Im kissing alexs blue HANES briefs
Im kissing alexs blue HANES briefs
Im naked in my hanes briefs waiting for Alex to get out of the shower
Im naked and comfortable in my hanes briefs
Ballbusting between friends: “Don’t kick them too hard, please, dude...”
Front & Center
SUPERMAN: INTO THE WICKER MAN
(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.
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…￼