Chapter 4 “Big Magic!”

“I heard enough of your sick, twisted, perverted fantasies, Martin! Have it your way, “replies Superman as he angrily steps away from Martin and faces Bomba’s cell; he grabs the black iron bars and prepares to rip the barred door off its iron frame.

“Wait, Superman… please, no more damage. It’s hard to get a repairman out here, and it’ll take ages to get the brig’s entrance replaced,” begs the old fat man with feigned sincerity.

“Then open this cell door, or I’ll tear this brig down,” demands Superman.

“Here, look, I have the key, Superman,” offers Bill as he produces a key from his pants pocket.

Superman releases his grip on the iron bars and steps back and away as Martin produces the key. “Make it quick, Martin,” orders Superman angrily.

Bill rubs the key between his fat fingers and then looks at Superman slyly. “Did you know there’s a native witch doctor, Moro, that lives on my island?  Quite powerful, too.”

“Moro?” asks Superman. “No, I do not. I don’t have time for these games, Martin. Now open those cell doors, or I’ll rip them off their hinges!” warns an enraged Superman.

“Well, come to find out Moro knows a great deal about you, Superman! Moro’s the old gentleman who caused that awful spell you experienced on that far away jungle airstrip you were on, a day or so ago… Superman,” explains Bill slyly as he re-pockets the key and withdraws a strange looking leather pouch in its place. The strange pouch is made of seasoned brown leather and is marked with strange symbols drawn with bright green paint!

Superman’s confidence seems to diminish as Bill re-pockets the key and produces the pouch. He stares at the strange pouch, then quickly rotates 360 degrees in a circle as he instinctively looks up and around the strong stone walls of the slave’s brig… a wave of sudden apprehension sweeps over him! He turns and asks the fat old man, dumbfounded, “How did you know about that? It was a continent away on a remote jungle airstrip! No one else was within 10 miles of that airfield!” 

“What’s the matter, Superman? Having second thoughts about having rushed to the “rescue” of your two pals?” asks Bill as he gestures to the leather pouch with his bullwhip.

“Moro gave me this pouch, Superman! Moro tells me it’s very big magic. Oh, how I’m going to enjoy taming “the mighty Superman” with this!” laughs Bill as shakes his bullwhip at Superman and prepares to spring the trap. Emboldened by the powerful magic he possesses, and Superman’s sudden doubts… the fat man audaciously steps in close to Superman. He caresses Superman’s trademark red and yellow “S” symbol emblazoned on his powerful chest, with his coiled leather bullwhip handle as he admires the handsome man standing before him. He grins wickedly as he mulls over the many humiliating scenarios of sexual perversion he will force the muscularly built young man to enact for his twisted pleasure!

Superman swallows hard, and shifts strangely nervous, as Bill continues to caress the coiled leather bullwhip across his powerful chest. Superman, lost in dark thought, contemplating if magic is a real threat to him. The idea… next to lunacy.

“Magic?!” wonders Superman softly aloud, under his breath, continuing to stare somewhat mesmerized at the strange pouch which Bill holds in his fat hand. Superman, then sharply aware of the man’s close proximity, and the coiled bullwhip seductively caressing his well-developed pecs… slipping over the protruding thrusts of his larger than normal-sized, sensitive nipples. The gross older man is leering at him lustfully, studying the quaver of his tall muscular frame intently. And he is alarmed by the arousing sensation of the tightly braided soft leather as it rubs the thin elastic fabric covering his thickly proud chest. Superman shudders, his stomach swirl-tightens—he instinctively steps back from the intrusive man’s coiled bullwhip and his uninvited, lewd advances.

 “The taste of leather, like Scotch, is an acquired one, Superman,” mocks Bill as Superman backs away. “In time, you’ll learn to savor the bite of my whip,” promises Bill as he eyes the contours of the strapping caped man’s body-revealing costume. Hardly believing the large bulge no less prominently curved at the base of his pubis. A fine stallion, indeed.

“Pervert,” spouts Superman with a look of disgust, and growing dis-ease. Yet his stomach still flips, a reaction to the look of lust in the unpleasant fat man’s eyes.

“I assure you, you’ll learn about my perversions first hand, Superman.  Anyway, where were we… ah yes! Big Magic, Superman! Moro used “magic” to bring you to your knees on that jungle airstrip. And I have that same big magic, right here in this pouch—! You have blundered into my trap, Superman! It is you who will be locked away in prison! Not me,” promises the fat man as he shakes the coiled bullwhip in Superman’s direction.

Superman warily recalls the excruciating, unexplained agony he suffered momentarily on that faraway jungle airstrip… and begins to piece the puzzle together. Martin, calmly waiting for him here this evening at the slave’s brig—Shawn revealing the brig’s exact location! This is a trap! Tarzan and Bomba are the bait! But Superman has put the puzzle together too late.

Bill casually tosses the strange pouch towards Superman. The pouch lands on the stone floor near Superman’s heavy red boots and instantly explodes in a bright, blinding green flash—poof-spraying the startled Man of Steel with sticky, bright green powder granules that coat his boots, costume, face and hands! “Didn’t your dad ever teach you to look before you leap?” asks Bill gleefully as the colored powder spews over the Man of Steel.

Superman coughs and gags as the green mist slowly dissipates; he spits out some of the green powdery goop that sprayed into his mouth. “What the…!” exclaims a flabbergasted Superman as he extends his muscled arms and looks at the garish green granules splayed on his hands; then looks down over his broad chest at the sticky powder adhering to his pecs, abs, legs and boots. He squints and wipes the bright green substance from his eyes with his large forearm. He chokes and coughs as he tries to clean the sticky mess from his arms and chest. Accompanied by a cold, yet warmly-numb seeping abomination, he can feel penetrating… even through his suit, into his skin

Chapter 5 “Snared Tight in the Pervert’s Trap”

“No, it can’t be!” shouts the green-dusted Superman fearfully, feeling suddenly as if being robbed of his great strength! Some witchery into him. A truly tingling, be-numbing sensation. “NO, NO!!” Superman quickly turns again towards Bomba’s cell—grabs the bars and pulls back hard, in a risen panic—and grunts loudly. The tall caped man’s biceps and leg muscles bulge in the elastic fabric impressively, his heavy red boots twist futilely and dig into the stone floor. But the waning, depleted Superman is unable to pull the iron bar door from the frame! Superman finally relaxes, his hands yet remaining tightly gripped onto the bars as he lowers his head and stares through the iron at Bomba sleeping naked—hooded as a dog. In a last attempt, he tries valiantly to use his super-vision to laser burn through the bars…. His stomach contracts queasily at the realization Martin has indeed stripped him of his superpowers! Superman groans disbelieving; he releases his grip on the bars and stares again at the green horror on his hands and arms. Was this magic some new form of Kryptonite? 

“Old age and treachery will overcome youth and vitality every time, Superman,” gloats Bill as he waits for the magic spell to take full effect. Suddenly Superman’s body stiffens and his eyes grow wide with a re-knowing fear; he swallows hard, doubles over slightly and clutches his stomach as a sudden intense wave of vertigo, weakness and nausea sweeps through him.

 “NO!” screams Superman as he brings his hand to his temple as another wave of unsteadiness sweeps over him. Superman shakes off the dizziness and again frantically tries to wipe the debilitating gooshy green from his chest arms and thighs as Bill laughs hysterically at Superman’s predicament.

Superman suddenly realizes it is futile to try to wipe the clingy goop from his costume; the more he rubs the more it sticks—he now instinctively yearns to flee, to escape the fat pervert’s trap. The Man of Steel weakly turns and slowly retreats away from the laughing fat man, staggering down the stone hallway using the bars of the empty row of prison cells for support… floundering, tottering. He must get away! What is happening—not to him!!!!

But the fat old man has anticipated Superman’s move and he uncoils his long, thick-braided bullwhip! “I insist you stay with me, now that you are here, Superman,” snickers the billionaire, as he hastily toddles after Superman, breathing heavily at the exertion. The fat man’s face turns into a broad smile as he begins to deftly whirl the cruel bullwhip menacingly above his head.

“I said, I insist you stay, Superman!” repeats Bill. His disgustingly layered belly shakes and jiggles as he lashes the whip expertly in the direction of the retreating Superman. There is a loud crack as the bullwhip strikes Superman’s powerful neck and wraps tightly around it several times. Superman head and body jerk backwards as the fat man pulls the bullwhip taunt. The caped hero cries out at the sting of the bullwhip and instinctively reaches up to free himself from the corded leather wrapped securely around his neck; the fat man is ready, and quickly pulls back hard again. Superman’s heavy boots slip on the smooth stone floor as the whip pulls him hard, whirling an unsteady and stunned once mighty Superman around 180 degrees. Bill does not allow Superman time to recover. He instantly yanks again, and Superman loses his balance and stumbles forward in aloud distress, falling heavily onto his hands and knees on the paved stone of the brig’s hallway. 

The fat man does not let up for an instant; he knows he has the strapping, failing hero tightly ensnared. “I’ve used a bullwhip since I was 12, Superman!” brags Bill as he quickly reels in the whip, using it as a leash. “Now crawl, Superman… crawl back to your pen!”

The fat man whistles softly as he turns and proudly waddles down the brig’s stone hallway, dragging a gasping and stun-weakened Superman behind him, who crawls unsteadily on his hands and knees, desperately clutching with one hand now and then at the leather wrapped tightly around his neck.

“Yes… I’m very proficient with this whip, Superman!” Superman tries to resist; he stops crawling and valiantly raises both hands to his neck, urgent to loosen the murderous garrote choking him. The fat man turns and pulls up hard on the bullwhip tightening it further around Superman’s neck.

“You still have a little strength left in you, hey, Superman?” squeals the fat pervert as he yanks the whip back even harder, dragging the hero forcefully down onto the stone floor. His blue clad, big chested captive hits the pavement hard, and weakly lays there breathing heavily, gasping to draw in a breath of air. “Just for that, you can crawl on your belly the rest of the way to your pen, Superman!”

Bill inhales deeply and farts loudly, jerking again on the bullwhip leash, forcing Superman to crawl on his belly, using only his elbows and knees for traction, the rest of distance down the brig’s hallway to his cell. It is an odd scene that transpires in the centuries old plantation brig. A mature, strapping and powerfully built Superman, the mighty Man of Steel, in his prime, forced to crawl on his belly… hopelessly secured on a leash held by a bald, older, weaker, and disgustingly obese man.

Intense waves of dizziness, weakness and nausea continue to rake through Superman, no less sweating profusely, as he finally reaches the iron bars of his cell door in the slave’s brig. Fat Bill pulls up strongly on the leash signaling for Superman to stop crawling. Superman halts his arduous crawl and collapses, his face craned to one side on the stone floor, still gasping. The whip that is wrapped cruelly around his neck burns savagely, as well as restricting his air. 

Bill unlocks Superman’s cell door and smiles down at the powerfully built man in his prime he has completely depowered… sweating, struggling for air on the floor below him. The old man chirps cheerfully, “Home sweet home, Superman;” as he swings the cell door wide open. “I was expecting you tonight, SuperBoy. Having had Vince and Shawn send you to me here, straightaway.”

“Superman looks up at Bill from the floor, his face and hair streaked an insidious green, with a dazed and pleading expression. He raises the hand of his powerful right arm to his throat and tries to futilely loosen the braided bullwhip from around his neck so he can breathe easier. Bill laughs and responds by reigning in the bullwhip to draw it tighter around Superman’s neck! “‘How the mighty are fallen!’ hey, Superman?” remarks the pervert coldly as Superman desperately tries to dislodge the evil choking, controlling him.

“No… the bullwhip stays wrapped tight around that strong neck of yours, Superman—until you pass out, from lack of air… kind of a like a wrestler’s sleeper hold,” explains the pervert. “Then I’ll be free to grope and fondle all those magnificent muscles that are now are my property, to my heart’s content, Superman!”

Superman gags and involuntarily belches as his stomach re-sickens at the thought of being “owned”—slave to a flatulent, fat pervert, appearing to soon be able to plunder his honed, male-wondrous body at will!

“Yes. I told Vince and Shawn to send you to me, Superman! I even told them to tell you where I was holding Tarzan and Bomba. You’re here tonight because I wanted you here, Superman!  Right next to your pal, Tarzan!” brags Bill as he pulls up on the bull-leash jerking Superman’s head hard, and tightening the whip to keep the strapping man from getting any relief!

“Now, crawl into your pen, boy! I want you to crawl into that pen willingly. It will be an act of your submission to me, and a demonstration of my dominance over you, Super-fuck. If not, I’ll make your pals suffer; and you can watch through the bars of your cell!” Superman gulps audibly, then groans loudly. He then obediently—unable to do otherwise, acknowledging his never imagined, impossible defeat—uses his remaining hazed strength to crawl on his belly past Bill to the center of the small cell. Fat Bill follows, waddling slowly behind Superman holding the hero’s leash tightly as he beams with pride! When Superman reaches the center of the cell, Bill jerks hard on the bullwhip leash signaling Superman to stop his slow crawl. Smiling at how easily he is already being taught to obey.

“Take a closer look at the presents on the floor I got just for you, Superman,” sneers the fat man, as Superman stares, still disbelieving, at the impossible ball gag and rubber clown hood he’ll soon be forced to wear.

“Say thank you for the gifts, Superman,” demands the old pervert. “Or you know what happens to your buds!”

Superman hesitates, and then chokes out the bitter words as he tries to catch a deep breath, his psyche near crumbling. “Thank… you, for… for the gifts.”

 “Oh, you’re welcome. Anyhow, to make a long story short, the magic goop spread over you will keep you weak and powerless. After it hardens, there is no getting your superpowers back, Superman,” explains Bill as pulls back once more on the whip roughly forcing Superman up onto his hands and knees. The fat man waddles back and yanks on the bullwhip hard again, this time bringing Superman fully up onto his knees. Superman, worse than exhausted, falters, kneels powerless before the old fat man—his big muscled arms at his sides and his head down, completely drained of his fabled strength! Bill rubs his fingers across the bright green tainted curly locks of Superman’s head and notes, “Still tacky… but almost dry, Superman! Soon you’ll be permanently stripped of your alien powers. Become… a merely compliant… earthly… automaton!”

In disbelieving terror, an encroaching horror—shearing through the MOS’s mind, spirit and emotions. Feeling the green—still benumbing, de-manning his whole being. He stares… mouth partially agape. Lips, and body tremoring. No, no, no, nooohh!! NOOOOOOOOHHHH!!!!  Unable to articulate.

The fat pervert grabs a fistful of Superman’s sticky, green-marred hair, twists and pulls back hard, stares down cruelly into his defeated Hercules’ stunned-wide eyes, and coldly says, “You can’t snap iron bars like strings of uncooked spaghetti anymore, Superman. The iron bars of this cell will now keep you imprisoned here! Moro says I can’t kill you—you’re still indestructible. But if you have no superpowers—you can now feel pain, fear, and humiliation! Though with most of your brain gone… will it matter?”

Superman does not answer, in a state of psychic disarray. The Man of Steel’s blue cringed eyes can only gaze at the old fat man with a look of dumb incomprehension. Bill snickers at the captive Superman’s vacuity.

“Once we’re finished here, I’ll return in few days… after you’ve had time to get over the “adjustment” of what’s happened this evening, Superman,” continues Bill. He releases his grasp of Superman’s hair, allowing his head to droop down, and hang listlessly over his once startlingly proud chest. Steeping back a few paces, “By then you’ll be ready to take a turn pushing my punishment wheel under a baking sun in our brig’s punishment yard, Superman! Then we’ll see how strong you really are without your super strength!  See how tough those wilting balls are… anything’s left.”

Chapter 6 “SuperKlown from Krypton”

Bill then yanks the whip again, Superman’s head jerks upright. “Pay attention, boy!'” he demands. Superman gazes meekly at Bill, with a numb-dazed expression, still strained. Unable to raise his powerful arms from his sides anymore: half unconscious, nearly strangled. Cannot speak; clearly in a state of shocked conquest. Weakly again he lowers his head, continuing to stare towards the grotesque rubber hood the fat old man has threatened to confine him with.

“Remember Superman, it was you who challenged me to try and put that hood over your handsome head.… I accepted your challenge, and witness the result! Now it is you, who is down on your knees,” mocks the fat pervert. “Where is your so-great strength, your confidence, now?”

Bill waddles back and around, and pulls the whip taunt and forward; the weakened Superman plunges back down onto his hands and knees. The fat man quickly re-rounds Superman and drives the foot of his stubby, strong leg hard between Superman’s shoulder blades, covered by his crimson cape, applying the full weight of his mass, and easily driving the MOS’s face down to the cell floor! Superman chokes and gurgles, as Bill uses his fat leg to push Superman’s chest hard into the stone floor, while simultaneously pulling as hard as he can on the leash wrapped firmly around his neck. “Time for my version of the old sleeper hold, Superman!”

The corpulent man breathes hard and farts loudly at the exertion. Superman squirms urgently on the cell floor. His powerful biceps and triceps bulge in the skintight fabric of his costume as he instinctively tries, paws uselessly, to save and free himself from the coiled bullwhip unmercifully tightened around his neck.

“Lights out Superman!” taunts Bill to Superman.

Bill keeps his foot planted squarely between Superman’s caped shoulder blades, the tension of the bullwhip leash drawn taut, cutting off his captured man’s air supply—who makes renewed, frantic, but wan and futile gurgling sounds of resistance. In less than a minute it is over…. Ensnared and depowered, the largely muscled Superman succumbs to the weaker pervert’s sleeper hold, and falls into an irredeemable, non-conscious state on the stone floor of his prison cell. His inert mass barely twitching, tremoring.

“Well… that was easier than I thought. The “would-be rescuer,” to suffer the same fate as his boys in distress!” gloats Bill. Confident Superman is no longer a threat, he drops his snare, allowing the bullwhip’s handle to slip away and steps off the fallen hero. Bill snickers and breathes strenuously, bending to use his arms, then his shoes, to roll Superman off of his stomach and onto his back. Superman’s big arms and hands flop near lifelessly to his sides. Bill smiles down at the unconscious Man of Steel, sprayed with the alarming, green powdery granules that are smeared into the red and blue elastic fabrics of his costume.

The old fat pervert rubs his hands together as he gazes at his overwhelmingly muscular prize and licks his lips; his dream has come true—Superman belongs to him! No doubts, no question. The fat man again grunts and farts loudly as he lowers his lumbering frame to kneel behind Superman’s head. The pervert lifts Superman’s slack, green-coated head and drops it into his lap.

“Time to shut you up for good, boy,” soothes the fat old man as he rapidly un-wraps the bullwhip from around Superman’s neck and then tosses it out into the brig’s hallway. Bill grabs the ball gag and quickly shoves the black rubber orb deep into Superman’s mouth and buckles the leather straps as tight as he can snugly behind his neck. The hard black leather straps bite deeply into Superman’s cheeks and retain the cruel ball in his mouth gagging him. Bill quickly retrieves the heavy rubber clown mask and looks at it with satisfaction. The mask is made of thick, pure white rubber and has only two air holes in the nosepiece—effectively rendering the wearer deaf, blind, and speechless. The rubber hood has curly orange hair implanted on the top; it has a bright, red ball nose, and wild, crazed-looking plastic green eyes inset into the main face. The hood also wears a perpetual big, broken-tooth smile surrounded by thick red lips.

Bill drops the rubber hood next to Superman’s head. The old man holds Superman’s head in his lap and uses his fat hand to rub the tacky green powdery goop more deeply into the sculpture of Superman’s face and richly thick, dark hair… until his head is completely encased in green. He then rolls Superman’s head from side to side in his fat lap as he studies the now painted, yet still chiseled features of Superman’s face. “No one will gaze upon this handsome face again, pretty boy,” promises Bill. “You were no match for Moro’s big magic! I have dragged the king from his throne… now, I’ll make him my jester!” crows Bill aloud.

As Bill’s words echo through the brig he turns his leering gaze at Superman’s powerful chest, large biceps, and thighs tightly contained in the blue elastic fabric of his bodysuit. He cannot resist the urge to trace the S on his chest with his finger several times as he admires the magnificent body that is now his property. He reaches across and pinches one of Superman’s well-developed pectorals and feels the hardness of the large muscle, the surprisingly huge erected thickness of one of his nipples, through the mussed green-stained fabric. Superman stirs instantly, moans soft-strongly through the ball gag; torso arches. One of his last to be made sounds. The true treasuring of his prominent man-breasts, an ecstasy he will never know again.

The fat hand again drops further, cupping over the staggeringly large, yet firmly pliable mound between his captive Titan’s thighs. Once more, the downed muscle-god, from which is elicited definite, groaned-sighs of manly pleasure—his hips surge, yearning for embrace.

“Oh, my, oh, my…!” Bill coos. “BIG boy, indeed! But alas, once Moro’s magic has destroyed your nuts, as he said it would—what do you need them for anyway?—your “tower of power” may never rise again. Although you can still bend over, be our island’s main receiver. What I’ve always had in mind.” The garblings rising, then fading, as he ceases his explorations. Eyes still closed. Only a few deep rumbles from the alien’s chest and throat.

“Go back to sleep, Superman. I have you right where I want you… weak and powerless: a prisoner in my brig! Right where you belong.” Satisfied beyond satisfaction.

“Now… the main event!” Bill smiles and picks-up the thick, heavy rubber hood and studies it for a moment. “Great movie,” grunts the fat man as he spreads the sturdy elastic bottom opening apart, and fits the rubber hood onto the top of Superman’s head that lies between his kneeling fat legs. The obese man grunts and again passes gas loudly as he struggles to get the tight-fitting hood down over Superman’s head. After several attempts, Bill succeeds in getting the obscene item over him, totally encasing his head in the form-fitting mask. Once the hood is in place, he quickly buckles the hood’s constraining collar as tight as he can; then he locks the hood’s restraining buckle in the rear with a small padlock.

Bill admires his handiwork for several minutes as he rubs Superman’s powerful shoulders. “The green goop is completely dry!” observes Bill as he continues to rub the shoulder, “Now… the spell is complete! Superman’s superpowers are erased permanently!” smirks Martin.  The much lesser man, having proven himself the more clever—who has vanquished the invincible, invulnerable, once mighty Man of Steel!

“I’ll leave you with your friends now, Superman… you all must have a lot of catching up to do… hey, boys?” laughs Bill as he grunts loudly to raise his obese frame to stand. Superman’s hooded head drops out of the fat man’s lap as Martin manages to raise his lumbering frame to his feet. He then and snickers loudly at his handiwork. “What a day! Superman is a prisoner in my brig… stripped of his great powers, and now hooded as a clown! The joke’s on you, Superman,” cackles Bill as he slowly waddles around Superman kicking his powerful arms and legs wide apart so that he is displayed spread-eagled, face up.

“Good night, muscle boy… I’ll be back to give you a personal tour of the punishment yard in a few days,” promises Bill as he ambles out of Superman’s cell and then closes and locks the cell door. He looks from side to side at Tarzan and Bomba still sleeping naked on the cold stone floors of their cells, oblivious to Superman’s failed rescue attempt and smiles; he takes one last look at the humiliated Man of Steel—laid knocked out cold, and spread-eagled on the stone floor of his cell—sprayed a garish bright green, and wearing his clown’s hood. He snickers and rubs his hands together. Satisfied with his evening’s work, the fat man turns away from Superman’s cell; he grunts loudly as he bends over and picks-up his bullwhip. 

Bill looks through the prison bars at Superman as he re-coils his long bullwhip and remarks, “Now that you’re a clown, the name Superman just won’t do! I’ll have to call you SuperKlown from now on. Yes… your name is now SuperKlown!” beams Bill as he admires the latest addition to his collection of humiliated heroes.

“Capturing Superman was easier than I ever dreamed possible—magic, who would have thought?! Chains, guns, knives, and missiles could not stop Superman… but a small pouch of green powder kicked in his face, let an old fat man like me beat the crap out of him!!” laughs Martin as he trundles down the brig’s hallway, dragging the handle of his coiled bullwhip along the bars of the empty cells… satisfied his growing collection of heroes is safely locked away for the night!

“Hunter will now be forced to fulfill our bargain, and bring the Dynamic Duo in chains to me here… payment for taking and neutralizing Superman—I mean, SuperKlown—before he jailed Hunter for kidnapping Tarzan and Bomba!” he muses.

 “Is it me, or is Robin, the Boy Wonder, hot?” asks the jubilant fat man as he approaches the brig’s entrance. He stops momentarily and surveys the extensive damage Superman inflicted on his brig’s entrance… noting the crippled iron door frames and then the tall heavy ornate iron bar doors smashed and strewn over the jungle floor.

“This damage was uncalled for. I offered to open the gate—but no, the big hero had to get all macho and show me what his muscles could do.  I’ll just have to devise a fitting punishment for SuperKlown,” promises Bill as he tosses the bullwhip onto the passenger’s seat, and then squeezes his fat frame into his white Jeep. He pats his belly, farts again, and takes off.

THE END OF BOOK III.