New Supermen, The

Over-the-Top Cops


By AbsMan420

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! 1st 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.) •

This collection was originally created as a compressed archive for personal offline viewing
and is not intended to be hosted online or presented in any commercial context.

Any webmaster choosing to host or mirror this archive online
does so at their sole discretion.

Archive Version 070326