Superman, The Downward Spiral
Revised, edited, embellished, and brought to a reasonable conclusion by Rick Henry, even if not entirely plausible, 03-2022.
Comments by Rick Henry: The original story ended with Superman merely depowered, Dennis headed off for a shower, and Adam about to have his way with the MOS. That was it! – However, I added much more into it before that event, including the piercing, padlocking, and ultimate further horror the MOS was struck with… pleading for his release and freedom. Thus the orig. was very inconclusive and rather empty—I fixed it more concretely.
Disclaimer: Superman and some characters within are owned by D.C. Comics. This is a work of fan fiction: sexually explicit content for mature readers only. (All artwork credited, and permissions given to use.).
Chapter 1: The Villain’s Discovery.
Loud cracks of thunder echoed through the chilled Metropolis evening, followed by dazzling flashes of a glowing white as the bolts of lighting struck far off in the distance. A storm was coming to town, one that was sending but only the most stalwart individuals running for safety.
Deep in his mansion on the hill overlooking the city, a snifter of brandy in one hand, a cigar clenched firmly in his teeth, Lex Luthor sat in his empty study stewing over exactly how to proceed. The light from the fireplace danced across his smooth bald dome, his bathrobe lay carelessly open. The screen on the wall was playing the startling images in a loop.
There it was on the screen, his nemesis, Superman, transforming back into the mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent. All the proof he ever needed—the careless hero caught on film, never expecting to be discovered by a secret camera poised directly above an innocuous broom closet. Of course, Luthor had had it and others installed when he purchased the Daily Planet, never expecting such a discovery. Keeping tabs on the various employees and their activities was always a wise move. But there it was, displayed for his eyes to see—his eyes only. Yet as he felt his sizeable malehood stiffen, he knew they would not be the only pair to gaze on such a surprising revelation.
Luthor briefly felt the fool for not realizing and making the connection before. The stuffy suits, studious and even somewhat dweeby glasses, had actually been enough to fool him for decades. The demure, but no less notably “built” Clark Kent, had seemingly had everyone disarmed as a self-effacing bumbler, regardless of his shoulder size and farm boy coyness. Of course, Lex’s current self disgust was quickly replaced with a sinister sense of over-zealous glee, his mind pondering the possibilities that lay ahead. Their two life paths now linked forever, and in his mind, they would soon strikingly take unimaginable adherent, though diverse paths.
He finally had the proof he needed, the reporter’s secret identity was no more. Superman and Clark Kent were one and the same! And Lex held all the cards.
It had been years of trying to foil earth’s greatest champion, and being denied at every turn. Each plot and plan ending usually with Luthor temporarily behind bars, or committed to an asylum. Of course, his vast wealth assured his stays were never lengthy, or arduous. The law itself was composed of a den of weasels; you just had to ferret them out. In one state, murder was a death penalty; in another, a token slap on the wrist. People were so inconsistent, and often plainly stupid. No, the law was not fair. Or by rights, he would be in the bottom tiers of a long, forgotten fortress, with no hope of escape before the age of 140. The multitude of his devious dealings forever overtoppling him.
Now he sat in his study, watching the same twelve seconds of footage… his mind plotting the best way to use such information. He wanted the hero to be caught completely off guard. He wanted him to be made aware of his discovery, and be threatened with exposure, teased with it—always wary that the secret Luthor possessed could be made known throughout the whole world—unless he followed “orders!” Did exactly as he was told. He wanted to turn the hero into a panic-stricken shell of his former heroic self. His fear of exposure leading him down a path to his own inevitable super-embarrassment, if not complete destruction.
Of course, a simple leaking of the footage would be too quick. Luthor wanted to savor it, and by so doing prolong the hero’s paranoia. He wanted the hero reduced to such an anxiety-ridden wreck, he might actually beg to be exposed, just so his mental torment could end. His shame and worry, causing him to comply with tasks so deviant and un-heroic, that even to mention them would damn him to the public…. Of course, all of these acts would be filmed for posterity —in case the hero, fearing a more ultimate exposure, just might decide to cower and vanish. And thus, finally be done with his “Super” career: never able to return with any justification whatsoever.
He knew it would work, his plan was without flaw—his chance to change the perception history had of both of them. To show Superman and the world who was truly the MOST powerful being on the planet! He pressed a button on a remote control of the chair, and the screen changed. It was a film of a well-rehearsed role play session which Luthor had coerced two handsome escorts perform for him.
One of the escorts was dressed in a skin-hugging Superman costume, and was a very passable likeness for the hero himself, if a tad shorter. The other, a taller, even more muscular blond was dressed in a gold suit, with a yellow cape, his golden locks reaching his shoulders. The film was at Luthor’s favorite part. The fake Superman had reached into his shorts, pulled them down over his cabled thighs, and was fondling himself… as Luthor watched from his bed. The blond man, bearing more then a passing resemblance to Nuclear Man, was riding the very happily drilled MOS from behind. Luthor in the film then exposed himself to the fallen hero, who graciously and adoringly gazed at the rigid, fine phallus, his eyes lighting up. He then drew closer, still being fucked, knelt, and encompassed Luthor’s shaving can-sized (but a bit longer) manhood completely into his mouth… and the faces of the hero-surrogates disappeared from view.
The boys were well paid, and very well-built; the blond the largest, and the smaller one more on the lines of a lesser Kent: each of their endowments better than Luthor’s himself (lesser around, but between nine and ten inches in length)… but never as fine overall as the larger fabled alien’s, indeed; although anyone into men would have gone squirrely to have either one of them on their sheets.
Luthor, as he had many times before, slowly reached for his hard throbbing maleness, and gave in to the lustful twists of his desire: a mere eight and a half, more than thick, and endearingly serviceable. He’d lately been considering silicone injections, to further surpass his “boys”—why not? Make them howl for a change…. Maybe when he’d downed the MOS he would. (And give him an “in-service” lesson, as well!)
The hero’s quiet patrol of the cool, damp sky over his favorite city was routine. He could see nothing of alarm with his powerful distant/x-ray vision, aside from the usual petty crimes and misdemeanours that took place nightly in cities throughout the planet. He felt the first rain drops splash down on his dark-haired head and cape-muscled back, and decided to retreat to the apartment he shared with Lois. Finished with his nightly patrol, he breathed a relaxed sigh and alighted on his terrace… oblivious to the looming danger that was soon about to unfold.
The apartment was quiet, but Lois had left aromatic candles burning in the living room. Jasmine and roses filled his nostrils, bringing a smile to his face as he came in through balcony doors under the cover of darkness… Lois, long gone to bed. Once inside, he quickly stripped off his costume—ever loving to be boldly naked—exposing his gloriously honed six-foot four inch, two hundred sixty-pound frame, tightly packed with manly muscle… with a penis that heavily soft was easily ten plus inches, (and at full salute a perfectly thick 12 long, by 7 ¾ around), with paired testicles the bulk of extra-large plums. It was but a few seconds before he was undressed, only in his cape, his hand reaching up to untie it—truly enjoying the intoxication, the feel and heft of his nudity—and shrugged casually, letting the thick silken garment fall carelessly to the floor.
By accident, he caught his naked reflection in the black glass of the 60 by 32-inch wall screen television, and admired his visage for a brief moment. He knew of his reputation as a heart throb and lust object, but had never really much pondered himself to others in such a way… (only to his own self: the sight of his nakedness having always been a secretly hidden aphrodisiac). Suddenly his loins stirred, felt himself hardening, and reached down and over to give his stiffening member a few loving tugs. Being alone, no harm—nothing new, had always enjoyed his assets, privileged self indulgences, for long years past counting.
He felt his body tremor at the pleasured sensations his hand was eliciting. Instinctively, he also teased at his rapidly filling, hard and now elongated nipples… soon in reverie, almost lost his footing, and was moan-gasping, as he easily caved backwards, collapsing onto the cool brown leather sofa. One hand slowly fist-dancing his magnificent member, the other treasuring his alien large teats into wetness. Which also on many occasions would spurt wildly if he didn’t stop… his mouth simply taking them in, one each at a lingering time, nursing voraciously from them. (The clandestine renewing of his great strength from his own milk, which he’d never dared nor wanted to tell Lois about—his own unique and special secret. Not to mention the additional taking of the heated rush of his own seed into his mouth, too. An addiction he could not ever do without. But as a man, must never tell. A further exigent for maintaining his superb powers, besides the invigorating radiations of the sun. And it was beyond the most cherished of wonders, not only necessary, but an unparalleled ecstasy. Something she could never give to nor do for him, indeed.)
After nearly an hour of his solo, edging erotic game, and three ejaculates, his body was coated in sweat, his breast nectars and semen all over himself, the living room filled with the scents of his vibrant musks. Thank goodness for the aromatic candles to help diffuse such narcissistic play. It was getting late and he knew he needed some rest to recharge, so he decided to finish himself off once more, and this time more thoroughly.
He sat up partially, his back more at a slant, and proceeded to take full manual control. He threw one arm carelessly over his head, relishing the sweat of his man pits. Then he licked the palm of his right hand and reached down and began to grip-squeeze his cock at the base, slapping its half-softening weight against his upper abs and chest, grunting sweetly. Even after three rounds, it quickened again, was still eager and ready. While he then with his other hand, cupping under one pec and lifting, also easily tucked his chin and suck-chewed on his nipples, going from one to the other, devouring the whole shafts of each, including their broad areolae—his juices beyond rich, potent, and sweet like pre-cum. His brain ringing with his own intoxication.
And too, aroused by the thick, loud slap of his weight-glistening tool, he closed his eyes and began imagining that he was someone else: Clark—weak and pathetic, his alter ego—longing to “feel” the titanic Superman. He lost himself in the idea, his hand slowly working, sliding up and down his man-shaft. His tongue escaping his mouth wetting his lips, accompanied by pleasured moans. He picked up his speed, and was trembling, enraptured by the taboo idea of being human, and surrendering to the wondrous Superman, himself. He began talking to himself, “Ooh yeah, that’s it, Superman. Do me daddy, so big and strong—just like Clarkie Boy needs. Jack me, take me, suck me…! Drink me!! My milk-juices!! All of me!!” His mouth then urgent, hungrily encompassing his glans to receive his bounty.
A new torrent of seed exploded out of the helmet of the hero’s member, bubbling like magma for three whole minutes as the hero’s body spasmed and quaked, purred, unloaded his copious life-source… drank and swallowed and drank. Resting back then, he reviewed his reflection once more: this time his relaxed massive musculature, his still large, softening tool—the impressive cum puddles on the floor, his torso, and on the seat of the sofa. Even scooped up another handful of his own still warmth and ingested it. Not a drop to be wasted…. The taste always electrifying him—this ever so secret indulgence, the taking of himself—regenerating his great powers. Requisite as breathing. Yes, his to do as he must!
He smiled at the sight of what his lust had wrought, and pushed himself upright before retreating to the supply closet to clean up from his satisfied need. He cheated, of course, using his superpowers, before climbing into bed next to Lois—even ready to go again, no problem—kissing her cheek, and soft pawing her naked body until she shooed him off, telling him she was not interested to reciprocate. The hero submitted to her will as always, and simply drifted off to sleep. Still wanting to come again. But didn’t. As if ever the horse in heat, needing to be groomed, pampered, coddled… exercised.
Chapter 2: An Accomplice in Evil.
It was getting close to morning, and Cat Grant needed to have her page six story ready to roll for the Saturday edition. She hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours, riding the wave of a handful of vodkas and red-bulls after a night spent in the bedroom of Heavyweight Champion of the World, Dedrick Thomas.
Cat was a gorgeous woman, lightly tanned skin, five foot six inches with sun kissed hair, eyes a swimming pool of blue, full pouting lips, a dazzling blush polished smile, and a pert nose. She was voluptuous as well, with beautiful big breasts, shapely backside, and long legs that felt nice wrapped around the man inside her. That evening, like most, she was comfortably posted in her office in a skirt that wouldn’t be too out of place in a brothel, and a top that hugged her breasts alluringly.
She sat in her office, a triple espresso on the desk next to her desktop, scanning photos from a star-studded film premiere that had taken place the night before at Metropolis Plaza theaters. It was a partial “who’s who” of Hollywood A-list stars; some there because they’d actually starred in the picture and were actively promoting it, while some young heart throbs and starlets were there simply to promote themselves.
Naturally, Cat Grant had gone, and while she hadn’t enjoyed the movie, she did enjoy her back bathroom tryst with the male co-star, Marshall Collins, as well as the chance to be introduced to the heavyweight champion at the party after. She’d enjoyed both men, but was far more satisfied with Dedrick’s almost animal-like coupling style, and his larger than average tool, which hadn’t hurt (nor was near as much as C.K.’s).
Of course, he was no Clark Kent, who despite her first impression of him a handful of years ago, was that he might be some sort of border-line, closet homosexual. Ever so unsophisticated, and provincially shy. Until she finally got him undressed, could hardly come to terms with his muscular physique, much less the monster between his legs, including his apple-sized nuts, and nipples four times larger than her own… which he ferociously never allowed her to touch! She had had more than first-hand experience with Clark, spending a few months of intimate, champagne fuelled evenings out, and in. And never ceased to crave for the taste of his humungous shaft of joy—on her knees, or otherwise—driving herself and him wild with pleasure on top of and beneath it, over and around it, had even swallowed his remarkable abundance of heated seed. A true feat beyond feats, as his glans could near have broken many less experienced jaws. Not to mention his often near cupful volumetric outputs to drown in. It was bliss for her, even if he was a bit of a freak… and she had convinced herself that one day if she kept sending him to the moon in the bedroom, that he might actually come to love her. Permanently. Still, a remarkable rodeo all his own. And hopefully as time went on, she might could influence him to be willing to be adventurous with other remarkable/similar couples… which she indeed also craved to explore. (Though why should she want a built, poor boy with over-sized pectorals, mammoth arms, a very astounding cock, and not much else, otherwise?) Then, she ruined everything.
On the night of their only four-month anniversary, Lois Lane was then heard to have ended her marriage to Richard White, amid scandalous allegations that he had been stepping out on her with Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, Ashley Banner. The allegations were later never proven beyond a “public friendship” in court, but the embarrassed Lois still managed to end up with a more then a fair settlement in the divorce. Yet instantly, Clark had suddenly stepped aside from Cat, and grown distant.
Of course, even during their nights of earth shattering love-making, Cat knew deep down that Clark had always harbored somewhat of a school boy crush for fair Lois. Upon hearing of her separation from Richard, he thus promptly ended things between them. However, instead of being straight-out about it as a man, and admitting that the true cause of the end of their pleasured union was because Lois Lane was once again available… the cowardly Clark had stammeringly told her it was because Cat just was not someone he felt he could comfortably take home to his parents. Aw gee!!
(Not to mention, at the same time and reason, unspoken about to anyone… wild and willing as she was, she just could not take the “all” of what Clark had to offer, which continually led him into great bouts of frustration. As a true Superman, wanting to be fucked to the hilt—other than by and in his own ass, which he had adeptly been learning to do over the years…. And with still yet, and because of that, he’d harbored sincere trepidations about joining with Lois, or any woman! Though Lois had an allure for him Cat never did, being a much warmer person. And he was more than reluctant to consider other alternatives. Neither as good ole Clark Kent, or the macho bold Superman!)
That was what seemed to hurt the most. His shocking “little boy reasoning,” which drove her into a string of terrible, and less then discreet relationships with nearly everyone in the office, all in an attempt to stir up some sort of jealousy in Clark. However, the one person, whom she knew could truly drive him mad with jealousy was Lois Lane.
However, Cat was convinced that Lois wasn’t remotely Sapphic in her sexual tendencies. In fact, Cat was certain that the very mention or thought of the two of them together would so thoroughly sicken Lois, that it could cause serious problems for her career if she even dared speak of it. So if career suicide ever seemed like a wise option… any other hopes were soon dashed when the unexpected, and completely surprising thing happened—Clark and Lois announced to the office they were getting engaged, and were subsequently moving in with one another. Speak of chewing nails! They’d hardly been known to be having dinner together. Imagine!!
And while Richard White, Lois’s ex, had been a rising pro-golf star, he sure never had Clark’s chest and shoulders. Or—! And Cat couldn’t help but wonder how Lois would be handling her new boy’s stallion-ly assets… few known anywhere to be as monumental.
So left without a proper outlet to fully enrage Clark’s male jealousy, Cat was left to stew on the idea of how to properly pay him back for the demeaning and indeed humiliating way in which he’d ended their union. It was a plot that she had harbored secretly for the three years since they separated. However, with little to no encouraging prospects, Cat had had to put such childish ideas on the backburner. After all, Clark and Lois were now officially man and wife.
Work, and finding a new partner to share in life and love, had taken precedence. It had its ups and downs, but she’d never found anyone as hung, built, thrilling and dull, pliable and fuckable, as her former C.K. paramour. Even porn stars with faintly near the same assets just didn’t have the magic. However, a lingering part of her longed for the day when she could bring Clark Kent low. Lower than his fucking balls; and she was still determined—for pure spite. As she sipped her espresso, the sun slowly peering over the horizon, she had no idea how close she was to doing just that.
Her cellphone began to vibrate on the dark mahogany desk and she glanced down at it. The number was one she didn’t recognize, but paid it no mind, certain it was probably a wrong number, or an anonymous caller with scintillating gossip and wanting to be paid accordingly. She was right on the last count.
He stood in front of the full-length mirror in the fully stocked home gym, that was located in a room behind the main bathroom of the penthouse condo he shared with Lois. The walls were floor to ceiling glass mirrors, the floor heavily flat-mat padded like you might find in the cells of a madhouse. It was kept cool, but not cool enough to prevent some expendable sweating from occurring. After each workout, the hero would strip buffed-down and enjoy a few soothing minutes in the whirlpool hot tub, sipping on a “Kryptonian” energy shake of his own creation.
Not that he had to work out at all. His natural physique was beyond earthly; and he was like few men, built and hung as if fashioned by the gods themselves. A true phenomenon of male magnificence, which years of steroids and heavy bodybuilding still could not have given many… in that he was massive, but yet lean, and utterly astoundingly symmetrical. When with Cat he had had to pretend he had a mysterious physical anomaly that demanded he take steroids, and thus his overwhelming body formation could not be a cause of consternation, nor attributed to having spent untold hours pumping iron. But he did it because he liked the movements, and also was crazy about seeing himself in the mirror… a forever strange longing that gripped deep, fastened into his alien soul: observing such male beauty personified.
That morning he was just finishing his basic dead lifts, sensuously gazing at his sweat soaked, hair-matted flesh, wearing only a tightly bulging miniscule thong as usual, admiring the vision he presented to himself of himself… and very longingly, for the second time in as many days. He broke free of his stunning visage and told himself he did not want to end up like some fabled Narcissus, so stunned by his own reflection that he gazed upon it until the end of his days. Yet knowing ever secretly, as he had all his life, he could not help but be utterly in love with what he saw… especially since years past, when he was a blossoming teen, and had so often compared himself to others. He was undeniably a work of art; and beyond anything the sculptors and painters of yore might have dreamed about, and could never fully express. (And more so, after he’d begun to self-suck at the age of fifteen, twice a day.)
Now further, as the ancient Olympians had never done, he began his morning cardio trotting on the monotony of his Nordic Track for a good twenty minutes, and then stopped suddenly—frozen by his own reflection. Except it wasn’t his reflection! Because the reflection staring back at him was boldly, genitally nude! Superman gazed down and saw that he was still wearing his form-arced, black covering thong, though it was bulged obscenely to near breakthrough. And no less, the gigantic nipples of his pectorals were now swollen and thrust forwards. Which in itself was headily intoxicating… erotic beyond most people’s comprehension. But! This just couldn’t be!
The vision staring back was and wasn’t him. Indeed, he was no doubt built better and hung larger, and larger uddered than what he was seeing, but it was still alarming. This vision was even grabbing at, caressing itself, while Superman gazed puzzled by what was unfolding. The cock of the male reflection was now fully erect, and “he” was motioning for Superman to come closer, as if he had something he needed to say. Superman dismounted from his track machine, stepped forward and the reflection followed suit, invitingly stroking himself to unimaginable stiffness. Superman rather shyly grabbed up a nearby towel to cover the front of himself as he approached. The cock he was seeing was more than notable, although a definite few inches less than his; and the muscle stud possessing it, lesser than himself without question. But still—his breath came in deep draughts, considering. As if a spear had lanced into some never before touched recesses of his psyche.
When Superman was just inches from the glass, both he and his reflection stopped, and with a wagging finger he/it invited the Man of Steel to press an ear to the glass. The hero obliged.
“Beautiful—isn’t it? That big rod. As a built man should be.”
Mesmerized, and wondering if he were going mad. The voice again.
“You’d like to suck it. Wouldn’t you—mine, yours?”
“… Y-Yes,” he mumbled. Softly slipping out of him from his inner core.
Was he crazy?
The hero could barely believe the words out of his mouth. Without realizing it, he had fallen to his knees before the taunting, beautifully hypnotic reflection, and was about to release himself from his overly-stretched thong, bending forwards to open his mouth, plunge it down over his own turgid, wet-flowing glans… when the door to the work out room opened.
“What are you doing down there?”
“Sa-sorry Lois, just praying to Rao.”
Although he had never mentioned praying to Rao to her before, or never had done it in front of her or otherwise, it seemed to his rattled mind a logical reason. A semi-piqued smile spread across her face, she rolled her eyes sheepishly, and the hero knew he was free and clear. After all, he was still in his near-bursting thong, not naked as his vision had shown. Which would have been disastrous—if not questionable, he knew.
“Must have been something very personal,” she quipped. “Looking as you do.”
“Uhh, uhh… it sometimes stimulates me. That’s all.” A lame excuse beyond lame excuses. But he knew it would do. Forcefully willing his erection to subside (as he also could command an erection/or deflation when wished), and stood up trying to block out his odd actions to himself, smiling widely as he joined her by the doors of the room—teasingly slipped off his thong, not unproudly… then ducking into a shower, and racing to get dressed for work. In ten to fifteen hasty minutes they were sharing a bus to the office, his bizarre behavior explained away to nothing pertinent to the both of them, for at least the time being anyway.
His mind aswirl elsewhere.
To be continued…