged deep in his mouth.

Castiggliani smiled, forgetting himself. He had never seen his enemy so defeated, put on display like a piece of meat for the tenderizing. Superman had a vacant look about him—the superhero hadn’t turned his head when they entered the room, but he turned it now. His eyes widened, and Castiggliani mastered his glee.

“Hero.” Gunther moved toward the bedside, and looked down. “I’ve been gone for a while. I hope you’ve been comfortable.” Superman looked over Gunther’s shoulder and locked eyes with Castiggliani, who could not stop grinning. “I’ve brought someone.” Gunther turned around, and Castiggliani let the smile fall from his face like it was a mask. “You know him.”

Castiggliani was not sure if it was fear making Superman’s eyes bulge out like that, but he hoped so. “I do,” he said, glancing downward and careful to keep his tone contrite. “I’ve known Superman for a long while, although it hasn’t been on the best of terms, I’m afraid.” He moved to stand beside Gunther. The sight of his enemy spread out beneath him was almost too much to take, and he beat back the urge to throttle the man there and then. “I want you to know that I’ve turned over a new leaf. Your successor has been an enormous help.”

Castiggliani thought he saw Superman’s eyes bug out another couple of millimeters. “It’s true, hero. He’s the one who’s been helping me take down all the gangsters, and the crooks, and all the bad guys. Luthor will be next. We’re going to clean up the city together!”

In truth, Castiggliani was contemplating a partnership with Luthor, after his immediate competition was taken care of. By all accounts, the business mogul was a shrewd man, and sending a blunt instrument like Gunther against him would not do, although the two of them might be able to find some new uses for him if they put their heads together. “That’s right!” he said.

There was a buzzing in Castiggliani’s pocket, and the mobster reached in to pull out his cell phone. It was his mistress, wondering where he wanted to go for dinner. “It’s Granddad,” Castiggliani said. “They’re getting ready to begin the raid.” He paused, allowing time for Gunther to fill in the blanks. “Superman,” he said, addressing Gunther, “we’ve got to get to Old Town. It’s time to put the South Street gang down for good.”

Gunther raised himself up to his full height, and nodded. “Right.” He looked down at Superman, who was tossing his head back and forth, pulling at his restraints. “I’ll be back soon, hero. And I’ll have good news!” Gunther bowed his head and closed his eyes. He whispered something under his breath, and smiled. “Goodbye.” He turned and walked out of the room. Castiggliani followed.

Once in the foyer, the mobster clasped Gunther on the shoulders with both hands and thanked him. He thanked him three times.

—

Castiggliani saw Gunther out into the street before insisting that the deluded freak go on ahead. “Granddad’s expecting you,” he said. “I’ll meet you there.” And then, off the uncertainty in Gunther’s eyes. “I can’t move like a superhero moves.”

Flattery smoothed over Gunther’s doubts. The man-child nodded and darted down the alley next to his apartment building. When he emerged, he was sporting Superman’s blue-and-red suit—by now, it was spattered with brown and grey here and there, but still intact. Castiggliani watched him bound away south, each jump a mile, before finally letting the joy wash over him. He closed his eyes and soaked it in.

After calling Granddad and warning him who was on the way, Castiggliani turned his attention to Gunther’s door. Picking the lock was easy—that was a skill Castiggliani had perfected in the days before he had become a monster. Hell, he’d perfected that before becoming a third-grader, and this lock was not of a very high quality. Anybody could have just walked right in here, he reflected, but I’m the one doing it.

Superman was where Castiggliani had left him: tied up and helpless. When the hero saw that Castiggliani had come back alone, he struggled against his bonds, and the mobster felt himself become hard in his pants. No one—not his wife or mistress or girlfriend—could have excited him like this.

The first thing Castiggliani did was rifle through Gunther’s dresser drawers until he found the small shard of kryptonite Gunther had told him about. He held it in his hand for a moment, admiring the soft glow, before passing it over the prostrate Man of Steel like a metal detecting wand. Sure enough, the hero’s eyes rolled into the back of his head the closer the stone came to his body, and Castiggliani grinned at the possibilities. He placed the shard on top of Gunther’s dresser.

“God almighty, is that boy dumb,” Castiggliani said. “I’ve got bags of fertilizer in my garage smarter than him.” Castiggliani removed his coat, and went to stand by the bedside. “But look who I’m talking to. He talks to you every day. Every day, he said. Oh, you poor man.” Castiggliani reached down and began to undue the restraint binding Superman’s right wrist to the bedpost. Superman stared up at him. “Then again, you’re the palooka who got his ass handed to him. Maybe you’re no Einstein, neither.” Slowly, Castiggliani untied the knots on Superman’s other wrist, his right foot, his left. Superman tried to roll out of the bed on the side opposite Castiggliani, but the big man grabbed him and rolled him back over. “Maybe you’re just a big, dumb fuck who doesn’t know when to… shit…” Castiggliani grunted as he wrapped his arms around Superman’s body, hauling the battered superhero onto his feet. Unused or not, those muscles were heavy. “Umf…when to mind his own business. Okay…better?” The two men stood for a moment, Superman swaying back and forth on his feet, his body covered in a sheet of sweat, and Castiggliani smiling, his hands clasped behind his back. He opened his mouth in sudden surprise. “Oh, Superman, I almost forgot.” Castiggliani reached up and yanked the gag out of the Man of Steel’s mouth. It fell limply around his neck.

The hero sputtered. “Cast…”

“Shut up.” The mobster punched Superman hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Superman gasped, and doubled over. Castiggliani grabbed the back of Superman’s hair and pulled him back into a standing position, and then punched him in the gut again. This time he let Superman fall forward onto his hands and knees. Once his face was in striking distance, Castiggliani kneed the superhero in the chin. Superman twisted away from the mobster and collapsed face-down onto the narrow strip of floor between the bed and the wall. Castiggliani bent over.

“Fuck me, Superman, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.” Castiggliani reached down and slid his arms under Superman’s shoulders, once again heaving the hero onto his feet. Weak as he was, Superman scrambled to find footing, which made Castiggliani’s job a little easier.

Once he was standing up, Castiggliani grabbed the hero by the shoulder and swung him round so that the two were face-to-face. Superman was slick with sweat, and his thick black hair clung to his forehead in greasy strands. Although Superman was a few inches taller than Castiggliani, the way he was hunching over brought the two of them to an equal height.

Superman’s eyes were glassy and unfocused, but Castiggliani still recognized fear. “Dangerous,” Superman sputtered, swaying back and forth. “Gotta stop Gunther. Lemme go…umpff…” Castiggliani clamped a hand over Superman’s mouth and pushed the bigger man back two paces until he was pinned against a wall. With his free hand, Castiggliani made a fist and struck Superman hard in the side. Superman gave a muffled grunt.

The mobster punched Superman in his other side, and heard the hero groan. Then he punched him again, and again and again, beating him about the chest and stomach. With his other hand, Castiggliani clamped down on Superman’s face and banged the back of the hero’s head against the wall. Superman tried to pry Castiggliani off him, and the mobster was delighted to find that he didn’t have anywhere near the required strength.

After beating his prize for a few more moments, Castiggliani tossed Superman face-first onto Gunther’s bed, where he collapsed, parts of his torso turned a splotchy red and his mouth open in a soundless moan. “Oh, this is like Christmas,” Castiggliani said, slightly out of breath. “This is like Christmas and New Year’s and Easter and about 30-hundred birthdays. I should get on my knees and thank that halfwit for giving me this time with you.”

Superman tried to raise himself off the bed, but Castiggliani grabbed the hero’s legs and dragged him toward the wall, so that Superman’s upper body was prostrate on the bed while his butt and legs hung off it, his knees hovering above the floor. Castiggliani stared for a moment at Superman’s glistening ass, two perfect mounds of tanned muscle, before undoing his belt and letting his slacks fall to the floor.

“Remember when you busted my crew on that arms deal a few years back, Superman? The one with the Turks? I went to prison for that job.” Castiggliani pulled down his underpants and let his thick cock fall free. It stood at its full eight-and-a-half inches, harder than Castiggliani could remember it being in years. “I’m afraid I’ve never quite forgiven you for it, although I did pick up a few new moves inside. You’ve been making the criminals of this city your bitch for years. Lemme return the favor.”

Superman reached for the opposite side of the bed, but the mobster held him back. Castiggliani let a big ball of spit fall from his mouth and land on Superman’s lower back. He spread it between the hero’s cheeks, and prodded his anus with a wet finger. Superman jerked his head back and gave a yelp. Castiggliani smiled.

Castiggliani’s cock slid inside Superman easier than he would have expected, although he still had to put it in an inch at a time, pausing after each new push to quiet Superman’s attempts to shake him out. Superman’s resistance only made Castiggliani harder, and he grinned as the last inch of him passed inside, and Superman let out a sound Castiggliani had never expected to hear from him: a wheezing heave of pain through gritted teeth, the sound of a man who was fighting a losing battle for everything he had. Castiggliani felt himself threatening to explode right then and there, so he took a deep breath.

“Easy, bitch,” he said, as he grabbed ahold of Superman’s wet hair. “Relax into it, baby, and you might even enjoy this.” He yanked Superman’s head back, and the hero made a noise that was half-gasp and half-choke. “Because you’re getting fucked, Superman.” He pulled his cock out two inches. “You’re getting fucked hard.” He pushed.

Castiggliani rode Superman rough. There was drool dripping from his mouth as he bent over the hero, crushing him with the weight of his body as he slammed in and out of his tight hole. Superman gasped and heaved throughout, expect for when Castiggliani clapped a hand over his mouth. It was the best sex the mobster could ever remember having.

“Ooohhh…” Castiggliani felt it coming. He let it go, thrusting into Superman and filling him with cum. He lay there for a moment, feeling the heat beneath him, before standing and pulling his penis out with a moist plop.

“Damn, bitch.” He pulled his pants back up. “Goddam. You really know how to make a guy feel special.” Superman didn’t say anything, but he did try to lift his knees back onto the bed. “Still fighting, huh?” Castiggliani chuckled. “I suppose one roll in the hay won’t be enough to break you. Don’t worry: we’ve got time.”

At last, Castiggliani managed to roll Superman onto his back. He was weakened, but he still weighed a lot, and he was using what little energy he had to fight Castiggliani off. One swift punch to the face gave Castiggliani enough time to retie Superman’s limbs to the bedposts. He put the shard of kryptonite back in Gunther’s drawer, and tucked his shirt back into his pants.

“I’ll be coming back, Superbitch. I’ll be coming back as often as I can. You’re over. You’re done. That moron has your suit, and your name, and your power. And I have him.” Castiggliani buckled his belt. “And if I can get that ring off his finger, I won’t even need him anymore. But one way or another, I’ll be ruling this city before long.” Castiggliani leaned in. “Thank you, Superman.” He kissed Superman hard on the mouth.

Castiggliani slapped Superman gently on the face and left the room. He shut the door behind him.

—

Superman lay still a full five minutes before he realized one of his bonds was loose. Castiggliani hadn’t bound his right wrist as tightly to the bedpost as Gunther had, and even in the presence of kryptonite, Superman still found he could wriggle his hand through the knot bit by bit. He did his best to concentrate.

His rectum burned. It was a tight, stinging sensation, but he tried to put it out of his mind. There wasn’t time for that—there was no telling what damage Gunther might have done by now. At last, his sweaty hand slipped free, and he set about untying his other hand, and then his two feet. It was slow, frustrating work. In the presence of kryptonite, his fingers weren’t as strong or dexterous as they had been, and the edges of his vision were blurred. Several times, he had to lay back down to rest. Superman couldn’t say how long he spent prying at the knots—an hour…two, three—but at last, he managed to free all of his limbs.

Superman collapsed over the side of the bed and onto the floor. He had meant to stand up and walk to the door, but found that his legs buckled underneath him. He tried to raise himself up, and the sore spots on his body burned where Castiggliani had beaten him. At last, he pulled himself to a crouching position, and then a standing position. Inch by inch, he made his way to the bedroom door. He opened it and stepped into Gunther’s apartment.

He shoved the door closed behind him and stumbled across the room, sitting down on a weight bench propped against the far wall. He took several deep breaths. With the kryptonite on the other side of the door, his mind was clearer than it had been in weeks, but he was still far from full strength.

His chest heaving, Superman looked around. He hadn’t seen any of this when Gunther had brought him in. The apartment was squalid, and bare. Whether by design or accident, Gunther had hidden him somewhere no one would think to look.

Superman raised his hand to his face and rubbed the spots out of his eyes. Castiggliani had mentioned the ring. Superman had spent the last few months in a fog of pain, but he remembered that Gunther had talked to him, and he had said enough to make Superman suspicious. Whatever Gunther’s ring was, wherever it came from, it would have to figure into whatever plan Superman made to stop him.

But first things first. Superman stood up with a groan and slowly padded his way toward the dresser in the corner of the room, near the bedroom door. He pulled open the drawers, glanced in, and pulled on a pair of baggy grey sweatpants and a tight white tee-shirt. He didn’t bother with shoes or underwear. The first priority had to be getting out.

Superman heard steps, heavy and plodding. His super-hearing hadn’t fully returned, but he thought he recognized them as Gunther’s, returned from wherever Castiggliani had sent him—Superman had spent too long undoing his bonds.

In a panic, he stumbled toward the apartment door. The footsteps were getting closer. He opened the door into a dank little stairwell. I can’t exit onto the street, he thought. He’s too close. In his current state, Superman couldn’t be sure he’d come out on top in a fight. Instead, he shoved the apartment door closed and started to climb the staircase. As he cleared the third flight, he heard the building door open, and Gunther enter his apartment.

Superman kept climbing, past apartments 4A, 5A, 6A, 7A, and finally to a dead end and a metal door. He was panting by the time he stopped. He tried to open the door. It was locked. He threw his body against it. There was a loud clang, and the door budged, but it didn’t open. His side burned. He threw himself against the door again. This time it sprang open, and he tumbled onto the roof.

The air was chilly, although Superman couldn’t say what day of the year it was—time had run together in Gunther’s cage. Superman jumped into the air, trying to fly, and while he rose a few feet higher than the average man would have, gravity pulled him back down, and he fell on his hands and knees. Let Gunther think I’m already gone, Superman thought. I need time. But at that moment, he heard urgent footsteps climbing the stairs. Gunther was coming, and Superman wasn’t ready.

“Hero.” Gunther stepped onto the roof, and Superman backed against the waist-high barrier between the edge of the roof and the empty air. Gunther was wearing Superman’s suit, the red and yellow symbol stretched taut across his broad chest, but it looked horribly wrong. The sleeves were frayed at the wrists, and the blue and red were splotched with brown and grey. Gunther’s hair flapped in the breeze, his eyes wide. “What are you doing?”

“I have to go, Gunther.” Superman took a few steps forward and stood up to his full height, trying to look stronger than he felt. “The city needs me.”

“The city needs ME.” Gunther took a step forward. “It’s always needed me. You have to go back downstairs.”

“Castiggliani is using you, Gunther.”

“My name is Sup…”

“He’s using you to eliminate his competition, and when he manages to get that ring off your finger, he’ll throw you away.” Superman could feel his strength returning to him, a warmth running up and down through his body, but he wasn’t fully recovered yet, not nearly. If he could just buy himself enough time…

“The ring?” Gunther looked past him for a moment. “MY ring?” He glared at his right hand as if betrayed. “My ring has nothing to do with anything. It’s nothing. It’s nothing.”

Gunther began to sway back and forth, staring at his palm. “Where did you get it, Gunther?” Superman asked. “How long have you had it?”

“I…it fell.” Gunther looked up. “It fell from the sky one night. Back in Kansas. It was…it was a gift. But it’s nothing.” He looked back at Superman. “You’re going back downstairs. You’re going to your shrine. I’m Superman now.”

Gunther took another step forward. Superman raised a hand. “It isn’t nothing, Gunther. You say it feel from the sky. That wouldn’t be the first time a piece of alien technology crashed to Earth. It’s the source of your power. You know it. How else could you be as strong as you are?”

“BECAUSE IT’S MY DESTINY!” Gunther’s face contorted into a grimace, and spittle flew from his mouth. He spread his arms. “BECAUSE I WORKED FOR IT! YOU THINK I NEED THIS?” He clamped his left hand over his right ring finger and pulled, grunting. With a twist, he yanked the ring off his hand. He drew his arm back and hurled it into the air. It whizzed by Superman’s face with the force of a bullet, and flew into the distance. “I. Am. Superman!”

With a raspy scream, Gunther charged. Superman planted his feet, but Gunther barreled right over the hero, and Superman found himself falling onto his back, his feet flipping into the air. Superman felt the roof land beneath him, hard. Gunther’s momentum carried him over Superman’s body, over the barrier, and out into the air. Superman rolled over onto his hands and knees, and heard Gunther’s body hit the pavement with a splat. He stood up and looked down.

Gunther had fallen eight stories and landed in the middle of the street. He lay facedown, a splatter of red beneath his prostrate body. He was still.

Superman jumped over the barrier. Still not at full strength, he landed messily, and rolled onto his side before standing up and surveying Gunther’s body. Superman turned Gunther over, and held him in his arms. His suit was now blue and brown and grey, and very red.

—

Once away from the kryptonite, Superman’s full strength quickly returned. He brought Gunther’s body, still wearing his suit, to the coroner, who promised to return it after the autopsy. Superman had other outfits stored at the Fortress of Solitude, so he let Gunther hold onto his garb a while longer.

After a visit to the mayor of Metropolis to announce his safe return, Superman searched the city for Gunther’s ring, fearful of what damage it could do in the wrong hands, but he couldn’t find it.

Within a week, Superman’s rectum stopped burning, but the rape haunted his dreams. One night, over a month after his escape, he was jerked out of sleep by a particularly bad nightmare, and sat straight up in bed to find his broad bare chest glistening with sweat. He searched for the ring again that night, without success. He hoped every day that he’d seen the last of it, but took most every chance he had to renew the search.

Before long, Superman regained his confidence, got back his suit, and soared through the air as beautiful and strong as he’d ever been. He was Superman, and he had good work to do.

Epilogue

It was a chilly Saturday in March, and Lex Luthor should have been in a good mood. LexCorp stock had risen following news of a promising new lymphoma drug, and without Superman around to interfere, Luthor had been able to keep an armed conflict going in western Africa, which meant lots of business for his weapons division.

He drummed his desk with his fingers, only half-concentrating on the quarterly report in front of him. It had been three months since Superman was last seen. He’d been fighting some mysterious figure in black, a figure that no one had been able to track down, much to Luthor’s consternation. The Superfake was leaping around the city, but he’d rebuffed Lex’s attempts to contact him…violently. That was no large mater—the man seemed a simpleton and would be brought to heel soon enough, but what really rankled Luthor was that, wherever the real Superman was being held, it wasn’t Lex Luthor who had put him there.

Luthor finally pushed the report to the edge of his desk and stood to gaze out at his city through his floor-to-ceiling windows. He’d wanted to prove his superiority over Superman since the first time he’d seen him on the news, and that wasn’t possible if the Man of Steel was already bested, perhaps permanently. Much as Lex loathed his nemesis, life lost a certain flavor without him. Conquering the world—long a personal dream—would be easy compared to conquering a god from the skies, and he resented that circumstance had taken that chance away from him.

Luthor heard the glass break before he saw what did it. There was a small, sharp ping, and suddenly there was a hole in his window the size of a bloated grape. The object that did it clattered around the room for a moment before settling in the far corner. Luthor picked it up.

It was a silver ring with no markings, warm to the touch. And it had come barreling through his window from an undermined distance away at a speed great enough to break glass. Luthor didn’t believe in coincidences, and this intrigued him. Where did you come from? He turned it over in his hand and toyed with the idea of slipping it on his finger. And what am I going to do with you?

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