The Hunter and company have departed for NYC to capture Spider-man, who is destined to become the 6^th unwilling member of Bill’s Martin’s twisted, pervertedly abused menagerie of captive heroes, which he keeps on his private island of San Miguel. Bill ends a call and tosses his cell onto the wrought-iron table under the shade of the large, white cotton tarp which provides shade from the blazing tropical sun. His chair creaks under his prodigious weight as the old man leans back and gazes out into his brig’s sun-drenched punishment yard. For the old pervert’s enjoyment, he has Superman performing for him today. Thus, for hours under the blazing tropical orb, the former demigod, Superman, the Man of Steel (although absorbing the rays of the life-giving, muscle-strengthening sun, but which cannot yet rekindle his spiritual and sexual destruction), he struggles alone to push the great grinding wheel around its stone track, supervised by the ever-attentive Raul, Bill’s cruel combination jailer-overseer.

Superman, stripped of his awesome superpowers by powerful “island magic,” is naked except for his scuffed-up torn red boots, and the tattered remains of his dulled crimson red cape adorned with its yellow “S” symbol on its outer side. The drenched cape adheres to Superman’s sweat-soaked skin, clearly defining his powerful muscular shoulders, lower back, ample-sculpted buttocks, and cord-striated thighs; the old man smiles as Raul puts the lash to Superman’s backside. Some days the cape is allowed as a mild protection; other days it is not. Nonetheless, the conquered alien’s beautifully large and heavy testicles, hung approximately eight inches below his richly dark-haired pubis, are ever daily brush-coated with the evil green—keeping him castrated as he breathes. And even when abused, as he is most often, any shred of joy he could possibly have experienced by thickly ejaculating… is thus curtailed. (His Cowper’s flow, and prostate juice still function copiously; but the abundance of his rich seed ejaculate has been impaired.) Martin has effectively gelded him (since no knife could have done it). Sure, he could have had the testes tied off tightly instead, till they withered completely, but preferred to observe their ever-manly mass… gloating, that by his very own clever hands, they were rendered completely impotent—as was the also further thickly-long, twelve-inch flaccid penis, dangling in front of them. A pendulous reminder of his male-uselessness and thorough de-manning.

The crack of the overseer’s whip is heard loud over the sweltering jungle’s din. The lash strikes Superman, further shredding into his sweat-soaked crimson cape that hangs and sticks to his powerful backside. Superman stiffens at the stinging kiss of Raul’s braided leather bullwhip—he screams an albeit muffled cry through the ball gag inserted and retained deep into his mouth between his teeth. In response to the lash, Superman’s once polished bright red boots instinctively dig deep into the sandy dirt. His leg muscles contract urgently and his powerful legs extend for more leverage against the great wheel. His big hands, now well-calloused, clench the rough-hewn oak handle of the grinding stone tighter, as the orange mop of hair atop the grotesque clown hood brightly flashes its garish color. The fallen champion shifts his body weight to bring his muscles to bear against the task at hand. Superman lowers his hooded head to put more of his broad back into his task. A fine sheen of perspiration covers Superman’s great, haired chest, and his still titan-like biceps, triceps and calves, extending out from beneath the sweat-laden cape. The well-developed muscles shimmer gloriously under the bright tropical sunlight. The rippling sinews and muscles seeming to dance a ballet of their own, as they continually expand and contract in their effort to keep the great wheel moving. Blind, and in a relative, unable to be spoken-through silence within the confining hood, Superman continues the arduous, endless task to keep the great wheel moving and be spared further punishment inflicted from Raul’s nasty whip. If he has any thought processes at all, they are geared, in his darkness, to avoid unnecessary pain at all costs—having never known true pain, prior to the horror in which he now exists and founders.

The old man takes a soothing sip from his iced drink as he sighs contently at the scene he has waited a lifetime to witness. The mighty Superman subjugated—made into a slave, forced to perform hard labor for his amusement! Bill complacency is rudely interrupted when Superman unexpectedly stumbles and falls hard to both knees in the sandy dirt completely exhausted. The wheel immediately grinds to halt as Superman kneels panting on his knees in exhaustion—his muscled arms limp at his sides and his hooded-head lowered. Superman is tanked; he is not even able to stand unassisted much less push the great grinding wheel any further today. Superman remains kneeling in the sandy dirt—his bare knees and legs covered with sand that sticks to his wet skin. His cannon-ball shoulders and broad back are draped in his sweat-soaked cape, which covers his bare buttocks and pool over his red calf-high boots that support his carved gluteals.

Raul is furious and begins to swear loudly in Spanish through the cigar clenched between his teeth. He draws back his bullwhip prepared to exact punishment from Superman for daring to stop. “Raul! That’s enough!” bellows the pervert from his shaded observation post overlooking the exercise yard. “Give him some water, or we might have to carry the Klown off the field—pussy-fuck!!” he snorts in disgust. “Then, stock Superman until sunset.  Let the blazing sun punish him for being disobedient!  Raul, after you stock him… get him excited… make him squirm for me. You know!”

Raul takes the cigar from his mouth and tosses it to the ground. “Si, senior,” shouts Raul with a pleased look as he drops his bullwhip to the ground next to his cigar. He takes off his white canvas safari hat and wipes his brow with a white bandana. He pockets the rag and returns his hat to his head. Raul swears an obscenity in Spanish as he grabs Superman by his sweaty biceps and raises him roughly to his feet. Raul is shirtless and wears worn jungle camouflaged pants and black polished combat boots. He is a big, strapping Cuban, though shorter, with a roughly muscular stocky build, similar to the Man of Steel’s, but never nearly as fine, nor defined nor massively beautiful—several years younger than Superman, and certainly never as favorable to look upon. He is a wrangler and rodeo rider by trade, who did a few gigs with the Mexican Rodeo. Now, he is employed by Bill Martin to run his rodeo of defeated superheroes—tasked with overseeing the old fat pervert’s growing collection of both younger and older fallen heroes. Much like a Nazi…. Then, repicks up his whip.

Raul grins as he leads the thoroughly trounced Superman roughly by his arm. The former Big Blue is disorientated as well as confused; Superman is completely unaware of what is happening as he is completely mute within the thick rubber clown hood, and unable to hear any verbal commands. Raul leads Superman staggering, unsteadily towards a set of medieval wooden stocks nearby. Superman is a pathetic sight shuffling and stumbling weakly along, led by a strapping shirtless younger Latin bully! Superman’s powerful chest heaves up and down as it expands and contracts trying to take precious air into cruel hood’s small metal nostril holes. Superman’s Latin overseer is a master at the art of humiliation. He keeps his Gringo prisoner mostly naked, forcing him to wear his crimson cape and red boots. A constant reminder, if only by the touch of them on his body to the broken Gringo… how far he has fallen! Most of the world would stand in awe of the mighty Man of Steel. But there are those like Raul who are envious of Superman and his superpowers. Not to mention his magnificent physique, muscular strength, and other-earthly, exceptional endowments. For Raul it was a very short step from envy to hate—even as a well-hung man, himself… a hard nine, of which he often crows about loudly. Still ever pissed to view the over-endowed alien daily, though smugly joyful he can’t use it, except for pissing.

While he reluctantly allows his charge to pause a few moments, inserting the thick straw in his mouth-hole, so he can consume nearly half a gallon of water, he slaps at his leg impatiently with the whip handle. Remembering the famous image of Superman, standing behind a fluttering American flag… dressed in his crisp bright red and blue spandex costume, still burned into Raul’s memory. Superman’s fine crimson cape billowing grandly in the breeze—his calf-high brightly polished red leather boots—all symbols of Superman’s superpower and greatness!  Not to mention his broad, thick-thrust pecs, tiny waist, and bulging, remarkable crotch… never sought to be hidden, but rather ego- displayed! Never obscenely. But nevertheless, causing great consternation and jealousy among those nowhere near his class… nor virtues, much less his assets. And look at him now!

Now the unthinkable has happened… Superman has been overthrown and enslaved! The once magnificent crimson cape emblazoned with the world famous “S” symbol which Superman still wears—sweat-soaked, soiled, and shredded. The spoiled garment hangs from his underarm shoulder harness like an old red dishrag barely covering his naked rear-side—its tattered edges brushing Superman’s powerful calf muscles as Raul stumbles him blindly towards the stocks. His magnificent alien-crafted red leather boots are now pock-scuffed, streaked, and torn… the soles worn through from pushing the great wheel for hours on end. The boots no longer fit his feet properly; Superman’s feet flop loosely around in the stretched boots when he walks. And they hurt constantly, blisters forming, broken, re-callousing over, from day to day… even if still somehow healed by his exposure to the yellow sun—but never completely.

Ahhh, they will soon have to replace them, just to keep things going.

When the pair reaches the stocks, Raul easily slumps the strapping, caped man wearing his worn   boots into the open stocks, roughly placing his neck and arms into the appropriate receptacles. The stocks are simple in design consisting of a thick wooden support beam topped by a horizontal wooden beam with openings for a man’s neck and wrists. The stock’s heavy hinge creaks loudly followed by a thud as Raul quickly brings the wooden restraining piece of the stock down over Superman’s neck and wrists. Raul latches and locks the metal latch effectively, restraining the Man of Steel, who is still saggingly standing in an upright position with his hooded head and wrists constrained—his head tilted forward, wrists stocked to either side of his head. Raul stands behind Superman and smirks with contempt; he looks at the once superhero’s yellow “S” symbol on the back of the red-ragged cape, now adhering to his sweaty backside.

 “You no Superman, now—El Maricon, Gringo,” comments Raul out loud in broken English. Raul grins as he steps in closer to Superman and reaches down to where the cape’s edge sticks to his left-calve muscle just above his scuffed up red boot. He takes the cape’s bottom edge and casually peels the wet cape off Superman’s calves, legs, buttocks and broad back; he then tosses the sweat saturated cape over the top of the stock to allow the blazing tropical sun to drench Superman’s fully naked backside. Superman well knows what is about to unfold, inwardly bracing himself. This has happened before, times past counting.

Raul looks the powerful, rear-splayed form of the stocked man up and down for few seconds. Raul grins again and then kicks Superman’s torn and scuffed red boots roughly apart, spreading his powerful legs wider. He smirks as he kneels down and quickly ties off each red leather boot with a black nylon cord to hold Superman’s legs in position, and forward into the frame. He finishes securing both calf-high boots wide apart and then stands behind Superman admiring his handiwork—looking the well-proportioned muscular body up and down again. Raul retrieves his whip, and calmly relights a new cigar, then moves in close behind Superman. Raul reaches around and clamps one tight-gloved hand around Superman’s dangling, massive tool, and begins to work him. Raul simultaneously slowly inserts the bullwhip’s smooth ivory handle between Superman’s firm sweaty buttocks with his free hand and applies inward pressure. It is cruelly hard and stiff and unyielding.  Worse than unpleasant. Superman’s soft, vulnerable anal tissues resist and try to reject the assault. Pain is not the word for it; soon he will be bleeding.

The orange mop of hair atop the clown’s hood shakes and Superman’s closed fists begin to twist restrained in the stock—his leg muscles contract instinctively and pull wildly at the cords that hold his legs wide apart; his scuffed up red boots twist and grind in the sandy dirt, protesting the intrusion directed at his private parts and ass crack. Superman’s loud, but garbled screams are deep muffled by the ball gag… and while there is a sense of sexual arousal, his wondrous cock can never but only one third harden, making Raul work him more angrily, strenuously, the whip handle penetrating further and further. (Not exactly an inner nightmare for the broken MOS, who had often plundered his own ass with his own cock when free and alone and in need; but this was an evil, and unrelenting, ungiving atrocity!! Entirely different. And hideous.) Raul smiles as Superman’s buttocks tighten desperately together resisting the rape—but he counters quickly by releasing the mostly flaccid alien’s tool and squeezing the Man of Steel’s balls hard, until the captive’s pain causes his buttocks to relax…and he is free to continue the penetration.

From his vantage point in the cool shade Bill watches Raul sodomize the Man of Steel. He sighs with pleasure and adjusts his own hard-on within his stained white pants, literally drooling as Superman is sexually tormented by Raul. Bill manages to tear himself away from the debauchery unfolding for a moment; he glances at the very special lead box on the table lying next to his cell phone—a lead box the Hunter left with him before he departed. He takes the box up with his fat fingers and opens it. The old man smiles at the contents. 

Within the gray lead box is a green glowing, rough-hewn stone about the size of a golf ball. Bill smile grows wider and thinks: I finally have Kryptonite, thanks to that bungling Batman! If you ever manage to regain your superpowers, Superman, I’ll be ready with this piece of green Kryptonite! You are my property, SuperKlown, and this green stone will see to it that you remain my property… until I put you out of your misery, and kill you with it, boy! You’re not proud and mighty anymore, Superman; and I’ll see to it you will never be proud and mighty again! You’re maybe still a little stronger than some juiced up Mr. Olympia, as long as you can feed from the sun; but not much more than that. Your other abilities are less than ordinary, now… could not even sire a rabbit! You’ve been my prisoner for months now… soon the months will turn into years! This is your existence, Superman.  So ironic! The fact that I am making you perform useless hard labor under a blazing yellow sun that once gave you all your mighty superpowers! Yet are still reduced to being an impotent eunuch, with only a tenth of your once great strength.

Bill’s mental rant is cut short when he hears a bird’s sudden annoying screech from a vantage point high above the punishment yard. It is the second time he has seen this big black bird that is not indigenous to his tropical island. The old man first noticed the creature this morning, staring down through the barred windows at the naked occupants of his heroes’ brig; now again here, watching the punishment yard.

Bill watches the large black feathered creature closely for several more minutes and says to himself, “Bah! Stupid bird – you’re welcome to watch Superman’s humiliation too!” The fat old pervert dismisses the nosey bird and closes the lead box containing the rare piece of green Kryptonite. He lovingly caresses the lead box with his fat fingers as he returns his attention back to Raul’s continuing perversion with the ivory bullwhip handle. He sips his cold drink again and then sighs in satisfaction relishing the scene – the once proud and mighty Superman being sodomized by the stalwart, determined Cuban bully in his employ!

He hears Superman finally muffle-screech a higher tone, arch crazily still in his bent forward position… knows the hero has painfully climaxed, rivering forth a spew of thick, notable fluid, yet blood-tinged, from his still wan and depowered penis… albeit its content lifeless as cactus juice, and not even as pleasurable. He’d seen to that. Couldn’t have had his prostate removed, either. But, a lot of good it would do him. Probably now the only tiny pleasure left in his dismal existence, even if could only be obtained forcefully, and no less painfully. And watching him struggle and thrash was so much fun in the process.

——————–

Far away from the twisted debauchery, on the far side of the island, a tall handsome young man stands in silence with his eyes closed receiving the perverted images the bird is transmitting to him from the punishment yard.  His expression is grave as his mind’s eye watches a powerless Man of Steel, stocked and naked near a brick-and-mortar brig with a large grinding stone. The captive victim, a powerfully built adult man, is partially draped only in a raggedly worn, and crumpled red cape with a strange yellow symbol, and wearing some overly scuffed red boots. The stocked white, though deeply tanned man, is being brutally, sexually violated repeatedly by a man of lesser, yet similar size with darker skin. The young man continues to watch the events transpire as he has off and on the entire day. His minds races formulating a rescue plan for the five heroes he has found to be secretly imprisoned in the island’s 18^th century slave’s brig. This abomination must cease!

The young man is fair, smooth-skinned, with medium-length dirty blond hair and brown eyes – about 27 years of age. He, too, is finely tanned, and his physique is that of one more than well-made in all respects.  Even his large endowment was stirred to look upon the famed one called Superman, whom he could easily 2/3 match… though indulgences with his own sex had been quite rare, yet wondrously pleasant, so far he was mostly inclined to seek females for more enduring congress. The strong, muscular young man is clad only in short, uniform medium-wide strips of dark leather which hang vertically from a narrow belt wrapped around his athletic waist, under which he has contained himself in a notably packed undersling to protect his movements. He is also wearing calf-high, soft leather boots, and dark brown elbow-length gauntlets. Clenched in one of his big fists is a bone white quarterstaff adorned with strange black symbols. After a few minutes he opens his eyes for he has seen enough! His expression remains grim as he rubs a small white, oblong amulet surrounded by a dark wood frame which hangs from his neck by a leather cord… between the mounds of his more than amply sculpted pectorals, adorned with nearly two-inch wide, dark areolae, thickly-budded with grape-like projections.

Much of why he had looked upon this “Superman,” with such awe, admiration, and no less a stirring…. An inherent kinship of sorts seemed evident.

He turns to his companion of a bit lesser age and smaller stature and says, “The Seeress of Kreel spoke the truth! Her vision from this dimension was clear—defenders of the righteousness have been overthrown by evildoers! My task is to set these defenders free; thus, setting things aright again!” 

“Dar – please – I counsel caution – we do not know what forces are at work here in this strange world!  I have learned there is a magic man – a witchdoctor named Moro not far from here. Let me go seek his wise counsel, and see what I can learn about the evil island master you have come to overthrow.”

Dar looks up towards the sun that is yet hours from setting in the streaked, western sky. “Very well, Tao. But go quickly. Get back here to me as soon as you can. I strike the prison at dawn—I intend to free these men, and ladle out swift justice to the fat old man. But we must be swift. The portal back to our world opens at high noon tomorrow; thus we must conclude our business here by then.”

“I’ll be back before the sun sets, Dar,” promises Tao as he scurries off towards Moro’s small compound. As Tao disappears into the dense jungle, Dar, the Beastmaster of Kreel, closes his eyes again. Dar sighs and sullenly bites his lower lip as the images of the sexual depravity being inflicted on Superman return to his mind’s eye. He is angered, and no less in mourning, for what he has seen the great hero endure. He must save him. And the rest.

To be continued…