The New Supermen

Part 1: Transformation

It was an honor, he knew. Nothing like this had ever happened to a rookie before – but the brass were so interested in the prestige of having one of these New Supermen on the payroll, they submitted his profile in front of some men who might have been ahead of him, promotion-wise.

Not that experience mattered. Apparently, there was some sort of genetic requirement, too. Only two guys in his precinct – him and Old Rusty – passed the screening. It surprised him that Rusty was getting the go-ahead – the guy had to be freakin’ fifty! What few hairs he had on his head were steel gray – and that gut…

Didn’t matter. He was too excited to care. There was a big, fat bonus in his paycheck, he had the next month off (paid!) to go to the seminar/ training...

…and there was a good chance he’d be one of those guys. The New Supermen.

Superman – the real one – was leaving Earth. No surprise, Max figured. He was always a little too big for just one planet. The way the Man of Steel explained it on the video they’d watched at the orientation this morning was that there were things he needed to know, about Krypton, about his heritage, about his destiny.

Max found him a dynamic speaker, even in video. He was succinct, but earnest. Max could almost FEEL the sense of heroism about him. Max had never met the Man of Steel – had never even been saved by him (how many people could say that nowadays?) – but he was taken by the sheer size of the man. Massive and muscular – the dweebs and beanpoles they always found to play him on TV and in the movies made Max chuckle. In real life, the six-four Superman was bigger than the biggest bodybuilder, and strength radiated from him like the yellow sun that gave him his power.

He’d been planning for this epic journey for quite a while, but was worried about leaving Earth without a protector – imagine a world without a Superman!

But finally he’d succeeded in creating a formula that would give Earthmen Kryptonian powers, allowing him to leave Earth in the hands of super-powered protectors.. There were certain genetic requirements for it to work, Superman explained, but since they were there watching this video, they were obviously eligible.

**** **** **** ****

Max couldn’t believe it, even after watching videos of men going through the transformation. They would drink the formula and then be subjected to a blast of solar radiation – Superman was a solar-powered being, remember. His powers come from exposure to the radiation of a yellow sun, like a massive solar battery. Their muscles grew as they soaked in the sun.

When finished, they’d be these physically perfect specimens, as muscular as their individual structure would allow – the other thing Max noticed was that all of them, every single one, was smiling.

They’d be trying to contain their joy, the feeling of limitless power racing through their bodies, as the S-Shield was affixed permanently to their chests. Apparently, they weren’t quite invulnerable yet – those Super tattoos looked like they hurt, the way the men gritted their teeth while the “S’s” were burned on their chests with heat vision from another.

Apparently, it took almost a week to store up enough solar radiation for full power – some didn’t fly until nearly ten days after the transformation – but immediate improvements in strength and stamina were clear and obvious.

Someone asked about the corruption that could follow the gain of all that power – how could Superman be sure he was recruiting the right guys? The “good” guys?

The man behind the lectern, one of the New Supermen himself, dressed in what was becoming the norm for them – standard police uniform pants stretched over their massive quads (some of the former special forces guys wore their black cargo pants), black boots, and heavy leather sidearm belts (with holster, cuffs, stick, radio, etc.) – when on duty, a lot of these guys chose to wear the black strap over their shoulder, to affix their radio speaker to – but always shirtless, showing off their incredible bodies and the luminous S-shields that covered the expanse of their chests – when the man behind the lectern spoke, his voice had the same commanding quality as Krypton’s Last Son.

“A side-effect of the transformation,” he said, hardly needing the microphone to amplify his deep bass voice, “not only the increase in muscle mass, the powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men, but there are some psychological… modifications as well. Your sense of nobility… of honesty… of right and wrong… the need that all cops feel to protect and serve… your basic sense of goodness increases exponentially along with your muscles. You… BECOME Superman to a degree, not that there aren’t a million Lex Luthors or Braniacs out there trying desperately to corrupt you.”

Everyone laughed at this – Max included. Something about the aura of this man put him at ease – he radiated confidence, power and… trust. Something about him made him seem trustworthy – and honest. Good. He had a sense of goodness about him, like he’d said all the New Supermen had.

There would be a hundred of them – the Man of Steel’s plan called for one of the New Supermen in each major American City – two or three in some of the larger metropolises. The first group of fifty had begun last week – some of them were flying already – and this second group, Max’s group, was scheduled to begin the process that very afternoon.

“Obviously the genetic requirement was a major consideration,” said the SuperCop behind the lectern, “but that alone didn’t get you here. Recommendations from superiors, service records, psychological profiles, it hasn’t been an easy road – you’re very lucky to have made it this far. You’re being invited into a very exclusive, very elite group of men. But understand, being one of the New Supermen will completely dominate your life, no question about that. So if being a cop – being a SUPER-cop – is not the most driving force in your life, I suggest you leave now. It only gets more intense from here.”

But no one did – not that Max expected anyone would. If they HAD explored their psychological profiles with the kind of scrutiny Max suspected, they would know better than to make this kind of offer to a man who had other priorities.

And Max, like so many rookies, his life centered around being a cop. Nothing else mattered. Hell, even SEX somehow became about being a cop…

Then they were being divided into groups, for barracks assignments. Four groups of twelve – Max and Rusty were both in the “Red Kryptonites.” One of the New Supermen, who introduced himself as “Sarge Steele” – wearing only a pair of red square-cut cotton-spandex shorts, a red ball cap, and his black workboots (his giant S-shield permanently affixed like a luminous tattoo across his massive pecs) – led the way across the training yard, telling them that he was to be their trainer as they progressed through “Basic.” Each group of Kryptonites had their own leader, the Greens, the Golds, the Jewels, and Max’s group, the Reds.

It was just like any barracks he’d ever seen – one big open room with six sets of bunk beds, a trunk and locker each for personal effects, and a communal bathroom and shower. No doors, no walls, no privacy – Max thought it was kind of cool, like an army fantasy.

After they’d claimed beds and met each other a little more formally, Sarge called them to a meeting in the aisle-way between the two rows of beds. They crowded in around each other, lacking the buddy-buddy quality they’d have at the end of their training, and Sarge had them introduce themselves, where they were from, what precinct they were assigned to, how long they’d been cops.

Max was the only rookie in the room.

There was some ooh-ing and ah-ing when he let that out. Sarge patted his shoulder and said, “Damn, boy, there must be something pretty special about you to get this honor so young.”

Most of the men – Sarge included – were… “mature” (as Max would politely say). There were some younger guys, though nobody except Max was under twenty-five, but most of them averaged mid-to-late thirties and early forties. Rusty was the oldest, at fifty-three – he was also in the worst physical shape.

“So,” chuckled Sarge, “the oldest and youngest come from the same precinct. Your brass are either geniuses, or a bunch of idiots. Which is it?”

Max laughed. “Well, Sarge, since they nominated me, they’re geniuses!”

A laugh from the guys.

Then Rusty added, “Since they nominated me, I’d say idiots.”

A bigger laugh for the old man – including from Sarge.

“Why?” Sarge asked, strolling over to Rusty and putting a hand on Rusty’s thigh. “You think you’re too old?”

Rusty snorted. “And too fat!”

“That’ll change,” Sarge said, looking at the wall clock. “And very soon. We’re the first group to be put through the process today, which is great. It’ll give us the afternoon for a little fun run. Fifty miles.”

Gasps – grunts – groans.

“My friends,” he said, facing us all and patting his mighty chest with his open palm, “if your sixty year old sergeant can do it, it should be nothing for a bunch of young bucks like you.” He winked at Rusty. “Even you, pretty boy.”

Sixty? He was SIXTY? That virile hunk of muscle? That powerful mass of masculine energy?

He clapped his hands together before him, causing him to flex inadvertently. “There’s a pair of red shorts just like these in each of your lockers,” he said, pinching the waistband of his own. “Strip down and throw them on. Don’t forget our run later, so wear your boots.” He paused for a second, and when he saw that the men hadn’t immediately responded, he added, “Now!”

Some of them were in good enough shape to wear spandex, some were toned enough, some were hung enough – but very few. On the whole, it was like looking at a bunch of shirtless, middle-aged guys in bike shorts, untrimmed hair, loose abs, and an air of awkwardness.

But they were cops, so they’d be damned if anyone would ever see weakness. Heads up, shoulders back, guts in, they marched across the main yard toward the medical center.

Max could hear the training from the fields on the far side of the compound – men yelling, the grunts and groans of punches being thrown and battles being fought – when suddenly, the Sarge ceased walking and held up his arms to stop the men. “Hold,” he said with authority – not that anyone would disobey him. “Incoming.”

And then, right before them, a massive form slammed into the ground, tossing up dirt at the impact. Before the dust had even settled, one of the New Supermen blasted out of the hole he’d just made in the Earth, flying up about ten feet in the air, shaking the dirt free from his rounded, swollen muscles – that was when he became aware of Max’s group.

“Sorry about that, guys,” he said, floating there, rubbing his jaw. “Those Superman Robots pack quite a punch. Is everyone okay?”

“We’re fine,” said Sarge. “Get back to your training, Johnson. You can fix this damage when your session’s over.”

“Will do, Sarge,” he said with a wink and a confident, genuine smile – the kind of smile that made men believe him – then he flew back toward the field from which he’d come.

“They’re just learning how to fly,” Sarge mused, watching him, “but look how natural it seems.”

It still didn’t seem real to Max, but he was looking forward to it with the same kind of excited energy he’d had as a kid at Winter Holiday. They used to play at being superheroes when he’d been young – towels around their necks and the like – before they grew into playing cops and robbers instead, before they realized that the chance of being a superhero was slim, but the chance of being a cop was pretty darn good.

And now here he was walking across a field on a bright sunny morning, about to become a superhero. About to be BOTH a superhero AND a cop.

And soon he’d be learning how to fly!

It just didn’t seem real.

It should come as no surprise that the transformation was a communal event, too. No waiting room, no privacy. It reminded Max of every locker room of every sport he’d ever played in his life, from football to hockey – benches along opposite walls, low-pile industrial gray carpeting, the works.

At the far end of the room was a machine that reminded Max a little of those tanning beds where you stood up instead of lying down – Tan Standers or Stand Tanners or something dumb like that.

The Sarge had them sit down and explained the process one more time. They’d be given a dose of the Formula that Superman had created, and then they’d step into this machine for and intense blast of solar radiation – “Which is what really activates the Formula,” he said, flexing his chest so the “S” would bounce. “Remember, you get your power from solar radiation. As your powers develop, the more time you spend out in the sun, the better.”

He turned the machine on – a low-grade hum eminated from it.

“Now,” asked Sarge looking around, “who’s first?”

When there was no immediate response, he chuckled. “Nobody wants to be first,” he said, “but everybody wants to be second.”

Then, a voice. “I’ll do it,” said Rusty, standing up. “I’ll be first.”

Sarge smiled. “Good for you – the oldest and the bravest.”

Just then, a door at the back of the room opened, and two of the New Supermen walked in, dressed in their uniform pants and boots, and additional spaghetti-strap muscle shirts that only had enough material to cover their abs, their massive pecs hanging out over the top – the “S-shields” proudly displayed. On the shirts, the word “CADET” was stenciled in white.

“Ah,” said Sarge, “just in time. This is Gibson and Perdue, recruits from last week. They’re here to help burn your S-shields in place. I trust you both have control over your heat vision.”

“Steve is already flying, Sarge,” said one, looking proudly and enviously at his cohort.

“You’re looking pretty massive yourself,” said Sarge, patting the guy on the shoulder. “It’s just force of will, Gibson. It’ll come.” Then he addressed the group. “When you emerge from the solar amplifier, we’ll do your ‘S’ right away. We have a very small window before your skin becomes invulnerable enough to resist it. It’ll hurt, but you’ll live. Just flex your chest and hold your own.

“Now… are we ready?”

He pulled a vial from a rack and handed it to Rusty. Full of a greenish liquid the consistency of syrup, Rusty swirled it before him like a glass of fine wine. “It’s got a lousy bouquet,” he said, “but good legs…”

Sarge barked. “People are probably gonna say the same thing about you!”

A laugh all around, then Rusty asked, “So I just drink it?”

“Down the hatch!” said Sarge. “Toss it back.”

“L’chaim,” Rusty said, and threw it back like tequila in the summertime. After he drained each thick drop from the vial, he smacked his lips, patted his substantial gut and asked, “So… I don’t feel any different – when will I be Superman?”

“Step into the machine,” said Sarge, “and we’ll help speed it along.”

With the pudgy old man securely inside, Sarge shut the door and typed some numbers into the keyboard on the panel. Holding his thumb over a large green button, he spoke loudly so Rusty could hear him. “I’m about to start. It’s gonna be kind of bright, so you might wanna shut your eyes! It’s only for a minute!”

Rusty’s muffled voice came back, “Okay, Sarge!”

Then Sarge hit the button and just like a tanning bed, the machine grew brighter. Even from outside it was difficult to look directly at it – Max felt like he was in a crowd observing an eclipse – they shielded their eyes. Bright yellow-white light filled the room.

They heard moans coming from Rusty, from inside the machine.

“Tough it out,” called Sarge. “You’re almost done!”

To Max, his moans sounded like… well, it sounded like old Rusty was having the sex of a lifetime. Seriously, it was that primal. And then, just before the climax, the solar amplifier shut down – the engines stopped humming, and the lights blinked off.

They could hear Rusty panting inside.

Sarge opened the door. “It’s gonna take your eyes a few minutes to adjust, so don’t freak. Give me your hand.”

And with that, Sarge led him out of the machine – a different Rusty. A New Superman.

He was still Rusty – he had Rusty’s look, anyway, if Rusty had been an athlete and bodybuilder his entire life. There wasn’t a trace of fat on the New Rusty, giving his face an angular shape it had lacked before, a strong jaw and deep character lines.

Heavily muscled, though still not as big as the Sarge (or even the cadets from last week), he was easily as large as the super-heavyweight bodybuilders at the Olympia.

And a gorgeous eight-pack was the focal point of his upper body.

“How do you feel?” asked Sarge.

“I feel fu… freakin’ GREAT!” he yelled, his voice pitched lower than before. “How do I look?” That’s when Max noticed Rusty’s eyes, red and mildly swollen.

Sarge patted Rusty’s coconut shoulder. “You’re a super man now. Or you will be, once we get this ‘S’ on you. Hold tight. This is gonna sting a little.”

One of the cadets walked over with a sheet of – well, to Max it looked like plastic wrap – with the familiar Superman “S” on it. “Stand straight,” the cadet ordered Rusty. “Chest out.” With that, he lined it up – top border across the collar-bone, the two diagonal cuts matching the line of Rusty’s front delts, and the triangular end running down his pecs, just above his nipples, to meet at the bottom point, some three inches below the line of his chest.

Then the other cadet, standing in front of Rusty, breathed in, concentrated, flexed, and shot out a line of heat vision, smacking Rusty square in the chest, causing a red glow. The other cadet joined him – and they burned the “S” in place like a tattoo, like a brand. Rusty yelled and groaned while they did it, but he stood firm, flexing his own substantial pecs. And in less than twenty seconds, they were done.

“Done!” said Sarge, clapping him on the back.

Rusty sighed, and tentatively touched his chest as some lingering steam rose. “You weren’t kidding that stung. Holy sh… crap!”

The “S” was a part of him now, moving with him and glowing in that same luminescent way it did on all of them. Sarge led him to one of the benches – Rusty was trying to squint through his swollen eyes – they actually looked a little better than he had when he emerged from the machine. “Here,” Sarge said. “Sit down for a minute and acclimate. Let your eyes heal.”

“Okay, Sarge.” And Rusty sat there, his forearms resting on his knees, catching his breath, but it wasn’t long before he began feeling his own body, checking out the size of his new muscle. He seemed quite happy.

“Now,” Sarge asked the rest of them, “who’s next?” He barked a laugh when every single recruit’s hand went up, saying, “Everybody wants to be second.” So he began calling them alphabetically, which put Max seventh in the lineup.

As a group, they were glued to the transformations, standing there together as one after the next stepped into the machine. Each one emerged as the ultimate version of himself – of course, not everybody was as big as Rusty, but all of them were ridiculously muscular as compared to the ordinary men they just were.

At one point, on the fifth or sixth guy, Max felt a hand on his shoulder – a meaty club, actually, that seemed to weigh fifty pounds. He turned to see Rusty standing next to him – his eyes completely healed, Rusty flicked his eyebrows in greeting and winked when Max recognized him. He had a huge smile on his face as he joined the guys in the group to watch the remaining transformations.

Finally, it was Max’s turn.

“Ah, the rookie,” chuckled Sarge, handing Max a vial. “You know, you’re the youngest guy to do this.”

“Think that’s gonna make a difference?” Max asked, drinking the green potion like a shot without waiting to be asked, without even a thought of backing out, without a modicum of fear – a thick, metallic taste. It coated his throat like syrup.

“Only one way to find out,” Sarge said, indicating the entrance to the machine.

Max smiled and took a step toward it when Sarge slapped him on the ass like Max’s football coach used to do. He was very comfortable with the gesture, and walked in confidently. With the door locked behind him, he still wasn’t completely in the dark – there was some spill from the room. It WAS exactly like a standing tanner.

“Shut your eyes,” he heard the Sarge say. “This’ll only last a minute.”

Max heard the whirr of the machine as it came to life, bulb after bulb around him blinked to life – so bright, they burned their negative impression on his corneas. Even shutting his eyes didn’t seem to help. It was like he was standing directly in front of the sun.

And then the oddest thing. A tingling sensation deep inside him – from the very fiber of his being – it felt like… it felt like he was a sponge, like he was a sponge that ABSORBED the energy flowing around him.

Like a balloon filled with light, he swelled. He could FEEL himself growing, but the mass he gained wasn’t bulky, or heavy – rather, it was energy, it was light – it weighed nothing. He could lift it off the ground and speed through the sky like a shaft of sun with zero effort.

It felt so good! So bright, so powerful, it burned the impurities from him – the negative emotions, the hurtful desires, the vices – anything dark was flushed from the shadows by the light that empowered him. He felt… good. Happy. At peace.

Frankly, he felt like Superman.

At then, as abruptly as it had started, the lights blinked off. “Already?” thought Max, with the same kind of emotion he’d feel at the end of a roller coaster ride. He couldn’t see – which he’d anticipated – but he could FEEL.

And Max felt massive.

He heard the Sarge open the door and felt the confident hand on his forearm, leading him from the machine. He heard Sarge whistle slightly, then say, “Whoa! I’ve NEVER seen one as big as you!” Sarge’s voice was coming from about Max’s chest level, which Max found odd – Sarge had been taller than Max.

“Really?” asked Max, realizing his voice had dropped about an octave. So masculine.

“Maybe we should have recruited MORE rooks,” Sarge said. “Let’s get your ‘S’ on.” Then Max heard him speak to the cadets. “Is that the biggest one we got?”

“It’ll be fine,” he heard one of the cadets say. “They stretch.”

Max felt the plastic-wrap material against his pecs – which was the first indication of how big he’d gotten – the touch of the cadet’s hand gave him a visual of his new dimension. He could also tell that the cadet was reaching UP to secure the film on his collar bone.

“Hang tight,” he heard the cadet say – and then he felt the searing temperature of the cadet’s heat vision. Yeah, it stung like crazy, but when he set his stance and flexed a Most Muscular, the pain was tolerable. He could feel the size and power in his muscles when he flexed – if that was any indication, he must be MAMMOTH!

When it was over, he found himself breathless – not exhausted, but certainly spent – so he allowed one of the cadets to lead him to the bench to sit down for a minute, catch his breath, acclimate.

It took barely a minute to physically recover – and he was able to open his eyes without much pain (like when he’d been asleep in his dark room and the lights had suddenly come on – that kind of uncomfortable adjustment). For the first time, through squinted lids, he was able to see the changes in his body.

He was massive. Ridiculously massive. Cartoonishly massive. Like one of those Morph images he’d see online from time to time, except everything was in proportion.

And it felt so freakin’ GOOD!

When his eyes had finally recovered enough that he could see himself in the wall mirror, he was a flood of emotion – shock, pride, masculine esteem – he flexed with a couple of the other guys for a minute (he was taller and more muscular than both), then turned his curiosity back to the group. They were on the final guy, Zelinski, the scrawny motorcycle cop from California.

Max walked up to Rusty and this time, put HIS arm around the “old man” – though now it was difficult to access exactly how old Rusty was now – he was ageless in Max’s view. Max was a head taller than the tallest guy in the group, easily the most muscular, but Rusty came in a close second. “Looks like the boys from Baltimore came out the biggest,” he said in Rusty’s ear, still amazed by the new lower pitch of his voice.

Rusty chuckled. “I can’t wait to see what these bodies can do,” he said as the lights turned off for the final time in the machine.

“Okay,” Sarge said to the group. “As soon as Zelinski’s recovered, we’ll start our training. Bet you all feel differently now about a fifty-mile fun run in the noontime sun…”

The men cheered. More time in the sun meant more power. And Max, like the rest of them, was dying to see what being a New Superman really felt like.

He couldn’t wait for the training to begin.


Part 2: Basic Training

Sarge led them in formation – four rows of three. Almost naturally, they fell into rank based on their physical size, not age or experience, putting Max front and center – Old Rusty (now ageless, hyper-pumped Rusty) to his right and Aholelei, the guy from Hawaii, who’d been the biggest before they’d become New Supermen, to his left.

As they walked in easy drill formation across the front quad toward the main entrance to the base, they passed the guys from the Green Kryptonite Platoon on their way to the medical center for their transformations. True that Max enjoyed the looks of envy and amazement on their faces when they realized who these NEW New Supermen were, but his thoughts passed quickly to more positive arenas – how great these guys were gonna feel as soon as THEY’D gone through it, what effective, Super-Cops they were ALL going to be!

He wished them well – they ALL did, waving to the flabby, unkempt, awkward middle-aged men (like they used to be) in green spandex shorts as the Reds continued to the front gate. Max knew that the next time he saw the Greens, they’d be as muscular and strong as his own Red group was now. That thought made him feel… well, it made him feel happy, frankly. Everything was making him feel happy – like he’d overdosed on some prescription anti-depressant – like the sun was a drug.

As soon as they’d passed through security, Sarge took them up to a jog. In their red spandex shorts and uniform black workboots, their new S-shields glowed in the noonday sun. The jog felt good. Max was surprised at how easy it was to move his impressive bulk. Big as his legs were, they seemed nearly weightless, they were so easy to lift – true, he had to change the WAY that he ran, getting those big thighs around each other – but it wasn’t difficult to do. And breathing wasn’t an issue, either. Max – a former athlete in high school and college – was always in pretty good shape, even if he’d always hated running drills, but this was easier than anything he’d ever done.

After about a mile, Sarge picked up the pace. Now a run rather than a jog, Max found the shift preferable – his body liked working harder. It sought the challenge. He was almost hungry to test his limits, if this new body of his had any limits. Within a few miles, they were at full stride, probably going twenty, twenty-five miles per hour – Max was aware of his body as a machine, but he floated above it in a meditative zone, an effect marathon-runners would describe.

He felt fantastic.

Running on this un-paved road somewhere deep in the Arizona desert, the hot sun beat down on them – they could almost feel it being absorbed by their muscle. Instead of getting tired or cramped or over-heated however, they just continued to improve, to feel better – more and more powerful.

Then Sarge, who was running in front of them, setting the pace and maintaining the cadence, called out, “See that boulder up the road there?”

It was about a mile beyond, but when he squinted and concentrated, Max was surprised to discover that he could see it. Could see it clearly. He laughed to himself – even his vision was improving!

“That’s about halfway,” barked Sarge. “We’re gonna take a little old-man break there!”

A chuckle from the guys – they knew they’d never be “old men” again.

“So let’s do a little sprinting. Race time gentlemen, on my mark…” He raised his meaty paw in the air, then lowered it suddenly. “GO!”

Max’s huge body moved so gracefully, as if unencumbered by his own muscle. The harder he ran, the more he pumped his arms, the further his stride, the better it felt, as if he could literally LEAP from the Earth and fly, chest up, arms out to his sides!

He passed Sarge with little effort, though he got the feeling Sarge wasn’t giving it his all. Or maybe, Max thought, maybe he WAS going to be the most powerful of the New Superman.

Just when he was entertaining that thought, as if only to keep him humble, Little Zelinski (and “little” was now a very relative term – Zelinski was certainly the smallest of the New Supermen, both stature and density-wise, but he was MUCH larger than professional bodybuilders equal in height – heck, he’d make Lee Priest look tiny) Little Zelinski was suddenly neck and neck with Max, and then zipped past and took the lead.

Max’s mighty legs pounded the ground, more powerful than a locomotive – he felt like he was causing tiny earthquakes with each stride (Little Z’s legs were almost a blur, they moved so quickly) -- but though he made Little Z work for it, there was no way Max was gonna catch the guy and win, no matter the strength of his will.

After they’d reached the boulder, slowed their pace, Max bent over and put his hands on his knees – he was surprised he had to catch his breath. Did Supermen get winded? On the other hand, it only took him seconds to recover, and the moment he stood straight, Zelinski jumped on him like a spider, latching his arms around Max’s neck and his legs around Max’s rib cage. “Gotcha, big man!” he laughed. “Little guy beats the big guy!”

Instead of being angry, or competitive, or a sore loser, Max just laughed. “Little guys for speed, big guys for strength,” he said, getting a quick shoulder-drop on Zelinski. As the two hit the ground, Max easily wrestled Little Z into a full guard (his legs on either side of Zelinski’s torso, his knees on Little Z’s biceps, sitting his weight on Z’s chest), a little schoolboy pin. “Can’t run if you can’t get away,” Max said, still smiling.

“You’re huge all right,” Zelinski said, tapping Max’s hamstring, just below the ass. It was Max’s cue to let him up.

“We all are,” Max said, helping Little Z to his feet. “Don’t judge yourself by me. Apparently, I’m a freak.” He brushed the dirt off Zelinski’s back and put his arm around Z’s neck as the Sarge started talking – the other guys had finished running while he and Z were wrestling around.

“I trust you approve of our little oasis, gentlemen?” Sarge asked, raising his arms to indicate their surroundings. It was a lake! A man-made lake in the middle of the desert (well, thought Max, probably SUPERMAN-made). Easily the size of a city block, carved from the rock and soil of the desert, it was filled with clean, inviting blue water that reflected the cloudless sky.

The men cheered.

“Thank you,” said Sarge. “I carved it myself. Enjoy.”

And so, they spent the high noon hours horsing around in the unrelenting Arizona sunshine, splashing and dunking and diving off the boulders on the shoreline. The guys wrestled and rough-played and informally determined their rank in the group – Max had seen it a million times before. He’d spent most of his life on football teams or in athletic fraternities. He understood the way a group of guys inter-related.

That’s why everyone pretty much left him alone. He was CLEARLY the biggest – and without peer among them. Sure, Rusty was close, but Rusty hardly displayed a “top dog” kind of personality. No, Max was the leader – no one would argue his eventual assumption of that role. (Though right now, he knew, he needed to be the student, to develop his powers and learn how to use them. Let their experience make him the best he could be.)

At one point, as Max sat there on the “beach” reflecting as he watched his brothers play in the lake, Aholelei – the beast from Hawaii – came over and began rolling playfully with Max, but there was nothing in it that was competitive or aggressive. It was obvious Aholelei was just goofing, expending teenaged energy.

“What are you doin’, A-ho?” Max asked, as he put the big Hawaiian on his back and locked up his legs.

“I’m just playin’” Aholelei said. “I can’t help it. I feel like a kid again!”

“It’s this freakin’ sunshine, man!” Max laughed, looking up and throwing his arms out to his sides, sitting his weight on A-ho’s hips. “Every time I think I feel the best I can possibly feel, it gets even better!” He roared, flexing his arms toward the sky. “Is this how Superman feels?”

Sarge landed on the ground next to them, dripping – he must’ve flown from out of the lake, Max thought. “You okay?” he asked Max.

“Do you ever get used to this?” Max asked, standing to let Aholelei up.

Sarge chuckled. “Powering up is a pretty heady experience, ain’t it? But once you get up to full power, you… get used to it… sort of. And I’ll teach you some techniques so you’re able to sleep and relax on your down time, limited as it’ll be. Enjoy the ride, is what I’m sayin’. Worse things could happen than you feel good”

With that said, he then organized them together in a loose circle and they started tossing boulders around.


“What a freakin’ trip!” thought Max. Sarge walked them all over to the big boulder they’d been diving off of – about the size of a car – and told Max to pick it up. “Are you kidding me?” Max asked.

Sarge smiled. “Watch the old man,” he said. And then he grabbed the thing in his outstretched arms, flexed his back and legs, and dead-lifted it up into the air – it wasn’t easy for him, but it would be impossible for anyone other than a Superman. Max – like the rest of them – stood there in awe.

Sarge hoisted it onto his shoulder, like a carpenter carrying lumber, as he made eye-contact with Max. “Ready?” he asked.

“For what?”

And Sarge called, “Catch!” as he tossed the boulder into the air.

And then it was coming at him – this huge freakin’ boulder that Max and several of his friends could sit and have lunch on – but here it was now flying through the air at him – it was almost too unreal for his brain to comprehend (he kept flashing on Road Runner cartoons and the Coyote with a tiny umbrella). There was nothing he could do but solidify his stance and brace for the impact… and the squishing his mind thought sure to follow.

So he was surprised when he caught it – when he felt the rock settle into his hands. Sure, he was aware of its great weight – being super-strong didn’t mean heavy things felt lighter, it just meant you were strong enough to lift it. No, nobody was kidding anyone – this was very big rock. .

Surprised or not, he held it – and was strong enough to control it. Yes, Max was able to press a boulder over his head – heck, he got reps! He got applause!

Then he tossed it across the circle to Rusty, who also handled it with relative ease, other than the awkwardness of its shape. HE shot it to A-ho, and they began to medicine-ball it right down the hierarchy. By the time it got to Little Zelinski, it was clear the guys were challenged by the boulder’s weight, but determined to succeed. Determination personified, Little Z overcompensated and flung it a little too hard back to Max, and it looked doomed to over shoot him.

But Max was in full-out football mode. Without even stopping to consider, he jumped into the air as if he were intercepting a long bomb deep in his own endzone, and he easily caught the boulder in mid-air against his S-shield – it’s weight smacking him square in the breast bone – and landed gracefully beside the Sarge.

The guys were stunned.

“Where do you want this?” he asked Sarge, unable to hide a smirk.

“Ah, put it down anywhere,” said Sarge. “Preferably not on your foot – that’d be a lousy way to end a rescue. And I’ve seen it happen.” Then he added, “Good job, rookie” with a clap on the back.

Max put it back in almost the exact same place they’d found it – it had been a good diving board. He dropped it the last couple of inches, just to hear the satisfying thud.

When he came back to the group, Sarge was lining them up, casting glances down the road. “Time to get a move on, ladies!” he called. “Green company’s coming up the road – they’re about ten miles out. When we pass them on the way back, we will not stop and chatter! It is not a social hour for you girls! I want you to run hard with your heads up and your chests out – I want your pride in your sergeant and your unit to shine brighter than the sun that gives you your powers! Do I make myself clear!?!”

And they all shouted, “Yes, Sargeant!” in unison so quickly and loudly that it echoed across the mesa.

God, Max loved this!

Their positions in formation had altered thanks to some of the horseplay and contests here at the lake. They weren’t lined up by size anymore, but rather loosely ranked by power. Max took careful note to see who was where, though he knew these ranks would change daily as they trained – he was especially pleased to see that Zelinski had moved up an entire row. Little Z would be running directly behind Max.

Very cool.

And so they took off back toward the base – this time, there was no pussy-footing around with the cadence. Sarge set a hard, driving pace – almost a sprint. At one point, he said, “They’re about five miles up the road. Can anybody see them?”

Nobody could – until they were about three miles away, then Max could make them out, dots on the horizon – he wasn’t aware they were men for another half mile or so – then they were muscular dots on the horizon.

A mile away, Max saw them clearly – the Greens, freshly transformed. At first, naturally, he was astounded by their muscle size (never forgetting that HE was even bigger – none of the green guys was much larger than A-ho), but then he found great amusement and distraction in the looks on their faces – the wonder, the joy, the unbridled enthusiasm, they were overdosing on the sun as badly as Max had.

Their sergeant led them at an easy pace as they “tripped” on solar rays. Max’s group steam-rolled by them, never even making eye-contact, though the Greens all turned their heads and stared at Max’s men with a drugged wonder. The sergeants greeted each other with a friendly salute, but the New Supermen minded their orders.

About a half mile after the meeting, Sarge turned to the group and said, “Puny bunch, ain’t they?” and the guys all laughed. Then he said, “Let’s pick it up, ladies,” and drove them even harder. The pace didn’t slack until they were about a hundred yards from the base entrance. Only then did Sarge bring them down to a jog. Once through the gate, he sprinted them to the barracks.

Max was surprised to find himself out of breath and sweating – did Superman sweat? In the slanted rays of the afternoon sun, it didn’t take him long to recover, but it still surprised him. Even Supermen had to build up their endurance, it seemed.

Sarge dismissed them to the shower and said he’d be back to get them for chow at seventeen-hundred – which gave them about an hour. Cheerfully, the men hit the barracks, stripping off their boots and socks, their sweaty spandex shorts. They joked with each other and horsed around – it was every locker room Max had ever been a part of. He loved it.

The shower area was a three-walled, tiled, slight rake to center-drain affair. The far wall had three shower heads, and either side wall had five. Without even stopping to consider, Max took the one in the middle, at the head of the room. No surprise that Rusty and A-ho took the ones on either side of him.

And the jocularity continued in the shower. They soon discovered that washing themselves was tricky to difficult to impossible – muscles that were so powerful and huge seemed to get in the way here. Laughing, they began washing each other.

It was a short step from there to goofing around, to mock wrestling, to flexing, both for display and competition, and finally to the first hard-on. Everything ELSE had improved when they’d been transformed. It shouldn’t be surprising to discover their dicks had as well.

Imagine a soapy shower full of these hyper-masculine, hyper-muscular guys with these translucent S-shields on their mighty chests and these huge erections pointing at the sun. It was a heady experience.

But Max had been part of the male group dynamic before – his high school football and wrestling teams, his college fraternity – same thing – this was an innocent but important part of the bonding process.

So without guilt, Max started beating off.

And that was what being a leader was – as soon as the guys saw and felt that Max was okay with it, they joined in. Be they straight, gay, single or married, guys were guys, and their brotherhood had reached a level that needed to be expressed sexually. Max had seen it a thousand times before.

They needed to be comfortable with their new cocks, too, as much at peace with their new packages as they were with their new bodies. There was no question that sex was going to be completely different for them now, no matter their orientation. They might as well start dealing with it together.

Standing there facing each other in that tight shower as the steam filled the room, they felt a love for each other with an intensity they’d never before experienced. They were blessed. They were brothers.

Max was close. “Guys,” he said, his deep voice bouncing off the shower walls, in this intense huddle, “’New Supermen’ on three! One… two… three!”

“NEW SUPERMEN!” they all yelled – and shot their loads simultaneously.

Max had never felt anything like it – and he wasn’t sure if he ever would again, that was how singularly unique the experience was. His orgasm rocked through his body, as if he were experiencing ALL the guys’ orgasm himself – that’s how connected he was to them.

And them to him.

He wasn’t even sure how long it went on – it felt like forever, like time stopped while they shot, while they experienced their first super-orgasms.

And when it stopped, they stood there breathless, the hot shower water pounding their traps and shoulders and running down their backs. Max was the first to speak.

“Whoa…” he said, still lazily playing with his softening cock. He looked at the other guys and cracked a slanted smile. “Was that freakin’ amazing or what?”

They kicked in their individual reactions. “Damn!” “Holy moley!” “Wow!” “That was incredible!” “Ain’t never felt anything like it.” Johnson, the aptly named, self-proclaimed “lady’s man”, he of the heavy chain and matching bracelet types, said, “Think how good pussy’s gonna feel.”

“Think we’re still gonna be able to HAVE sex with regular women?” Rusty asked, already soaping himself up and rinsing off.

“What do you mean?” asked Johnson, defensively. “I ain’t queer!”

“No. I mean, what’s gonna happen when you let go and really start thrusting? You gonna pound her through a wall? Huh? You see the force of our orgasms a minute ago? You think that’s not gonna knock her into next week?”

“I don’t know…”

“It’s gonna be different is all I’m saying. We’re gonna have to be ready for that.”

“What about all these married guys? What are they supposed to do about sex?”

“We’re married,” said McGrath. “We don’t have sex.”

A laugh – Rusty, who was married himself, included.

Johnson grunted and turned to face the nozzle of his shower, in final rinse. “They better be making some Super-pussy is all I’M sayin’. I ain’t giving up sex to be a superman.” With that, he grabbed his faucet and turned it off with a jerk – the knob broke off easily in his hand.

They all looked at each other silently for a moment. “See?” said Rusty. “Imagine that’s her tittie. It’s gonna be different.”

Johnson snorted, tossed the knob to the floor and strutted out of the shower, his big cock bouncing before him. “I ain’t givin’ up pussy,” he said. Then, in the bunk area, naked with his arms in the air, he yelled it. “I AIN’T GIVIN’ UP PUSSY!”

Some cheers from the guys – some catcalls.

Rusty shook his head. “Boys…” he said, then he looked at Max. “Present company excluded.”

Max chuckled. “You’re only sayin’ that cause I’m bigger than you.”

Rusty smiled, nodding his head. “Yup.”

“We’re all boys compared to you, old man,” cracked A-ho, smacking Max in the gut with the back of his hand.

Rusty addressed him casually. “Am I bigger than you?” he asked, sticking his head under the faucet.

“Yeah…” A-ho said suspiciously. “So…?”

“So shut up.”

They ate dinner, though no one really felt hungry – Max was surprised that he ate little more than he would’ve at his old size. “The sun feeds you now,” Sarge told them. “You can eat whatever you want, however much you want, and your body will metabolize it completely – which is good. We ARE shirtless in uniform.”

McGrath, one of the bigger guys – big enough to sit at the head table with Max, Rusty, A-ho and Sarge himself – chuckled and said, “That means I don’t have to drink Lite Beer anymore.”

“A drunk Superman,” chuckled Rusty. “That’s all we need. Bad enough these over-sexed youngins…” (He punched Max in the shoulder. Max smirked.)

“Drink as much as you want,” Sarge said. “Your body will metabolize it as fast as you take it in. All drinking is for us now is TASTE – food, too…” He snorted. “Drugs, too.”

“Oh, great,” said McGrath. “What’s left?”

Sarge flexed his left biceps and made sure they were all looking at it. “See that? he growled. “You get that – you get the power, which is better than any drug in any dose or any beer ever brewed or any pussy ever put out before you. You get power. And if you think you’re tripping now, you won’t even be up to full strength for another week.”

They sat there at the table flexing their biceps at each other and laughing. When Max finally gave in and flexed his melon-sized peaks, even Sarge said, “Damn!” under his breath.

Yeah, better than any beer.

He taught them how to relax, how to sleep – “You don’t need to rest,” he said, “but you DO need to dream.” So they learned meditation techniques to keep the power at bay, like learning to sleep on super-charged caffeine, on the banks of an electric lake. The first night, Max barely SLEPT more than an hour, but after a few days, he was able to manage six or seven.

On the second day, they were jumping up onto the roofs of the buildings – one story, two stories, then finally three. In the intoxicating morning sunshine, Max overcompensated with his huge legs and leapt OVER the three story building – in a single bound! How they laughed.

Zelinski was the first to fly, though. On the fifth day of their training he just took off during a race – it looked like he was doing a long jump, except he didn’t come down. “Holy cow!” he yelled. “Look at me! I’m FLYING!” And he zipped up into the sky.

“Don’t go too high!” Sarge yelled after him. Then, under his breath to the rest of them, he said, “Little guys always fly first.” The he flew up after Zelinski, calling back to them, “I gotta show him how to land.”

Flight seemed to be the thing that kicked them into high gear, empowered them, intoxicated them, gave them the iron will to commit to their new roles. If any had any doubts about being a New Superman, flight took them away. Even Johnson, who never stopped talking about his eventual super sex-life – or lack thereof – changed his tune when he started flying.

Force of will. The old TV serials and movies would make it seem like flight was a sustained jump - - a bounce on a hidden trampoline that propelled you up, invisible wires that hoisted you into the sky. But for Max it was just the opposite. He forced his will against the ground until he felt resistance – could push against it, almost – and his body was lifted. And Max had quite a lot of body to lift (no surprise that he was the last of them to get in the air).

Flight was everything he’d dreamed it would be since tying a towel around his neck as a little kid. Intoxicating in itself! Because he wasn’t propelled by an engine, he could fly in any physical position he chose, standing, sitting, whatever. That they adopted the flying style of the comic book heroes – or the mighty S-Man himself! – was purely an aesthetic choice.

Truly, they spent as much time on the WAY they flew – whether to point their toes or not, Sarge would joke – as they did perfecting their skills. Still, Max didn’t care. He could fly all day and never tire of it. When Sarge would bring them to the ground and make them run, they’d all moan in disappointment.

The second week, after their powers had developed enough that their attention could shift away from that aspect of their transformations, they focused on their police training – integrating their powers into daily responsibilities as cops.

There were a few slight modifications – for example, the rules for “in plain view” changed. With their vision powers, little remained hidden from the New Supermen – the search for drugs or concealed weapons would be a whole lot easier.

They would be able to eliminate dangerous car chases, learning three different ways to stop a speeding perp, which they practiced in the back lot: grabbing the back bumper and lifting the back end of the car off the ground (before chase starts); flying beneath the car and lifting it off the road (when chase is on-going); standing in the vehicle’s path and letting it slam into you physically (last resort – only if car/ truck has airbags, best if used during initial acceleration during getaway). Max enjoyed practicing for that – a speeding car denting up and mashing itself into junk because it slammed into YOUR thighs was a pretty heady experience!

They did classwork, too, reviewing law and suspect rights and everything they were supposed to have learned in the academy. Max found himself able to remember everything on a page after barely more than a glance – “Tell me I have super-MEMORY now, too!” he thought, wishing he’d had that power when he’d been in academy the first time.

Work and train, train some more, everyday something new – rescuing people from burning buildings, holding back avalanches, standing in the line of fire. The first time Max stopped a bullet with his chest, he was surprised to discover it stung! It didn’t cause any damage physically, but he FELT it! He thought being invulnerable meant not being able to feel pain, but in truth, it just meant he couldn’t be harmed. It hurt less when he flexed and the muscle was hard, even less when emotionally charged, but all in all, bullets bouncing off his chest was less exciting than he thought it would be.

They also took this seminar on Social Adjustment: Living in the Real World. There they discussed strategies for day to day activities when they weren’t on duty – managing their personal lives, their families, the media. The Sergeants, having been transformed for nearly half a year now when Superman began putting his plan in action, spoke very informally with the recruits about what to expect – even, much to Johnson’s chagrin, the difficulties in managing a sex life with non-super partners. To Max, it felt more like a father/son “going out into the world” talk than a class.

And then it was graduation, presided over by Superman himself! It reminded Max of his police academy ceremony – the hundred graduates in their New Supermen uniforms, polyester police pants, black work boots and leather sidearm belts, bare-chested, showing off their massive bodies and luminous S-shields, seated on uncomfortable folding chairs before a small stage where the ten Sergeants, the two Captains, and the gigantic Chief (who was just a hair smaller than Max – who was just a hair smaller than Superman) talked at length about their mission and their duty to this new brotherhood. “Nothing like this has ever existed before,” the Chief boomed. A man in his late fifties or perhaps early sixties when he’d been transformed, he had the look of a mature bodybuilder, of the iron-hard football coach whom no one would DREAM of contradicting. “We expect great things,” he said gruffly, “both the Man of Steel AND myself: the man of iron!”

They laughed.

Superman spoke eloquently, earnestly about his dream for them, even shook their hands as they received their Certificates and new Badges. Half a head taller than Max, they were virtually the same size muscularly. When they shook hands, Superman nodded in approval, saying, “I’ve heard about you, Officer Malone. Seems like you’re the fast-rising star around here. Make me proud, son.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Max said. “I’ve always dreamed of being Superboy.”

Superman winked, and then shifted his attention to the next graduate.

After the ceremony, when the cadets were packing their duffels and flying off to their home cities, giving each other handshakes and pats on the back and promises to keep in touch (which should be pretty easy for super-powered beings), Zelinski approached Max and leaned against the bunk as Max finished packing. They were both still in uniform.

“It’s not like San Francisco is all that far,” Zelinski said. “What’s it take, four… five minutes to fly across the country?”

“I’m sure we’re all gonna see each other a lot,” Max said. “They’ve got the web-site set up, we’re all gonna be linked via wireless-headsets – what did the Sarge call it? The Big Blue-tooth?” He laughed.

Zelinski stepped up to Max and grabbed Max’s substantial package, massaging Max’s balls through the uniform pants – Max didn’t pull away. Instead, he started to get hard. “”That’s not what I meant,” said Zelinski, pressing closer. He came up to Max’s collar bone. “I’m sayin’ that if you get tired of being careful sexually, you fly out to me and we’ll go full out. You dig?”

“I didn’t know you were queer, Little Z,” Max said, smiling.

Zelinski laughed, stroking Max’s chest. “I think more of us are gonna be as time goes by, that’s what I think. I think all that careful fucking they warned us about is gonna be incredibly frustrating to men like us. And there are times when even Superman needs full-out, hard-thrust pound-fucking pig sex, you know what I mean?” Z squeezed Max’s growing hard-on. “I can tell you do.”

Max smirked. “I never said I wasn’t queer, Z. I just know our profession – I try to be discreet.”

“Please don’t be discreet when you’re fucking my ass. Feel free to make as much noise as you want – grunts, groans, moans, whatever. Let ‘em hear you in Kansas, for all I care.”

“Think it’s gonna be like that, do you?”

This time Zelinski smiled, licking his lips. “I know what I could do BEFORE I became one of the New Supermen – I can only IMAGINE what my ass could take now. You want to find out?”

Max did. Before he knew it, he was flying a side trip to San Fran. Why not? He didn’t have anywhere to be before he reported to work on Monday.

In a dense bank of cirrus clouds over the Sierra Nevada mountains, Max and Zelinski acted out a scene that was happening all over the country as the New Supermen arrived home to their wives and partners. The only difference was, Max and Zelinski’s lasted for days and spanned the globe.

A great way to begin a new life.


Part 3: City of Heroes

“You guys back off and let me the fuck out of here, or I’m gonna blow this bitch’s head off!”

Max heard the guy’s threat from three blocks away and kicked it up a notch to fly to the bank a little quicker. Two other units had already joined the scene on the ground, the officers standing, guns drawn, behind the driver doors, using the vehicles as shields. With his x-ray vision, Max could easily see the bank robber and his hostage in the lobby of the building.

Max tapped his ear-piece. “This is Big Blue,” he said.

Dispatch. “Big Blue.”

“On scene with units 86 and 89 – making contact now.”


Max landed next to the lead car, but made no effort to shield himself. “Hey, Jim,” he said to the lead officer. “What do we got?”

The lead officer nodded to him, but didn’t change his position, still focused on the bank. “Silent alarm. We arrived as he was leaving – he pulled a hostage. We’ve been at a standoff for about five, six minutes now. We don’t know what he’s armed with – we don’t know anything. SWAT has been activated.”

Max glanced at the bank. “He’s got a .357 mag . Hostage is fine – some bruises, elevated blood pressure and heart rate – no surprise. Want me to go in?”

The officer smiled. “You know I do.”

Max tapped his ear-piece. “Big Blue.”

“Go Big Blue.”

“Cancel SWAT at the 10-36. I’ll be taking care of it.”


Max winked at the lead officer. “Back in a minute,” he said.

With his speed and powers, Max was inside the lobby before the perp was even aware that someone was entering. Max stood about twenty feet from the guy and his hostage, a mousy young woman with thin blonde hair, teary-eyed, nervously focused on the gun pressed into the her temple.

The bank robber stood about five-ten, medium build, muscular arms. When he became aware of Max, his expression changed – Max let the guy take a moment to absorb and comprehend Max’s size and obvious power. “You’re one o’ them super-cops,” he said. “Holy shit – he was right! They sent me a super-cop!”

Max smirked. “I don’t think you’re gonna remember it so fondly.” He made sure to flex his impressive chest, so the S-shield bounced. “Let the lady go.”

The perp took the gun away from the girl’s head and aimed it at Max. “I don’t give a shit about her, anyway,” he said, throwing the tiny thing away from him. She stumbled and fell to the floor by one of the tellers. “I’m here for you. A guy gave me somethin’ special to deal to you.”

“Oh, yeah?” asked Max, taking a step closer. He could have the gun out of this guy’s hand before the guy even knew what was going on. “And what’s that?”

The perp smiled. “A kryptonite bullet!” he said triumphantly, and pulled the trigger.

Max felt the impact in his chest – and went down with surprising ease for a man so large.

**** **** **** ****

Baltimore, though a lovely city, wasn’t big enough to require the presence of more than one of the New Supermen – and Rusty, nearly three decades older than Max, had a wife and family, owned property, was an established presence in the community. So when Max’s superiors asked him if he’d be willing to transfer, they wanted him to do it in consideration of Rusty. “You’re young,” they said. “The world’s your oyster. Rusty would have to start all over… and look how close he is to retirement.” (As if health and age were factors they still needed to weigh, Max thought. Have they LOOKED at Rusty lately?)

But Max took the transfer. They promised him someplace close – though he was hoping for Philadelphia (he liked the architecture there), they ultimately assigned him to DC – to entice him, they even rented him an apartment in Adams Morgan (top floor, with a sunroof!). After spending most of his life in Baltimore, Max was surprised to discover how much he liked living in the district.

Now, perhaps his enthusiasm came from the fact that he didn’t have to drive anywhere anymore. Obviously, traffic was a headache in any urban area, but Max knew for a fact that DC had the second worst traffic congestion in the country – worse than NYC! Fortunately, he was freed from such mundane considerations now. He flew everywhere.

The department quickly disposed of the idea of “secret identities” – Max didn’t know how (or why) the real Man of Steel kept his for so long. With muscles as big as Max’s, finding clothes to fit was difficult enough, much less trying to cover the S-shield on his chest – sometimes you could see it through something as thin as a t-shirt. Besides, with the media blitz that accompanied the debut of the New Supermen, the profiles that ran in the papers, the appearances on local news, there were few people who didn’t recognize Max’s face anywhere he went, in uniform or not.

It wasn’t long before the gay community figured it out, either.

He was only twenty-four, so he wasn’t quite ready for the publicity that accompanied his outing – frankly, he didn’t see what the big deal was. He certainly wasn’t prepared – nor interested – in being a spokesman for the gay community. Still, the cop in him recognized social injustice, so rather than allow the demonization that was occurring to homosexuals in general (especially with the current administration’s efforts) Max stood up proud, chest out, and confirmed that, yes indeed, he was gay.

What surprised him was how little negative reaction he got. True, there was a LOT of publicity, but his superiors only counseled discretion, told him to comport himself with the dignity an officer of the law – and a New Superman – would. Max , who had never been much on bars and dance clubs and night-life to begin with, never had difficulty maintaining respect.

Everybody knew, but nobody seemed to care. And in DC, no less!

On the other hand, Max had little interaction with the government. One of the New Supermen had been a Capitol Police Officer before the transformation, so he continued performing that role. Max had never seen anyone as much an exhibitionist as Officer Blake – Kevin Blake.

Easily fifty pounds lighter than Max, he looked somewhere around two-forty, two-fifty. Though possessing the same dense, bullet-stopping muscle all the New Supermen enjoyed, Blake was so ripped and veined he was a human anatomy chart. He was in the same kind of shape as competition bodybuilders, where Max was just a massive, muscular beast – the only veins showing on Max were on his biceps and forearms, never on the abs or pecs like Officer Blake.

And Blake loved to show it off. Max was satisfied wearing his polyester blue uniform pants – he DID love the way his muscles stretched the fabric until they looked painted on – while Blake wore black athletic tights (Max’s x-ray vision revealed Officer Blake wore a thong beneath, so the line of his muscular ass wouldn’t be interrupted and his junk would be held up front and on display). Max had never heard the word “metro-sexual,” he just knew that Kevin Blake was completely smooth, clean-cut and manicured with an obvious painstaking care. Clearly nobody found Officer Blake as attractive as Officer Blake.

Though the public ate him up. As a Capitol Police Officer, Blake patrolled the national mall and the monuments and all the touristy areas as part of his beat. There was nothing he liked more than the attention he got from the public – Max guessed that Blake spent more time being photographed than patrolling, but with his good looks and perfect teeth, it was a job made for him. Max certainly wouldn’t have been as effective “working” the public.

And Blake worked every woman he could. An obvious player BEFORE his transformation, his sexual appetite increased along with his muscles (that was true of all the New Supermen, Max included), and Max had heard rumors that Officer Blake might really be bi. It seemed that Max’s fellow super-cop and fuck-buddy Zelinski had been right on the money when he’d predicted more and more of the New Supermen would resort to that when they tired of careful sex with normal humans.

Not that Blake and Max had had any sexual contact, but there seemed to be a tension between them when their paths crossed, though Blake, like most Capitol Police Officers, looked down his nose on the City Police. Max was largely ignorant to that sort of thing, anyway – he only knew what he saw: Officer Blake working DC’s night life with a new woman on his arm almost daily, new pictures in the gossip-columns every morning. If Blake really HAD any homosexual contact, it was probably just beating off with one of his sycophant gym-buddies while they flexed in the mirrors in the locker room.

Max tried having sex with non-super-powered guys a couple of times. The first time was a kid about his age, in his early-twenties, with a body like Max’s used to be: highly athletic but not sculpted, developed from sports, not weight rooms. The kid gave great head, taking Max’s big dick without too much trouble, but when it came to fucking, they had to be a little more careful. Max lay on his back while the kid straddled his hips, sitting on his super-cock, hands against Max’s huge pecs, forever emblazoned with the S-shield.

Unfortunately, the force of Max’s orgasm threw the kid across the room, like he’d been hit by a high-force stream from a fire hose – they were lucky the kid suffered no internal damage, lucky Max decided not to cum inside him.

The other time, he’d picked up a guy at the ironically-named “Green Lantern” bar, where, on Thursday night, beer was free if you took your shirt off. They LOVED Max there! This guy was completely the opposite of Max’s first – tall, thickly muscled, linebacker build, this guy confidently started his conversation with Max by comparing their asses – to see whose was a better “football” ass.

Max thought that was pretty damn funny, so he dropped into a three-point stance right there for the guy to inspect him. “Nice,” the guys said, stepping behind Max like a quarterback preparing to receive the snap. He ran his hands along Max’s thick glutes and hard, swollen hamstrings. After giving Max’s balls a friendly squeeze, he smacked Max’s ass (which must’ve stung the guy, must’ve felt like slapping a cement wall) and Max stood up straight to face him.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” the guy said.

Next thing he knew, Max was at this guy’s house – dressed in one of his black jockstraps – getting plowed up the ass by the guy’s thick, lineman’s cock. And leave no doubt, it felt great!

But then, as they neared orgasm, in the throes of passion, Max lost control – for only a moment – clenched his ass, and nearly crushed the guy completely.

They ended up at the hospital – fortunately, Max was able to fly them there quicker than any ambulance could take them – where the guy’s bruised, battered and swollen dick was able to be treated almost immediately. He’d be fine, but he’d be black and blue, swollen and sore for a long while – there was some serious bruising deep in the organ.

That seemed to be a common problem amongst all the New Supermen. Max read and posted in one of the threads on the New Supermen Forum, a web-site originally created by the Seattle-based Superman so they could have a place to communicate with each other and share common problems, challenges, and discoveries.

Nearly all of them belonged to it, even the brass. Many different discussion threads, real-time chats, blogs, articles, it was a handy tool for guys who had a brotherhood but were far apart. There was even a profile/ dating/ hook-up section that was becoming more and more popular. Zelinski was the cover-boy for that page.

Not that Max didn’t have a profile, and not that he didn’t take advantage of it – all of them did – he just tried to be discreet. He certainly didn’t want to take any more humiliating trips to the hospital. Now, half a year or so since his transformation, he’d developed three good buddies within the Supermen ranks that he saw with infrequent regularity: Zelinski, of course, who’d confided to Max that his goal was to have sex with every single one of the New Supermen (and who was well on his way, having bagged something like thirty-five, he’d said) – Max wondered when Zelinski had any time to be on-duty; there was Tucker McGee from Houston, the thick Texan, the Superman in a Stetson, the only other one of them in his twenties, like Max – Tucker and Max had actually become friends, hanging out and enjoying each other’s company even AFTER sex; finally, there was Pontello, the big cigar-daddy Captain in Chicago, when Max felt like being fucked hard, though Max rarely saw Pontello now that he and Tucker had become better friends.

And there it was – he’d carved out a new life for himself. There was some initial adjustment to his transformation by both himself and his family – his mom kind of freaked out a little bit, his teenaged brother Ben – who hero-worshipped him anyway – just sat and stared at him, a dreamy smile on his face. Even Max’s dad was a little taken back, but clearly proud of him. Max wasn’t worried – they’d adjust. That point had been stressed over and over at the Academy. Give it time.

Max enjoyed seeing the extended clan at Christmas – it amused him that they were more concerned with his transformation than his sexual orientation. All of the older Aunts (and Great-Aunts), who used to pinch his cheeks, now squeezing his biceps and cooing like schoolgirls – giving endless rides through the mid-winter skies to his many cousins – the satisfied grunts of the men as he hoisted the biggest truck they owned above his head and held it there.

He was a celebrity to them, too. He wondered how much time should he give it?

And was all that a moot point? How much time did he have left to give? Would it all end that morning at the bank, as the Kryptonite bullet slammed into his chest?

**** **** **** ****

Probably not. The Kryptonite bullet, as a matter of fact, bounced harmlessly away – Max easily caught the deflection in his hand.

“What the fuck?” barked the bank robber, his cocky smirk suddenly gone.

“I’m not Kryptonian, idiot,” Max said, tossing the bullet up and catching it over and over.

“You’re Superman!” the robber yelled, the level of desperation in his voice rising.

Max snorted. “Yeah. I’m an Earthman who’s been given the POWERS of a Kryptonian, not the genetics. Kryptonite doesn’t affect me.”

“But, he told me…”

“Who? Certainly not Brainiac…”

“Don’t matter,” the guy said. “So bullets don’t hurt you. They’re sure as hell gonna hurt the REGULAR people!”

With that, he started firing indiscriminately. He may have shot the gun twice before Max was on top of him, punching him in the face, dropping the two bullets he’d fired onto his prone body. It all happened so fast.

Really, the next thing the perp knew, he was cuffed and stuffed into the back of some patrolman’s car. Max was once again a hero – the guy who got all the attention, all the attention the bank robber had THOUGHT would be for HIM, for killing a Superman. As the car drove him away, he was left with the image of Max before the press cameras, smiling and answering questions – and one thought…

Why would Lex Luthor give him the Kryptonite bullet in the first place if he knew it wouldn’t work?

**** **** **** ****

Tucker was sitting on the edge of Max’s skylight like it was a wading pool and he was soaking his feet when Max flew down from the evening sky. “You’re late,” he said, rubbing a hand across his mighty pecs. Tucker wore a t-shirt, tight jeans, leather belt complete with rodeo buckle and cowboy boots.

“I left the skylight open,” Max said, landing gently beside him. “You could go inside anytime you want.”

“Already done,” said Tucker. “Got me a beer.” He raised the bottle and took a healthy swig. “Little good it’ll do me. Even if I drink enough to catch a buzz, it’s gone in minutes. Damn metabolism.” He stood up and took Max in his arms, warmly hugging him. “Saw you on the news,” he said, flying them up a bit, then lowering them through the skylight.

“It’s why I’m late,” Max said, resting his head against Tucker’s substantial upper chest. “Even after you’re done being pretty-boy for the press, you still got paperwork to do…”

They landed, their tiptoes barely brushing the floor of Max’s apartment when Tucker kissed him. Tucker was taller (though Max was bigger), so Max had to tilt his head a little – Max was surprised how submissive he would be with Tucker. There were few men who could assert that level of control over Max, fewer that Max would ALLOW to, but for some reason, when he was with Tucker, he would do whatever that big, studly cowboy wanted. And he liked doing it.

“You know what I was thinkin’?” Tucker asked, not allowing them to separate as they floated an inch or so above the ground. “I was thinkin’ we could fly down to the Caribbean or the Bahamas or wherever, find a nice private beach or cove or something and fuck the day away right there in the warm surf and the bright sunshine.”

“It’s night in both of those places.”

He snorted. “Well, I reckon it’s daytime someplace. We still got a few hours if we go to Hawaii, don’t we?”

So, a few minutes later, dressed in a couple of pairs of board shorts, muscle shirts and sandals – Max’s x-ray vision revealed Tucker going commando, while Max wore a silky little thong beneath his, to tease Tucker with later – they flew up out of Max’s skylight, aiming west, following the sun.

Neither had to be back on-duty for three days.

**** **** **** ****

Zelinski had just gotten off-duty himself, landing in front of his condo after four solid days of work. None of them needed to sleep for physical recovery (the sun recharged their bodies), they only needed to sleep so they could dream – and most of them could go three or four days before they’d feel the effects of that. So Zelinski wasn’t tired, exactly – he was just spent, a little mentally sluggish.

Nothing a good hard cock couldn’t fix, he thought, chuckling at how free and uninhibited he’d become since his transformation – it was like coming out of the closet for the second time. With the body he had now, everybody wanted him – and he did all he could to let them have him. In his harness at the bars, as Grand Marshall for the Pride Day parade, in just his uniform when he was on duty, he let everybody look and touch as much as they wanted. No sex, though – Zelinski realized right away (that first night when he crushed his own dildo while playing with it) that normal encounters were over.

Didn’t matter – sex between the New Supermen was AMAZING! They could be as rough as they wanted and nobody could get hurt. They could squeeze or pinch or bite or punch or suck or tighten or force and nothing would rupture or bleed or break. They could explore any fantasy and play out any role. Zelinski remembered that one time when Max had literally fucked him into the side of a mountain.

Good times.

Imagine his surprise then when he landed and found that gorgeous, arrogant, all-attitude Kevin Blake, the Capitol Police Officer from DC standing there. Blake was stunning, dressed in lace-front football shorts, dock shoes, and a collared shirt, completely unbuttoned, showing off his smooth (nearly shiny), gigantic torso, the red of his shirt and shorts matching the red of his S-shield perfectly. Blake knew how hot he was – he didn’t stand, he posed – everything about him screamed self-obsession.

Zelinski had always thought the guy was hot – maybe as hot as Blake found himself – and to Zelinski, Blake’s attitude made him even hotter. “Well,” said Zelinski, “this is a surprise. To what do I owe the honor?”

Blake smirked, shrugging. “I was in the neighborhood.” Those beautiful teeth – that smile could melt ANYONE.

Zelinski passed him, and unlocked his door. “Nice how we’re not burdened by public transportation anymore, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said Blake, still leaning against the door jamb, forcing himself to chuckle. “But we got other burdens now.”

Zelinski pushed the big door open, motioning with his head for Blake to follow him. The big cop glanced around to see if anyone was looking, then ducked inside after him. “What can I do for you, Kevin?” Zelinski asked, tossing his keys onto a small table by the door.

It was the first time that Zelinski had ever seen Blake act as if uncomfortable, as if not completely sure of himself. “Well… uh… it’s like this. You know I’m not gay.”

“Yeah,” Zelinski said, shaking his head. “Such a shame.”

Blake barked. “Yeah,” he said, reaching up and stroking his rock-hard stomach for confidence. “But… uh… you know how… have you tried having sex with normal people?”

Zelinski smiled. “You’re here because you want to have sex!”

Blake cleared his throat, “I like chicks, man. But I’m tired of all this… (what do you call it?)… uh… CAREFUL sex, you know?”

Zelinski pulled a couple of bottles of water out of the fridge and tossed one to Officer Blake. He couldn’t help but smile – hell, in his mind, Zelinski had already put the notch on his bedpost. A fish was on the hook without his even putting his line in the water. Good times.

“How many women have you broken or damaged, big guy?”

Blake shrugged, then said something funnier than Zelinski was expecting. “All of ‘em,” he said. (Zelinski wouldn’t have thought the guy had had a sense of humor – hot… AND witty. What a surprise.) On the other hand Officer Blake wasn’t laughing, so maybe he didn’t realize he’d made a joke. Didn’t matter – Zelinski like the dumb ones, too.

“So, you’re here because… you don’t want to be careful.”

Blake seemed to regain his confidence now that the subject was out – so to speak. He sauntered over to the kitchen area and leaned against the island, setting his water down on the counter. “I hear you’re a great fuck,” he said, making sure his shirt was open enough to expose his entire amazing torso.

“I am,” Zelinski said, stepping right up next to him and placing his hand on the man’s abs – Blake flexed them so they were rock-hard (Zelinski’s stomach was nowhere near as defined. Blake was ripped to the core, and his core was positively phenomenal.) “You wanna find out?”

It didn’t take super-vision to see Blake’s cock begin to harden in his football shorts. No wonder Officer Blake exuded the confidence in himself he did – his cock was GIGANTIC, as if it had been transformed as thoroughly as his muscles. If Officer Blake had a dick like this BEFORE his transformation, he missed his calling in law enforcement – he should’ve gotten into porn. “Think you can handle this thing?” he asked, motioning to his growing hard-on.

Zelinski flew up into the air and turned until his muscular ass was right in Blake’s face. “Think you can handle THIS?” he asked.

“I ain’t never fucked a guy,” said Blake, flying up himself until his bulge was level with Zelinski’s ass, floating there doggie-style about five feet off the ground. “I mean, I jerked off with some buddies in college and shit, but I ain’t never… you know… FUCKED one.”

“It’s better than any pussy you’ll ever have,” Zelinski said, rubbing his ass against Blake’s growing rod. “Tighter, too.”

“We’ll see about that.”

They fucked for nearly two solid days.

Officer Zelinski’s ass WAS tighter than any pussy Blake had ever had – Officer Blake’s cock WAS bigger than anything Zelinski had ever had inside him. It was incredible! They just couldn’t stop – they didn’t want to stop. Every time they orgasmed, their hunger grew that much greater – their passion, their NEED multiplied that much more. Over and over, again and again, they simply couldn’t stop. Finally, on the third day, exhausted, they fell asleep in the ruins of Zelinski’s bedroom.

Even then, they still had hard-ons.

**** **** **** ****

“Sir, we’re showing unconsciousness in San Francisco.”

“Finally… Time?”

The operator looked at his console and did a quick calculation. “Forty-nine hours, thirty-five minutes. Blake experienced fifty-six orgasms; Zelinski, fifty-five.”

“And the two in Hawaii?”

“Still going at it, Sir, though they ARE significantly younger than the two in San Francisco.”

The man in the shadows sighed, a disgusted moan, running a hand over his smooth head. “And the satellite is running at, what…?”

“Only twenty percent, Sir.”

“hmph… Twenty percent… I wonder what the effect would be if we bolstered the transmission to… say… fifty percent?”

“They weren’t able to resist the ray’s effects at twenty percent, Sir. Fifty would probably turn them into raging nymphomaniacs…”

The man in the shadows chuckled. “Well, the kryptonite didn’t work, so it’s nice to see SOMETHING does. I’m not going to rest until I’ve brought these so-called New Supermen down. Let’s try another test. Aim the satellite and prepare the ray – let’s see how the guy in Baltimore deals with it.”

“Yes, Sir. Preparing to execute.”

“And boost it to fifty-FIVE percent.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Lex Luthor laughed, leaning back in his leather chair and tenting his fingers. “If I can’t get you one way,” he mumbled, “I’ll get you another. I know your weakness now... those big super-dicks you’re all so proud of.”

**** **** **** ****

At five in the morning, Rusty woke with a raging hard-on. At first, he laughed – it had been a few decades since THAT had happened! – but soon it became unignorable.

He gently floated up out of bed, to not wake his wife, and made his way to the bathroom. He took a second to study himself in the mirror – this fifty-three year old cop transformed into a New Superman, with a body of an Olympian and the cock of a teenager. He flexed for himself for maybe two seconds before he grabbed his dick and stroked off.

The orgasm was overwhelming – as their orgasms always were now – but it barely, barely took the edge off.

Man, he was horny! Crazy horny – teenaged horny! And nothing his wife could help him with. No, this wasn’t about CAREFUL sex, anyway. He needed something more… something more rugged.

He threw on a pair of loose shorts, though they did little good in covering his erection, and flew off to California.

Zelinski would be home – and that guy was ALWAYS looking for a good fuck.

Rusty played with himself the entire flight.


Part 4: Over-the-Top Cops

Aholelei wasn’t the first of the New Supermen to wear spandex – heck, the Big “S” himself wore tights – but he was the first to wear square-cut spandex shorts, which soon became hot shorts, which allowed the bottom of his muscular ass to be exposed. Along with his black boots and sidearm belt, he made quite an impression on the Hawaiian populace. He’d debated wearing black posing trunks, except he didn’t know how his captain would deal with that – frankly, A-ho would’ve worn just a thong if he thought he could get away with it.

Stationed in Honolulu, he was generally responsible for all the islands, flying over their cluster on patrol. Normally, he didn’t spend much time over Kaula – it was uninhabited – but today, oddly, the closer he got to the westernmost little island, the hornier he got.

Lately, he’d noticed a sudden increase in his sex-drive anyway. It was worse than being a teenager. At least THEN he’d had football to get rid of some of that energy. Now, he just found himself masturbating more and more frequently, looking at pictures of slutty cheerleaders online. Better that than the consequences of having actual sex. Like all of them, he’d tried it a couple of times and – though he hadn’t hurt the girl – he knew his luck wouldn’t last long. Besides, careful sex held ZERO interest for him. He’d ALWAYS been aggressive in the sack – women had often complained about it.

He’d heard rumors that some of his fellow supermen were turning toward each other to ease their frustration – he’d seen some of the profiles on the web-site – but he seriously doubted that he’d EVER be desperate enough to give it up to another guy.

So, for A-ho, it was about masturbation, and he’d turned jerking off into an art form.

Now, as he flew closer to the tiny little island of Kaula – really nothing more than the top of an undersea volcano – he had to reach down and adjust himself. He was starting to get a chubby – his dick became nice and plump.

The Northwest side of the island was a sea-cliff with the unlikely name of “Kahalauaola” ( Shark Cave) – unlikely because there was no cave at all, just a jagged rock face. And there, on one of the larger outcroppings, A-ho was shocked to see his buddy and fellow officer Max Malone – from the mainland! – on his hands and knees while another of the hyper-muscled New Supermen (not one A-ho recognized) pounded Max’s ass doggie-style. Both were lost in the throes of passion, moaning and panting, and neither seemed aware of A-ho’s approach.

When A-ho first became aware of them – from about a mile away – he was mildly repulsed, even though he didn’t stop looking (more, his dick didn’t shrink away at all). As a matter of fact, the closer he got, the hornier he got. He found himself watching them AND touching himself, as if he were suddenly a voyeur. He was turned on by their aggression, by their masculine passion, by the punishing level of physical involvement.

Needless to say, when he landed on the ground before them, he was rock-hard erect, the head of his big cock pushing up against the leather of his sidearm belt. Without waiting to be asked or recognized, A-ho yanked the front of his spandex shorts down, freeing his dick and his hot, overloaded balls.

A-ho fell to his knees in front of Max and started wiping the head of his cock on Max’s drooling lips. Max took it deep into his throat before he even looked up to see whose dick it was.

“Yeah,” moaned A-ho. “Suck it, cock whore.”

His first orgasm was blinding – and turned him into the same kind of mindless nympho his colleagues had become. Before he knew it, HE was the one fucking Max’s sweet, tight ass – before he knew it, the big man whose name he didn’t even know was fucking HIS!

It was the best sex of his life – and A-ho, like Max and Tucker, couldn’t stop. Even if he’d wanted to.

**** **** **** ****

“Sir, we’ve got an interesting development in Hawaii.”

Lex Luthor hit a button on his desktop computer console and a small video-IM appeared on screen. Luthor saw a visual of the nerdy little scientist nervously reporting. Impatiently, Luthor prompted, “Go on.”

“As you know, Sir, we’ve had the ray trained on the two subjects in Hawaii for over sixty-five hours now where they have helplessly engaged in sexual contact. Unlike the pair we focused on in San Francisco, who lasted almost fifty hours before succumbing to exhaustion, these two, the most youthful of all the New Supermen, have lasted nearly a complete day longer.”

“Tell me something I WANT to hear,” Luthor said. “Have they finally worn themselves out?”

“No, Sir. They don’t even display any signs of fatigue.”

“Then why are you bothering me?”

“Well, Sir, while on a routine patrol, the Hawaiian-based Superman came across them. His profile defines him as a staunch heterosexual, though tolerant, largely disapproving of the gay lifestyle. However, he engaged the others sexually as soon as he landed on the island, clearly coming more and more under the ray’s influence the closer he got. His first orgasm put him in the same mind-set as the other two. The scene has now become a rather intense threesome, the energy level rising even as we speak. There’s some concern that it might destroy the island of Kalua itself, which as you know is little more than the cap of an undersea volcano.”

Luthor was quiet for a moment, thinking (always thinking) – scheming. Then he said, “Disengage the ray.”


“We’re going about this the wrong way. Disengage the ray and keep me updated on their status.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Luthor tented his fingers before him as he leaned back in his high-back leather chair. In his obsession to destroy the New Supermen, he hadn’t considered simply CORRALLING them, keeping them as helpless prisoners somewhere, under the influence of the ray and at the mercy of their bodies. But where…?

He only had to sign on to their web-site to find an answer.

The banner ad read, “Coming next month! 1 st Annual New Superman Convention! Click on ad for information and registration!”

Lex Luthor smiled.

**** **** **** ****

The Personals section of the New Superman web-site was getting far more activity than any other, Sarge noted, scrolling through the pages and pages of ads. The pics were getting lewder and more forward, too – WAY more cock shots, sexually-explicit posing, fetish-ware. Within the last few weeks, the New Supermen were becoming more and more sexually active – hungrier.

Sarge, too. Hell, he wasn’t surfing the ads because he was looking for some light reading – he was horny, too. Hornier than a man in his sixties usually got without pharmaceutical aid. Was this an unforeseen side-effect of the transformation?

Not that he thought anything was wrong. Quite the opposite, he LOVED the feelings stirring within himself. It reminded him of being a young buck again.

Since finishing his responsibilities as their drill sergeant at the Academy, Sarge Steel was one of four nationwide Supervisors who oversaw the New Supermen in the field. He supervised the NE quadrant, so when… “playing” off-duty, he was careful not to connect with any of the men directly under him – which was kind of a shame, he thought, cause he’d love to fuck the living hell out of Max.

Sarge was surprised at how quickly and easily he’d taken to gay encounters. But great sex was great sex, and at his age, Sarge was just grateful to get it at all. And get it so often and so good.

So very, very good.

Suddenly, an IM popped up on his screen – it was McGrath, the big Oklahoman with the handlebar moustache. His avatar, a close-up of his hips, his erection visible beneath his gray singlet, appeared next to the text box. “Howdy, Sarge!” it read. “Lookin’ to grapple?”

“Hell, yeah,” Sarge typed. “Got the mats set up in the back room, right next to the sling.”

After about fifteen seconds waiting for a response, he heard a tap at the balcony door. He turned, and there stood McGrath, dressed in a pair of fight shorts, an incredibly tight sleeveless t-shirt, and a pair of wrestling shoes. There was no mistaking McGrath’s throbbing erection.

Sarge was only too happy to let him in.

**** **** **** ****

And that was the remarkable thing: of the one-hundred-and-six men who’d gone through the New Superman transformation, not a single one of them suspected something might be wrong, or that they were being physically manipulated as their sex-drives continued to increase. Most assumed it was a side-effect of their being solar-based beings now – that somehow, EVERYTHING was affected by the sun’s energy. As if they were producing super-testosterone – like nineteen year-olds on steroids.

And that boost felt good – and having sex felt great – so, why would they question it?

About two weeks before the convention, it bumped again. Almost like there was a sudden shift in their systems. Like someone had pressed a button and their libidos responded. It became harder and harder to concentrate on-duty – all they could think about was getting off and getting off.

They started dressing more provocatively both on and off duty, showing off their amazing bodies, their huge, pumped muscles, proud of their packages, displaying their cocks and balls to their advantage. Many wore hot-shorts (spandex and leather), or lace-front football shorts, a couple dozen had made the leap to posers, and a handful (A-ho and Capital Police Officer Kevin Blake among them) were uninhibited enough to wear thongs.

Their sexuality oozed off them – they reeked of their masculinity. They began to display the attitudes of men who know how hot they were, who know how badly everybody wanted them -- men on the make. Cocky, arrogant, a bit bully-ish, brutish, they didn’t only intimidate the bad guys, they started behaving that way with nearly everyone. They were better than normal men, and they began acting that way.

Of course, they were half-hard half the time, and most of their energy went to controlling their bodies. But after some heroic stunt, after lifting a speeding car off the highway or ripping a steel door from its hinges, they knew how good they looked. They knew how their muscles appeared while pumped and flexing, doing some impossible deed, lifting a falling building or re-righting a capsized ocean-liner. They knew how hot that was. Usually they’d leave a scene quickly just so they could jerk off over what they’d just done.

Off-duty, constant sex. They all had their buddies, their groups – their web-site profiles were out of control! The pictures they were posting – the activities in which they engaged!

And then, a week before the convention, it amped up again.

**** **** **** ****

Officer Lance d’Lac, the New Superman in New Orleans, prayed by his bedside for the strength to resist the temptation presented by the erection in his underwear. Until recently, he’d been able to resist – the ways of the flesh were the ways of the Devil – but it was becoming more and more difficult.

Now, perhaps BECAUSE he was ignoring the temptation to self-gratify, he was having shameful wet dreams, like the one that had woken him moments ago. An orgasm so incredible it rocked him back to consciousness. In his dream he was flexing, that New Superman from San Francisco sucking his… his…

Ashamed, he prayed. Prayed for strength, the will to resist. He loved being a New Superman, loved the heroics, the powers and abilities to help, to serve. (Pride was normally Lance’s greatest sin – it was hard NOT to display this body and what it could do while remaining humble at the same time.) He never expected LUST to be his greatest challenge.

“I’m not worthy,” he prayed. “I’m losing the battle of the flesh!”

And to prove his fears, his flesh responded – he shot a second load right there in his drawers without touching himself.

Why did it have to feel so good? He cried into his hands, leaning against the bed, praying for forgiveness.

Thank God the convention was tomorrow, he thought later, changing into a fresh pair of underwear. Maybe someone THERE would have the answer.

And maybe…

…maybe he’d see that guy from San Francisco, too.

**** **** **** ****

Of all the unlikely places to have a convention, thought Max while flying back to his apartment at the end of his shift. Why would anyone choose Smallville, Kansas? He had to check a map site online to find out where it was – a fly-speck of a town in the middle of nowhere. Well, middle of the United States, anyway, Max thought – almost directly. And out of the way enough that we won’t be bothered by public or paparazzi.

And plenty of room for sex! He chuckled. Just THINKING the word started to get him hard. It’s been difficult enough to control it during his shift – he’d started to use the words “on patrol” as a euphemism for masturbation – but now that he was off, it was like his cock KNEW it was time to come out and play.

And Max, for one, was happy to let it.

Although a lot of the other Supermen were starting to wear spandex shorts (or less) – that pretty-boy Kevin Blake was actually on-patrol in a thong, his muscular ass shamelessly displayed for all to see – Max was content to continue wearing his uniform pants, stretched tight over his muscular legs as they were. Maybe he DID have a bit of a uniform fetish – but so what? LOOK at him – he was fucking HOT in these.

On the other hand, if the guys knew about the extremely tight, leather jockstrap he was wearing beneath his uniform pants, they would definitely be right to give him shit. But the tight leather was the only thing that had a chance of keeping his repetitive erections in control. So, yeah, it was sexy, but it was also practical.

And now, the convention! Sure, they had workshops and speakers and events planned, but who was kidding who? It was just an excuse for a five-day fuck-fest with some of the most incredible men ever created. Max among them.

He’d already packed, so he was stopping by his apartment only to change clothes, stow his sidearm in the closet safe (though why they were still required to wear sidearms was a mystery to him), and grab his suitcase – hardly anything in it but jocks, posers, square-cuts, singlets, erotic wear, his harness and the like. He had some regular clothes, too, but doubted seriously he’d be dressed in ANYTHING for long.

For the flight, he wore a pair of black leather shorts (the same jock beneath), a sleeveless black t-shirt so small, it barely reached half-way down his abs (worse, it had the Batman logo on the front) and his workboots. Admiring himself in the mirror, flexing, he got a hard-on, but he resisted the urge to jerk off. Save it for the guys! He thought.

So, proudly sporting his erection, he grabbed his bag and flew out the sky-light, not even suspecting he was being manipulated.

Not even knowing he was flying into a trap.

**** **** **** ****

“Mr. Luthor? Sir, you asked to be alerted when the Supermen started converging in Kansas.”

Lex Luthor impatiently hit the button on desk console. “Thank you. I’ll be down in a minute. Initiate phase one – make sure the intensity of the beam continues to get stronger the closer they get to Smallville.”

“Yes, Sir. Kansas is currently at a Level Seven setting. I remind you again, Mr. Luthor, that we’ve never tested the ray at settings higher than Level Five – and you remember what that did to the Baltimore Officer?”

Luthor snorted. “Just follow orders,” he said.

“Yes, Sir.”

Even in his annoyance with his subordinate, Lex smiled. In just a few minutes, he’d have them all corralled – all those New Supermen, helpless. A brilliant plan! After all, he thought, why kill them when he could just make them helpless victims of their own bodies?

Oh, being evil made him almost giddy!

Lex Luthor left his office and took the private lift down to the secret, underground LexCorp labs.

**** **** **** ****

On the day of the convention, every one of the New Supermen was anxious, impatient for their shifts to be over – they were like children trapped in their bedrooms on Christmas morning waiting for their parents to wake up.

Nobody felt it worse than McGrath, the big Sheriff’s Deputy from Oklahoma. The massive cowboy almost didn’t make it through his shift. Thank God the afternoon required almost none of his attention – he’d been hard for the last three hours.

At super-speed, he squeezed into a pair of jeans – done up with his old rodeo belt – his cowboy boots, and his black Stetson. He felt like suckin’ on a stogie…

…he FELT like suckin’ on a dick.

Sweet Jasper Juice, he was horny! He wanted to get his handlebar moustache up against some puckered hole toot sweet! He wasn’t even sure he’d wait for an invitation. First ass he saw was gonna be HIS!

With that, McGrath took off north to Kansas. He knew the way, but his dick could’ve led him.

And there was Smallville – and there was the convention hall – and there were his fellow Supermen – maybe twenty of them had arrived – already pairing off and fucking right there in the lobby.

McGrath wasn’t sure whose ass it was. Some young kid in an ill-fitting black sleeveless t-shirt getting a blow job from some older, bald man (It might have been Sarge – McGrath didn’t know or care). All McGrath knew was that the kid had a FINE backside! And he didn’t seem to resist at all when McGrath entered him from behind. “Max!” McGrath thought, suddenly remembering him from Academy. “The kid’s name was MAX!”

But it didn’t matter – names didn’t matter, not anymore. After his first orgasm, McGrath was as helpless as the rest of them.

**** **** **** ****

Even Lance d’Lac couldn’t resist, and if any of them could, it probably would’ve been the Officer from New Orleans. Instead, he flew almost unerringly North/Northwest toward Kansas. His cock pointed toward his destination like a compass – his shame led him on.

He wasn’t strong enough to resist – his FAITH wasn’t strong enough to resist! The ways of the flesh…

Cresting over the Oklahoma Lake Country, he blew a load in the shiny spandex shorts he wore – his whore shorts!


His scream of orgasmic ecstasy caused more than one person on the ground to look up, while the force of it propelled Lance straight away from the Earth, blowing him into Outer Space, into orbit.

Right into the arms of God.

**** **** **** ****

“Sir, we show ninety-six of the New Supermen in Smallville. Nationwide scans for their unique bio-density signature show no more enroute, leaving ten unaccounted for.”

“The others will come eventually – if nothing else, they’ll come to investigate why none of their fellows have returned to their home cities and abandoned their shifts. And as soon as they find their missing comrades, they’ll fall under the influence of the ray themselves. Soon, I’ll have them all – sort of like a living comic book collection, don’t you think?”

“Uh… yes, Sir.”

“Now… are we ready to proceed?”

“Yes, Sir. As soon as you hit that red button on the console, the ray will increase from its current seventy-percent setting to its maximum strength. Again, Sir, I feel I must protest this action – the Supermen are engaged and helpless at a mere fraction of the ray’s potential. We don’t know what exposure to the maximum setting might do to them – it could very well melt their brains. You have them helpless, Mr. Luthor. Why chance destroying them?”

Lex Luthor paused, puckering his lips while thinking. “Why, Vekko?” he said, reaching into his jacket holster and pulling out the revolver he kept there. “Because I should be the one with their power.”

With that, casually, he shot his assistant in cold blood – annoyed that the bio-spatter would get on his suit.

Never question Lex Luthor, he thought, then smirked. Looks like that kryptonite bullet came to some good use after all!

Luthor stepped over Vekko’s body to the console. He studied the monitors, which displayed different views of the convention center, one that showed the orgy that was taking place in the main room – next to it, the same scene in infra-red, showing the HEAT.

“Goodbye, Super-Saps,” he said.

With his thumb, he purposefully depressed the red button.

**** **** **** ****

There weren’t enough muscles and cocks and cum to keep Max happy. He had a dick in each hand, first blowing the one on the left, then the right – he didn’t even look up to see who they belonged to. Didn’t matter. Another bloated, hyper-muscular Superman – didn’t matter, as long as he always had a cock in his mouth. Somebody else was eating his ass good, rimming him – felt like the guy had whiskers, a handlebar moustache. Fucking Max with his tongue.

Another euphoric wave – another pleasure tsunami. Max orgasmed again, again not touching himself. He just shot, and shot – moaned.

And then…


…and then nothing.

It was almost a let-down. There was no… hunger like before – no… NEED to continue. He was a normal man after a normal orgasm.

He was… done.

He’d regained his senses. He was… back to normal – and more than a little confused about his circumstances. What the heck was going on?

It was happening all around him – as the men came, as they shot their uncontrollable loads, they shook off the effects of… something. They looked around – like the cops they suddenly remembered being, they took in their surroundings. They tried to make sense of what they’d done, how they suddenly found themselves.

And just as the words, “What the HELL?” came out of the Captain’s mouth, something came crashing through the skylight above them.

The looked up, and one of their fellow New Supermen landed amongst them, clothed! In one hand, he held a handcuffed Lex Luthor by the scruff of the neck. In the other, above his head he held a small satellite, or the broken remains of a satellite, anyway. “Captain, Suh” he said in his funny Cajun drawl, dropping the satellite to the ground, “Officer Lance d’Lac. I believe you already know Lex Luthor.”

The Captain – a mature monster with steel gray hair kept in a painfully neat high and tight – saluted and adjusted his spandex shorts at the same time. “What’s going on, d’Luc?” he asked, eyeing Luthor up and down. Luthor looked away in disgust.

“This satellite heyah was putting out a ray that was turning us Supermen into out-of-control sex maniacs, my humble self included. But I happened to fly off Earth accidentally and went out of the ray’s range – and once out of it’s influence, it didn’t take me long to figure out what was goin’ on. Imagine my surprise to find this heyah satellite aimed at the Smallville Convention Center – and owned by Lex Luthor, to boot.”

“You have nothing on me,” Luthor spat. “So I own a satellite, so what? You call that proof? You ever hear of pirating? By the time my lawyers are finished with you, you’ll be paying for that satellite you wrecked for the rest of your pathetic career.”

“Mayhap so, M’sieur, but with the dead body in your bunker, combined with the gun you think is concealed in your jacket, I have the feeling you won’t be worried about this heyah satellite anytime soon, true that?”

Luthor scowled.

Lance turned to the Captain. “I’ve already read him his rights, Suh. May I take him away?”

The Captain cleared his throat. “Absolutely. Good work, d’Luc. Damn good work. Have you called team out to the body…?”

“Already done, Captain. They on scene.”

“Good boy. Well, file your report and then get back out here. We got some celebrating to do!”

“Yes, Suh, Captain, Suh.”

With that, Lance d’Luc took off, Lex Luthor in tow, flying back out the skylight, but leaving the satellite behind.

“I’m not done yet!” Luthor called down to them, as the untangled their muscled forms from each other. “I’ll get you all! Every one!”

And then they were gone, and ninety-some-odd hyper-muscled, cum-stained Supermen began the search for their clothes.

**** **** **** ****

Lex Luthor got off.

Come on… of course he did. Even Max wasn’t surprised when he’d heard the news. If anyone was capable of manipulating the legal system, it was Lex Luthor.

On the other hand, Luthor almost had them – he’d almost defeated the New Supermen. If d’Luc hadn’t displayed the strength of character he had, they’d still be in that pile now, a month later, fucking and sucking helplessly.

Still, that was what being part of a team was. d’Luc saved them this time – maybe Max would save them next. When they were all working together, they were undefeatable. That’s what the luminescent “S” on their chests were for -- it REPRESENTED something. Something Max was proud to be a part of.

Not that the experience had had a completely negative effect. For a lot of the guys, it broke down a sexual barrier that had been hindering them anyway. Sure, they returned to their normal lives, but when they were looking for rough, down-and-dirty sex, they turned to each other with a willingness they’d feared before. It was more of a brotherhood now than it had ever been. There weren’t anymore orgies at the Convention, true, but there sure was a lot of sex going on in their private quarters.

So it shouldn’t be a surprise that when Max got off-shift and flew home, he found his buddy Tucker waiting for him on the roof next to his skylight. The big Texan wore a cowboy had and cargo shorts, the morning sun shining highlights onto his massive, round muscles.

And next to him was McGrath, the brutish Oklahoman with the handlebar moustache. McGrath, also in a cowboy hat – though his was black – didn’t even attempt to hide the hard-on in baggy gym shorts. He and Tucker had been playing with each other’s nipples and goofing around while they were waiting. They relaxed their holds as Max landed.

“Hey, guys,” Max said, smiling a little.

McGrath nodded. “Howdy,” he said in his deep, gruff voice.

Tucker motioned to him. “He wanted to play, too. Reckon that’ll be all right?”

Max smiled. “The more the merrier,” he said, opening the skylight so they could all three fly inside.

McGrath grabbed his cock through his shorts and waved it at Max. “Don’t you mean, the bigger the better?” he asked, winking.

“I don’t know,” Max said, grabbing the guy’s cock himself. “Maybe we’ll have to put it through a test.”

And so, they did.

(And McGrath passed.)