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The Gun That Killed Superman

By: dr_mabeuse



Circumstance occasionally lead an author to venture into subjects he or she would not usually visit in order to create a certain quality or mood he seeks to express, and such is the case here. This story deals in intentionally brutal and abject forms of sex, and readers who are offended by violence and the grosser excrescences of the human body are cautioned to engage this piece at their peril. The author himself, who usually deals with the more positive and pleasant sides of human sexuality, has come to feel that perhaps he has accrued a certain debt of omission to the darker and less wholesome sides of the sexual urge, however, and with this piece he feels that debt is paid, and paid for some time to come.



My special thanks to the incomparable Cloudy for her help with my hapless Spanish. She had no knowledge of the context in which her translations would be used.

--dr.M.





It was while passing each other on the stairs on a Saturday afternoon that Barry McWheeler glanced up absently at his wife Olivia and saw with stunning but unmistakable clarity that she was having an affair. It should have been a normal glance, a simple, friendly greeting meaning nothing, but instead of that sweet caress of eyes, he found himself unexpectedly looking into the hot, dilated pupils of a woman in a full-body sexual fantasy, either being double fucked by a couple a well-muscled young himbo's or perhaps fisting one swollen pud into her mouth while a thick bridge of semen arced from a recently withdrawn choad and splashed against the base of her throat. Only women came up with such disgustingly juicy, degrading fantasies

He was stunned. It was as if he had opened the bathroom door and caught her crouched there like a beast in full masturbation just seconds from orgasm, and his shock brought him painfully back to the present, making him realize that he was no better. He'd just been so engrossed in his own sexual daydream of driving his mouth against the quivering clit of his mistress's pussy that his eyes were glazed and his tongue was actually curled and protruding slightly from his lips, a noxious little spit bubble at the tip. He quickly pulled it in, blinked, and fixed on his face the best smile he could find under the circumstances,

The smile wasn't necessary because Olivia never noticed him at all and continued floating down the stairs past him with her novel and iced tea, totally oblivious. He'd been so shocked by what he'd seen that he hadn't noticed whether she'd really seen him or not, but it didn't look like it. Nothing in her actions suggested it. Maybe he'd gotten away with it. 

As she passed him she suddenly came out of her reverie. The privacy screen went up behind her eyes and the show ended, her cheeks lifted into her normal camouflaging smile and she made a sort of unconscious move with her shoulders—like testing the space to see if she liked the fit. 

It all happened that fast and that unexpectedly—a meeting of eyes with shields down and their secrets were out, or at least hers was. Barry already knew about his, of course, but Olivia? His Olivia? The Self-Defroster? The shock was deafening.

Holy fucking god damned shit almighty! he continued as calmly up up the stairs as possible, ice water bathing his balls, blood pounding in his face. What did I just do? What did I just see? Olivia's having a fucking affair! I saw it in her eyes! I saw it clear as day! And she saw me! She knows about me and Dana! She must have seen me too! What was I thinking? What was I fucking thinking?!?

His legs propelled him on to his antique dresser. He still held the package that had seems so importanat just minutes ago: paper, a box, more paper, bubble wrap—the very 1932 Pearl-handle Luger pistol that George Reeves, TV's Superman, had used to blow his brains out with on June 16, 1959. It had just come in the mail, just come from e-bay, and that's why he'd been coming upstairs, to admire it, clean it, and put it in its spot in the collection, but now he just pulled it from the bubble wrap and held it in its chamois bag, listening to the sounds in the house, unable to erase the image of Olivia's face from his mind. He stared himself, his eyes looking at nothing, past the muzzle of the gun, watching the sun motes wander on the patterned carpet. Is this how a marriage ends? he thought,  with a moment of silence like this? And then what? Feet charging angrily up the stairs? Olivia's angry growl, demanding to know what he'd been thinking?

But there were no footsteps, no angry growl, no footsteps on the stairs. Just dust motes in the sunlight and the muzzle of the gun that killed George Reeves. 

So maybe she hadn't seen the look on his face. She still didn't know about Dana? Too bad. The thought of discovery while holding the gun gave him a slight thrill in his balls.

This is the gun that killed Superman! Cunt!

No, no. He was a collector, not a murderer, and he actually loved his wife. In fact, he had no intention of leaving Olivia. It had just been so stupid, walking around with his emotions on his face...

What had I been thinking!? Where had my mind been?! 

Between Dana's thighs, that's where. 

More precisely, he'd been standing on the floor as he held her over the bed in her black stockings, arching her back, laughing and protesting, one of her hands trying ineffectively to push his head away from her crotch, the other trying just as uselessly to pull her dress down over her naked pussy. SHe'd been wearing the black garter belt with the little pink bows he'd bought her. The Eirlands' barbecue had been going on in the backyard right outside the curtained window, Anyone might have walked in anytime...

But the hell with all that now. The consequences, the enormity of what had just happened seeped into him slowly, like melting ice, like the hyphae of some saprophytic organism burrowing into the limbs and joints of his life. 

He sat on the bed, had to think. His whole marriage—Olivia—fucking someone else—inconceivable. She was so undersexed, so bland. And what did that say about him? No—couldn't be him. He had Dana, before Dana, Ruth, anyone he wanted. No. It was her Olivia—attractive enough, neat and rich-chic, old-money-slim but uninspired and uninspiring; a woman to be seen with, not to be with. 

But who could it be? Who would even have her and why? Let alone inspire that kind of look in her eye, that look of deep, sensual depravity, that come-on-my-tits-look? That gang-bang look? What would make her look like that? 

Hell, for Olivia, maybe someone did her from behind...

He stood up, slid the gun from the envelope once more and held it. It was a beautiful piece. He'd always loved Lugers, always wanted one. Beautiful and reptilian. He already had the shells for it in the car. He'd bought them three weeks ago as a kind of charm to make himself buy the gun.

He put the gun back into the box, picked it up and went to the stairs. He knew who would know who his wife was fucking. She'd know for sure. 

He went downstairs

It was quiet down here, but it always was, quiet and sunny. Olivia had some music playing in the living room where she'd curled up to read, and Barry stepped buoyantly across the carpet, master of his home.. 

"That Luger's a beauty! The guy took excellent care of it. Barrel's like new. Mechanism like butter" he announced. He took the absence of a response from his wife as a good sign.

It was a fine home. The McWheelers were set and everyone who lived around them was set too. The fact that all the houses in the development were laid out differently couldn't disguise the fact that they were all the same and that the landscape and the very earth hated them and would always hate them.

Olivia had excellent taste, so the first floor comprised an eclectic blend of antiques and quality modern, on the whole favoring the French country tradition, masculine in weight and line but feminine in detail, and Barry approved of the result. It felt butch and smart. 

He let himself out into the attached the garage and punched Dana's number on his cell as soon as the door opened.

"Mrs. Sprague?" he asked in a bright, salesman's voice. He walked around the back of the car and dropped the gun into the trunk, putting some rags and the cargo net over it.

"It's okay," she answered, meaning the coast was clear.

"God!" he relaxed physically, but his voice got tense and urgent and he cupped the phone against his face. "Got to see you! I think she knows!"

He pulled the cell away from his ear, anticipated Dana's response: "What? How?"

"Not 'Knows everything'," he corrected. "But like 'suspects'. Or she might. But that's not all. I'll tell you about that later." He spoke tightly, through clenched teeth, "The most amazing thing, the incredible thing is—she is too! She's having an affair too! I saw it! I know!"

"Saw what? Know what? Barry, what are you talking about? Where are you? Are you home? You think it's wise you see me right now? If she knows..."

"Fuck that! Don't worry about that. Meet me at Kubelski's Can you get away? An hour? Sooner, I'm already in the car."

"I won't have time to get dressed."

"Screw dressing, Dana! Just meet me. Who's she fucking, that's what I want to know, and I want you to give me a list. I want to know! A list!"

He closed his phone and went into the house. He was going out to meet his lover by pretending to go over to his business, but he was self-conscious now and he couldn't remember how he usually left the house under these circumstances, what his usual routine was, the tone of voice he used, whether he kissed Olivia goodbye or not or embraced her or just what he did to look appropriately casual and innocent. 

He walked into the living room where Olivia was stretched out on the sofa, still reading.

Her legs were exposed from the knees down and they were gorgeous legs and he suddenly was sorry for cheating on her. It wasn't just the pain of jealousy he felt now that someone else was fucking his wife, but real regret that he hadn't been She could be a difficult woman and she was shit in bed, but then, he'd been looking for an excuse to start an affair with Dana from the start. Dana was hot. She did the kinds of things a man liked. He'd been looking for an excuse to start an affair with anyone, really. He'd caught on quick that it seemed to be what people did down here in this kind of pre-retirement community for the had-it-mades—play golf, play cards, fish, and have affairs. 

He had an urge now to touch her, to caress her, to promise to bring her a gift or do something nice for her, but he doubted very much that's what he usually did when he left the house to see his mistress, so he stopped and put his hands on the armrest of the sofa and leaned on them instead, trying to look casual. It turned out to be a bad choice of gestures to make, because it made him look as though he suddenly needed to use the bathroom very badly. Olivia looked up at him curiously, her mouth expressionless, saying nothing, and he smiled awkwardly as if to show he was fooling around, but Barry never fooled around. He was not a playful man by any means.

"Are you all right, Barry? Is it gas or something?"

"Oh, nah, no." He shook his head 

Apparently she hadn't seen into his eyes or seen his secret or she would have said something by now, because Olivia never kept anything inside. He sometimes wondered if she had an inside, if there was room for one in there, but that was typical. His main complaint about her was that she never paid attention, or she paid attention to the wrong things. She never heard what he told her, se never even seemed to notice his comings and goings. She seemed to choose not to notice.

That was good though. It meant she probably never noticed how he usually said goodbye to her when he went out to see Dana, so it didn't really matter what he said. That was a relief.

He took a breath and stood away from the couch. 

"Nah, it's my wrist," he said. "I want to take the lugey over to the shop anyway. Break it down and clean it up, screw around a little. You be all right while I'm gone?"

She glanced past him to the clock on the wall. "So you'll go to Steve's from the shop?"

He smiled at her as if she were feeble-minded. "Steve's?"

"It's Thursday, Barry. Poker?"

"Oh, right, yeah! Thursday. Yeah. Of course. With the Superman gun and everything..."

She raised her eyebrows in sympathy and went back to her book.

Poker night, Barry thought. How long had she been enjoying thatpun? 

$$$$$

Before the developers got their hands on it, their was no San Isabel, just a mess of sea wrack and sedge where the Asenootchie ran into Compasenee Bay but the Bayerton Company had set their dredges to work and now there was a nice chunk or shoreline and neat, muffin-like islands and causeways and bridges to connect them all, four golf courses, a pool, Laguna, country club, and a town far enough away to keep them out and close enough to let them come in and pick up the trash and every thing was nice and civilized.

Barry was odd in that he was one of the few men on San Isabel who still worked and did it visibly, though his shop, a neat brick and tinted glass place by the shiny new blacktop of Frontage Road, looked more like a restaurant than a body shop that specialized in restoring leather and fabric tops of classic automobiles. It was more of a hobby than a business anyhow. The income was negligible but they didn't need the money. Olivia had all the money they'd ever need, part of it in a trust and part of it in the trucking and storage business that had made the family fortune and that her four brothers still ran, cutting Barry in on every now and again in an amiable way just to show Sis she hadn't married too much of a schmuck. The warehouse space that comprised Barry's own rag-top restoration business was part of that schmuck-proofing deal It cost the brothers nothing to carve out a space for Barry shop from the front of one of the chronically underused warehouses they'd build industrial park on Commercial, and it make him happy, gave him something to do, and provided him with a convenient excuse for getting out of the house. Also, he honestly liked the work, and there was just enough of it to keep him happy.

He thought as he drove that maybe this had all been a kind of wake-up call, a blessing in disguise. He'd found out about Olivia but she hadn't found out about him, and maybe this was his chance to set things right, to break things off with Dana. It had been almost a year now and maybe that was enough. It was going no where. Maybe this was a warning.

Why did he do it? he wondered as he pulled into the lot at Kubelski's. He didn't know. Olivia was a bitch. It was like cracking oysters with herm while with women like Dana, they were all juice and enjoyment, a pleasure, succulence to be drained, And what did it matter? It wasn't like he loved her. It was just his dick in there doing what dick did, sliding around and making a mess of things. It was all a mystery to him. 

He was never sure whether they should sit outside at Kubelski's or inside. If they sat outside in the merciless sun there was a chance they'd be seen f as people stopped for their crab cakes. On the other hand, that was the whole idea of Kubelski's—their crab cakes—and if they sat inside, it looked like they were hiding—no one sat inside. But this time He grabbed Dana's arm as she got out of her car and pulled her inside. They sat at the back like conspirators, huddles against the white-washed walls like conspirators, back at one of the sticky tables.

Before they even sat down, Barry asked, "So? Who do you think it is?"

Dana enjoyed seeing him squirm. "Jerry Royal." She game him the most unlikely name first. This would be fun.

"The basketball coach? Christ!. He couldn't find it without a fucking diagram."

"Okay. Then that Herb Sorrett. The one with the boat."

Barry thought about it. The guy was slim, athletic, predatory. Not really classy enough to be Olivia's type. 

"He stares too much. Looks at women's asses. Not smart enough. She goes for brains."

A kid put down two glasses of sweet iced tea and Dana held her smile till Barry noticed.

"Very funny. Don't fuck around. I thought women were supposed to be good at this kind of thing."

"And why is that?"

"Because you notice things, You notice things about people. Watch who people watch, you now, how they touch their hair, that kind of thing."

"So I can tell you who you're wife's fucking by the way someone touches their hair."

"Don't fuck around with me, Dana. I'm a wreck."

"Why?" she asked him.

Barry looked at her. He had very pretty eyes, blue, with long lashes, always his best feature and now they were vacant as they stared into hers. 

He had no idea why he was upset. None.

"Someone's fucking my wife." was the best he could come up with.

She took pity on him. 

"I don't know a thing about Olivia," she said. "No one does as far as I know. She never opens up to anyone."

Barry seemed to realize now that his eyes were empty so he blinked them and focused them on her. She was wearing a peach sweater and white jeans and she seemed suddenly greasy, too fleshy.

"What do you mean? I see you guys talking all the time at the club. She talks to everyone."

Dana sucked her straw. "Oh, but that's just talk. No one really says anything there. She's the best person at not saying anything I know. Sometimes I wonder what she's like at home, what you two really talk about."

Barry ignored her. "Well, I'll tell you one thing. Tonight's my poker night. If she's fucking around, tonight's when she's going to do it. Thursdays I play poker and she goes to her sister's house, so she says. Tonight I'm going to find out. I'm going to follow the bitch."

Dana made a face. Like most cheaters, Barry made a ludicrous jealous husband, and all she could think of was an image of his dick hanging out of his pants. She just couldn't resist sticking in the knife a little more.

"So what about it, Barry. Just what do you two talk about?"

He started to answer, then closed his mouth. He looked at her angrily but she stood her ground.

"I don't know," he shrugged. "Stuff. Grapes."

"What?"

"Grapes." 

Dana laughed. "Okay."

"No, I mean, we talk about a lot of stuff. It's just something that comes to mind,. Something I remember."

He pushed his sunglasses back up on his nose. It was very bright outside and the glare reflected inside, the waves dappling the walls. It hurt his head. "I just remember this one time we were having fresh fruit salad and she asked me if I noticed how good the grapes were."

Dana laughed through her nose. "And that's what you remember? Married what? Twenty three years and you remember once she asked you about grapes?"

Jerry looked out over the water. It was a hot day an he could taste it now, feel the grape in his mouth, the cool flesh, the surprisingly bright flavor when he bit into it, how sweet and wet it was.

"And she was right. The were really fantastic, just excellent grapes. Just really excellent. I never would have noticed if she hadn't said anything." 

There was something else he wanted to tell her, something he'd wanted to tell Olivia too at the time but didn't, because it had bothered him. It had really, really bothered him. It bothered him again, sitting there at that sticky table in the glaring sun at the crab shack.

You couldn't tell how delicious and perfect the grape was without eating it. To know it was to kill it.

$$$$$

After he dropped Dana off he went to the shop and changed cars. He took Vinny Stitts' kids old Crown Vicky with the torn landau that he was letting the kind fix up gratis because it had a good muffler and it was a townie car so no one would recognize it. He went into the garage and changed into some work blues and got on a windbreaker too and took a foot-long stretching iron from the shop, an ugly thing with teeth on one end and a blunt iron striking head on the other and he wondered if he'd have the balls to use it on the bastard who was fucking his wife and rip him open like a piece of vinyl. 


The Gun That Killed Superman



Probably not, but it would be better to have it and not need it... 

Then he remembered the Luger. 

He went and got it from under the rags in the back of his Beemer. There was no question he would take it. No question. Scare the screaming Jesus out of the fucker and Olivia too. Barry knew just what he looked like with a pistol in his hand and he looked scary as shit, with that black and gold pinky ring, he looked like a regular goodfella. He'd have this guy shitting square magnolia's. He'd pop a nine millimeter into the wall of the crummy motel and shower him with plaster dust and this guy would shit his dick out through his asshole.

"George," he said to the gun, "You're greatest role still lies before you, my friend."

He tucked the gun still in its chamois and blister wrap into his jacket and locked up. Then he drove home and turned around in the crossroads at McDougal and backed over the verge till he was parked under the big willow on the access road, so far back that the skinny leaves brushed the hood of the car and he could still keep a good eye on the house, and there he waited, carefully chewing gum and listening to talk radio (a dog had been trained to smell whether people would fall in love), idly tapping his gold and onyx ring against the fat, under-sized steering wheel of the old Vicky. 

The wheel had a rich new cushy leather cover and it was a nice job, a beautiful job, tight as virgin pussy, and Barry looked and then ran his fingers along the inside and bottom of the wheel to feel for the seams as the willow leaves danced in the breeze and cast moon shadows on the inside of the car. He didn't feel a thing. That would Rubio's work, then. Rubio was a big Mexican who wore so much black hair dye he sweated it, with square hands and thick fingers and he'd been at the shop forever, since before Barry had taken over and moved it to the warehouse, and only Rubio could do a razor lap-cut like that, so the leather seemed to heal as it grew back together. The man never said a word but his work was always flawless, his seams invisible.

When things got dull, Barry played with George, the Luger. He loaded the clip, unloaded it, played with the curious firing mechanism. Barry had never seen Superman on television when it first ran during the fifties as a half-hour serial, but he knew the story well enough, about the actor George Reeves who was typecast in the role of Clark Kent/Superman in the cheesy, under- budgeted show and after that could never find serious work again and so, in June of 1959, had gone home and put a bullet through his brain with this very gun.

There were rumors that said that Reeves had actually gone crazy and come to believe that he was The Man of Steel and had thought that he was invincible, but those were only rumors. The rumors, like the legend, like the actor and like the show itself, never quite got off the ground. Barry's got the gun for less than they'd wanted for the gun that had killed Sal Mineo or even Robert Blake's wife. Rumurs also said the George Reeves was a homo. 

Movement in the house caught his eye and he looked up. He stared until the edges of the windows blurred and the frames began to pulse with his heartbeat and then he saw what he'd been waiting for. The garage door opened and her Lexus pulled out. Somewhere in his mind he must have thought of the similarity to a penis sliding out of a box but he paid no conscious attention to it now as his hands fumbled on the dash, turning off the radio and searching for the unfamiliar switches and controls, his eyes low, careful to time things just right. 

Olivia rolled past him totally oblivious as usual, and he gave her a good decent interval though the very metal of her car seemed to pull at him. He knew that car—tight, precise, built like her—and then she was gone, and Barry pulled out too, the big Vicky humping and wallowing in the turf.

She took back roads and he kept track of the turn-offs she could have taken but didn't, the ones that led to The Ledges Restaurant, to Tony Jackson's Steakhouse, the Quincy Mall. His radio was on and he snapped it off. Music while tailing his wife as she went to meet her lover was too incongruous. He drove in silence, well behind her. It was like looking up her ass. It was sick.

Slowly it dawned on him that she was going to his shop. That was the only place left, heading over the final causeway on Highway 108 then turning on Frontage Road on doubling back. No, not the shop—the warehouse. The big empty trucking warehouse behind. Darcy-Allen Freightways, around the big chain-link fence headed for the entrance—acres of empty asphalt surrounded by palmetto grass and switch weed. 

I'll be fucked! 

I'll be double fucked! 

Barry kept going past the turn-off to the lot, drove up to his shop, killed the lights, turned in his seat and stared. At least he didn't need an alibi. He was right in front of his own place of business, exactly where he'd started out from ninety minutes ago. 

Olivia drove across the vast, sea of asphalt headed for the loading dock. There was a main gate that would have gone right to the dock, but that was heavily padlocked and barred, so she had to drive all the way down to the far end, nearly a quarter of a mile away and then drive back.

The immense lot was empty but for half a dozen semi-trailers and a scattering of cars pulled up by the loading dock, nothing unusual. Darcy-Allen stored it's heap here, a little partying and rat-popping went on out here, and some kid had even tried building a half pipe in the huge abandoned warehouse DA'd built the place when everyone thought Hyundai was bringing a plant down here back in the 80's but that had fallen through and the place was just a big empty white elephant now, worth no one's trouble.

Barry got out of the car and walked over to the corner of the fence where he could see Olivia without being observed. She parked the car near the loading dock, got out and trotted up the stairs. She disappeared inside.

"Son of a bitch!"

He hopped back into the Vicky and drove around after her, down the access road, through the gate, cut the lights, and across the moonlit asphalt to the loading dark. He parked the car and listened, heard nothing. 

He didn't like this warehouse business. It meant lots of people, not the fly-blown motel he'd been picturing. He took the gun out of his coat and put it under the front seat and locked the car, shoved the stretching iron into the waist band of his pants and caught it on his underpants, tearing them. He pushing it down, bruising his thigh and cutting himself, not bad, but it wasn't good. He got out and went up the stairs.

Up the stairs, across the loading dock and into the warehouse itself and nothingness—the warehouse was nothingness, just a huge, vast, empty darkness, big enough for a fleet of airplanes or something, now all empty, a feeling of facing the end of the world—a decaying catwalk barely visible hanging from the farther than you could throw a rock.

Over here, by the loading dock end, that' where there was anything, against the cinder block wall an iron staircase went up to a suite of shuttered offices Below it was a free-standing structure the size of a two large mobile homes welded together. New once, it was decrepit now, rusted, dented, a combination locker room-break room-bathroom-shower stalls intended for the sixty or so workers who would have manned the warehouse for a shift had the place ever opened, which of course it didn't. The "workers' quarters" were trussed up on some 8X8's and cinder blocks and didn't sit flush with the wall. It skewed at an angle to it. The whole place seemed to be skewed and cheap. depite the hugeness of its scale. 

The electricity and plumbing worked, and the lights in the shower room and the locker room were on. Barry knew they worked because the Allen Brothers still used the place for dry-docking boats and other little jobs—tearing down trucks, gray salvage, little stuff like that. 

A couple of old boats stood against the far wall even now, dusty and derelict: a fiberglass catamaran with a torn hull and a decrepit, rotted out Sea Island Mud Skipper, sitting on a slapdash mass of bolled timbers—saw-bucked tree trunks with the ends covered with masses of tarred rope. Some of the Lagooners dry-docked their boats here too, and the Island Preservation Society brought their old wrecks here to be pitched and payed—hard, dirty, mallet-and-tar work they left to the townies. The boats in the gloom were going nowhere, upended, tied and covered in tarps like mummies, like fish out of water.

The lights were on in the locker and shower rooms but there was no sign of anyone. No sounds.

He fought the urge to call out. He looked behind him, squatting down to see under the loading dock door. There were two cars parked there casually on the soft Carolina grass and chickweed, one a used pickup that looked familiar—a townie car—but he couldn't place it, the other a beaner ride.

The there was action: headlights cutting across the tarmac from the gates and voices from behind him, from inside the shower room, men's voices. The headlights were driving easy—nothing urgent, and the voices were relaxed. Whatever was happening wasn't urgent, wasn't dangerous. There were the sounds of things being dragged aroiund and arranged, easy laughter, things being set in place as for a party. It was coming from the shower room and locker rooms, a yellow light spilling out and the sounds of things being dragged around, and low voices. 

Barry stood in the door way against the wall and looked around. If anyone asked him, he could say he just wandered back from his shop out front, he had a perfect alibi, and meanwhile he tried to figure out just what kind of party was going on: strippers, maybe? It had that expectant, preparatory air of entertainment about to begin. No laughter, though, no sounds of drinks, no music. It sounded very much like men working, tired men working, finishing up after a long day, putting things back in order. And Olivia was down there somewhere—where?

Barry knew the building. The locker room and shower stall units didn't quite butt up against the cinderblock walls of the warehouse. He started walking crisply for the far side of the shower room, casually checking the girder supports overhead as if assuring himself that the old place sure looked the same, and he started seeing people—men in jeans and tees, moving things around in the shower room. Not work clothes—after work clothes: clean jeans, shirts pressed, fresh tees, dragging mats, setting up some sort of timber thing—a big 4 X 4 with rope bolling, huge and out of place in the shower room, wads of think hemp rope on the top. Men started coming out, walking by him.

And then as he walked by the door of the locker room her saw Olivia.

He saw Olivia, standing in her lime green summer dress, playing with the buttons on the bodice, talking to some one, some big man, smiling, friendly. More than friendly. Glad. 

He kept walking, he couldn't stop, but as he walked he could see. She wasn't playing with the buttons. She was unbuttoning her dress, opening her dress.

Barry stopped. Backed up. Stared to make sure.

Olivia was listening to this big man as if he were giving her instructions on something, explaining something to her. He was using his body a lot. And she was nodding and listening and unbuttoning her dress so that her naked body was exposed. The man was a big man. Bigger than Barry 

The big man was Rubio, the man who ran such perfect seams for Barry McWheeler. Barry's wife was undressing in front of Rubio. 

It was a party, his head said, It was some sort of surprise party they were throwing for him, a gag, but adrenaline flooded his gut and his legs turned weak and he instinctively ran the last few steps to the dark fissure between the locker room and the cinderblock wall of the warehouse, a catchall space occupied with pipes and brooms, pieces of two-by-four and junk. He pushed his way in with mindless panic, pushing and stepping over the junk, his mouth open in a weird rictus of shock and horror, eye stuck wide open. 

He scrambled tying t hide, trying to get away, hiding, hiding, pushing back till he was deep in by the locker room wall where the metal was peppered with poorly riveted joints and rust holes and patches, and he pushed through the sticking damp cobwebs until he found he had knowingly or not pushed himself back to the exact space where he'd have a perfect view of Olivia. He didn't mean to stop there. He hadn't meant to go where he could see her, but now that he was there here couldn't move, couldn't leave. 

He could see her perfectly through the gaps in the wall, the top of her lime-green dress hanging in a graceful arc from her waist to her sleeves now, baring the naked roundness of her shoulders as Rubio finished taking to her and they laughed and she quickly passed her elegant hands around the big Mexican's back and kissed him, rushing lest this opportunity be lost—softly at first, and then with growing ardor, the muscles in her slim arms flexing as she gripped him, her passion showing, her need for him, her passion taking her, she kissed Rubio. 

The big man did nothing for a while but seemed amused, then he put his hands around her and closed them around her ribs. He squeezed her as she kissed him, then passed his large hands up and down her slim and elegantly crafted back as you caress a pet, one you admire for its pelt or its ability to catch vermin.

Barry's mind screamed, refused to believe it. He felt as if his blood had backed up in his veins and wouldn't flow. This was wrong, this was no! this was them rehearsing for a play, a show, this was too impossible, the glow of lust on Olivia's face, her naked breasts hanging like pearls, Rubio's lazy, cruel, Mexican eyes already tasting her nipples, already spitting on them in contempt.

Barry looked again, opened his mouth as if there was something horrible on his tongue: it was the taste of what they were doing—close his mouth and he swallowed it, h swallowed Olivia's betrayal, Rubio's spittle-laced contempt.

But there was no doubt. Olivia had her hands around Rubio's broad back and it wasn't a pretty back—there were zits, boils, lardy man-tits hung from his pecs even from behind—holding him as if he were something precious and rare while the big Mexican loomed over her like a wall of sandstone. Her fine lips were pressed against that coarse mouth, his lips cunty pink beneath the rough spikes of his moustache, and her eyes were closed in that kind of bliss that suggested she was taking deep sensual nourishment from the big man's stolid impassiveness—she hung from him, ripening into sexual fullness. Soon her onw juice would be dripping down her thighs.

Barry made some involuntary sound of pain, it hurt him so much to see. She'd never kissed him like that—never. Never sucked sexual heat from his mouth, sucked it in and inhaled it and let it make her body soft and ripe for fucking

It struck him now too for the first time that she was naked beneath her dress. Her finely formed breasts hung delicately upon her chest exactly like fruit, like vanilla pears, waiting to be taken. She never went without underwear—never!—but this was a new Olivia, this was Rubio's woman, Rubio's cunt. And Rubio was in no hurry.

The kiss ended and Olivia's arms slid reluctantly from his shoulders as she turned away. She went back again to her business of getting undressed. Barry pressed himself back against the damp wall as if to get as far from them as possible and yet he couldn't escape the feeling now that he was watching the preparation for something, some sort of show or demonstration. The men down by the shower room were arranging the stage, and here, in the dressing room Olivia the star was getting into her costume and make-up. Indeed, she turned from Rubio as if returning to the task of dressing and began unbuttoning the sleeves of the dress. 

She unzipped it, stripped it off and threw it casually on the bench, leaving herself dressed only in her panties. Rubio picked up her dress and carefully hung it up on a wooden hangar, placed it in a locker, and closed the door. From the floor he picked up a large gym bag and set it on a table and began going through it, taking out items and placing them on the table as Olivia held onto the edge of the table for balance as she took off her panties.

The initial shock over, Barry watched raptly. No, he wasn't going to do anything—not now, not yet. This was more complicated, more involved than he'd thought. The woman was sick, diseased. He had to find out what was going on. Revenge could wait. He had to know. He had to know what was happening here. 

The sight of Olivia's perfect shaved mons didn't surprise him. He had no idea what she kept down there anymore. It might have been a set of Wedgwood China and he wouldn't have been surprised. She'd long ago stopped having any sexual meaning to him, and in fact, it was difficult for him now to see her in any sexual context whatsoever. He was more interested in trying to figure out what was going to happen. A strip show? Some sort of Tijuana sex show? Would there be other girls involved?

From the other room, the sound of the activity was dying down, and the men seemed to be filling out. As the shower room door opened, he could hear other cars arriving outside by the loading dock, a gang was assembling. 

He tried to see down the passage between the wall of the workers' complex and the cinderblock wall of the warehouse but that just left him a narrow arc. It was cramped in here and her surrounded by the smell of mildew and the stink of wet mop and old soap. He got himself tangled in the handle of a broom and a mop bucket and by the time he got himself free and looked back, Olivia was sitting on a bench wearing a pair of black panty hose and glossy black heels. She was just finishing painting her lips a thick, brilliant red-pink, leaning forward, looking into a mirror on the inside of a locker door, a shade she never would have used at home—slutty, neon and whorish.

Rubio was standing behind her, just finishing curling her hair up and pinning it into place with one hand. In his other hand he carefully held a small shiny black leather object that Barry immediately knew was a mask, and not just any mask. He could tell by the way Rubio held it that it was very special, made by Rubio's own hands. 

Rubio waited till Olivia was done with her lipstick then he gripped the mask carefully and adjusted his stance behind her and began to slip it over her head. It was not an easy process. It was not just any mask. It went on like a second skin, like another identity, and the fitting looked painful, like being fitted for braces. Olivia cried out several times.

"Oh no!" Barry thought. "Oh God, no!"

He's seen magazines. He'd seen masks like this before.

It was all handmade, in his shop he knew, and the workmanship was exquisite. Barry could see that even from where he was standing. The flemishing around the eye holes was invisible—there was no gap at the bridge of the nose and nose itself was perfectly formed to lay flat—always difficult in masks. Barry had watched these guys work and he knew something of their tricks. This nose would have been lined with thin strips of beeswax and mortician's gum to make it hold to her skin—the chin buttress was cut from celluloid softened in hot water. The mask was linked with red casket silk to absorb moisture of all kinds—not just sweat, but snot and phlegm, the kinds of things a body exudes as it decomposes, the kinds of things morticians know about. Olivia could wear it through all sorts of conditions. All sorts of things could be done to her.

"Oh, Go, fuck, no!"

It took Rubio almost five full minutes to get it seated and fitted just so, stopping sometimes to stretch or adjust certain contours or angles, but when it was done it was perfect, and when he was done, Olivia was no more. Her head was a slick, black, obsidian knob. She was a creature of stone, something eternal, a caricature of a woman, with great cat eyes and brilliant red lips, a shiny black skull. Rubio stood behind her and deftly laced up the back, drew the laces up tight, and pulled again, pulling then so tightly that Olivia's head jerked from side to side like a doll's and the overlapped and formed a solid ridge down the back of her head like a lizard's crest.




The Gun That Killed Superman



Barry held his breath. Her transformation was complete. Something else had her now. She wouldn't recognize him now. She wasn't of his world.

She stood and slipped on a silk robe and Barry stared at her, transfixed. She was featureless, faceless, and while Barry could recognize the body— the face could have been anyone, or no one. 

Something stirred in him like a snake stirring. Something he recognized and didn't like but something that liked him very well.

Rubio reached in his pocket and took out a lacing awl and began tearing some runs in the stockings, squatting down and hooking the awl in the nylon and yanking Olivia this way and that, turning her around and doing the same, slapping her ass too, then using his hands and even his teeth to tear the rents bigger till the panty hose were in shreds and tatters, making Olivia look as if she'd been attacked, abused, raped. He put some rips in the panty part too, using a knife and pulling the fabric away, working carefully to score the nylon and weaken it but not cut it through.

He was talking as he worked on her but the way he made her jerk her hips was lewd, obscene, and Olivia in that obscene shiny mask. Barry was hoping Rubio would shove his finger in her pussy. He wanted to see him shove his finger in her cunt. 

Rubio took what looked like charcoal from the table and rubbed it between his hands and then began patting and slapping it against her, dirtying her, slapping her legs and ribs and arms and belly as Olivia gave ground, laughing and squealing, but soon she wasn't laughing so much and the squeals turned to grunts and coughs of a fighter getting body-hit as Rubio's blows got harder and less playful and she began to stagger and recoil. Rubio boxed with her, leading with his left, laughing, but Barry could tell the slaps hurt the kind that in a play fight would raise hot, unwilling tears, the blows of a bully.

Barry had never witnessed the particular hideousness of a man beating a woman, the ugliness of Rubio's size and expertise against Olivia's cowering helplessness and something in him told him that he should act, should move to protect his wife and woman, but at the same time he knew that there was something going on between Olivia and Rubio that he didn't understand—something deep and private and that knowing about it was more important than even stopping it. Watching Rubio hit slap made him wince but also brought out a shameful envy for a man who could bitch-slap his wife like that and the that primitive bully's reflexive desire to see the weak one trounced and beaten. 

Olivia cowered against the wall, protecting her ovaries, turning away to take the blows on her back and her shoulders only to be pulled back, spun forwards and slapped again. Rubio pulled his punches, pushing her rather than hitting to hurt, but he was still a beast, a bull, still rubbing the dirt into her.

But then soon enough it was over and Rubio ended, pushing her away in disgust. He grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the wall and pulled her back towards the table. 

He picked up a piece of fabric, a white pillow case and none too clean, and yanked it down over her head, tied it loosely around her throat and then reached down to her hands where he seemed to be roughly tying them together behind her back—Barry couldn't see for sure. Rubio's big body was in the way and Barry, flattened in that foot-wide crawl-space, had no room to maneuver, but he saw Rubio take his wife—now bound, her face covered in that pillow case so that she looked like a Ku Klux Klansman—it had some crude gash in it for a mouth torn sadly to the side, but other that that it blank, dead, a featureless gray-white that nonetheless made her look frightened, victimized—and push her against the lockers, slam her back against them so they banged and the doors swing and then dig his hand into her pussy so that Olivia yelled and lurched forward as if she'd been punched, only to be shoved back again and slapped, his hand hitting her face so her head moved in the pillow case, first one direction then the other till she started to sink, but Rubio jerked her up with that hand in her cunt and hit her again, battering her from wall to wall, pushing, slapping, then shoved her so she staggered back, slammed into the lockers and fell, moaning and sobbing, her breasts heaving on her chest, waiting for the next blow. She was defenseless, helpless, hands tied behind her. How could he do this to her?

He picked her up and slapped her again and again her head rocked in the pillow case. Then he crushed her in his arms and kissed her, his mouth opening wide as he licked the pillow case, smearing his tongue all over it. His hands grabbed her ass and her pussy in a frenzy of excitement, squeezing her tits, rubbing and slapping her, then he stopped. He looked at her as if she were a baby just too cute to leave alone and he squeezed her again, shaking her back and forth, then he pushed her away and watched as she staggered again and hit the wall of lockers, slumped and lay there gasping for air, making no more moves to get up.

"Si, bueno," he said.

He couldn't deny it now. Barry was fascinated. He was fascinated because there was no escaping the fact any more that Olivia wasn't fighting. She wasn't showing any resistance at all. If anything, she was accepting it, almost—God help him—enjoying it! Wanting it, offering herself to it—the beating, the slapping, the mask, the abuse of herself, the degradation, everything, and Barry felt like there was someone in that tiny space with him laughing at him; some devil, some spirit of filthy unwholesome truth rising with the stench of the dirty mops and the rotting wood, reaching down his pants and pulling on his cock and laughing at him—"Sissy! Half-man! Pussy-boy! She had to come to Beaner Man to get the real Macho thing! She couldn't get it from you!"

He stood and he stared and he felt like he was eleven years old at summer camp again, learning that you didn't piss inside a girl to made babies, that it was something else, something else

Olivia was a monster in that mask, a woman beaten and waiting for more. Rubio was a monster but not not yet dressed. He went to a locker and took his time changing out of his shop clothes into a pair of ice cream whites still in the cleaner's plastic—white pants and a two-strapper that showed his broad acne-scarred shoulders covered with hair. He put on a pair of shiny black shoes laced them up and looked at them, then got up and went over to the gym bag on the table where he took out a short well-used macramé flogger of maybe twenty knotted strands not more than eighteen inches long and a cheap, pre-made leather hood, nothing like the expensive, hand-crafted and silk-lined piece of workmanship he'd put over Olivia's head. This was worn and used, frayed and the zipper seemed suck, stained dark with hair oil and white with the salt of perspiration, and he pulled this down over his greasy hair and slid it into place, adjusting it with his hands over his cheeks till the eyes were in place and he left it at that, not even messing with the zipper. From the right eye hung a glass or crystal tear. Once he had the hood on, he found a cigar butt stuffed inside an empty cigarette pack and he took his out, cleaned it off and put it between his teeth. He lit it with a butane lighter, twirling it to get an even glow, then slipped the lighter into his pocket. He seemed to enjoy the smoke.

Throughout, Olivia had huddled against the wall, watching him. It was odd, the way they acted, and Barry peered at them, trying to understand the relationship between them. They couldn't be lovers. There was no love, no passion, not even any affection between them. Olivia—his wife— that expensive body collapsed against the dirty floor, stockings torn and shredded, her beautiful face masked and now hooded by that grotesque, shapeless pillowcase inside of which her face might even be bleeding, and Rubio, massive, hulking, standing in his grimy whites like a butcher or a referee at a boxing match, but with that ugly black mask on and the cigar in his mouth. Already he was sweating though the chest of the two-strapper. 

Rubio stepped over and grabbed Olivia and pulled her over to his knees and God, she looked good, sexy, hot, those slim thighs in the torn panty hose her naked tits, all woman with no face, and Barry licked his lips as Rubio opened his zipper and fished out his cock, a thick wad, pink as chewed bubble gum in the nest of his public hair. Barry stood on tiptoes, leaning to his right, oblivious now to the filth and cobwebs that stained his clothes, watching as the big man held Olivia's arm in the air and used his other hand to feel around the pillow case till he found the slit, then jerked it around till he had it over Olivia's mouth and then pushed his fad dick into her mouth. Olivia took it and sucked with excitement. He could tell by the muffled slobbery sound that came from beneath the sack.

Once Rubio had her mouth on his cock he fixed his cigar stub in his mouth then used both hands to grab her and jerk her head towards him, shoving his hips out to set his meat in her mouth like a fisherman setting a hook and Olivia moaned again and immediately the flogger came down across her shoulders with a sound as flat and final as the rap of a judge's gavel. The case of Olivia McWheeler, whore and cocksucker had now been decided. Rubio threw his head back and moaned with pleasure.

Olivia simpered and the whip came down again and then down across the side of her face, whipping her cheek from the back through the pillow case and Rubio looked down at her and smiled, letting some smoke ooze from his teeth as she started moving her head, sucking him good. Barry could see the mass of her head bobbing inside the pillow case. Rubio raised the whip and whipped her back again and then the flabby sack over her head, then her shoulders again, , the macramé thongs coming down with a flat thwishhh sound and Barry had no idea whether it hurt or not but it made an impressive sound and the knots looked nasty. 

A flurry of lashes then Rubio grabbed the fabric of the pillow case with both hands and began to pump-fuck her mouth with short, brutal strokes, his hips hunching with the urgency of a dog riding a bitch in a Tijuana street with obscene animal muscularity, a look on his face of satisfied contempt and disdain. Barry heard her grunts of protests as Rubio's cock hit the back of her throat—choking, gagging back in her throat, but the big man ignored her, wrapping the loose fabric of the pillow case in his fist to get a better grip on her head and now fucking with his whole torso, the fat of his belly jiggling as she shoved it into her mouth. Barry could hear Rubio's grunting and panting and the thick sound of his cock churning up Olivia's saliva into a sudsy froth. Olivia choked and swallows and a loose fluorescent buzzed as a horse fly bumped into it, and then, with no warning, Rubio pulled his cock out with a satisfied groan.

Long strings of pink-tinted mucus and saliva streamed after it and stained the front of the pillow case and Olivia coughed so hard Barry though she'd retch. Rubio took her face in his hand and bent down and whispered something in her ear, then he gave her a tender little kiss on the mouth, held his chin up and cut her two vicious slashes with the flogger across the tits, Olivia cried out shrilly and if the men in the other room had been quiet before, the went absolute deadly still now. If sharks made a sound when they smelled blood, this is what it would sound like. In the quiet, Rubio bent close and whispered some encouragement into her ear.

Barry had to move, His position was unbearable—stretched out spider wise to his right, his right elbow jammed against a pipe stub and his foot braced against a moldering step ladder. He was afraid. Not afraid for his safety, but afraid for everything he knew, for everything he was. This wasn't his world anymore. This wasn't even the world of sin that he knew with Dana, of fucking in clean motels and working his cock gently into her ass, making her blow him in an empty cabana at the Yacht Club, This was a world that was deeply, terribly wrong, and he didn't know where to go or what to do. Only one thing came to mind: The Sheriff

Just then Rubio yelled something and Guyabo immediately came into the room where Rubio stood over Olivia. Barry know him dimly—some mental defective who hung around the Mexicans—the body of a teenager but totally toothless and always twitching, sucking his toothless jaws, also dressed also in all white, his presence in the room made things immediately more menacing and bizarre—he carried a large plank which he threw down between two of the benches and when Olivia heard it hit the wood she panicked and began to thrash.

"Holla! Tengala!" Rubio cried, and Guyabo and Rubio grabbed her and wrestled her down.

Barry couldn't watch. He began to panic, clawing at the wall behind him as the men wrestled with his wife. He tried to crawl out the way he'd come in, but as he did he saw them pull Olivia onto her stomach onto the wooden board and Rubio grab her shoulders and put his knee into the small of her back while Guyabo grabbed her ankles and began to tie them down. Rubio swore at her in a low, hissing voice and Olivia bitched and snarled but she didn't scream. 

When Barry slowed his breathing enough to concentrate he could hear the men outside joking, laughing, like men anywhere, hanging out, waiting for some kind of show to start, something to happen, and now Barry knew what it was going to be, but he couldn't stop, he couldn't stop it.

In the locker room Rubio and Guyabo were struggling with the grotesquely bound Olivia. She looked like some fetish doll with that over-sized pillow-case head—a spoon girl, the moon maiden. They'd tied her with her legs apart and Guyabo had stuffed rags into the slit in the pillow case and was leaning on her head as if he were going to press it through the bench. Rubio had a half-liter polyethylene trocheal syringe and was quickly cutting the bottoms off tubes of KY jelly with a big knife and squeezing the contents into the syringe, filling it. 

Someone came through the door to the shower room and left again and Barry caught the smell of the Carolina night, and strangely, a whiff of Olivia's perfume. Olivia had stopped struggling but Rubio was swearing and nervous and Barry was frantic, certain he was going to be sick if he didn't get out of there. The stink of the mop was thick on his nose now like the floor around a toilet. He was trapped on the pipe which had caught in his sleeve but to pull it off would be to knock down the ladder. He couldn't stand it. He had to watch

Turning his head he could just see Olivia's tight buttocks beneath Rubio's arm. She was flexing them as Rubio used one hand to spread her anus and worked the brass tip of the syringe against her asshole and slid it in and Olivia flexed and jerked her knees, but she didn't scream. She must have known this was coming. 

Barry held his breath as he saw the handle of the syringe move, Rubio pumping the lube into her ass. My God! How much was he giving her! One hundred, two hundred cc's! Like he was lubing a car, his arm shaking with the strain. Olivia cried out and jerked every so often like an animal under surgery, not knowing the process was for its own good. The lube went into her rectum. Three hundred cc's, maybe more. It was like surgery on an anaesthetized patient.. Olivia moaned. 

Guyabo let go of her and the worst seemed to be over. Another hundred CC's went into her without protest and everyone seemed to relax. 

As if released from a sudden tension, Barry jerked on his sleeve and it tore away from the pipe. He fell from the ladder and all came clattering down, banging against the wall of the locker room. He scrambled to his feet waiting for death, looking through a crack in the metal. 

Rubio glanced over, took the cigar butt from his moth and threw it to the ground. "Oye! Quien es? Focker!" He pointed at the wall and jerked a thumb towards the door and Barry froze, wondering which way to run but Guyabo just stood there. No one seemed concerned about his being there.

Instead the two men took Olivia and untied her legs. Rubio wiped off her ass and thighs with a towel and then wiped off the nozzle of the syringe. Guyabo helped her sit up and then untied the pillow case and lifted it off her head, He tenderly wiped her mask off with the towel and then spread his legs for balance and held her mouth open. Rubio put his thumb in her cheek and began filling her mouth with the KY jelly and Barry watched transfixed as she began swallowing and swallowing but no matter how fast she swallowed it kept on coming and soon it was overflowing her cheeks and dripping down the mask and pouring down the sides and she was coughing and spitting, choking, the jelly spraying in the air in a fine mist tinted pink from her lipstick and still Rubio pumped, even when she began to gag and shake her head and pull at her bonds and Guyabo let go of her mouth and held her arms to keep her from twisting away as she tried to pull her head back but Rubio kept shoving that lube down her throat till she was screaming this nauseating muffled phlegmy gurgle, her chest heaving and Rubio stepped back and Guyabo let her go and she pitched to the side trying to catch her breath, her shoulders heaving and shuddering, coughing, gagging, her chest lifting with wracking, retching coughs.

One final deep retch and she turned her head to the side and vomited, and Rubio stood aside, watching her critically with no pity, the syringe in his hand, as if estimating whether she'd had enough. Guyabo got some rags and threw them on the pile of vomit and pushed them around with his foot, sucking his toothless gums.

Suddenly Barry knew what was going on. Suddenly he knew. It was a show. It was an exhibition, or like a fight, and Rubio was Olivia's manager. He was getting her ready. Being cruel to be kind. She was on for tonight and he'd been training her,

Those men outside—They were the audience, or the participants, and that's why they hadn't come for him, because Rubio just thought Barry was a customer who'd snuck backstage to get an early eyeful.

He had to get out. He had to get the sheriff or something.

He started crab-walking between the two walls towards the far end of the buildings but he could still se inside and looked back in time to see Rubio with an enormous soft rubber dildo, the kind with the veins and the warts and knobs, a good two, two and a half inches in diameter. Guyabo was holding her head the way Samson had held the lion—one hand on her lower jaw, the other under her nose—forcing her head back and opening her mouth, making it a straight run down her gullet—a sword-swallower's run, and Olivia was rolling her shoulders, compressing them, it was the only thing she could move except for her legs which were clamped so tightly together they were trembling, and Rubio was shoving that thing down her throat as she gagged and retched and coughed, her swan-like throat expanding, grotesquely like a bullfrog's, the skin growing shiny and taut as the rubber prick made its way down her gullet.

At one point Rubio stopped and sprayed some lidocaine down her throat which make her vomit again but Guyabo was there to catch it with his towel, and after a moment the work of forcing the rubber monster done her throat began again. The sounds Olivia made were horrible, a mixture of choking, gagging sobs and half babbled-pleas, and Rubio's strength was hideous, the muscles in his arms shivered as he rammed the dildo down her throat. She shuddered with a violence that suggested some basic law of nature were being violated slinging a mixture of snot, lubricant, and salty tears around the room, By this time, Barry was weeping and ready to vomit himself. He had to urinate badly. He thought of doing it in his pants. It hardly seemed to matter. It was insane. He had to get out or die.




The Gun That Killed Superman



He squeezed himself past the locker room—it widened here, the going was easier—and then the shower room, and then he saw the warehouse the loading dock, the main doors standing open to the still Carolina night, a night filled with the sounds of crickets and cicadas, stifling heat. There were two vans standing open and all the men seemed to be gathered around, drinking beer and changing clothes. He stopped in the shadows and watched. There were eight or ten men, a couple Mexicans some black guys, whites, older guys, some others, he couldn't keep track. Some re recognized outright—they worked maintenance at the golf course, one worked at the gas station, two more looked familiar, he couldn't be sure. the guys were joking, drinking beers, a few smoking reefers, wrapping sheets around themselves like togas, then wrapping black bandages around their faces like ninjas—unrecognizable. When these were in place, they reached into a box in one of the vans and took out some big black belts they buckled around their waists, The belts had shoulder straps that formed X's across their chests with big brass rings in the center.

Music played from a CD, some soft rap, but at one point Olivia suddenly screamed from inside and everyone froze. Eye met nervous eyes and the mouths didn't form smiles but something else, something that belonged to the moonlight. Someone reached over and turned off the music and they listened. She screamed again, a deep, air-sucking sob. Rubio must have pulled the dildo from her throat. Olivia yelled three times, like a football player getting his blood up and the men all looked at each other.

"Fuckin'A" someone whispered.

"Do-A" 

They put their beers down and crushed out their joints and cigarettes, and just then the door to the shower room opened and Guyabo came out. He didn't say anything, just chewed his loose lips and jerked his head towards the inside to tell them she was ready and they filed inside.

Barry heard the sudden sound of jingling, bells—belly-dancer bells from inside. He expected to hear the men cheer or applaud but he heard nothing. They filed inside and the door closed, and now all he had to do was call the cops. Just get out his cell and call the sheriff.

ZsshhhhWHHHHAPP!!! 

"AGGHHH!!!! YESSS!!"

The sound of a whip followed by a coruscating racket of jingling bells and a wild cat raw-throated scream of such feral and savage female need that it raised the hair on the back of Barry's neck and brought the eerie cool of perspiration seeping into the cloying heat of Carolina night.

That was his wife in there. singing her unholy sing to the whip, singing for these men. Singing her love of pain for their cocks.

SlasshhhhWHAPPP 

"AiiieeeEEEEE!!!! Bastard! Fucker! Yes! Oh Fucker! Yes!!!

The same thing. The ripping heat-lightning sizzle of a whip coming down followed by the thunder of leather on flesh—the explosion of splintering pain of the bells and her wanton imprecation of unholy satisfaction. It was more than he could stand.

It sounded like something pulled raw and bleeding from her soul, pulled out through her throat, like Barry had seen a fish gutted once just by flinging it around on the line when it had bellied the hook and the centrifugal force just turned it inside out and all it was, was a red smear of life meat left on the line.

Out in the darkness the insects sang their blind songs and the night seemed to burn with acid. A million mouths sucked at a million blind roots. Barry McWheeler crouched in the Carolina dirt and listened to his wife's screams of some twisted song as her body was whipped by a stranger before a roomful of strangers who watched her with their faces masked, their cocks filling with hot, virile blood, balls filling even now with foreign, aching alien sperm.

He crept to the van and started taking off his clothes, his shoes, his pants his shirt.

The whip came down again and again she screamed. God, she wanted that pain! She wanted that cock, She wanted that hot, violent, hard male meat straightening out whatever it was that was female and twisted and crooked within her.

His tee-shirt, his shorts. He got the sheet.

The whip came down, and this time he pictured something bloody. There has to blood, doesn't there? Between a man and a woman. God said so in the bible There has to be blood. There has to be pain.

The wrapped the sheet around himself. He wrapped the black bandages around his head. She smelled like shoe polish.

The whip came down and oh she screamed and her little bells jingled. There was something about the serpent in the bible. The serpent will bruise your heel or bite your heel or fuck you or something. Pop your cherry. Make you bleed, make you mine. And the serpent will bite your heel, and your prick will make her bleed. Go unto her and know her, make her bleed. She will bleed, and she will cling to you, for the blood it is a sin, but it's a blessing too.

He buckled the belt around his waist and cinched the shoulder straps tight

There was no more whipping from the shower room.

Barry took the keys from the pocket of his pats and he went to his car and he went to the Crown Vicky and opened the door and he got George the Luger. He didn't know it now but his lips were pursed and he was making blowing noises like he was trying to blow on something to cool it off. He blew on George and checked the safety then he stuffed him into his toga. He dropped the stretching iron and it fell in the grass.

When he walked into the shower room Guyabo and Rubio were lifting her down from the whipping post, which was nothing but a 6 X 6 landscapers timber with rope bolling on the top. She was a shapeless woman, like a scarecrow with that baggy head, her thin marked with lashes arms feebly clutching the tangle of rope like a drunk woman clinging to a lover. 

There was something disturbingly religious about the scene, like Christ being taken down from the cross, the way her knees flexed to one side and how Guyabo lowered her shoulders. Through the sweat-soaked pillow case, Barry could see the hollows of her eye. The mouth hole showed the red smear of her lips and Rubio stepped forward and unceremoniously shoved his bare prick into her mouth and began to face fuck her and the other men jostled to get a look, but the crowd was strangely quiet, grim, dangerous. They'd come for cunt and they were getting close now and they were getting tired of all this crap.

"Up now!" Rubio commanded, rising to his feet. "You, you"—he pointed at two men with the handle of the flogger—"give a hand."

Barry stood back, trying to blend with the crowd. Everything was louder in here because of the tile,. It was like an oven. The sounds brighter, the lights, the stink of sweat, the smelll of blood—it was like the killing floor. Someone took her belly dancing bells of her ankles and threw them aside and the bells hit the floor like the sound of breaking glass. The lights were harsh incandescent. There was nothing lovely about the place. 

They pushed Olivia over to a low table and Guyabo held her neck down with the men held her hands. Rubio stood behind her and whipped her ass, two, four, six times, back and forth, forehand and backhand and the men watched as Olivia moaned. That expensive ass—the meat of her buttocks shook and trembled, her flesh looked like she'd been attacked by bees. How much more could she possibly take? Pain had lost its meaning, whipping had become a farce, the whole thing had become a joke—Rubio, the corners of his mask curled up in the heat and sweat dripping from his arms, his tee-shirt transparent with perspiration was grunting as he whipped her, as if he was trying to force a recalcitrant nail that would just not hammer home.

He stopped and draped the whip over his shoulder. He took off his soaked white pants to reveal his thick, hard cock; he wore no shorts. Again, there was no sound from the assembled men, they watched attentively. Rubio took a deep drink from a plastic water jug, then picked up the whip again and looked at the woman stretched out on the table. It was so silent that the crickets in the field outside could be heard. A truck on the distant highway changed gears. One of the men cleared his throat nervously and in that moment Barry heard Olivia sob. It was the sound she made after a long bout of crying, when she was done, when she was collecting herself. 

When Olivia's father Brandon, who she'd never been close to at all, had died in Sao Paolo of a heart attack and the family had gotten the news at dinner, it was the only sound of grief he'd ever heard her make. She'd made it standing over the sink after washing the dishes, having cleaned up overlooking the winter yard. It was only then he's realized she'd been crying. She'd never mentioned it sine and he'd never asked. 

She made that sound now.

Rubio went to her quickly and leaned over the table. He barked some orders and Guyabo and one of the volunteers grabbed her ass cheeks and held her open and Olivia pushed her ass up and yelled a muffled scream as Rubio grabbed his dick and began to shove it into her rectum. He had a strange, strained look on his face, and he held his cock hard and kept on shaking it like he was trying to murder it, shaking it fast and then pressing forward, and Olivia raised her knees and tried to crawl away. The men kicked at her feet to make her put her feet down. Her hands formed claws and she tore at the air and she screamed from beneath the pillow case, a kind of whinny like a terrified horse and the men loved it. The fear, they loved her fear.

Rubio's cock was thick but he got it in. He got it in and Olivia screamed. Got the head in and then the shaft and then he began to push, and because Olivia was packed with lubricant it began to seep out of her and run down the inside of her thighs and drop to the floor. It dropped on the floor in thick dollops like animal feces with a splattering sound, and Olivia was aware enough to cry out in embarrassment. The muscles in Rubio's belly began to pump like bellows as he got that monster into her, and Barry was watching with sick fascination, wanting to see his wife fucked, wanting to see her take it all.

He didn't understand. He didn't understand it. This gorilla of a man, this swarthy Aztec, leaning over his wife and shoving this thick salami into her rectum. He was sick with some feeling of hunger and anger and revenge and some terrible wave of self-pity and contempt.

"AGHH! RAGHH!!" Rubio screamed in triumph; simple raw, bestial, animal triumph. His cock was sunk all the way into Olivia's ass. His organ was pulsing inside her like an artery feeding a heart, his blood pumping through his veins and her anus was expanding to accept the force of his own life's blood. There was never a more primitive, carnal display of the basic mechanics of the brutal basics of invasive sex.

"ARGHH! NOWW MIRAA!! 'MIGOS EH??"

Grabbing her around the waist and one thigh, Rubio lifted Olivia from the table with his cock still inside her ass and leaned back slightly, thighs straining, holding her up with his dick up her rectum, showing her off, his butterfly stuck on his pin, his impaled maiden. He was proud, victorious.

He wrapped one end of the leather strap around one of her thighs while Guyabo quickly fastened the other end of the strap to her other thigh, wish boning her open in the splits, and Barry saw that the straps were fixed with Velcro so that they held her spread eagled against Rubio's big body, his prick up her rectum. She hung upon him like some perverse papoose, the bizarreness made even more extreme by the way she struggled and writhed inside the pillow case as her position forced Rubio's cock deeper inside her.

Rubio hissed some more orders and Guyabo and the volunteers grabbed Olivia's arms and fastened her wrists behind Rubio's neck as he did a kind of splayed-leg victory circle like an Aztec warrior, showing the men the woman he had impaled on his cock, pink with whip marks, dripping with lubricant, stockings torn and hanging in tatters, writhing inside her pillow case cocoon.

And then, with a nod from Rubio, Guyabo untied the pillow case and pulled it off, and there was the exquisite leather mask, the exaggerated female features—the catlike eyes, the red lips made for sucking—woman tamed, made for the use of man: no one and everyone—captured, tortured, whipped, tamed, spread open, ass-fucked, and— with one pull on the pre-scored panty hose—there...! Rubio did it!—naked, hairless, pre-greased pussy exposed and available.

What more could any man want?

Now a murmur went up from the crowd. Now there was a surge of excitement and Barry could feel the testosterone and smell the stink of semen. Olivia looked at her adversaries with something like fear and challenge and leaned back against Rubio for protection. 

Barry wanted her. He wanted her just like this. Like every man in the room his eyes went to the naked slit between her legs which was smeared with lubricant, but Rubio's fingers were already there, strumming her, stroking her, pumping her, playing her like an organ, making her writhe on the cock on her ass. Olivia heaved and twisted groaned and cried out. 

Barry knew her. He knew she was faking it. Who could orgasm in a situation? but still, it was too incredible to believe. Too incredible. Rubio made her come twice, and then the place erupted. 

The men made a rough line, the shoving not as good natured as they tired to make it appear, and Rubio leaned against the wall as the first man came up to her and threw back his toga and laid out his big meaty piece. Olivia's eyes were glazed, staring at him, but the man's eyes were on her cunt, and he shoved into her and her eyes went wide as the cock slid into her and from where he was, Barry saw her pussy stretch around him, the give of her female tissues, stretching, stretching for him, giving him what he wanted, the heat the soft liquid womanly comfort.

The man looked wild. Olivia hung in the leather sling that ran around Rubio's neck, her legs spread dead apart, her arms lashed around his neck, the top of her masked head even with his cheek. The man shifted his feet for a better angle and Olivia's head in the black mask rolled back against Rubio's broad chest as the man began to fuck her, his ass pumping like a dog's, the neat ring of her pussy slipping along his length. her belly shook with excitement or pain or just the sheer pressure of violation. The man grabbed her thighs to hold her and began slinging his ass, fucking her angry with the eternal male anger, male hunger—wanting, needing: peace, rest, quietude, solace, pushing it into her, horrible.

Who knew what he's been doing that day just hours before—mucking drainage ditches or molesting little boys or selling cars or writing books but here he was now—stabbing and pumping into this masked woman's cunt, this woman who'd been beaten, slapping, whipped and he fucked her hard now, hard, his thumb pressing on her clit now so that Olivia gasped and arched and Rubio jealousy slapped the man's hand away and the man with the black tape on his face didn't object—nearly there, nearly there now he threw his head back and began to wail: "Oh Jes— Jes— Mama! Mama! Fuck! Mama!" pushed deep into Olivia and started to come, reaching for her for that kiss—the whore's kiss—but Rubio grabbed his face and contemptuously pushed him away so the man slipped, fell, skidded, his squirting cock slipping from her and spurting his come on the floor—splashing it, so much! where Guyabo quickly threw a towel down on top of it and stomped it in and right away a magnificent black man took his place.

The black cock slid into her and he fucked her with balletic grace, showing off, as if he'd been practicing, and indeed he had a body-builder's physique, dimpled glutes, tucked abs and thick, corded thighs. He used his thighs and ass tio drive his hips and his thick dark meat thrummed in and out of Olivia's pink sleeve like a locomotive piston, high speed and low, the engineer in perfect control, aware of the crowd's admiration of how he drove that train. Olivia took his cock and she looked up at him with something like admiration, her expression a measure of how good a job he was doing of pleasuring the woman in side but his flared nostrils were his only emotion. He was above it all and the disdain showed on his face. He needed no one's approval. He was a pussymaster, a king stud out giving his pet cock its daily dose of pussy.

The line of men had strangely enough broken up into knots who watched, their hard-ons tenting their togas, their ninja masks making them stumble when they walked. Then the blck man got close he laced his fingers behind his neck to show them how to come, how to shoot your load. He double timed his thrusts and they heard his belly slap against her, faster, harder, closer...

Then he pulled out, held the quivering snake over her, and a dribble came out, another drip, a drop,

Furious he grabbed his cock and began pumping but something had gone wrong and the men started laughing. The man colored a plum color. the semen appeared, dripping off his knuckles but there was no explosion, no grand finale, and Barry was confused. He looked around, and when he looked back, Rubio was sitting down on a bench with Olivia still attached to him with his cock up her ass, her hands tied behind his neck, and the back man was holding his cock and punching it, slamming his fist into it, furious, enraged

The next man fucked her like a bull, horrible to watch, snorting through his nose, his huge balls swinging. Barry was bewildered. The man was too old. In his fifties or something with very neatly combed hair like a clergyman or salesman and a religious medal. he made a horrible face, like he knew he was sinning, and then he would stick his tongue out and wiggle it and snort like pig. He kept on reaching below and fondling Rubio's testacles and Rubio would hit him with the whip but the man kept snorting and fondling his testacles till finally Rubio yelled to Guyabo and Gurabo went up behind the man and simply kicked him savagely in the nuts and pulled him away, pulled him into a coirner of the shower room where he continued to kick him and hit him with a board, just like that. No one noticed. More men came up and fucked Olivia. No one noticed.

Barry lost track. He forgot what he was doing, what anyone was doing. Rubio sat on the bench leaning against the wall with his wife strapped to him like a dummy and men came and put their dicks inside her and they fucked her. They stepped between Olivia's legs and they fucked her. What was it? What was it? Were they showing off for each other? Were they enjoying it? Was she enjoying it? Someone must be making money? But why? Why? It wasn't sex! It wasn't what two people did for love or even sensation. It wasn't even hatred, or envy. 

And then there was the violence. Every so often there was violence, blood, beating. Barry supposed at first that it was discipline, the crowd getting unruly, but then after awhile it seemed like every so often someone just needed to spill some blood. It just went with the come and the fucking. He saw Guyabo beat three men, and one ninja seemed to be there more for the beating than the sex. He had something with him—brass knuckles or something he kept hidden—that he pulled out when there was a fight and he left men hurt and bleeding and hid himself in the crowd again, gleeful.

What was it, what was it? Cunt ande cock and blood and beating—the mask and the come and the hunger, the need—his wife and his home and where would he go now? Where would he live now? Now that he'd seen this? How would he ever look at anyone again?

He was still in line. They were still going. Man number Seven got on his knees ion the slimey, comey floor and spread Olivia apart and sucked her out and drank it. 




The Gun That Killed Superman



So what? Barry thought. He was next. So the fuck what?

He stepped up in front of her. She recognized him at once.

She was tired, lying back against Rubio's sweaty chest, and now Rubio recognized him too but didn't do anything. There was nothing he could do.

"Enjoying the show, Barry?" she asked.

"How long have you been doing this?"

"A long time."

"Why?"

"Put it in, Barry. People are waiting."

He looked at her cunt. He could hardly see it, Even with Seven's draining her she was still a mess of semen and sweat and lube. 

He tried. He pushed his prick into the swimmy wad of seven other men's ejaculate and melted lube and saliva and sweat. He felt nothing but ooze. He pumped twice and then stood there. He fell out. It was like trying to fuck warm snot.

"Why?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said. "Because I wanted more. And sometimes there is no more. Sometimes beyond more there's just nothing."

He was trying to think of something to say. There had to be something to say. He couldn't think of anything though. Nothing. It was all so stupid, so pointless.

"She don't really get hurt, Mr. McWheeler," Rubio said. "It's all just in fun. No one really gets hurt."

"Shut the fuck up, you fucking piece of shit!"

"Leave him alone Barry. I love him."

"What?"

"I'm sorry, but I do."

Barry took a deep breath. It will happen like this, he thought. It'll start with a deep breath, and then just start.

He reached into the toga and got George but the gun stuck in the fabric. The Luger got caught in the fabric but as Barry tugged at it Rubio saw what was going on and his face widened in terror. He lunged at Barry but with Olivia bound to him he couldn't reach. He tried to get to his feet but slipped in the horrible mess of lube and semen and splooge and sat down hard on the bench, hitting his tailbone and knocking the wind out of Olivia, who grunted loud and torqued his cock which was limp but still ensconced asshole and had started to go hard with fear when he saw the gun. 

Rubio rolled to his side. He kept a loaded pistol in the locker near his gym bag about three feet away and and Guyabo knew about it but he wasn't sure where Guyabo was. "'Yabo! 'Yabo Madre de Dios! Pistola! Ai! Fock! Fockk!!"" 

Barry tugged on the gun and felt fabric rip. "You fucking piece of shit," he yelled at Rubio. "I'm going to fucking kill you!" 

Rubio couldn't stand because Olivia was hanging from him like a weight, so he rolled and slid of the bench and on the scummy oozy mess of filth on the floor and started sidestroking through cum and wet towels for the gun in the locker, yelling "'Yabo! 'Yabo! Pistola! Ai! Pistola! Fock, Pistola!" while the ninja behind Barry figured out something was amiss, saw the gun and grabbed for Barry's right arm.

Just as Barry turned to tell the guy to butt out, there was a great stunning smash of red pain and Barry's head snapped, then another blow, this one a brown cracking kind of thing on his head and his neck snapped and his legs folded and he went staggering to his right. His feet caught in something and he felt himself falling but before Guyabo could hit him again Barry shakily raised the gun in his direction and kept it there as he hit the floor and the little man froze, his toothless jaws vibrating with fear.

Everything dimmed then throbbed with red light as Barry raised his head, taking stock of things, the room spinning in the taste of blood in his mouth and no one moving. He had the gun and everyone was frozen, no one moving—Guyabo still holding the split board, the ninjas, some of them holding their dicks in fear, others reflexively shielding their faces, crowding against the walls, their masked faces making them look like racoons.

God! The place stunk like beer and come and what? Urine or bleach or something—blood. His blood. He'd bitten his tongue and the blood was streaming out of his mouth. 

He knew his hand was shaking and so was his head and he wanted to just fucking shoot them and kill them and get it over with and then go to sleep, so he raised the gun and found himself looking at Rubio and Olivia, not ten feet away. Rubio was on his ass, leaning on his arms. His swim was over. He'd never reached the gun now. Olivia's legs were spread, still in that leather harness, still ready for fucking, her cum-smeared pussy still aimed right at Barry like an opened oyster, like something dying, the ninja's come still belching and eructuing from it like it was puking after a night of drinking—cum, wads, dollops or semen. Her mask made her look like an idiot-headed super villain now, a super villain with her hands up, surrendering.

He could shoot her. He could kill her and Rubio both. One shot up the cunt would do it. Kill all the sperm too. She had the hole. It was made for bullets. 

He lifted the gun so they all could see it. His head was shaking and the blood was pouring out of his mouth. He lifted the gun and said, "You motherfuckers! You fuckers! This is the gun! This is the fucking gun! This is the gun that killed superman! You motherfuckers! This is the gun!"

And then someone hit him on the back of the head with a tequila bottle and he went down

$$$$$

Passing out isn't clean like it is in the movies. You don't just get hit on the head and go to sleep and wake up and it's a new scene. He felt them kicking him and spitting on him, but when Olivia got herself untangled from Rubio she stopped the worst of it. Rubio and Guyabo dragged him out onto the lawn and it hurt incredibly much when his feet bumped over stuff like he couldn't believe. They left him there and stood over him while the other ninjas got in their cars and drove away. He lay there in the grass, smelling its sweetness, his head pounding, his legs throbbing electrically like live wires, blood dripping out of his mouth.

He was pretty sure his skull was fractured. He heard funny wheezing sounds way up above his eyes when he breathed like fluid squeezing through a crack in bone, and the place where he'd been hit with the tequila bottle moved in a sickening way when he touched it and the whole left side of his body had gone numb so he figured he had a cracked skull and maybe a fractured neck. He just lay there in the grass while the ninjas came over and did something with money with Rubio and Guyabo.

In time the ninjas had all driven away and Rubio stuffed some money in Guyabo's breast pocket and slapped him on the back and Guyabo walked away and took a piss in the dirt, then climbed in this car and drove away, then Rubio leaned against his truck and smoked a cigar and waited. He didn't say anything to Barry and Barry could no longer move very well.

Finally Olivia came out wearing her lime-green dress with her hair done. She walked over to Barry and kneeled down.

"Can you move?"

"A little."

"Can you move your right hand?"

Barry lifted his right hand to show her.

"Good, good. That's good, Barry." She nodded. "You don't want to come back with me after tonight, do you, Barry? I mean, really. Do you? Really?"

His teeth stuck together with clotted blood as he opened his mouth. "No."

Rubio handed her the gun and she took it and put it in his hand.

"If you change you mind, the police come around about four. That's only three hours. You don't have to tell them anything and they'll take you to the hospital. It's all fixed. They get their cut. But use your head. Believe me, baby. It only gets worse after this."

Barry looked up at her. "I believe you."

She kissed her fingers and touched his head, then pressed the gun into his hand. She stood up.

Rubio bent over, hands on knees and looked down on him.

"Hey, Superman! I made it easy for you! I gave you two bullets! In case you're too tough for the first one, huh? In case you're too tough for the first one, Superman!"