The Fortress of Solitude

Superman hated to confess it but there were many times when he didn't like being him. Oh, sure, saving the world repeatedly from major crises and stopping crimes in action had their rewards, but mostly all that he got was just his picture in the papers yet again. What good did the publicity get him except arch-villains who could easily learn all his secrets to use against him? (Why in the universe Lois had published all that kryptonite stuff is beyond his imagination – women!) And why was it that the only people to actually fall from collapsing bridges and buildings were executives (who never tip – the cheapskates) and little old ladies with failing eyesight on pensions? If only his eyesight could fail once in awhile. Blue hair, blue veins, and evidently far too many pastries over several decades? What's up with that? If only Lois had asked him about the second most dangerous thing to him and had published that instead. It's true that being exposed to kryptonite can kill him slowly, but the sight of cellulite makes his Hidden Super Power shrivel up faster than a speeding bullet.

In truth, he had to admit to himself that it was just as well the world's top super models and budding beauties didn't fall in his hands very often. When they did on rare occasions, suddenly he'd have a totally grateful, luscious arrangement of womanly charms in his grasp, her adoring eyes looking up with that "I'll do anything you want; oh thank you, Superman, for saving my life" look, and all the while the wind is blowing through her dress revealing, well, anything and everything. There was that one time when he actually totally forgot about the crisis destroying the entire planet and had instead thought only of finding a nice secluded spot to see how serious she was about her gratitude. Fortunately or not, trains have very loud whistles and that reminded him of his duties. Besides, it can be dangerous being up in the air while physically excited. His cock is, he must be honest here, a thing of beauty and a joy forever. He wasn't Superman for nothing! So when it stood up to salute (not easy in that tight outfit the marketing director of Krypton insisted upon via a recorded message) it acted as a rudder throwing him off course in unpredictable ways, depending on how Mr. Happy chose to grow in his confinement.

That's one reason he was glad not to be in that goofy costume much, and that he never had to squeeze into and out of it but instead it just appeared and disappeared as needed, much like his work clothes he wore to the Daily Planet. He had lost track of all the shirts he had ripped off himself in his hurry to save the world – once again. Thank goodness he never had to go shopping because he could never afford the money to pay for all of them; well, not by working he couldn't. He could knock off a bank or something, but that would be not only illegal but much too easy so no fun at all.

What he really wanted was some gorgeous dame to rip off his shirt when he was in his Clark Kent persona, when flash bulbs weren't constantly exploding around him, when the world wasn't pointing and staring at him all the time. Didn't their parents teach them that such behavior is rude? His room as Kent was nothing to be proud of, just a small place high up on the corner section of an all-male boarding house. Women were allowed there to visit, he knew, because other guys had chicks over frequently. So here all these guys were getting laid, mere mortal men, most barely making it financially and hardly healthy or at all handsome, yet he was a super hero with a too effective disguise and therefore he couldn't get any. Not even the steno pool at the Planet gave him a second glance. While it's true he has beautiful, sunlight-reflecting-off-the-deep-tropical-seas, stunning and unforgettable blue eyes, his Clark Kent glasses are tinted to show instead a boring almost hazel to dull brown. And the nervous stutter he began that first day just for kicks, to see if he could be non-perfect, had to stay now and wasn't at all close to the sultry, deep, husky, mesmerizing, cream-the-girls instantly voice he used as Superman.

So he was left with nothing but his thoughts most nights. As the moans and panting from other rooms filtered through the newspaper-thin walls he knew he couldn't even take matters into his own hands, so to speak. In moments of intense passion, which was basically the only passion he knew, his ejaculations would ricochet off the walls and furniture till they eventually lost momentum and settled somewhere, generally in a huge puddle that he then had to clean or else try to explain to the once-a-week old-biddy cleaning lady. Not fun. If he totally lost track of his surroundings, let his imagination soar and his aim stray, he could break through the fragile glass window with it as easily as breaking through the sound barrier when flying. So he had to be careful. If only he were at his Fortress of Solitude.

Ah, that Fortress. It's quite true that it was made to be his private hideaway, but it's not likely that Jorel and the others had intended it be the bachelor pad it often became. Sometimes, for fun, when news was slow and Lois had a date with some loser or had other appointments, he'd fly over to the New Mexico area late at night and scoop up some drowsy cute thing before heading north to the Fortress. He loved hearing the next day the stories in the papers saying that "another woman was abducted by aliens and made to be a sex slave." Well, they were indeed right, just not in the way they thought. Sometimes he'd find a loose tart stumbling from a night club and would whisk her away for a few hours of fun. Those stories never even made the papers. "Oh, so Superman picked up a two-bit whore and flew you off to some magical place for the best sex of your life? Just sober up and get real." He couldn't help to chuckle when he had overheard those scenes through his super sensitive hearing. That x-ray vision came in quite handy on these shopping trips because he could see who, under their otherwise respectable clothing, wore the sexy, fuck-me, undergarments and was therefore more likely to be a bit of fun than a bore.

He had at times chosen unwisely in the past. He couldn't help but shudder when he remembered that Sacs Fifth Avenue saleslady after store closing. She came along willingly enough – no problems with that, he thought smugly – but once there it was hell! "Oh, so this is your Fortress of Solitude, is it? Well, it's okay, I suppose, if you like this sort of thing. Why is it here instead of over there where the view is so much better? Have you ever considered an interior decorator for this place – it could really use it? All those sharp angles and all white color scheme is simply too horrible too look at. If you were to just put some small lamps over there (we have some beautiful ones on sale right now), and a swag or two over the bigger pointy things, it would be much lovelier, don't you think?" He didn't know then what a swag was (still was a bit unsure of the concept, actually) but it didn't sound good at all. He liked the clean, simple look of the place, and after all it was his place not hers. No stunning, melting gaze with the eyes for her, and certainly no super sex. Instead, she quickly got a strong blast of "sleepy breath" to make her nearly unconscious as he flew her very quickly right back to where he found her, even put her down standing up in the same spot. She hadn't been gone more than a few moments and probably thought she had never left.

So now all women en route get just enough "sleepy breath" to be at about a two-martini level until they've been at the Fortress long enough, been busy enough, to no longer see the walls or the ceiling! And oh yes, had they been busy. He had brought Lois up there enough times to give her that just-fucked look every time she saw him, anywhere. Of course, she thought her memories were all exotic wet dreams, so she felt more than a bit guilty about her show of lust for him (how charming of her to blush after all the times he'd taken her, and in so very many different ways). One good thing his super powers allowed him to do was to return a virgin's maidenhead so she was never the wiser for what happened. In addition, he did use condoms but not for the reason any thinking woman (had they been capable of thought by that time) would imagine. No, it wasn't because of fear of disease because he was immune to all earthly sicknesses and infirmities – except the common cold. How pathetic to be a super hero with the sniffles! Also, despite his totally fertile sperm in copious amounts of semen, it was not possible for him to impregnate an Earth woman, only women from his planet. How unashamedly thrilled he was that none of them survived because the last thing he needed were rugrats spoiling all his fun. No, the reason he used these specially-made, super-duper-sized, mega-heavy-duty condoms was to keep from nearly killing the woman when he came. Human flesh is a whole lot softer than glass, as he learned the hard way in his early days. True, he could heal them up, mostly, but it left some scarring and residual odd behavior, and was therefore to be avoided. Amazingly, his supply of condoms at the Fortress automatically refilled, as he had had reason to be happy about many times when the stock level had dwindled down to a dangerously low level of only a thousand or so left.

He hadn't taken any women up to the Fortress recently because he had been doing some modifications to it. His blue eyes sparkled more keenly as he thought of the new delights possible. He had become bored with the standard human methods of coupling and even with hovering or flying methods. Recently he had discovered a new version that involved physical restraints and things. Naturally, as a super hero, he would always be the kind, generous, and considerate gentleman as ever, but his kindness and gentleness could now include wool-lined leather cuffs, buttery-soft lamb-skin collars, and silk blindfolds. He also had dozens of finely-polished posts and pegs in random places with soft ropes and light-weight yet sturdy chains to connect to the cuffs and collars, and so many other little gadgets or surfaces for play. His super powers could easily pin someone against a wall with no physical supports, as he had done to Lex Luther a few times (hardly the same thing), but he was sure women would prefer a method of restraint that they could understand. He knew that his sexy gaze wasn't the only way he had to melt women; super men have super tongues. Now, instead of simply giving his lady a healthy dose of that vibrating, super fast or agonizingly slow, long and succulent tongue, he would make them wait and work for it, beg for it, really beg.

He had it all planned in his mind, now to find the right woman to try it out. But who? College-coeds? No, there were so few women in college, a purely man's world, and those women were interesting to talk to and frequently attractive, but generally were always angry with men for some reason. Eventually he could imagine them as being cooperative. Perhaps some of the lovely things he's found swimming on the coasts? Well, he assumed they were lovely but those full-body-length, thick swimming outfits hid it all; he much preferred to fly over tropical islands where he didn't need his x-ray vision to see the stunning womanly curves and silky flesh. His mind raced over many possibilities. He realized that he wanted Lois to share in his new playground, but somehow she didn't seem quite enough. Then he knew, absolutely knew. Lois will in fact be there, he determined, but so will many of the other women who he had delighted and who had most given pleasure to him in the past (naturally, the lady from Sacs Fifth Avenue was not invited). In addition, he'd bring along a few new delights, too. Lois had been there so many times "in her dreams" that she easily could be his assistant. With her poise, knowledge, abilities, and confidence (what some called "bitchiness" but as a gentleman he would not) she would be perfect as the Mistress of the other women while he was the Master of them all.

Superman had been laying on his too-small bed at the boarding house, hands grasped behind his head staring at the ceiling as he let himself think (and tried to dim his super hearing to avoid distraction from all those sexy sounds in the rooms and buildings around him). Had anyone been watching they would have seen no movement at all with him during all this time, except for the occasional swelling and receding of his mighty member during his thoughts. The swelling had started to be uncomfortably close to needing attention when he imagined the possible scenes in the Fortress of Solitude. This time he actually laughed aloud – it had been in that Solitude that he had masturbated in safety in those early years, thinking he had no other options, and afterward he had never had more than one other person there with him, and generally for less than a couple hours. He didn't need long to come, but he could also do it several times per hour, so once the woman collapsed from so many of his orgasms and hers he'd call it quits for that session. But this time, with perhaps two dozen maidens in a row, at least one always at the peak of readiness due to the skills of his assistant, he could find out just how many times he could come before (if ever) tiring. Darn good thing those condoms refill!

With that thought he fought down his erection and rose out of the bed. In no time he was in the air (there goes another suit!) wandering all over the globe finding his favorite lovers. There was the sweet-talking Southern belle who seemed so innocent yet had the hunger of a lioness, an old-money debutante from Long Island who could go for hours, a perfection of a Geisha who seemed to have powers beyond his, and a wonderfully talented young thing from China. He simply had to have the strong masseuse from Russia (those sinewy muscles that rippled all over him sometimes needed a good rub down), some ever-naked women from that exotic isolated village who wore jewelry in the most interesting places, and three just-barely-of-age girls from a remote Catholic school. With a bit more thought of the potential positions, he added the entire troupe of a small world-famous all-female ballet, and lastly, that lusty housewife with the passions and skills of a whole parade of high-class whores yet with the appearance of perfectly respectable domesticity. All that was left was his beloved, erotic Lois, and the rest was up to his imagination. With Lois now tenderly in his arms, he raced to the Fortress thinking "Let the games begin."