By Frank Driller and Chief O’Wente
Alfred Penisworth entered the Buttcave. “Did you find the Choker’s hideout, Master Pain?” he asked Buttman. The vaginalante was repairing one of his costumes.
“Not yet, Alfred. But when I do, you can be sure he’ll get his,” Buttman said as he finished sewing a nipple to his suit.
Suddenly, a gust of air knocked Alfred down. The two men turned around. Super-hung-man had just flown in.
“I was hoping I could talk to Bruce alone,” he said.
“What is it, Clark?” Buttman asked once Alfred left. His friend hadn’t looked this tense since their last battle with Doomsdick.
“Bruce, I’ve been…unsatisfied. My Kryptbonian powers make me too powerful for normal sex,” Clark said.
“You could temporarily nullify your powers using Red Cum radiation in your Fortress of Sementude. Then you and Blowis Lane could safely be intimate,” Buttman mused.
“It’s not just that,” Super-hung-man said. “I want someone other than Blowis.”
Clark stepped closer to Bruce and gently put his hand on the Dick Knight’s arm.
“I’m sure the world’s greatest dicktective knows who I’m talking about,” he said. Buttman nodded. The two heroes moved closer and kissed for the first time.
“Wait here, Clark,” Bruce said when he finally pulled away. “I know what you need.”
Moments later Buttman returned. He was clad in bulky silver armor. “I designed this armor in case I ever had to fight you. Now, I can use it to fuck you,” Bruce growled.
“What if Aunt Harriet hears?” Clark whispered.
Buttman shook his head, “She hasn’t found Alfred’s sex dungeon. She won’t hear this.”
Super-hung-man kneeled, and gave Buttman a sultry look from below, “I know you made a god bleed, but can you make one cum?”
“I might do both. That’s what the armor is for; you won’t even need a reach-around.”
Clark twirled the chest hair peaking up above the S on his costume, “Take me now.”
“You’re too eager Throbbin-er, Clark. Get ready,” Buttman purred.
Out sprang the meaty cock of justice. Clark tilted it slowly toward his lips and gently licked the head.
Bruce grabbed Clark by the back of the head and forced him to the balls. Clark gagged, but as Bruce slowed, his throat adjusted. The Kryptbonian’s eyes ran, but he enjoyed every second.
Buttman pushed his face away and extended his finger rightward. Clark nodded with drool running down his chin. He turned, presenting his rear to Bruce, who shot a laser beam that burnt a hole in the back of Clark’s suit.
“What if people see that?” Clark protested.
Bruce smiled wickedly, “They’ll know what happened just by the way you’re walking.”
Super-hung-man took a deep breath and Buttman mounted him. He shivered and moaned as Bruce pushed further and further past the sphincter.
Clark’s eyes widened. “Deeper!” he demanded.
Buttman obliged. Thirty-nine thrusts later, super cum tore its way through Super-hung-man’s red briefs and dented the concrete floor of the Buttcave.
Justice was served.
With files from Alan Moore Cock.