SUPERMAN: INTO THE WICKER MAN

SUPERMAN: INTO THE WICKER MAN

CHAPTER THREE – DIRTY LAUNDRY

After checking there was no one about to see Clark’s shaming state, Tam led them both up a dark and winding back stairwell, carrying the mortified man’s suitcase for him, and bringing him at last to an attic bedroom. It was stark and a little cold, but a good size, with a heavy oak wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and an old brass bedstead in the centre of the room.

‘This is you, Clark. This is where you’ll be staying while you’re on Summerisle.’

‘Gee,’ said Clark, looking about him, ‘that’s great, thanks Tam. This will be just fine.’

‘Through there is the bathroom,’ said Tam, pointing to a door off to the side. ‘If ye mebbe take your wet things off and leave them in the bath, I’ll see to them for ye. Don’t worry, no one will know - it can just be our secret, Clark.’

The lad stared at him with those dark eyes of his. Clark found his expression difficult to read, if a little intense. Once again, it struck him how handsome this young man was.

‘Uh… Thank you, Tam. I appreciate it.’

‘No problem. Clark.’

The lad certainly seemed to use his name a lot. Strangely, Clark found he liked this.

‘What’s the other door,’ he asked, pointing behind Tam, ‘is that a second closet or something?’

‘Oh no,’ said Tam, ‘that’s my room, Clark. You’re right next door to me, and our two rooms have a connecting door.’ He gave a sudden and radiant smile. ‘So if ye ever need anything, Clark… anything at all, you know where to find me. Even at night – I won’t mind. Just come right in and I’ll help you out.’

Clark felt suddenly very flustered. ‘Um… oh… uh… gee… that is… gosh,’ he mumbled. ‘Uh… Th-thanks, Tam. You sure are very kind and um… hospitable here.’

‘We try,’ said Tam looking him straight in the eye. ‘Now, would you like me to help you off with your clothes, Clark?’

‘Whuh… what?’

‘Your clothes? You’re in a wee state, aren’t you? Shall we get you undressed? Shall we get those wet pants off you?’

‘No!’ cried Clark, sounding rather alarmed. ‘Um… I mean. Th-thank you, but there’s no need. I can undress myself, thank you.’

‘But it’s no bother,’ said Tam, ‘c’mon, let me help you.’ The lad reached out towards Clark’s belt, but he stepped back.

‘No! N-no thank you, though it’s very kind of you.’

‘Okay,’ said Tam, raising an eyebrow. ‘Just trying to help. Away into the bathroom with you then, Clark, and get your pants off. I’ll wait outside, as you’re so shy. Off you go.’

‘What?’ Clark’s mind was racing, so befuddled. This lad seemed not to care about anything, and was so nonchalant in his suggestion of undressing.

‘Strip,’ said Tam, rather more firmly now. ‘Into the bathroom and strip, Clark. Take your wet clothes off and put them in the bathtub, and when ye’ve done, give me a shout, and I’ll take them down to the laundry. I’ll get ’em washed and dried; no one will know. Here-’

The boy fished out a pink towelling bathrobe from a chest and threw it to him. ‘Ye can put this on as you’re so shy. Come on now, Clark – I’ve work to do. Run along and strip for me. Quickly! Chop chop, now! Strip!’

‘Um… oh… okay…’ Clark was now completely befuddled by Tam’s forceful behaviour. Being ordered to strip like this was all very strange… but then the lad was doing him a kindness after all, and he had agreed to hide his shameful secret.

‘Um… all right, Tam… I’ll go and strip. Thank you.’

Once in the bathroom he looked at himself in the mirror. This was such a strange place. And how on earth had he come to wet himself in that awful, sudden, shaming way?

‘Are ye done yet, Clark? Have you got your pants off yet?’

‘No,’ he called back, slightly irritated. ‘I haven’t got my pants off yet. Hold on, please.’

Reluctantly, he began to take off his clothes. He removed his wallet and keys from the pockets of his wet pants, and with the slightest of hesitations, he unfastened them and pulled them down. They really were utterly saturated with his piss, and they fell heavily around his ankles with a squelch.

Outside he could hear Tam begin to softly sing, a low song with a slow and rhythmic melody, though he couldn’t make out the words. The lad had a fine voice, thought Clark.

He took off his shoes and socks and put them in the bathtub as instructed, then stepped out of his sopping wet trousers. He folded them and put them with his shoes and socks. Then, still vaguely aware of Tam’s singing on the other side of the door, Clark stared at himself in the mirror. His top half was clad in his sober perfectly tailored suit, while from the waist down his uniform blazed out: his bright red briefs, blue tights and his red boots. But what a mortifying sight: all down his legs and crotch was darkened spandex, where Superman, the Man of Steel had helplessly pissed himself. He shook his head in utter bafflement.

And there it was again: as he gazed at his reflection and took in his wet tights, Superman was once more transported back to his first ignominious defeat, at the hands of Lex Luthor. Why was this memory surfacing today? Was it just his soaked uniform?

Outside Tam was still singing that strange song, and now he was tapping out a rhythm with his foot. Or was he hitting the wall? Clark couldn’t focus, all he could think of was Luthor, putting that Kryptonite chain around his neck.

‘Chaining me…’ he said out loud. ‘Giving me a necklace. That’s what he said to me. He was making fun of me. Said he’s spared no expense to make me feel at home…

He could hear that voice as if it was yesterday: ‘Your very own Kryptonite necklace, Supe baby. I’ve spared no expense.’

‘Yes… he was so masterful. Sneering at me. Calling me “Supe baby”. Told me it was just my colour and that my new necklace suited me. Said it was our “first date”. The fiend. I… oh…’

Superman found himself recalling the sensations as Luthor had slipped his chain over his head.

‘My necklace,’ he breathed, now entranced by this strange and detailed journey into his memory.

He hadn’t even tried to stop Luthor. He had simply sagged and lent back against the wall behind him, which he then slowly began to slide down.

‘Helpless in my tights,’ he murmured. ‘Gosh… he sure humiliated me. Made me his helpless prisoner. His hands on my nipples, teasing me in my spandex. M-m-making me cry out… and wh-whimper…’

Just as he had that day, Superman found himself drawn backwards, slumping his body against the wall, lost in this memory as the singing from behind the door continued. And just as he had that day, he couldn’t stop himself from sliding down it… and then giving a low moan.

‘Haaaaa. Hnngh,’ he breathed. ‘Ohhhh…’

‘Clark! Come on now, mate, please! It’s going to be extra work for me tae get these to the laundry, and I’ve not got all day! Have you finished stripping?’

The harsh yell from Tam as he abruptly stopped his singing was enough to snap Superman out of his dreamlike reverie. He shook his head and stood up.

‘Sorry! Sorry, Tam!’ he called out. ‘I’m nearly done.’

At super-speed he whipped off his jacket, shirt and tie. He could see nowhere to stash his uniform; once Tam was out of the way he would wash it himself. In the meantime he simply pulled on the bathrobe over the top to conceal it. He took off his glasses and checked his appearance in the mirror, before putting them back on again and absent-mindedly pushing them up his nose.

There was a wooden washing basket in the corner. He placed his clothes inside it – he would pass them out to Tam.

Clark opened the door just a crack. Tam stood there waiting, brushing a lock of fair hair from his cheekbones.

‘Um… sorry to keep you waiting, Tam,’ he said. ‘Here… here are my clothes. And don’t worry – I’ll be sure to pay extra for all your help, with a big tip.’

‘Is that right,’ grinned Tam, ‘you’ve got a nice big tip for me? Thank you, Clark. I’ll look forward to that.’

Clark was confused. Was the boy being lewd? Surely not.

‘Come on then, Clark – let me have your pants.’

‘Sure. Um… here.’

Awkwardly, Clark pushed the washing basket out through the gap in the door, taking care that Tam should not see his feet, or spy any glimpse of his uniform.

Tam wrinkled his nose in disgust at the stench of urine from the wet clothes.

‘Sorry,’ apologised Clark.

‘S’alright,’ said Tam. ‘Okay… is that everything? I’ve got your shoes, socks, trousers – I mean your pants – your jacket, your shirt and your tie.’

‘Thank you. I really, really appreciate this.’

‘Hold on, Clark. Where are your underpants?’

‘Whu-what?’

‘Your underpants? Ye’ve forgotten tae put them in. Come on now, Clark, please – I’m on a schedule here, mate. Get your undies off, now, and give them to me.’

How on earth could he get out of this one? How could he hide the fact that he was wearing no underwear – as his Superman uniform was all he wore next to his skin, below his Clark Kent clothes?

‘Um… well… that is…’

‘Clark! C’mon, man – underpants off, please!’

A thought occurred to him. ‘Okay, Tam,’ he said, ‘if you’re really sure you don’t mind washing my… my underpants.’

‘You’re a strange one, Clark,’ laughed Tam, ‘I can hardly leave you with pissy pants now, can I? Come on – get them off, man.’

Keeping the towelling robe tight around him, Clark slid his hands beneath it. Deftly, using just a touch of his super-speed, he unfastened his belt and slid it through the loops of his red briefs. Then, holding eye contact with Tam, he wriggled his hips, writhing and twisting, in a rather comedic fashion, until at last his wet briefs fell down - flop - around his ankles. He stepped out of them swiftly, making sure Tam did not get a look at his red boots, then snatched up the briefs and thrust them out through the open door, holding them in such a way that the belt loops were not immediately obvious. He was dimly aware that performing this whole strange strip-tease in front of Tam had made him feel very odd, sensations he had never felt before.

‘Here, Tam,’ he said, throwing his briefs into the basket. ‘Th-those are… are my uh… my underpants. Thank you for… for washing them for me.’

Tam gave him an amused look. ‘Red briefs, eh, Clark? Very sexy!’

Clark did not know what to make of this whatsoever, and he felt his cheeks redden once again. ‘Oh,’ he said foolishly, ‘um…. Ooh… errr. Gee… I… I… um… ah… thank you.’

Tam shook his head. ‘I’m sorry – you’re a shy wee man, aren’t you Clark?’

Clark nodded his head dumbly, wishing he could close the door. ‘Uh. Yes, Tam. That’s right. You’re right. I’m… uh… shy… I’m a sh-shy wee man. And… and I’m just embarrassed by all of this… including you seeing my… my underpants. And having to wash them for me. Ooh. I promise you, Tam, I’ve never w-wet myself before. Let alone had to give someone my… my underpants to wash. Oh. Ooh.’ Those strange sensations racked his body once more. It felt almost pleasurable as he said these words. And the strange thing, the really odd thing was, as he said these words… he felt as though he was saying them as Superman, not as Clark Kent.

Tam’s dark eyes stared right at him, seemingly gazing into Clark’s soul.

‘Don’t be shy with me, Clark. There’s no need. I’ll keep this all secret. And no one will see your underpants apart from me. I won’t let anyone see your briefs. I’ll guard them with my life. You can trust me. It’s our secret, Clark, right?’

‘Uh. Y-yes, Tam,’ he echoed. ‘It’s our secret. Thank you. Thank you so much.’

‘No problem, Clark. I’ll away now and attend to your pissy clothes. Dinner is in one hour – I’ll come and get you and bring you down. Do you need me to find you something else to wear?’

Gosh. The lad certainly thought of everything. ‘No, thank you,” said Clark. “I have a spare suit with me.’

‘That’s great.’ Tam turned to go, then paused. ‘And spare underpants?’

‘Er… what?’

‘Have you got more underpants, Clark?’

It was not a question he had ever thought he would have to answer. If only he had brought some spare pairs for show, even though he never wore them. Unused to telling lies, before he knew it, Clark had replied: ‘Uh… no. I d-don’t.’

Tam nodded, slowly. ‘Right then. I’d best get your briefs done first and bring them back to you. Can’t have you wondering around without any underwear, can we, Clark?’

He held his gaze as he said this, and again Clark found himself completely unsettled and unsure, staring into those dark eyes…

‘I said, we can’t have you wondering around without any underwear on, can we?’

‘Um… no. We certainly c-can’t… um… have that. Um. We c-can’t have me wondering around without my underwear. Thanks, Tam. Thank you. I’ll be sure to tip-‘

‘Ach! You and your big tip! See you in an hour, Clark.’

With a sudden wink and a grin, Tam departed. Once he had gone, he – Clark… Superman… took off the robe and cast it to one side. In his wet uniform, now minus the red briefs, he sank down on to the bathroom floor and sat staring at his reflection in the full-length mirror, as he attempted to make sense of everything. Try as he might, his gaze kept returning to the dark stain spreading out across his blue tights. Surely it couldn’t have been connected to his damaging the tree? And yet he felt certain that something, or maybe even someone, had caused this. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before.

‘How?’ he asked aloud softly. ‘What force in the world could possibly make me wet my tights?’

As if in answer, his penis twitched lightly as he said this, the head brushing against wet spandex. And there it was: another part of the mystery. For as Superman gazed at the wet crotch of his tights, he realised what those strange sensations were, and what they had resulted in.

‘Oh boy,’ he breathed. ‘Gee… I… I’ve got an erection. I’m h-hard! I’m hard in my tights! Huh! What is going on today?’

He turned sideways to get a better look, seemingly spellbound by his own spandex-clad erection. He had always exercised such self-control. Keeping his sexual urges in check had never been a problem. And yet here, now…

For a split second he recalled Tam’s dark eyes staring into his own.

‘I won’t let anyone see your briefs. I’ll guard them with my life. You can trust me.’

Before he could stop himself, Superman’s hand grasped his cock firmly through the wet tights, and he moaned once more.

‘Ooh! Haaa. Hnngh. Oh. Ooh! Ooh!’

For a brief, tantalising few seconds, he began to masturbate, before a titanic effort of will brought him to his senses.

‘No!’ he cried out. ‘S-stop this. I’m Superman. Hnngh Remember who you are. I’m the… the M-man of Steel..’

He let go of his cock and stood up. ‘Come on. Enough introspection. Time to wash my tights.’

And pulling off his boots and emptying each one into the bath, he proceeded to peel off the rest of his urine-soaked uniform and do just that.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the island, Lord Summerisle hung up the phone and smiled.

‘So then, Superman is here. The mighty Man of Steel. And already he has felt the power of the island. Now let the fun begin.’

To be continued…

SUPERMAN: INTO THE WICKER MAN

Part One

(NB This is a bit niche, possibly...! It’s a sort of sequel/mash-up of our very own spandex clad big blue Boy Scout, Superman, and classic flick The Wicker Man. For anyone who hasn’t seen the latter, it involves *SPOILERS* a naive and uptight policeman being lured to a remote Scottish island. He believes he is there to solve a crime, but in fact he has been brought there because he is a virgin, and the pagan villagers prey on him for their own dark purpose. If you can imagine such a thing...

If there is interest for more I’ll continue it, or if not then I will revert to more standard fare, with Luthor et al bending Superman to their fiendish will. And possibly over their fiendish knees, to spank him.

DISCLAIMER: Not-for-profit, only for fun, hope you enjoy reading. )

The new Lord Summerisle was a tall and imposing man, with long fair hair and a strong jawline. Although he had held his title for more than a decade, he was still considered ‘new’, such had been the weighty and charismatic presence of his predecessor.

‘So,’ he said, ‘after nearly four decades, the policeman's sacrifice is nearly spent. That is why our crops have begun to fail once more, and the harvest sickens.’

‘Just so, my lord.’

Damian was the son of a local farmer, a narrow-hipped young man, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, and battered leather jacket. His eyes were sharp and keen, and he had a mop of thick black curls running down to the nape of his neck. ‘We've all seen the signs. It's worsening every day. If this keeps up we'll be ruined.’

‘Tush,’ said Lord Summerisle, ‘how excitable you are. I would never let such a thing happen.’

‘So what do you suggest?’

Lord Summerisle's eyes were drawn upwards, to where his predecessor's portrait hung on the wall, smiling benevolently down on them.

‘What worked once before will work again,’ he said. ‘We simply require a new lamb for the sacrifice.’

Damian sniffed. ‘Not as easy these days. Technology everywhere, nosing into people's lives. And virgins are harder to find too, mind you. Strange times, your Lordship.’

Before he could reply, Lord Summerisle heard the television in his office crackle into life, unbidden. Irritated, he went to switch it off, but then paused, stopped in his tracks by what the machine was showing him. That face. So recognisable. So noble. The face that seemed to be everywhere these days. Summerisle grabbed a remote and turned up the volume to listen.

‘…well, gee, I appreciate your kind words, sir, I really do. But I'm just doing my duty, serving my country, my planet - just like so many other men and women, who I count myself lucky to work alongside. Doctors, firefighters, police… it's those guys who are the real heroes - we're all on the same team.’

The American. The Kryptonian. The Man of Steel.

‘Superman,’ breathed Lord Summerisle. ‘That's it.’ He pushed a button on the remote, pausing the live broadcast. The hero’s frozen image gazed back at him. So tall, so handsome; such a calm and noble dignity, despite that garish spandex costume.

‘My Lord?’

Summerisle was grinning from ear to ear; his body crackled with purpose. This was the moment that would define him. As he stared at the screen, at this superhuman adonis in his red and blue uniform, he felt for a moment that he had had a vision, an insight into the future. The proud superhero who was standing so confidently, parading his body to the world, afraid of nothing, suddenly blurred and changed... Summerisle could see Superman being stripped of his cape, boots and briefs, whipped and brought to heel. He saw the man standing meekly and submissively in his tights, hands half-heartedly attempting to hide his penis as it bulged against that blue, blue spandex.

Confident no longer, this Man of Steel was a defeated and broken hero, looking scared and vulnerable in his tights. This was what he had to bring about. This preening, cocky Super-oaf, bulging in his spandex was the key to it all.

Summerisle blinked, and when he looked again Superman’s image was normal; a chisel jawed hero looked out from the TV screen.

‘Strange times indeed, Damian,’ he said. ‘But fortuitous ones also. If one little virginal policeman like poor dear Sergeant Howie can sustain us all these years with the unspent nature of his cock... then what power... what extraordinary gifts could we reap... from the body of Superman?’

Damian frowned. ‘Superman? But I don’t understand… even if we could get him here… even if we could trap him… it’d need to be a virgin.’

‘Look at him, Damian,’ replied Summerisle. ‘Superman is not of this earth. Leaving aside his rigid, pious nature, how could he have sex with a mere mortal? He’d destroy them. No – I’m willing to bet anything that Superman is a virgin. In fact I can feel it, I can sense it with the power that is mine: the Man of Steel has never had sex. He is what we need!’

‘Superman is a virgin!’ Damian gazed in wonder at the Man of Steel. ‘I’d never thought about it, but yes… yes, my lord, you must be right. And him looking so full of himself in his spandex! Huh. Do you think he pulls himself off in his tights when he’s home alone?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. These puritanical types live by strange and rigid values, which makes it all the more joyous when they slip up. In any case, I will bring him here,’ said Summerisle, ‘and once I have broken Superman, once I have bent him to my will, he shall be ours!’

Damian looked at him in awe. ‘Truly, you are a wonder, my lord!’

Summerisle gazed back at the television. ‘Look at him. So noble in his blue tights and those red briefs. Not just anyone can pull that look off. Mm. What kind of underpants are you wearing, Damian?’

‘What? Oh. Um… boxer briefs, your lordship. Blue ones.’

‘Drop your trousers. Let me see.’

Damian hesitated for a split second, then unfastened his jeans, thumbing the metal clasp open. ‘Does your lordship doubt me,’ he said, as he yanked them down his legs and bunched them around his ankles, ‘for you have no need to. Look: I’ve got blue pants on, just like I said.’

‘Indeed you have,’ said Lord Summerisle. He walked around Damian and put a hand on each of his buttocks, stroking them through the thin blue nylon. Then he reached around and took hold of his dick, gripping it through the fabric.

‘Ooh!’ said Damian. ‘Oh… that feels nice, your lordship. Your hand… on my cock… mm. Do you… want to do me over the desk, to help you concentrate on how to get Superman? Or would you have me get down on my knees and suck you off, my lord? Whatever you wish, I’m here in my pants and ready to do your bidding, sir. My body is waiting to serve you as you see fit. Mm.’

Summerisle extended his tongue and licked the back of Damian’s neck, pulling him close.

‘Faithful Damian. You always know what I need. Over the desk, I think. I’m going to fuck you whilst I plot the downfall of Superman, our spandex-clad friend. And put your underpants on your head, too.’

‘Ooh. Yes, my lord, thank you,’ said Damian, his cock stiffening fully. He toed off his boots and clumsily fumbled his way out of his jeans, before pulling his boxer briefs down and stepping out of them. ‘I’ll put my pants on my head, just like you say, sir. And perhaps you’ll let me cum in them once you’re done with me, sir.’

A moment later his face was in the crotch of his underwear.

‘Perhaps I will,’ said Summerisle, guiding Damian to the desk and gently bending him over it. ‘But first, let me fuck your sweet ass, while I think how best to lure that preening Superman here to our fair land, and into my clutches.’

‘Watch where you’re going, Kent!’

Adam Kennedy, a ferret-faced reporter at the Daily Planet gave Clark Kent a brusque shove as he passed him. Clark rolled with the pressure, deftly keeping up the pretence that he could be pushed like that by a normal human male. After so many years it was second nature to him, hiding his great strength and powers beneath a façade of weakness.

‘Oh! Gosh. Sorry, Adam. Gee… I sure do always seem to be in your way,’ he said, completing the performance. Inwardly he allowed himself a smirk. If this man only knew the truth: that Clark Kent, the cringing klutz he was taking out his aggression on was really Superman, the strongest being on the planet. He’d be terrified! Still, let this petty little man have his fun. To add to the overall effect, Clark pushed his glasses up his nose in a perfectly-judged show of nervousness, and stumbled on through the office, looking goofy and awkward as ever. It was a consummate show of submission, just the way he liked it.

Before he could make his way to his desk, the TV outside Perry White’s office caught his eye, and he watched as a broadcast from one of the more obscure news channels blared out.

‘…and now another young man has gone missing from this supposedly idyllic Scottish aisle. The local police force is only a handful of individuals, with nowhere near the resources needed to handle such a strange case of missing persons. Earlier today, Lord Summerisle, the prominent local naturalist and campaigner, whose family have lived here for generations, had this to say.’

Clark watched as the cameras closed in on a strikingly handsome man in his thirties, proud, strong features framed by a long mane of blonde hair.

‘We are devastated by this new loss,’ said Lord Summerisle. ‘Another young man, on the cusp of manhood, now disappeared into the night without a trace. All of these missing lads must surely be connected, but such a strange and unusual case is plainly beyond the power of our local constabulary to investigate properly.’

‘And so what next, your lordship,’ asked the reporter, ‘what can you do?’

‘What indeed. We must keep our young gentlemen safe from whoever is taking them, but with so little knowledge all we can do is pray. Obviously, there is one being on the planet whom one supposes could easily solve this mystery.’

‘You’re referring to Superman?’

Summerisle gave a wry smile and nodded. ‘The very same. Yet I believe he really only looks after America, for all his talk. We would love it if he would turn his attention to our small island. But that seems like wishful thinking…’

Summerisle suddenly looked directly at the camera, and his eyes, cold, blue and powerful seemed as if they were staring directly at Clark, impossible thought that was! He actually shivered, and dropped his trenchcoat on the floor, eliciting a cry from a passing co-worker.

‘Yes…’ continued Summerisle, ‘Superman… the Man of Steel. It would be wonderful to think he might help us. That he might come for us... and aid us with all the uncanny powers of that extraordinary body of his. What a man…’

Clark stared back at Summerisle. He honestly felt this man could see him, and it made him tingle, ridiculous a notion as it was. Just then Summerisle gave a sudden smile, before returning his gaze to the reporter; it left Clark feeling somewhat diminished.

‘But it’s a foolish idea to imagine Superman would ever come here, would ever give a tiny place like ours his attention. We shall just have to manage without a Man of Steel, I’m afraid.’

The reporter continued his questions, but Clark was utterly lost in thought. He slowly picked up his coat, walked to his desk and made a phone call. Then, feeling himself able only to concentrate on one thing, he made his way to Perry’s office. There was now just a single thought in his mind.

‘Ah, chief,’ he said, knocking on the door, ‘I was wondering… uh… that is… I want to go to Scotland.’

To be continued…

Webster flicked a switch and the Kryptonite beam vanished.

“It’s done,” he said, “come on in, gentlemen - my new toy awaits you. Come and see what I’ve done to Superman!”

From where he lay, writhing in the dirt in his spandex, Superman looked up just in time to see the cave filling with men. They advanced towards him, each carrying a selection of insidious-looking devices.

“I see you took his cape and boots. That’s good. And you’re sure he’s powerless now?” asked one of them.

Webster had exited the computer, and by way of response, he grabbed Superman by the neck of his tunic and threw him into the path of the man who had spoken. The former Man of Steel cried out in pain and alarm.

“Boy,” chuckled the mam. “He really is less than nothing now, aren’t you, Supes?”

“No,” cried Superman, “get away from me. Don’t touch me! P-please!”

His fear was palpable, and every man in the room could see it, and was aroused by it: the most powerful being on the planet, now utterly powerless before them, stripped of his god-like abilities and made vulnerable, simply a man in bright spandex, crawling before them and cringing in fright.

“But there’s something else,” whispered one of them. “Dude, look at his crotch. Superman’s hard! He’s trying to get away, slithering around on the floor in his tights and begging us not to touch him, but his cock is telling a different story. Superman knows what we’re all thinking about – and I think he wants it more than any man in this room; he just can’t admit it to himself yet. But his erection can’t lie - and he can’t disguise it! The Man of Steel wants to be taken; he wants it so bad he’s throwing a monster bone in his tights and briefs!”

“Just so,” smiled Webster. “Don’t worry, Superman - you’re going to get the release that Super cock of yours so desperately needs. I’ve sold your ass to all of these men!”

“You’ve... you’ve done what?” breathed Superman.

“I’ve sold you, Superman. Like a whore. Which is what you are now. I’ve removed your superpowers, so your only remaining value is as my whore. People are going to pay me a lot of money to fuck you, Superman.”

He could hardly believe what he was hearing!

“No!” said Superman. “Please... that’s... you can’t... Webster don’t let them... don’t let them do that to me... I can be useful... I can serve you some other way...”

Webster shook his head. “Actually, you really can’t, Superman. Without your abilities, you have a distinct lack of discernible skill. Right now, all you are is a musclebound chump in tights… And it’s time for those tights to come down, so you can start earning your keep.”

With that, he gave Superman a kick, making him yelp, before pulling him upright.

“But before we get you out of your spandex and start ploughing your ass, I think it’s only fair that I mete out some punishment. After all, before I removed those tiresome powers of yours, you proved to be quite a thorn in my side.”

He clicked his fingers, and one of the men brought him a chair. Webster seated himself, and then grabbed Superman by the front of his briefs. The hero tried to push him away, but without his strength it was futile. He gave a small and ignominious whimper of fear.

“Ooh!! Wh-what are you going to do to me? Wh-what’s my p-p-punishment? Ooh!”

He did not have to wait long for the answer to this question. For a moment or two, Webster stared at Superman’s crotch, studying it. Then he placed his thumb on the circular clasp of that famous yellow belt and unfastened it. As the red briefs loosened in his grip, Webster slid them over Superman’s straining erection and pulled them all the way to his knees, before forcing the hero down and bending him across his knees.

Terrible, shameful noises of fear and arousal tore their way from Superman’s lips.

“Please,” he begged, “not this! Don’t spank me! Please don’t spank me, Mr Webster, sir.”

The crowd of men had encircled them now and were growing closer and closer.

“Beg all you like, Superman,” said Webster. “But do you want to know the real triumph? Even as you’re begging me not to do it, I can feel your cock hard between my knees, Superman! You’re going to be spanked, Superman! Understand that?”

“Yes,” gasped Superman, gazing up at the waiting crowd. “I’m going to be s-s-spanked. Oh god! You’re g-going to spank me... in front of all these men... powerless in my t-tights... and I can’t stop you. And it’s m-making me h-hard! Oh! Go on, then. Do it to me, Mr Webster! Spank me - spank Superman! Hnngg! Ooh!”

As the first blow landed on his spandex clad buttocks, the cave rang both with the sound of Superman’s humiliating punishment, and the cheers from his audience.

Happy #ThrobbingThursday!

SUPERMAN: INTO THE WICKER MAN

Chapter Six Part I: The Deconstruction of Superman

When he came to, the first thing that he was aware of was a clock ticking. He could hear voices… men, talking in low, hushed voices. And there was a smell… several smells. Cigarette smoke. But also a dank, watery stench that seemed to be all about him.

Superman opened his eyes. He was lying on a couch – a long leather couch, stretched out. He wriggled his toes and felt them meet a hard surface as they moved within his spandex. He wasn’t wearing his boots. Slowly, he eased himself up and gazed down at his body. He was clad in just his tights and tunic, lying in a strange and dark room, hung with many old paintings.

‘Ah! He’s awake at last!’

He looked up to find a tall, distinguished-looking man with long blonde hair standing over him, smiling down.

‘Superman. The Man of Steel. Welcome.’

There was something familiar about the man, yet Superman couldn’t quite place him.

‘Where am I,’ he said, ‘what… what happened to me?’

‘You are at my home,’ said the man. ‘I am Lord Summerisle.’

Of course. That’s where he had seen him before, on the news, when he had decided to come here. That stare… so intense as he had looked at the TV set, and even more intense now, looking down upon him. Several other men were stood behind Lord Summerisle. All of them seemed to be in their twenties and dressed differently, some formal, some less so, and all of them were gazing at Superman where he lay on the couch in just his tights and tunic.

‘To think that you would come here,’ said Summerisle, ‘that you, the Man of Steel, would do us the honour of gracing a tiny backwater like this with your noble presence. You are most welcome, and we are all quite delighted that you’re here, Superman.’

Lord Summerisle took a long draw on a cigarette and exhaled, sending a cloud of smoke right into Superman’s face, to his slight irritation. Then, stubbing out the cigarette in a polished silver ashtray, he sat down on the couch - so close that his hip was right next to Superman’s legs - and put one hand on the hero’s thigh, as if this was the most natural thing in the world for him to do. Superman could feel the man’s hand, warm on his spandex… how dare he touch him like this. He would say something now, ask him to remove it…

‘Excuse me,’ he said firmly, but found himself cut off before he could say more.

‘Do not worry, Superman, there is nothing to excuse. Welcome,’ murmured Lord Summerisle once again. ‘Welcome, my dear Superman.’ He gave the hero’s spandex-clad thigh the slightest of squeezes.

‘Uh. Um. Thank you. But I don’t understand,’ said Superman. ‘How did I come to be here?’

‘Why, my men found you of course. That idiot, Tom, raised the alarm when he ran away, the spineless little coward. He told us that you were here and that you had fallen foul of the Bully Boys. The Roaring Bulls. I rounded up the men of my estate and organised a rescue party at once, to come and save you.’

Now it was coming back to him. That man in the Bull’s head mask. All those men, all of them masked and wearing briefs, surrounding him, taunting him, pulling him down and rolling him helpless and fully-clothed into the murky swamp pool.

‘That’s what this smell is,’ he breathed, ‘the filthy water.’

‘Indeed,’ said Summerisle. ‘I would happily have bathed you myself, Superman, but under the circumstances I felt it best if we clothed you as soon as possible, to spare your blushes when you awoke. We did drag you to the stables, to give you a quick sponge down to get the worst of the mud and filth off you, and I had my men give your tights and tunic a quick rinse. But swamp water does cling so.’

Superman frowned. ‘I don’t understand… clothed me? Where is the rest of my uniform anyway? My pan- I mean, my briefs, my boots, my cape?’

‘The few pieces we retrieved are being cleaned for you, Superman. You have to understand, when we came upon you in the pool… that is, when we found you… you were quite, quite naked.’

‘What?’ Superman looked aghast. ‘I was naked?’

‘Indeed, Superman. You were thrashing around in a frenzy, my friend, completely stark naked, rambling and incoherent. And ah… this… was quite, quite hard…’

Lord Summerisle reached out and cheekily touched the end of Superman’s penis, briefly flicking it with an index finger, through the crotch of his tights, making the shocked Man of Steel yelp and shrink back.

‘Stop that!’ he said. ‘You can’t do that… you mustn’t…’

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Superman,’ said Summerisle, ‘but you really were not yourself when we found you. The Bully Boys had depowered you and depleted you, stripping you both of your wits and your abilities. You had a most splendid erection, and… well, when we got you out of the pool you were simply begging us to play with it, Superman!’

‘No! That can’t be true. I’d never do that.’

‘But it is true.’ A curly-haired, dark-eyed youth in a tracksuit, who was standing behind Lord Summerisle spoke up. ‘Ye crawled on all fours and begged me tae jerk ye off, Superman.’ He gazed at the Man of Steel with a fierce intensity as he spoke.

‘Aye,’ said another man, this one dressed in an immaculate black business suit. ‘Ye begged me to wank you off too, Superman. Ye kept trying to make me grab your stiffie.’

‘Me too,’ said a guy wearing football kit. ‘Ye were desperate tae be tossed off. It was like ye needed to cum but couldn’t do it yourself. Something was stopping you.’

‘And me,’ said a long-haired fellow dressed in a kilt and Doc Martens and wearing a biker jacket. ‘When we pulled ye out of the water ye ran all around the glade in the nude, Superman, and that great big cock of yours was bouncing up and down, stiff as a board. It was pretty funny; ye looked a bit like a big horny dog. You were raving, and then ye got down on your knees and began to kiss my boots, saying ye’d do anything tae have release. Anything at all…’

Superman’s mouth fell open. Surely this could not be true? And yet… thinking back, he’d been hard in his tights for most of the evening, ever since getting back to the Inn. And although the memories were hazy, he knew that the Bull-headed man had pointed at his erection, had squeezed it, laughed at it. All those men… focused on one thing: his erection, throbbing in his tights. The memory of it made his penis tingle even now, and he swiftly banished it.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘That wasn’t me.’

‘Really?’ said the man in the kilt. ‘That’s funny – because it sure looked like you when you were slobbering all over my boots, Superman.’

‘Now,’ said Summerisle, ‘do not torment poor Superman, Brian. As I said, he was not himself. You all know the effect those spirits can have on a man. They are powerful elemental forces. And you are vulnerable to magic, are you not, Superman.’

Superman didn’t speak for a moment, and then said quietly: ‘Yes. Yes, I am. I’m totally helpless against magic of any kind.’

‘Yes… that’s what I thought. Magic makes you completely and utterly helpless… no longer Super, but just a mere man. So it’s not your fault – not at all. Put the experience out of your mind, Superman. The important thing is that we got you here safely and now you’re back to your senses. We managed to fish out most of your costume, too.’

‘My uniform,’ he said dumbly. ‘My uniform.’

‘Yes, that’s right… your costume.’

Summerisle removed his hand from Superman’s thigh, and placed it on his arm instead, slowly sliding it up towards the hero’s bicep, his fingers caressing the smooth fabric covering his taut body. He stopped and to Superman’s utter amazement he began to toy with that spandex-clad bicep, stroking it with admiration.

‘Goodness… you know, Superman, when you’re wearing your spandex, even if though it is a little soiled, your body seems transformed… almost as impressive as it looks when I’ve seen you interviewed on the television.’

‘Uh… thank you,’ said Superman, uncertain how to respond to this candid remark.

‘Here - come and feel him, all of you – see how wonderful our Man of Steel is.’

‘Whuh-what are you? No, I…’

But before Superman could protest, all the men in Summerisle’s room had surrounded the couch and were stroking his body, caressing and prodding him through his spandex.

‘I… don’t… oh… ah… um…’ was all he could say. The guy in the tracksuit was feeling his arm and stroking his armpit; the guy in the smart black business suit had one hand on his chest and was slowly running a finger over his S-shield and down to his abs, while the lad wearing football kit was feeling Superman’s feet through his tights. And the man in the kilt was kneeling down by Lord Summerisle, one hand gently feeling up Superman’s right leg, making slow but steady progress up towards his thigh. ‘It’s so smooth,’ he said. ‘I bet it feels nice tae wear, doesn’t it, Superman?’

‘Huh… hnngh,’ said Superman. ‘Ah… yes… I guess it d-does, f-feel nice, sir.’

He wanted desperately to fling them off, to tell them to stop… but how could he, when it felt so good? Here he was, in just his tights and tunic, being touched up by a gaggle of men he’d never met before, and to his confusion, the feeling was pure and unadulterated pleasure.

‘Don’t mind us, Superman,’ said Lord Summerisle. ‘It’s not every day that the world’s greatest hero, no, the world’s greatest man, drops in on a tiny little place like this. You must forgive us our curiosity. You don’t mind, do you, Superman? You don’t object to us witnessing your incredible being, and feeling you for ourselves?’

Yes, he thought, yes, of course I do. I must say so.

But all he said was: ‘I… I… Ah… No. No, sir. That’s… that’s f-fine, Lord Summerisle, sir. Hah. I d-don’t mind at all. Please g-go ahead, sir. Uh. I mean… all of you, go ahead. Just as you please. It’s f-fine. Ooh.’

He risked a quick look down at his crotch, and despite the tingling delight he felt, he was relieved to find his cock was not hard. But if they kept this up, he knew it wouldn’t be long before it stood to attention and shamed him. The hand of the man in the kilt was beginning to prove very dangerous indeed, as it iworked its way teasingly up his inner thigh. It felt so good, and it was so near his penis now…

‘Uh… tell me,’ he said, trying to think of something else to focus on, ‘what d-did you mean when you said my uniform was s-soiled?’

‘Well, you had been wearing it when they pushed you into the swamp pool, Superman. As I said, I had my men rinse out your tunic and tights and dry them, and when that was done then we dressed you in them. There’s a slight smell, as you said, but I thought you’d appreciate not waking up naked amongst strangers. Did I do the right thing, Superman?’

He looked up at those eyes, gazing down on him, then down at the hand gripping his bicep. The sensation of being touched by all these men like this, and Lord Summerisle sitting so close on the couch, was so, so wonderful. It made it hard to for him to think straight. But from what they were telling him, they had saved him, overlooked his disgraceful behaviour, washed him and dressed him. He was in their debt, and owed them gratitude. Superman swallowed.

‘Uh… yes… yes, of course. Thank you, sir. Thank you all for… coming to my aid and dressing me. That was very thoughtful of you to cover my nakedness and to get me into my tights and tunic.’

‘No problem,’ smiled Lord Summerisle. ‘It is a pleasure to be able to try and repay your own kindness in coming here.’

‘I never thought I’d dress a superhero in his costume,’ said the lad in the tracksuit, ‘let alone you, Superman. I had to gently pull your tunic on over your head, smoothing the spandex down past your face. I was really careful, like.’

He raised one hand and stroked the back of it against Superman’s cheekbone, to the hero’s amazement.

‘’Uh!’ breathed Superman. ‘I’m… sure you were. Th-thank you.’

Lord Summerisle chuckled. ‘You know, Superman, despite being unconscious you were still erect when we dressed you in your tights. Why, your cock was so stiff that we had to pull the waistband right out to get it over them!’

A few of the other men laughed at this, and Superman’s cheeks coloured.

‘Oh dear, he’s blushing! My apologies, Superman,’ said Lord Summerisle. ‘I didn’t mean to humiliate you.’

He squeezed Superman’s bicep one final time and clicked his fingers. To his surprise and disappointment, the men all stopped touching him in his spandex and moved away from him. He felt as though someone had just thrown cold water over him, such was the change as those warm and stroking fingers left his body.

The man in the kilt now got up and brought over a tray.

‘Here, Superman,’ said Lord Summerisle, ‘sit up and have some champagne.’

He pressed a flute of bubbling golden fizz in the hero’s hand.

‘Thank you,’ said Superman, swinging his legs down, ‘but I need to ask you about these missing young men. I don’t want any…’

‘Of course you do,’ said Lord Summerisle. ‘Everyone wants champagne. Drink up now.’

He once more placed a hand on Superman’s thigh, fingers not far from the top of his legs, and the return of Lord Summerisle’s touch felt so nice that the Man of Steel found himself drinking the champagne, just to take his mind off the pleasing sensations in his tights. He really could not risk getting hard here, with the Lord’s hand on him like this. What would these people think of him? They’d already seen him disgrace himself at the swamp.

‘Drink, Superman. Go on. Drink your champagne.’

‘Oh. Yes, sir. I’ll drink my champagne. Thank you, sir.’

He swallowed the sparkling wine.

‘Mm. Th-thank you,’ he said, ‘it’s good.’

‘Yes,’ smiled Lord Summerisle, ‘ I knew you’d like it once you got it inside you.’

‘What? Uh… yes. Inside me.’ Superman took another sip.

‘Careful, Superman. Your hands are shaking. You don’t want to wet your tights now, do you?’ said Lord Summerisle. The men all laughed, and to his surprise, after a moment’s hesitation, Superman found himself laughing along with them. He had to stop being so uptight. Everyone on this island was so kind.

‘No sir,’ he said with a smile. ‘I certainly wouldn’t want to wet my tights, sir. Gosh… that would be quite something… me, Superman, wetting my tights! Just imagine that… I guess… I guess I’d look pretty silly! It’d be very amusing, I’m sure, but it’s not an image I want the world to have of me - the Man of Steel with a wet patch in the crotch of my tights! It wouldn’t do much for my dignity would it? I’d… I’d look like a real clown… Superman, the Clown of Steel, eh? Still… I’d make a pretty funny sight, I guess!’

He laughed some more, as did they, and Superman enjoyed feeling a part of this. Since landing on this strange island, everything he had encountered had made him feel his outsider status; it felt good to join in, even if it was laughing at himself.

I’ve been so strung out with everything that’s happened in the last few hours, he thought. I won’t ever solve the situation here unless I calm down a little. And these guys seem like good people.

‘Well, don’t worry,’ he said, as they all continued to chuckle about the possibility of Superman wetting his tights. ‘With my naked runaround at the swamp I think I’ve given you all enough surprises for one day. I’ll be keeping my tights on and keeping them dry, thank you!’

They howled with laughter at this, and he joined in, as he sipped more champagne.

‘And no more Super-erections, eh, Superman?’ said the man in the city suit.

‘Gosh, no, sir - most definitely not,’ he grinned, ‘I’m very sorry you all had to see me running around naked and hard like that, but from now on it’s no Super-erections and no wetting my tights, sir.’

Superman joined in the bout of laughter that followed this, but then:

‘Too late for that, ye great super-powered fool! Ye pished yourself the moment ye came here!’

Superman froze, as once again the voice of old Jeremiah rang out in his mind, making him recall his ignominious arrival, when as Clark Kent, he had wet his trousers in front of Tam, soiling both spandex and his city suit.

‘Something the matter,’ asked the man in the kilt, ‘you look worried, Superman?’

‘No, sir.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Have some more champagne,’ said Lord Summerisle, topping up his glass.

‘Oh… thank you, your Lordship,’ said Superman, wondering if that was the correct way to address a Lord. He took the champagne and guzzled it absentmindedly. He felt it going to his head and realised he must still be without his powers.

‘Gosh. I can feel that… my abilities… they still haven’t returned.’

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER SIX PART II…

Hi there. I was a big fan of your many stories and the posts on your former Facebook page. I am glad that I was able reunite with your work in Tumblr. Actually loved your previous Facebook posts. I am wondering would you repost them or recreate them here on your Tumblr? Anyway thanks for your countless ideas of Superman's downfall and the efforts you put in to creating these lovely excerpts. They are very much appreciated.

Hey - thanks so much for the kind words, that’s really cool. Yes, I’m happy to put some of the older stuff up here and intend to do so. Fantasies of Superman’s defeat and humiliation are kind of a niche thing, and my mind was blown when I first realised it wasn’t just me that enjoyed exploring them. From memory, I think the Drunk Supes in the bar story I began went down well, and I plan to continue that at some point, ditto posting the whole extended Vice Lord. If it pleases and people like them then I’m happy. I don’t do overt violence, or anything grim, just the handsome Man of Steel, in his tights and bulging briefs, being brought low… and discovering he likes it. Happy to consider feedback and requests - thanks again and hope you continue to enjoy the stories and excerpts!

SUPERMAN: INTO THE WICKER MAN

CHAPTER 2: PEELING BACK LAYERS

Summerisle was a remote place; from the mainland it was most common to fly there by seaplane.

‘Not a problem for Superman,’ thought Clark, gazing out of the window as the small craft carrying him approached the island, ‘but as Clark Kent, if I’m to come here and investigate, I need to fly in the conventional way.’

The little plane bobbed down gently on the water, and its dour pilot turned and looked expectantly at Clark, who returned his gaze in some confusion.

‘Uh… sir? We’re some way from the mainland still?’

‘Aye. You’ll have to walk the rest. It’s no deep, mind – just a couple of feet.’

‘What?’ Clark couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘But… but I’ll get wet? My shoes… my socks… my pants…’

The man smiled unpleasantly. ‘You’re no in America now, sonny. Ye’ll need to get your feet wet every now and then on Summerisle. Your pants too, at that, as ye say.’

The shore was at least twenty or thirty feet away. Surely there must be some other way?

‘Come on, sonny,’ said the pilot. ‘Ah’ve not got all day. Out ye jump. It’s only water. Be off with ye. Or did ye want to take off your shoes and socks first, and roll your trousers up?’

Clark swallowed. If he were to accept this relatively sensible solution, then the pilot would get a great surprise, as removing his shoes and socks and rolling up his pants would of course reveal that beneath them he was wearing blue tights and red boots – the world-famous uniform of Superman.

‘N-no, sir,’ he said. ‘I guess I’ll manage.’

The pilot gave a low chuckle. ‘Out ye pop then, boy.’

Unbelievable. Bristling at the man’s rudeness, Clark gathered his case and his coat, and jammed his hat down firmly on his head. He would just have to dry himself off with his super-breath when he reached the shore.

He opened the door and swung his legs around. He could see with his x-ray vision that it was a little deeper than the man had claimed, though not much.

‘Well, then, sir,’ he said, ever-mindful of his manners, ‘thanks for the ride.’

‘You’re welcome,’ came the brusque response.

He took a deep breath and was just about to jump down into the murky looking Scottish waters, when a sudden violent gust of wind came out of nowhere, rocking the little seaplane. There was no warning of this whatsoever, and it took Clark so by surprise that he lost his balance and slipped, and in less than a second he was tipped straight down into the sea.

‘Huh! Hngh!’ He cried out in alarm and shock as he tumbled into the icy waters, completely soaking himself. His head slipped beneath the surface for a moment, and then he managed to steady himself. Spluttering and spitting out water, he stood up, clutching his case to his chest, water pouring from the brim of his hat. So much for just getting his feet wet; the sea was almost up to the top of his thighs.

He turned to find the pilot laughing at him. ‘Sorry, sonny! What a start to your stay! Ye’ve wet your pants now, all right – wet yourself good and proper!’

‘Sir,’ Clark said, trying to remain calm, ‘you’re very unkind.’

Trying to muster some dignity, he began to splash his way clumsily to the shore. He could feel his spandex uniform sopping wet beneath his smart black suit. It certainly was an inauspicious beginning to his trip. Nevertheless, he had come here to try and help, to do some good, and so he ignored the pilot’s derisive laughter and waded onwards.

He scanned the mainland, wondering briefly if he could use his powers and fly, but no – there was someone stood there watching him… almost as if he was waiting. Clark waded onwards, seawater sloshing around his clothes.

The figure waiting for him was a lad of about twenty or so, with glossy, mid-length fair hair flopping over high cheekbones. His eyes were dark and thoughtful, and as Clark emerged from the waters, he looked him up and down, studying him.

‘Are you the reporter?’

‘Uh… that’s right,’ said Clark. The boy reached out a hand and he shook it. ‘Clark Kent. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Tam Lunn. Here. Let me take your case.’

‘Oh, thank you, but there’s no need,’ protested Clark.

‘S’alright.’ The boy took hold of his suitcase, and Clark reluctantly handed it over. ‘Thank you. Tam, did you say?’

‘That’s right. Fall in tae the water did ye?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why did ye not just wait for the boat?’

‘There was a boat? Why, that lousy…’ Clark turned back, but the seaplane was already flying towards the horizon.

‘Ah. I see. Old Jeremiah doesn’t take well to outsiders.’

‘He sure doesn’t,’ said Clark with feeling. Standing there, soaked to the skin, the Man of Steel could sense his cheeks reddening. For all his powers he suddenly felt very foolish. Unbidden, a memory came to him then, as clear as the day it had happened.

‘Why, it’s just like the time…’

The memory formed fully in his mind’s eye: his first ever defeat. And what a terrible, ignominious defeat it had been. Luthor – tricking him into opening the box with the Kryptonite chain inside. ‘Your very own Kryptonite necklace, Supe baby. I’ve spared no expense.’

As Superman he had backed away, trying to escape, to run from Luthor’s deadly trap, his body racked with a fear like nothing he had ever known until that moment, knees knocking together foolishly as his legs trembled in his tights. It had never occurred to him that this ordinary human male could prove any kind of threat to him, Superman. Yet before he had even kicked down the door of Luthor’s lair, he had already been out-thought and outclassed. The man had not even had to lay so much as a finger on him to defeat him.

‘Mind over muscle,’ Lex had said, shaking his head as he placed the chain around Superman’s neck, tender as a lover, making him cry out: a low moan.

Powerless then, he had felt Luthor’s hands all over his body, touching him in his spandex, teasing him, toying with him, letting him know he had been bested and mastered, as the criminal genius simply dragged Superman along. Lex had not spared him anything; he had even taken hold of Superman’s nipples, once like steel, now like jello, and tweaked them through the hero’s spandex.

The terrible, disgraceful moans that Superman had made as Luthor played with him, showing him how defeated and helpless he was, still haunted him. Finally, when he had demeaned himself in the throes of defeat sufficiently, he was released. His body tingling, the Man of Steel had at last been given a good shove by his nemesis, and as he looked back in astonished fear, Superman dropped like a stone, falling into Lex’s pool, fully-clothed in his spandex uniform.

‘Mr Kent? Are ye alright?’

‘Huh?’

The boy Tam was looking quizzically at him, a half-smile in his eyes. Dimly, Clark noted that he was extremely handsome.

‘Are ye alright, Mr Kent?’

‘Oh. Ah. Um. Yes. Just… remembering.’

‘Looked like it was a happy memory, no?’

‘No… no, not really. Uh… Just… just another time I got soaked.’ Clark smiled ruefully.

‘Strange. It looked like you were remembering something nice. Well, don’t worry,’ said Tam, patting him on the back. ‘My father’s the innkeeper. I’ve come to take you there, and we’ll find ye some fine dry clothes when you get in. I’ll soon have ye out of this soggy lot before you know it.’

‘Oh,’ said Clark, unsure what to say to this. ‘Uh… thank you.’

The inn was a large, stark building next to a rushing stream. A vast tree, ancient and gnarled, stood just outside it, looming up, branches outstretched towards the place. As they walked up the dusty track, Clark chose his moment carefully, and when he was ready, peered over the top of his glasses and shot a blast of his heat vision at one of the topmost branches of the old tree. It fell heavily and suddenly, making Tam cry out in alarm, and the distraction it bought him gave Clark enough time to use his super-speed and his super-breath to quickly dry his clothes.

‘Gosh,’ he said to Tam, who stood gazing in shock at the fallen bough, ‘you sure do have some strong winds here.’

‘Aye,’ said Tam slowly, ‘but not that strong. That old rowan tree has stood here longer than anything on Summerisle; it’s endured mighty storms and never loses so much as a twig.’

‘Well, I guess it must be feeling its age.’

The tree’s branches shook suddenly, and to his surprise, Clark found himself shuddering.

Tam shook his head. ‘No, Mr Kent, you dinnae understand. It’s a powerful thing this tree, it protects us. It’s magical.’

‘Magic? Oh, gee… that’s a little far fetched don’t you th-’

The tree shook once more, and Clark had to admit that he found it rather menacing.

‘Nae, Mr Kent – you’ve got to believe me. No one on Summerisle would dare touch this tree or harm it, for it would bring him powerful bad luck.’

‘Uh…’ Clark looked up nervously at the great rowan. ‘Is… is that so? Gosh. Well. I’ll… I’ll be sure to remember that.’

A huge gust of wind seemed to come from nowhere then, engulfing the pair of them. The tree’s branches seemed almost to change direction for a moment, reaching out to where Clark stood, clawing and straining at him, as rain began to fall from the sky.

‘That’s strange,’ said Tam, turning his attention back to Clark as the wind died down, ‘why, Mr Kent… your clothes… they’re all dry.’

‘Hardly surprising, with all this wind,’ said Clark.

‘But… but you were completely soaked. Your trousers… how could that be…’

Suddenly Clark heard the voice of old Jeremiah, the unpleasant pilot, echoing in his head once more.

Ye’ve wet your pants now, all right – wet yourself good and proper!

To his horror, Clark felt his bladder clench and spasm. ‘Ha! Ah! Ah!’ he cried out. ‘Uh… Tam… I need the uh… I need the bathroom… I need it real quick.’

Panicked, he started to stumble towards the inn.

‘The bathroom,’ frowned Tam, ‘what do ye need a bath for?’

‘Not a bath,’ cried out Clark, his voice getting higher. ‘I need to use the bathroom. The washroom. The restroom. Quickly, please!’

‘Oh,’ said Tam, ‘the toilet! Why didn’t ye say? Here, there’s one round the back.’

He started to lead Clark around the side of the inn, but before they could reach it there came another of those fearsome gusts of wind, enveloping them both, and making Clark gasp.

‘No!’ he said as a cold feeling embraced him. ‘Oh no… no!’

It was too late. As he stood there, the handsome young man in front of him turned back just in time to watch as Clark’s bladder emptied itself against his will. The Daily Planet’s intrepid top reporter stood open-mouthed with shame and horror, as he pissed himself, soaking first his tights and his briefs, before a dark stain came pouring down the legs of his suit. And again, he heard that malevolent voice in his head:

Ye’ve wet your pants now, all right – wet yourself good and proper… SUPERMAN! GO ON, MAN OF STEEL, THINKING YOURSELF SO STRONG – YOU DARED TO BURN THE TREE OF MIGHT, NOW PAY THE PRICE AND WET YOUR TIGHTS! PISH YOUR TIGHTS, SUPERMAN! Hahahaha!

As Clark stood there pissing himself, on top of everything else, he felt strangely exposed – as if some force could see beneath his clothes. Tam was gazing at him open-mouthed, but what this young man who looked at him now with such pity and amusement did not, could not know… was that, just as the insidious voice in his head was now sneering, it was in fact Superman who stood before him now. Superman, the Man of Steel… had arrived on Summerisle and begun his trip by helplessly and humiliatingly pissing his tights and briefs. The wind seemed to shriek malevolently as the hero steadily wet himself, and the tree’s arms once more curved towards him.

His penis now spent, Clark felt his cheeks burning hot and red. He tried and failed to think of something to say, to explain or excuse his predicament.

‘Um,’ he said, ‘ah… uh…’

‘It’s okay, Mr Kent,’ said Tam, at last. ‘I’ll take you up the back stairs. No one need know or see. And I won’t tell anyone that ye had a wee accident, I promise. I guess you’ll be needing a bath after all, aye?’

Clark managed a very weak smile. ‘Uh. Yes. Thank you. Thank you, Tam. That’s very kind.’

‘Nay bother, Mr Kent. Come on then.’

‘Um… Tam? Call me Clark, please?’

Tam grinned. ‘Right ye are… Clark. Come on now, man, never mind your wet pants, we’ll soon have ye right as rain. Follow me, Clark.’

‘Thank you, Tam.’ And follow he did, though with each step he felt his own warm piss sloshing around at the bottom of his concealed red boots, reminding him of his shame.

To be continued...