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.”

“10-4.”

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.”

“10-4.”

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. •