To say the MOS’s eyes were not wild wide, and his panic rising higher would be to put it mildly. He was going to be reamed again. This time in a position to be cored deeper than before. And while his hyper-sexuality having previously been triggered by Mike’s former assault, his senses dulled in the acceptance of how he had enjoyed his unexpected never-thought-possible submission, he partially half relished the idea. At the same time, his rational mind was also in a total shocked protest—him, a beyond superbly desirable mass of muscle and incomparable manhood, a great hero and indisputable champion—with a set of genitals and pec-rack that could have staggered an army, thighs and arms, skills and abilities beyond earthly powers—who had now become a simple two teens’ plaything?! It was entirely incomprehensible! Not only the thought, but the reality also at work within… un-manning him. He was suddenly become almost boyishly emotional, feeling his eyes starting to fill and flutter with less than manly tears.

“Oh, no, no. Not this. Please, please, boys. Don’t,” his machismo crumbling in his helplessness, as his legs were lifted, pulled high, his pelvis arched more forwards, and ankles securely fastened beyond and above his shoulders, somewhat near his already stretched out arms and wrists. It’s a good thing he was naturally so adept and flexible, or it could have been worse than painful. But once tied, he never expected the next event.

“Tits like that, we might as well milk the cow,” Mike announced. “Since it’s been surmised they just might, among other things, be what gives you your great and mighty strength—at home and alone? Besides the sun…. Feeding your still growing, very needy big-boy baby mouth? Think I could use some of that myself, to ensure my own increases. Right, self-sucker… own-milk-drinking fag? Need to take some for myself for later.”

“What else would you be doing with those “things?”” Kris agreed. “Limber as a Chinese acrobat, I’m sure. Not there just for decoration.”

And with that, on each side of him, between his widespread thighs, and leaning in against his monumentally very soon to be hard phallus, lodged up between the deep cleft of his own pecs, thermal suction bottles in hand, they both began to pull-take the rich juice from his sensitive mammillae. Such a thing he had never experienced before, and he wailed and writhed, moaned and cried out—beyond shock and pleasure… and came four times in the process, as they each filled two pint bottles from him.

Oh, how he moaned and struggled, mewled and wept. “My nipples, oh, my huge tits… my big milk, my strength… taking me, draining me!! Oh, no—na-not my milk! MY MILK!! No, no, please—stop, stop! Stop, please, you’re killing me!! DEPLETING—my, my powers, my strengths—!! MY RE-GENESIS!!  My SEED…!! Mercy—oh, mercy! Please!” As if with each burst from his core, he was being hammer struck in the forehead, knife pierced into his brain, further dazed and expended. And was near to passing out again, overly desperate, yet futilely struggling in his bonds. Practically choking on his tears, and his semen drenched face and torso… which they giggled at each time they saw him buck and spurt voluminously into the vacant air. Of course, never letting him take his own seed into his mouth, which he well could have in that position… it might have thus re-strengthened him far too much (as suspected/surmised, true as it was) for them to handle… letting it fly and gush and dribble wastefully wherever it would. Exhausting him beyond exhaustion.

This, too, demoralized him terribly: to waste the alien, powerful self-enriching, potent fount of his essences, and pare down his innate strength and senses ever so much farther, was for him beyond what could be imagined. At this rate, the volume of his losses, from both his nourishing-laden breasts and testicles might actually be enough to kill him—and under the Kryptonite radiation truly hasten the process. He had more than reason to fear, his possible extinction at hand. Mind-staggered at the shock to his system and the realities sapping his life forces.

Somehow, he must be able to stop this, stop this, stop this…. Escape from these immature, mission-centered kids, inadvertently destroying him. Or get released from being within their power to do so.

This time they took a short break, and popped a few beers, listening to their captive groan and moan in an unmistakable stupor of depletion. They had milked him good, and knew it. As he did also, in a mortal, near mindless encroaching terror. What more could they do? After all, wasn’t this only a prelude for the enemy to whom he would be “delivered?” How? And for what?

“Best climb up on that hood, now. Get ready, while I take him again,” Mike ordered Kris.  

Superman’s heart and guts lurched. It wasn’t over. His genitals were heavily limp and slung long and low between the curved arc of his pubis, his body bowed, legs and arms still fastened up and away hopelessly useless… wondering if he were the slightest bit able to endure more. He had tried desperately to ingest some of his thickly white jizz, but his spurts had been missing his mouth and the most of what he needed, his tongue only able to savor small dabs and chunks of it, lap at a few splatters, not near enough to re-charge him. His big teats sore and hurting, worse than near empty. But what Mike had said re-stirred something of further concern within.

The woozied remembrance of his fine cock, what it had done inside him… even if near wonderful as before… could maybe finally finish him. After all, having lost so much of his life-making/strength-giving juices, and being kept away from the sun—his chances of recovery were slim to none. Perhaps sealed worse under the K-radiation if it was kept on. How, oh how, could he get them to shut it off? Under his breath he prayed urgently to Ra—could his once home-God hear him, did he exist… or had he too been destroyed in the shattering of the planet Krypton?

He’d already lost so much of his seed and source essences now, he couldn’t have fought off the two of them, young and unskilled as they were, even if he’d have tried—his natural strength at such an ebb, his larger muscles slowing him down, his own mass restricting him; younger, quicker, and more determined, they could easily subdue him… not to mention the continuation of the glowing green lethality of the lights from above. His mind frantically tried to find a grip, a way to turn his situation around, but was coming up with zeroes by the jillions. He was at their mercy. Would they be kind, some reasonable way to reach them?

But then miracle of miracles, he heard Mike say, “We’d best turn off those lights. I think he’s about had it, as it is. If what he said is true, we could be in deep trouble. Can always turn them back on if he gets restless.”

“Sure sport, have at it.” And then mysteriously, Kris having climbed up on the hood, for some reason, seemed to be fastening his trim corded thighs around his head, while below Mike was once more now climbed up on the bumper, his thick cock glans pushing in at his hole.

The MOS muttered, moaned. “Oh, please, no more. Ca-can’t….”

But there was to be no reprieve. Kris strangely pulling up on his chin, neck-arching him back. The older youth below prying at his chute.

With scarcely an intake of air, Mike was then thrusting more easily into him—and his mouth was suddenly forced open and choked full with the insertion of Kris’s unexpected eight and a half inches deep into his throat! He gurgled, gagged, bucked… made the strangest of sounds, almost not able to breathe… and wonder of wonders, while being cored, and Mike was sucking then down over the huge crown of his glans, he unconsciously, hungrily began savoring-in Kris as far as he could take him. Urgent, that the serum of his youthful semen might somehow help to recharge his own losses, as well as Mike depositing his load inside him. He was even able to adeptly suckle in the fullness of the younger man’s balls, who howled and cooed, while being rapturously devoured. All three of them stiff as telephone poles. And with rising peaks of urgency to cum…. No playing around. Each filling each with their glorious jizz.

“Yes-sir, we do know what it’s like Super-fag! We do suck our own, and you now have that pleasure, as well,” Kris crooned in his face, pumping his rod swift, hard and mercilessly into him. “Only this is fun-er. Much fun-er, indeed. Slurping up our cum now like your own… if only you could yours! Ha, ha!!”

Then switching, Mike’s splooge deep within him, Kris’s juices in his throat, Superman’s jizz in Mike’s… the boys traded places.  Had even each popped a blue pill to ensure they wouldn’t falter.  Not feeling Kris below the way he’d felt Mike, yet about to choke on the much, much bigger one thrusting down his throat now and into his esophagus (though he had oft taken his own even further), and Kris complaining the MOS was too fucking shaft-large to get his mouth around… started sucking on his nipples instead…. More gurgling and gagging, moaning and crying, jerking and bucking and sighing, they all three came again. Only this time their captive victim was shaking and spasming more violently, his powerful legs as if trying to straighten out and rip loose, torso and arms as if electrified—making worse than desperate sounds, convulsing and tense-tightening all over. Finally, his thick corded neck jerked stiffly back, spine arching, stunned-blue eyes rolled, and the great Superman was out cold—went massively slack and limp, still tied, making not a sound. Except for a few wheezing, involuntary gurgles in his throat as if drowning on Mike’s semen.

Then nothing.

To be continued…