After a bit of an absence, I've finally managed to complete the next chapter of Prometheus Busted, so here it is! This one introduces the deuteragonist of the story properly, as we only managed to get a glimpse of her in the first chapter, but I liked her enough to give her a bit of a more significant role. I also like the idea of a hero and a villain being friendly rivals and going at each other simply because it's just what they do, and that sort of dynamic is something I wish to explore here with Tristan and his new "friend". Villains busting heroes are gonna be a frequent theme, but so will vice versa if I ever get to bring in a male villain. We'll see how this pans out!
Also, if anyone wants to send in ideas for future scenarios involving Tristan's cajones getting wrecked, feel free to comment on any of the chapters in this story or shoot me a private message! I'll be happy to include them in future writings in general, if not this storyline specifically.
Enjoy, everyone!
________________________________________
Prometheus Busted — Part 2
By Skaea
Contains: F/M, M/M, and */M ballbusting, femdom, peril, violence/gore, and graphic castration.
Word Count: 6,504
________________________________________
Tristan entered his tiny apartment, a heavily stuffed bag slung over his shoulder. It had been a week since his talk with the mayor, and after registering all of the required papers, he was given the forms that almost every new superhero received that enabled him or her to design a customized outfit. He had repeated to the secretary that he wasn’t interested in anything like spandex, but after being told that the regenerative process wasn’t the safest thing to fall back on, seeing as it took a lot of energy from the body and could cause him to weaken more quickly in the long term, he had relented. It took several days for the armor emporium to get his uniform ready, but as long as he had what he needed, it made no difference.
Closing the sliding door behind him, he headed over to sit at the foot of his shabby, unkempt bed, and opened the bag to pull out the contents inside. He had always been a practical man, and in lieu of all those fancy capes, bright colors, giant spikes, and excessive heavy plating, he had gone with a more subdued uniform inspired by police riot control suits, with camo patterning in reds and browns to mask any blood which could potentially be spilled in spite of his body armor. Nevertheless, there had to be at least some form of stylization – the tailors had insisted on making his suit recognizable to the public – so to avoid any impractical decorations, he had compromised by putting small fins on the sides of his helmet resembling wings, and made the top part of said helmet, over the bulletproof one-way visor, resemble a bird’s head and beak. The bronze-colored chestplate also bore his insignia: a silhouette of a double-headed eagle with a flame shape on its breast, perfectly symmetrical with its wings outstretched. All in all, simple, but effective.
Now if only he could find a situation that entailed putting it on.
There was still his construction job, which thankfully hadn’t slapped a pink slip on him after the accident – now that he was registered, the risk of a lawsuit if they tried it was too high – but even if his repair work was necessary, he was only one of many, many people doing such a job. The foreman had told him that he couldn’t take days off for doing “hero work” due to the crew being horrifically understaffed (even before the dragon incident), and even on weekends like today, there was still the chance that he could be called back into the workplace to fix yet another busted wall or toppled statue.
In other words, unless by some miracle a crime came to him, he was back to his old boring life as a repairman.
With a sigh of disappointment at this revelation, Tristan resorted to turning on the TV and changing channels absentmindedly. He wasn’t interested in any of the soap operas or infomercials, but the local news broadcasts here and there did get his hopes up for a few moments at a time. Sadly, whenever a crime or monster attack made headlines, at least one hero or heroine was always on scene almost immediately, giving him no chance to try and prove himself.
Finally, he switched the TV off and flopped down onto his bed, groaning in dismay. Fate really was out to get him at every turn, wasn’t it?
A short period of listless sulking passed before a thought occurred to him. The chance to be a hero wasn’t going to come to him anytime soon if he just sat here – but what about looking for it? It couldn’t hurt to start out by helping an old lady or two across the street…
A few minutes later, clad in his new suit and helmet, Prometheus stepped out of his apartment, locked the door, and headed downstairs with the directions to the nearest supermarket in his mind. He needed to grab some groceries anyway.
**********
“There you go, ma’am, have a good day!” Tristan said with as much cheerfulness as he could muster. The elderly woman he’d helped across the crosswalk in front of the store waved her cane at him indignantly.
“I can handle myself, my dear, now buzz off!”
“Don’t mention it,” he replied, though his expression would’ve betrayed embarrassment if he weren’t wearing his helmet.
After seeing her vanish into the building, he sat on the bench in front of the entrance and sighed, shaking his head. Starting out small… What a laugh! The mayor’s advice had sounded so inspiring then, but with people either gawking at the weird uniform-clad guy on the streets, hurrying away when he asked for help, rebuffing his approach, or simply ignoring him, it was hard to feel any sort of moral victory for his good service. Perhaps it was because people were so used to having superheroes around on a daily basis that they simply treated them as normal, regular people. Or maybe they simply believed in the “every man for himself” principle.
Or maybe, he feared, he just wasn’t wanted…
“Help! Help!! Purse snatcher!”
Prometheus shot to his feet. Looking around, he suddenly caught a glimpse of a man in a balaclava, ripped jeans, and a leather biker’s jacket running off with a handbag, leaving a distraught young woman of Japanese ethnicity in the dust. He didn’t stop to think, instantly tearing down the street after the thief — but super-speed wasn’t included in his ability roster, he was built for grappling instead of running, and the crook already had a thirty-foot head start.
Within moments, the purse stealer had vanished around a corner, leaving a panting, sweltering Tristan to yell, “Why am I so goddamn bad at being good?!”
“Maybe because you don’t know how to strategize yet?”
Tristan whirled to face the speaker with a startled yelp. The Japanese woman, who looked just a little younger than him, had somehow caught up with him, a pleading expression on her face.
The redhead looked understandably bewildered, but decided to ask questions later. “I’ll get your purse back, madam, don’t worry. I just need to figure out what to do.”
“You’re not a speedster, sir. Stop thinking like one. Tell me, what are you the best at?”
He thought about it for a moment, and then scowled under his helmet. “Why are you asking me this? You’re supposed to be screaming and crying over your lost purse!”
The woman continued speaking, her tone unusually calm. “Use the skills you know to your best advantage. Judging from your stable, thick-set build, you must be a heavy-duty worker. Someone with strength. What would a lifter do when trying to catch someone faster than him?”
“Give up? The fucker’s probably like, a hundred miles from us by now!”
“Not if you try to slow him down.”
He mulled it over for a second and then straightened up a little. “Is there a trash can I can borrow? I have an idea.”
It was not difficult for Tristan to track down the purse thief, since he hadn’t covered his tracks very well — a whole street of complaining diners and shoppers presented a trail of spilled drinks and shopping bags for him to follow. Eventually, he spotted his quarry, leaning against a street lamp and sifting through the stolen purse.
“Excuse me,” he said, lifting up the metal trash bin he’d picked up along the way. “I think you dropped this.”
The crook looked up, let out a yell of panic, and bolted. This time, though, Prometheus was ready for that possibility. Heaving the trash can, he took aim and hurled it at the criminal. His aim was true — there was a clang as bin met head, and the crook slumped to the ground with a moan of pain.
Stepping over the mass of garbage strewn over the sidewalk, Tristan picked up the can again as he approached the masked criminal. “I only have to ask you once, buddy. If you know what’s good for you, give that purse to me and put your hands in the air.”
Unfortunately for him, but to his utter lack of surprise, the thief wasn’t about to cooperate so easily. He reached into his pocket and then whipped out a handgun, which he unloaded at Tristan at point-blank range!
Instinctively, the newbie hero held the trash can over his chest to protect his vitals, causing the bullets to ping off the metal and leave several giant dimples — but in so doing, he left a certain spot much lower on his body completely uncovered. He only had an instant to realize his mistake before the crook’s last bullet smashed into his groin at supersonic speed. The cup concealed under his kevlar acted like a scoop-shaped piston when subjected to the powerful impact, pressing cruelly upon his hapless nuts and, for one brief instant, flattening them to a quarter of their width like pancakes.
There was a loud, piercing, soprano-like scream of pain that sent birds scattering into the air for several blocks around, and then its owner keeled over forwards, accidentally slamming the trash can onto the crook’s head. The mugger was out like a light; Tristan wished to meet the same fate at that same moment.
“Note… to self…” he groaned in agony, his hands clutching his poor throbbing sack. “Get… better… cup… suspension.”
**********
It took Tristan five minutes to recover, but once he managed to see clearly again, he noticed that the purse thief was already being arrested by a police officer who had been passing through the area. He was too delirious from the pain of the bullet strike to respond to the cop’s thanks with anything other than incoherent mumbling, but with some effort he managed to get to his feet and accept the purse being handed to him by said cop. Cursing his bad luck, he all but hobbled back the way he came, but luckily he didn’t have to get very far before the woman who’d had her purse stolen in the first place nearly bumped into him.
“Here’s your thingy back,” he muttered, failing to disguise his disgruntled annoyance at the whole thing.
The Japanese woman took the purse from him with a bright, grateful smile. “Thank you, thank you so much!” she said. “Is there anything I can do to repay you?”
“No need, ma’am, your gratitude is enough,” he replied, although he was quite sure it sounded forced.
“Still, I’ll give you something for your trouble,” she said, sifting through her purse for a few moments. She pulled out some dollar bills, a few quarters, and a necklace. “Here, it’s all I have as payment.”
He balked at the offer a little. “No no, keep the money. You need it more than I do.”
“I insist on the pendant, at least. I think it would match your outfit quite well.”
He looked at the golden chain and ruby pendant suspiciously. It obviously didn’t. But he wasn’t one to be a dick about things, even if he was a newbie.
“Alright, sounds fair,” he replied, taking the pendant. “It’s beautiful, by the way.” He paused for a moment before blurting out, “As are you.”
His eyes widened in surprise at what he’d just said, and even more so when, just before vanishing into the world beyond, she leaned in, grinning, and kissed him on the cheek.
His face still felt like it was on fire by the time he exited the grocery store.
**********
Dinner was an even more solemn affair than usual for the solitary repair worker. He’d bought himself a cheap steak-and-potato TV supper, which he ate while watching the 6 o’clock news. It tasted a bit rubbery, but he’d had worse.
Needless to say, his first victory had been met with utter silence on the part of every TV station in the district. He was disappointed, but not surprised — the sod he’d clobbered was no doubt far from the first purse thief to meet his maker. Still, a small part of him couldn’t help but whine in despair about how, in spite of doing the right thing, he was never going to be appreciated.
Another part of his head spoke up at that point. There was someone who appreciated him. That Japanese woman who’d kissed him earlier in gratitude was that someone, but just his luck, he didn’t even know her name, let alone where she was now. It was possible that he would never see her again, which made it even worse for the poor man.
Then again, of course, asking for her number right off the bat would’ve made him sound like a creep.
Perhaps more good deeds would get him noticed. A robbery stopped here, a cleanup job expedited there, the small things first. Then once the public eye became trained on him, he could move up the ladder to bigger, better things.
This prospect motivated him throughout his evening workout, consisting of an untold number of push-ups, weight lifts, ab crunches, and chin-ups (he’d had to adjust the bar affixed to his walk-in closet doorway by trial and error — the top of the frame still had a fist-sized dent as testimony to his initially hasty planning). He had to get stronger every day if he was to go into the superhero business for real, and if nothing else, the goal of gaining their Olympian physique and talent seemed more achievable now that he had legal support. At the very least, he could finally have the godly stature he’d envied for so long.
Still… The thought of that mysterious woman tickled the back of his mind. He wasn’t sure why, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her for some strange reason, like she’d permanently glued her visage into some recess of his memory with just a peck on the cheek.
That, and something about her had seemed strangely familiar…
Tristan decided to worry about that another day, however. After finishing his workout, showering, brushing his teeth, and browsing the Internet for news about the day’s events for a few hours (and coming up empty-handed once again), he climbed into bed at 10 PM sharp, a habit he’d developed so he could come to work on time every day. Even if today was Saturday, it didn’t matter. He was going to get his eight hours of sleep no matter what happened outside.
Little did he know, however, that what was happening outside right now was about to keep him awake for a few more hours that evening. Just outside his window, unseen by him or anyone else, a lithe, petite figure clung to the brick wall with twenty retractable claws…
**********
Tristan slowly opened his eyes. He was not used to waking up in the middle of the night like this — usually he’d come up for air at 4 AM, lie awake for an hour or so, and then drop off until 7. He could somehow tell, however, that it was much earlier than 4 AM right now.
That, and he was also shackled to a vertical slab of concrete in some kind of basement.
And completely naked.
“Ngggh… What time is it?” he muttered, blinking the grogginess from his vision.
“Oh, I’d say about fifteen after one, give or take a few minutes.”
A fetching, feminine figure stepped out of the shadows before him. He couldn’t make out her detailed appearance at first, but as his vision adjusted to the light, he started to notice the short black-and-orange hair with the cat-ear headband holding it in place.
“Hmm? You again?!”
She smiled cheerfully. “Missed me?”
“Not after what happened two weeks ago.” He started to struggle against the shackles, though he knew it would do him no good. “Though I must admit I kinda owe you for giving me a leg up on my life, that’s probably the only good thing I have to say about that little disaster!”
“Oh, so you’re gonna pin it on me, huh? Like it was my fault those fat bastards at the city bank had their ill-gotten loot guarded by a giant angry dragon?”
“They didn’t want anyone stealing from that vault. Especially not some lowlife hairball like you. Now untie me and give me my clothes back!”
“Psh, why should I? You just called me a hairball. I’d cut your tongue out for that, but it seems that I’ve found something much more exciting to toy with…”
She knelt down, inspecting the pendulous nutsack dangling between his thighs. Reaching forward, she prodded the sensitive lump of man-flesh, then reached behind and tickled the backs of his balls, making him gasp and giggle and squirm in his bindings, his long cock quickly straightening.
And then, after a few desperate seconds of teasing, she leaned in and kissed the sack.
Tristan suddenly felt like his nuts had just been tasered. A surging, tingling feeling shot up his spine, making him feel hot and hard as granite. He’d felt like this only once before, just after that beautiful stranger from the street had kissed him after he’d given her purse back.
That stranger… That voice… Did this maniac holding him captive sound like…
Oh, God fucking dammit.
“Th-that guy I got arrested,” he said after taking a moment to catch his breath. “The asshole who stole your purse. He… He wasn’t — was he?”
She looked up at him, shrugging dismissively. “You caught me,” she replied. “I hired him to help me stage the whole damn thing. Usually, when I happen across handsome superheroes, I break someone out of prison and then pay him to rob me in front of them so their instinct for chivalry kicks in. You fell for that trick so hard it wasn’t even funny, but I have to say, you figured it out pretty fast once you had the right clues.”
“Despite my looks, I’m not as dumb as they make jocks in the movies,” he grunted. “Just hardwired to be nice to people. Now, give me back my clothes.”
“Not after you called me a hairball.” She stuck her tongue out teasingly. “By the way, I haven’t properly introduced myself. My name is Copycat. I know, I know, it’s a groan-inducing alias, but when I found out about my ability to copy any superpower in the world as long as I’ve met someone who has it, I couldn’t pass up the chance to dress up like a cat just for the sake of the pun.”
“I honestly can’t see any other codename that suits you,” he replied, unable to help smiling.
Her eyes widened a little before slipping back into her cunning mask of mischief. “You’re actually the first person to say that to me. I like you. All the same though, you should’ve known well enough to let the cat get your tongue.”
Tristan was about to ask what she was planning when he suddenly felt a fist collide with his exposed ballsack, smashing it into the wall behind him.
“NGAHHHH!”
He tried to bite back his cry of pain, but failed miserably. The pain of his balls being flattened to half their normal width was devastating, and he was quite sure that even with this first blow, Copycat seemed much stronger than her delicate appearance suggested.
A second strike pressed his nads against the wall once again, sending a spark of agony running up his body, making him yelp a second time. Then a third. And a fourth. Each blow had little effect on his balls, which sprang back to their normal shape once unrestrained, but the pain seemed to grow exponentially every time.
The fifth time, Copycat reared back with both fists raised, and then lunged forward, sending both of them hurtling with almost disproportionate force towards his nutsack. It seemed to come at him in slow motion, the blur of movement further obscured through the tears welling up in his eyes. Worse, had he looked down, he’d have noticed that there were now tiny cracks in the concrete behind his nutsack, betraying a force behind her punishing blows that would’ve been greater than any mere human could produce.
If he didn’t realize that then, he certainly did once each her fists squashed the hapless testicle it was aimed at into the concrete with enough force to audibly crack the latter, and all but pulverize the former.
Tristan was glad that he didn’t have a sonic voice, because his blood-curdling scream would’ve caused any nearby windows to rattle.
“Oww, ouuuch… Whew, mental note, super-healing ain’t instant,” Copycat muttered, shaking the pain out of her knuckles.
“You think?!” Tristan all but shouted, his voice cracked with pain.
“Ah, so you do have super-healing, huh?” She smirked, cupping his tenderized testicles in one delicate hand. “I should’ve known the moment I picked it up in my own system. See, I automatically copy the powers of anyone I touch — assuming they have abilities to begin with — and can activate or deactivate them at any time. It’s part of how I picked my name. But I’m starting to sense that your healing rate wouldn’t be fast enough to compensate for some very serious losses. Hmmm… I wonder…”
A wicked grin passed across her face. “I’ll be right back! Ohhh, I’ve wanted to try this for a looooong time!”
Tristan decided that he wasn’t going to look forward to what she had planned for him. As she turned to leave, however, he thought he saw a flash of something else in her face besides malice, but he couldn’t pin down what it was.
A few moments later, Copycat returned with a small table on wheels, a plastic bottle with a long tube extending from its lid, and what looked like a large mallet, like something a cartoon character would put to use. She set the bottle next to his bound figure, and then lifted the free end of the tube towards his crotch. “Hold still — I don’t want to hurt you until I feel like it.”
Tristan felt understandably uncomfortable at this, but at the same time, the thought of his beautiful captor handling his manhood like this made him oddly aroused for some reason. His cock began springing to life, growing steadily as the tube approached.
Even before his erection could reach its full length, Copycat took the head of his cock in her slender fingers and then began easing the narrow plastic tubing into the hole at the tip. Instantly, the interior of his member began to burn from the friction, the edges of the tube tip scraping against the soft membrane. He bit back a pained grunt as he felt the tube go down, down, all the way down to the base of his dick, almost ten inches of tubing buried within him. His stiffy was now raging at full force, his urethra contracting instinctively around the pliant intruder — but that was soon to be the least of his worries.
Next thing he knew, Copycat had wheeled the table under his crotch, cupping his balls at the same time and lifting them over it. Upon her releasing it, the scrotum naturally rested on the top of the table, which was just high enough to remain level with his groin. He noticed that the surface felt like cork board, which was a little strange but not very concerning.
“Now, here comes the fun part! Oh, and please don’t get mad if I mess up — this is my first time doing this, after all.” She took something off the table which he swiftly realized was a bundle of sewing pins.
“Doing what?” Tristan asked, feeling apprehensive.
“Well, all of this. The seed collecting, the extraction process…”
“This can’t be good on any level.”
“Yeah, I know.”
What followed was a yelp of pain from Tristan, who was surprised to feel his captor sticking a pin in his scrotum, penetrating through the two layers of thin skin and into the cork below. Luckily, the pin didn’t pierce his testicle, and he wasn’t too keen on repeating the experience with the fork last week. However, the stab of pain was followed by another, and another, and more and more pins continued securing his sack to the cork board.
Tears began running down Tristan’s cheeks as he looked down at Copycat with a pleading expression. “Aaagh! W-what are you doing?!”
“Um… Try not to fidget. The last thing I need is for this thing to shift out of place during the procedure!”
“What procedure?!” Tristan sounded both annoyed and more than a little nervous.
“Oh, I didn’t tell you?” She picked up the mallet, which he now realized was in fact a meat tenderizer, with a large metal head that had a cluster of spikes on two of its sides. “The extraction procedure.”
He didn’t even get a second to protest before she brought the tenderizer down upon both of his testicles, flat side down, turning them into fleshy pancakes for one brief moment.
Tristan shrieked at the top of his voice, unable to escape the crushing blow of the hammer without risking his scrotum being torn open. Squinting through his watery eyes, he could see for one brief instant the flesh of his hapless nuts ballooning out around the tenderizer, the force of the blow powered by far more strength than Copycat’s slender figure could have ever produced on its own.
And then, just like that, it was over. The moment the hammer withdrew, his balls sprang back to their normal size and plumpness, the skin a little more reddish than before. Copycat’s eyes widened at the sight of it, but then narrowed at the paltry results. His cock had emitted just a thin squirt of pre-cum, which was already traveling through the plastic tube.
“Seriously?! I’ve waited my entire career for this moment, and that’s it?!” Her voice betrayed not just frustration, but a feeling of slight desperation. Had she ever done this before?
“I’m not sure,” Tristan managed to utter through his clenched teeth. “Maybe hit them a little harder?”
“Hmm… Now there’s a thought,” Copycat replied with a smirk. She raised the hammer high, as though about to try her luck at a carnival high striker, and then swung downwards with four or five times the power she’d used previously.
There was a squelching thud of mallet meeting flesh, and another scream of pain from the captive hero. To the surprise of both of them, however, Tristan’s suggestion had worked — a massive burst of white, sticky spunk filled the plastic tube, and even spurted out in a shower of tiny droplets of his piss hole. Within less than a second, a whole foot of tubing had been filled up. In the midst of the combined mind-racking pleasure and searing agony, he couldn’t help but wonder: did his healing ability also grant him increased virility?
His thoughts were interrupted when Copycat struck yet again, this time intending to squeeze every bit of cum out of him before his manhood was left unrecognizable. Then she raised the hammer high once more, and brought it down a third time, squishing his nuts down to a sixth of their original width!
While all of this was going on, Tristan’s cum was flowing almost like water from a faucet — already, the bottle had a noticeable quantity of seed at its bottom, almost an inch of it once his adversary relented. Panting for breath, she glanced down at the container, before letting out an appreciative wolf-whistle.
This went on for at least five more times, His shrieks were steadily increasing in pitch, and they only shot up another octave when she pressed her palm down upon the head of the tenderizer after the eighth attempt, grinding down upon his nutsack and compacting it almost to oblivion.
And then, once again, the pressure was gone.
“So tell me, are you going to give me more of your precious man milk, or are your nads ready to call it quits?” asked Copycat.
He glowered at her, still grimacing in pain. “Does it matter? For all I know, you’re probably just gonna keep pounding on these things until they burst anyway. Wouldn’t any self-respecting villain do that to their captive?”
She thought about it for a moment, and then shrugged. “You’re probably right. If I were to get a genetic sample from you, just the amount of cream already in that bottle would suffice. But these things already look like they’re about to pop, and I’m not gonna give up after I’ve come this far!”
Indeed, his balls had now taken on an alarming hue of dark purple.
His eyes widened in alarm. “You’re evil, you know that?”
“I try to be. It’s truly a shame you can’t bend over and kiss your sex life one last time, ‘cuz it’s going bye-bye!”
She turned the mallet ninety degrees, so the spiked ends were facing downwards and upwards. Tristan began to pay unusual attention to how sharp those points looked, a bead of sweat running down his forehead.
“C-can we talk about this? Please?” he asked, now feeling genuine panic.
“Nah. My guess is that we already did — not that it matters much, but points for trying.” She raised the mallet once again — up, up, up, until it was as high over her head as her stature allowed.
Tristan squeezed his eyes shut, and waited for the end to come.
CRA-SPLOOOOSH!!!
If she’d hit with the spiked side the first time, it would have only caused surface-level trauma, but her previous strikes had weakened his nutsack to near the breaking point. This final blow, with at least a dozen razor-sharp points sinking into his flesh, was what did it.
Tristan emitted a final piercing wail of agony, tears pouring down his face, unable to do anything but feel his unfortunate testicles at long last burst into at least a half-dozen gooey, blood-drenched chunks, the skin of his scrotum tearing itself apart from the trauma and the force of the blow.
He didn’t know whether it was shock, overwhelming pain, horror at the loss of his manhood, or bleeding out through his mangled crotch, but a few moments later, his whole world went dark. For all he knew, it was probably a combination of all of them.
And the most insulting part? The bottle was only a quarter of the way full.
**********
The next time Tristan woke up, he found himself lying on the plain white bed within what looked like a prison cell. There was a blood-stained towel around his ruined crotch, but other than that, he was completely naked. Most likely, he was still in Copycat’s lair, otherwise she would’ve simply left him to bleed out in an alley somewhere.
Upon lifting the towel, he gasped, and then sighed in relief. His precious cock and balls were miraculously intact — either the previous torture session had been some kind of horrible nightmare, or his sex life had grown back once again. Judging from the dull aching sensations radiating throughout his crotch, probably the latter.
Naturally, the first thing he did upon feeling the pain begin to set in was to grip his shaft and start gently rubbing himself, trying to massage it out. As the seconds ticked by, though, his pumping began to quicken in intensity, and his balls began to swell, their juicy plumpness in stark contrast to the gory mess that they had been reduced to whoever knew how long ago.
Within less than a minute, the young man let out a moan of pleasure, a spurt of fresh cum erupting from his dick and spraying all over his chest. It was comforting to know that his virility was just as intact as his family jewels.
He sighed in pleasure, his limbs flopping listlessly off the bed — only to sit bolt upright a moment later, at the same time frantically starting to wipe the cum off of his skin. Did someone just giggle just beyond his cell?
Sure enough, there was Copycat, leaning against the opposite wall of the corridor outside. Her expression was quite smug, infuriatingly so.
“Shame I couldn’t hook you up to this thing for that,” she said, holding up the bottle of spunk from earlier. “If you were that productive earlier, I wouldn’t have had to unman you the way I did.”
Tristan all but slammed into the bars, reaching through and trying to grab at her, his expression rightly furious. A few fruitless attempts later, he gave up, resorting to glaring at his captor.
“You do realize that you’re the one who’s supposed to be in a cell, and not me?!” he spat.
“You’re one to talk. So, tell me — do you have any means of busting out of there? Super strength, phasing, teleportation, etcetera?”
The look on his face would’ve peeled paint. She decided to take that as a no.
“What do you want, anyway?” he hissed. “Why did you go out of your way to kidnap me in the first place?”
“Who, me?” She laughed a little. “I just wanted to have some fun with a good-looking guy, that’s all. Nothing personal, really.”
“That’s it? That’s your answer?! Why can’t you have picked any other person? I have nothing. I am nothing. And if you’ve chosen to pick on someone who’s nothing, what does that make you?!”
“Nothing? How dare you call yourself nothing!” Copycat pointed at his unblemished crotch. “Look at you! I completely destroyed your sex life, and yet it’s come back as whole and unbroken as ever!”
“So you noticed.”
“If that’s the case, what would happen if someone cut off one of your limbs? From what I heard, you survived a three-foot steel pole going through your belly, so I’m pretty sure you could come out of that too unscathed.”
“If you’re going to test that theory out, forget it!” Tristan finally snapped. “I’m not interested in any more of your sick, twisted ‘playtime’! Or should I even call it that?!”
Copycat stepped back slightly, shocked. She stepped back even further when Tristan pressed his entire body against the bars, looking rightly furious, and completely ignoring the fact that his cock and balls were poking through one of the gaps.
“I’m only going to ask you one more time. What do you want?”
For a moment, Copycat wanted to grab his manhood again and give it a yank, perhaps even pull it clean off. But something told her that it was only going to make things worse for them both — there were so many things she could do with him in the future, and one mistake now could mean she’d lose her plaything forever.
“S-someone who c-can heal any injury you can possibly think of?” she stammered, thinking fast. “W-without even a scratch? I-I’ve always wanted a friend like that!” Then her face fell, and she spoke a bit slower and with more sincerity. “Or just… You know… A friend.”
His eyes widened in alarm and guilt. “Wait. What?”
Copycat stepped forward, now daring to look him in the eye, still looking crestfallen. “If I have to be honest… I’m nothing, too, in a way. I started out with a lot of hope, a dream of a bright future, and I wanted a good life in Monumentropolis just like you do. But fate had other plans, one thing led to another, and now here I am. I’m no more experienced in my field than you are in yours. I haven’t been able to make any lasting connections because the people who try to reach out to me inevitably die in action or get themselves arrested. I… Before I met you, I h-had… Nothing. Nothing.”
She pressed her forehead against the bars, now sobbing in earnest. Tristan, just an inches in front of her, was totally lost for words.
“Y-You’re the first person I’ve ever managed to capture and successfully perform evil experiments on. It… It was a huge moment for me, a-and I didn’t want to lose my chance to earn myself… Well, not an enemy, but… B-but a rival. Someone who was always at odds with me, but would never trade me for anything else in the world. And I almost ruined that chance. I… I’m s-sorry… I’m…”
With that, she burst into tears.
Tristan felt wetness in his own eyes as he took in her words. Frightful as she was, at the end of the day she was just like him in many respects. Most of all, she too was lost and lonely in a world which preferred to pay attention to bigger, better things. They both had a long way to go to reach greatness, and they both knew it.
“I’m sorry too,” he said, pressing his forehead against the opposite side of the barrier. “I shouldn’t have been so—”
“N-no, I should’ve asked if you… If y-you were okay with me doing evil things to y-you—”
“Speaking to a villain, I’d say you wouldn’t have needed to ask. Speaking to a decent human being, though, I’d say you do. If I’d known you were just looking for a practice dummy, I’d have been slightly more willing to help…”
She couldn’t help but smile a little at that, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Still, I get the sense that sympathizing with your evil captor wouldn’t be good for an upstart hero.”
“Yeah yeah, Stockholm Syndrome, I know. If I had my suit I’d have kicked your ass here and now. But as it stands, I can kinda accept your apology for turning my hero parts to a thin red pulp, if only on the grounds that this was your first time doing that to anyone, period. Besides, as they say, ‘tis but a flesh wound!”
Both of them laughed. “You’re funny. I like you, um… What was your name?”
“My hero name is Prometheus, but since you caught me in my birthday suit — and by the way, you still owe me my PJs — my real name is Tristan. And I think you know where I live, but as long as you keep it a secret, we should get along just fine.”
“I’m Chihiro,” replied Copycat. “And while I’m not at the point just yet where I can invite you to my place, I’ll at least provide you with the address to my evil lair, so if you fancy being captured and ‘experimented on’ again, I’ll gladly take up your offer.”
“I’ll be kinda busy with work and such, but I’ll consider it,” replied Tristan, grinning. “Now, about my clothes…”
“Oh, right. And I’ll also need to charter a getaway driver to take you home. You need some sleep, and honestly…” She stifled a yawn. “So do I.”
Tristan chuckled again. He could relate — after all, like her, he was only human. “Same time next week, then? Maybe during a more reasonable hour?”
Chihiro grinned in reply. “You damn betcha!”
Closing the sliding door behind him, he headed over to sit at the foot of his shabby, unkempt bed, and opened the bag to pull out the contents inside. He had always been a practical man, and in lieu of all those fancy capes, bright colors, giant spikes, and excessive heavy plating, he had gone with a more subdued uniform inspired by police riot control suits, with camo patterning in reds and browns to mask any blood which could potentially be spilled in spite of his body armor. Nevertheless, there had to be at least some form of stylization – the tailors had insisted on making his suit recognizable to the public – so to avoid any impractical decorations, he had compromised by putting small fins on the sides of his helmet resembling wings, and made the top part of said helmet, over the bulletproof one-way visor, resemble a bird’s head and beak. The bronze-colored chestplate also bore his insignia: a silhouette of a double-headed eagle with a flame shape on its breast, perfectly symmetrical with its wings outstretched. All in all, simple, but effective.
Now if only he could find a situation that entailed putting it on.
There was still his construction job, which thankfully hadn’t slapped a pink slip on him after the accident – now that he was registered, the risk of a lawsuit if they tried it was too high – but even if his repair work was necessary, he was only one of many, many people doing such a job. The foreman had told him that he couldn’t take days off for doing “hero work” due to the crew being horrifically understaffed (even before the dragon incident), and even on weekends like today, there was still the chance that he could be called back into the workplace to fix yet another busted wall or toppled statue.
In other words, unless by some miracle a crime came to him, he was back to his old boring life as a repairman.
With a sigh of disappointment at this revelation, Tristan resorted to turning on the TV and changing channels absentmindedly. He wasn’t interested in any of the soap operas or infomercials, but the local news broadcasts here and there did get his hopes up for a few moments at a time. Sadly, whenever a crime or monster attack made headlines, at least one hero or heroine was always on scene almost immediately, giving him no chance to try and prove himself.
Finally, he switched the TV off and flopped down onto his bed, groaning in dismay. Fate really was out to get him at every turn, wasn’t it?
A short period of listless sulking passed before a thought occurred to him. The chance to be a hero wasn’t going to come to him anytime soon if he just sat here – but what about looking for it? It couldn’t hurt to start out by helping an old lady or two across the street…
A few minutes later, clad in his new suit and helmet, Prometheus stepped out of his apartment, locked the door, and headed downstairs with the directions to the nearest supermarket in his mind. He needed to grab some groceries anyway.
**********
“There you go, ma’am, have a good day!” Tristan said with as much cheerfulness as he could muster. The elderly woman he’d helped across the crosswalk in front of the store waved her cane at him indignantly.
“I can handle myself, my dear, now buzz off!”
“Don’t mention it,” he replied, though his expression would’ve betrayed embarrassment if he weren’t wearing his helmet.
After seeing her vanish into the building, he sat on the bench in front of the entrance and sighed, shaking his head. Starting out small… What a laugh! The mayor’s advice had sounded so inspiring then, but with people either gawking at the weird uniform-clad guy on the streets, hurrying away when he asked for help, rebuffing his approach, or simply ignoring him, it was hard to feel any sort of moral victory for his good service. Perhaps it was because people were so used to having superheroes around on a daily basis that they simply treated them as normal, regular people. Or maybe they simply believed in the “every man for himself” principle.
Or maybe, he feared, he just wasn’t wanted…
“Help! Help!! Purse snatcher!”
Prometheus shot to his feet. Looking around, he suddenly caught a glimpse of a man in a balaclava, ripped jeans, and a leather biker’s jacket running off with a handbag, leaving a distraught young woman of Japanese ethnicity in the dust. He didn’t stop to think, instantly tearing down the street after the thief — but super-speed wasn’t included in his ability roster, he was built for grappling instead of running, and the crook already had a thirty-foot head start.
Within moments, the purse stealer had vanished around a corner, leaving a panting, sweltering Tristan to yell, “Why am I so goddamn bad at being good?!”
“Maybe because you don’t know how to strategize yet?”
Tristan whirled to face the speaker with a startled yelp. The Japanese woman, who looked just a little younger than him, had somehow caught up with him, a pleading expression on her face.
The redhead looked understandably bewildered, but decided to ask questions later. “I’ll get your purse back, madam, don’t worry. I just need to figure out what to do.”
“You’re not a speedster, sir. Stop thinking like one. Tell me, what are you the best at?”
He thought about it for a moment, and then scowled under his helmet. “Why are you asking me this? You’re supposed to be screaming and crying over your lost purse!”
The woman continued speaking, her tone unusually calm. “Use the skills you know to your best advantage. Judging from your stable, thick-set build, you must be a heavy-duty worker. Someone with strength. What would a lifter do when trying to catch someone faster than him?”
“Give up? The fucker’s probably like, a hundred miles from us by now!”
“Not if you try to slow him down.”
He mulled it over for a second and then straightened up a little. “Is there a trash can I can borrow? I have an idea.”
It was not difficult for Tristan to track down the purse thief, since he hadn’t covered his tracks very well — a whole street of complaining diners and shoppers presented a trail of spilled drinks and shopping bags for him to follow. Eventually, he spotted his quarry, leaning against a street lamp and sifting through the stolen purse.
“Excuse me,” he said, lifting up the metal trash bin he’d picked up along the way. “I think you dropped this.”
The crook looked up, let out a yell of panic, and bolted. This time, though, Prometheus was ready for that possibility. Heaving the trash can, he took aim and hurled it at the criminal. His aim was true — there was a clang as bin met head, and the crook slumped to the ground with a moan of pain.
Stepping over the mass of garbage strewn over the sidewalk, Tristan picked up the can again as he approached the masked criminal. “I only have to ask you once, buddy. If you know what’s good for you, give that purse to me and put your hands in the air.”
Unfortunately for him, but to his utter lack of surprise, the thief wasn’t about to cooperate so easily. He reached into his pocket and then whipped out a handgun, which he unloaded at Tristan at point-blank range!
Instinctively, the newbie hero held the trash can over his chest to protect his vitals, causing the bullets to ping off the metal and leave several giant dimples — but in so doing, he left a certain spot much lower on his body completely uncovered. He only had an instant to realize his mistake before the crook’s last bullet smashed into his groin at supersonic speed. The cup concealed under his kevlar acted like a scoop-shaped piston when subjected to the powerful impact, pressing cruelly upon his hapless nuts and, for one brief instant, flattening them to a quarter of their width like pancakes.
There was a loud, piercing, soprano-like scream of pain that sent birds scattering into the air for several blocks around, and then its owner keeled over forwards, accidentally slamming the trash can onto the crook’s head. The mugger was out like a light; Tristan wished to meet the same fate at that same moment.
“Note… to self…” he groaned in agony, his hands clutching his poor throbbing sack. “Get… better… cup… suspension.”
**********
It took Tristan five minutes to recover, but once he managed to see clearly again, he noticed that the purse thief was already being arrested by a police officer who had been passing through the area. He was too delirious from the pain of the bullet strike to respond to the cop’s thanks with anything other than incoherent mumbling, but with some effort he managed to get to his feet and accept the purse being handed to him by said cop. Cursing his bad luck, he all but hobbled back the way he came, but luckily he didn’t have to get very far before the woman who’d had her purse stolen in the first place nearly bumped into him.
“Here’s your thingy back,” he muttered, failing to disguise his disgruntled annoyance at the whole thing.
The Japanese woman took the purse from him with a bright, grateful smile. “Thank you, thank you so much!” she said. “Is there anything I can do to repay you?”
“No need, ma’am, your gratitude is enough,” he replied, although he was quite sure it sounded forced.
“Still, I’ll give you something for your trouble,” she said, sifting through her purse for a few moments. She pulled out some dollar bills, a few quarters, and a necklace. “Here, it’s all I have as payment.”
He balked at the offer a little. “No no, keep the money. You need it more than I do.”
“I insist on the pendant, at least. I think it would match your outfit quite well.”
He looked at the golden chain and ruby pendant suspiciously. It obviously didn’t. But he wasn’t one to be a dick about things, even if he was a newbie.
“Alright, sounds fair,” he replied, taking the pendant. “It’s beautiful, by the way.” He paused for a moment before blurting out, “As are you.”
His eyes widened in surprise at what he’d just said, and even more so when, just before vanishing into the world beyond, she leaned in, grinning, and kissed him on the cheek.
His face still felt like it was on fire by the time he exited the grocery store.
**********
Dinner was an even more solemn affair than usual for the solitary repair worker. He’d bought himself a cheap steak-and-potato TV supper, which he ate while watching the 6 o’clock news. It tasted a bit rubbery, but he’d had worse.
Needless to say, his first victory had been met with utter silence on the part of every TV station in the district. He was disappointed, but not surprised — the sod he’d clobbered was no doubt far from the first purse thief to meet his maker. Still, a small part of him couldn’t help but whine in despair about how, in spite of doing the right thing, he was never going to be appreciated.
Another part of his head spoke up at that point. There was someone who appreciated him. That Japanese woman who’d kissed him earlier in gratitude was that someone, but just his luck, he didn’t even know her name, let alone where she was now. It was possible that he would never see her again, which made it even worse for the poor man.
Then again, of course, asking for her number right off the bat would’ve made him sound like a creep.
Perhaps more good deeds would get him noticed. A robbery stopped here, a cleanup job expedited there, the small things first. Then once the public eye became trained on him, he could move up the ladder to bigger, better things.
This prospect motivated him throughout his evening workout, consisting of an untold number of push-ups, weight lifts, ab crunches, and chin-ups (he’d had to adjust the bar affixed to his walk-in closet doorway by trial and error — the top of the frame still had a fist-sized dent as testimony to his initially hasty planning). He had to get stronger every day if he was to go into the superhero business for real, and if nothing else, the goal of gaining their Olympian physique and talent seemed more achievable now that he had legal support. At the very least, he could finally have the godly stature he’d envied for so long.
Still… The thought of that mysterious woman tickled the back of his mind. He wasn’t sure why, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her for some strange reason, like she’d permanently glued her visage into some recess of his memory with just a peck on the cheek.
That, and something about her had seemed strangely familiar…
Tristan decided to worry about that another day, however. After finishing his workout, showering, brushing his teeth, and browsing the Internet for news about the day’s events for a few hours (and coming up empty-handed once again), he climbed into bed at 10 PM sharp, a habit he’d developed so he could come to work on time every day. Even if today was Saturday, it didn’t matter. He was going to get his eight hours of sleep no matter what happened outside.
Little did he know, however, that what was happening outside right now was about to keep him awake for a few more hours that evening. Just outside his window, unseen by him or anyone else, a lithe, petite figure clung to the brick wall with twenty retractable claws…
**********
Tristan slowly opened his eyes. He was not used to waking up in the middle of the night like this — usually he’d come up for air at 4 AM, lie awake for an hour or so, and then drop off until 7. He could somehow tell, however, that it was much earlier than 4 AM right now.
That, and he was also shackled to a vertical slab of concrete in some kind of basement.
And completely naked.
“Ngggh… What time is it?” he muttered, blinking the grogginess from his vision.
“Oh, I’d say about fifteen after one, give or take a few minutes.”
A fetching, feminine figure stepped out of the shadows before him. He couldn’t make out her detailed appearance at first, but as his vision adjusted to the light, he started to notice the short black-and-orange hair with the cat-ear headband holding it in place.
“Hmm? You again?!”
She smiled cheerfully. “Missed me?”
“Not after what happened two weeks ago.” He started to struggle against the shackles, though he knew it would do him no good. “Though I must admit I kinda owe you for giving me a leg up on my life, that’s probably the only good thing I have to say about that little disaster!”
“Oh, so you’re gonna pin it on me, huh? Like it was my fault those fat bastards at the city bank had their ill-gotten loot guarded by a giant angry dragon?”
“They didn’t want anyone stealing from that vault. Especially not some lowlife hairball like you. Now untie me and give me my clothes back!”
“Psh, why should I? You just called me a hairball. I’d cut your tongue out for that, but it seems that I’ve found something much more exciting to toy with…”
She knelt down, inspecting the pendulous nutsack dangling between his thighs. Reaching forward, she prodded the sensitive lump of man-flesh, then reached behind and tickled the backs of his balls, making him gasp and giggle and squirm in his bindings, his long cock quickly straightening.
And then, after a few desperate seconds of teasing, she leaned in and kissed the sack.
Tristan suddenly felt like his nuts had just been tasered. A surging, tingling feeling shot up his spine, making him feel hot and hard as granite. He’d felt like this only once before, just after that beautiful stranger from the street had kissed him after he’d given her purse back.
That stranger… That voice… Did this maniac holding him captive sound like…
Oh, God fucking dammit.
“Th-that guy I got arrested,” he said after taking a moment to catch his breath. “The asshole who stole your purse. He… He wasn’t — was he?”
She looked up at him, shrugging dismissively. “You caught me,” she replied. “I hired him to help me stage the whole damn thing. Usually, when I happen across handsome superheroes, I break someone out of prison and then pay him to rob me in front of them so their instinct for chivalry kicks in. You fell for that trick so hard it wasn’t even funny, but I have to say, you figured it out pretty fast once you had the right clues.”
“Despite my looks, I’m not as dumb as they make jocks in the movies,” he grunted. “Just hardwired to be nice to people. Now, give me back my clothes.”
“Not after you called me a hairball.” She stuck her tongue out teasingly. “By the way, I haven’t properly introduced myself. My name is Copycat. I know, I know, it’s a groan-inducing alias, but when I found out about my ability to copy any superpower in the world as long as I’ve met someone who has it, I couldn’t pass up the chance to dress up like a cat just for the sake of the pun.”
“I honestly can’t see any other codename that suits you,” he replied, unable to help smiling.
Her eyes widened a little before slipping back into her cunning mask of mischief. “You’re actually the first person to say that to me. I like you. All the same though, you should’ve known well enough to let the cat get your tongue.”
Tristan was about to ask what she was planning when he suddenly felt a fist collide with his exposed ballsack, smashing it into the wall behind him.
“NGAHHHH!”
He tried to bite back his cry of pain, but failed miserably. The pain of his balls being flattened to half their normal width was devastating, and he was quite sure that even with this first blow, Copycat seemed much stronger than her delicate appearance suggested.
A second strike pressed his nads against the wall once again, sending a spark of agony running up his body, making him yelp a second time. Then a third. And a fourth. Each blow had little effect on his balls, which sprang back to their normal shape once unrestrained, but the pain seemed to grow exponentially every time.
The fifth time, Copycat reared back with both fists raised, and then lunged forward, sending both of them hurtling with almost disproportionate force towards his nutsack. It seemed to come at him in slow motion, the blur of movement further obscured through the tears welling up in his eyes. Worse, had he looked down, he’d have noticed that there were now tiny cracks in the concrete behind his nutsack, betraying a force behind her punishing blows that would’ve been greater than any mere human could produce.
If he didn’t realize that then, he certainly did once each her fists squashed the hapless testicle it was aimed at into the concrete with enough force to audibly crack the latter, and all but pulverize the former.
Tristan was glad that he didn’t have a sonic voice, because his blood-curdling scream would’ve caused any nearby windows to rattle.
“Oww, ouuuch… Whew, mental note, super-healing ain’t instant,” Copycat muttered, shaking the pain out of her knuckles.
“You think?!” Tristan all but shouted, his voice cracked with pain.
“Ah, so you do have super-healing, huh?” She smirked, cupping his tenderized testicles in one delicate hand. “I should’ve known the moment I picked it up in my own system. See, I automatically copy the powers of anyone I touch — assuming they have abilities to begin with — and can activate or deactivate them at any time. It’s part of how I picked my name. But I’m starting to sense that your healing rate wouldn’t be fast enough to compensate for some very serious losses. Hmmm… I wonder…”
A wicked grin passed across her face. “I’ll be right back! Ohhh, I’ve wanted to try this for a looooong time!”
Tristan decided that he wasn’t going to look forward to what she had planned for him. As she turned to leave, however, he thought he saw a flash of something else in her face besides malice, but he couldn’t pin down what it was.
A few moments later, Copycat returned with a small table on wheels, a plastic bottle with a long tube extending from its lid, and what looked like a large mallet, like something a cartoon character would put to use. She set the bottle next to his bound figure, and then lifted the free end of the tube towards his crotch. “Hold still — I don’t want to hurt you until I feel like it.”
Tristan felt understandably uncomfortable at this, but at the same time, the thought of his beautiful captor handling his manhood like this made him oddly aroused for some reason. His cock began springing to life, growing steadily as the tube approached.
Even before his erection could reach its full length, Copycat took the head of his cock in her slender fingers and then began easing the narrow plastic tubing into the hole at the tip. Instantly, the interior of his member began to burn from the friction, the edges of the tube tip scraping against the soft membrane. He bit back a pained grunt as he felt the tube go down, down, all the way down to the base of his dick, almost ten inches of tubing buried within him. His stiffy was now raging at full force, his urethra contracting instinctively around the pliant intruder — but that was soon to be the least of his worries.
Next thing he knew, Copycat had wheeled the table under his crotch, cupping his balls at the same time and lifting them over it. Upon her releasing it, the scrotum naturally rested on the top of the table, which was just high enough to remain level with his groin. He noticed that the surface felt like cork board, which was a little strange but not very concerning.
“Now, here comes the fun part! Oh, and please don’t get mad if I mess up — this is my first time doing this, after all.” She took something off the table which he swiftly realized was a bundle of sewing pins.
“Doing what?” Tristan asked, feeling apprehensive.
“Well, all of this. The seed collecting, the extraction process…”
“This can’t be good on any level.”
“Yeah, I know.”
What followed was a yelp of pain from Tristan, who was surprised to feel his captor sticking a pin in his scrotum, penetrating through the two layers of thin skin and into the cork below. Luckily, the pin didn’t pierce his testicle, and he wasn’t too keen on repeating the experience with the fork last week. However, the stab of pain was followed by another, and another, and more and more pins continued securing his sack to the cork board.
Tears began running down Tristan’s cheeks as he looked down at Copycat with a pleading expression. “Aaagh! W-what are you doing?!”
“Um… Try not to fidget. The last thing I need is for this thing to shift out of place during the procedure!”
“What procedure?!” Tristan sounded both annoyed and more than a little nervous.
“Oh, I didn’t tell you?” She picked up the mallet, which he now realized was in fact a meat tenderizer, with a large metal head that had a cluster of spikes on two of its sides. “The extraction procedure.”
He didn’t even get a second to protest before she brought the tenderizer down upon both of his testicles, flat side down, turning them into fleshy pancakes for one brief moment.
Tristan shrieked at the top of his voice, unable to escape the crushing blow of the hammer without risking his scrotum being torn open. Squinting through his watery eyes, he could see for one brief instant the flesh of his hapless nuts ballooning out around the tenderizer, the force of the blow powered by far more strength than Copycat’s slender figure could have ever produced on its own.
And then, just like that, it was over. The moment the hammer withdrew, his balls sprang back to their normal size and plumpness, the skin a little more reddish than before. Copycat’s eyes widened at the sight of it, but then narrowed at the paltry results. His cock had emitted just a thin squirt of pre-cum, which was already traveling through the plastic tube.
“Seriously?! I’ve waited my entire career for this moment, and that’s it?!” Her voice betrayed not just frustration, but a feeling of slight desperation. Had she ever done this before?
“I’m not sure,” Tristan managed to utter through his clenched teeth. “Maybe hit them a little harder?”
“Hmm… Now there’s a thought,” Copycat replied with a smirk. She raised the hammer high, as though about to try her luck at a carnival high striker, and then swung downwards with four or five times the power she’d used previously.
There was a squelching thud of mallet meeting flesh, and another scream of pain from the captive hero. To the surprise of both of them, however, Tristan’s suggestion had worked — a massive burst of white, sticky spunk filled the plastic tube, and even spurted out in a shower of tiny droplets of his piss hole. Within less than a second, a whole foot of tubing had been filled up. In the midst of the combined mind-racking pleasure and searing agony, he couldn’t help but wonder: did his healing ability also grant him increased virility?
His thoughts were interrupted when Copycat struck yet again, this time intending to squeeze every bit of cum out of him before his manhood was left unrecognizable. Then she raised the hammer high once more, and brought it down a third time, squishing his nuts down to a sixth of their original width!
While all of this was going on, Tristan’s cum was flowing almost like water from a faucet — already, the bottle had a noticeable quantity of seed at its bottom, almost an inch of it once his adversary relented. Panting for breath, she glanced down at the container, before letting out an appreciative wolf-whistle.
This went on for at least five more times, His shrieks were steadily increasing in pitch, and they only shot up another octave when she pressed her palm down upon the head of the tenderizer after the eighth attempt, grinding down upon his nutsack and compacting it almost to oblivion.
And then, once again, the pressure was gone.
“So tell me, are you going to give me more of your precious man milk, or are your nads ready to call it quits?” asked Copycat.
He glowered at her, still grimacing in pain. “Does it matter? For all I know, you’re probably just gonna keep pounding on these things until they burst anyway. Wouldn’t any self-respecting villain do that to their captive?”
She thought about it for a moment, and then shrugged. “You’re probably right. If I were to get a genetic sample from you, just the amount of cream already in that bottle would suffice. But these things already look like they’re about to pop, and I’m not gonna give up after I’ve come this far!”
Indeed, his balls had now taken on an alarming hue of dark purple.
His eyes widened in alarm. “You’re evil, you know that?”
“I try to be. It’s truly a shame you can’t bend over and kiss your sex life one last time, ‘cuz it’s going bye-bye!”
She turned the mallet ninety degrees, so the spiked ends were facing downwards and upwards. Tristan began to pay unusual attention to how sharp those points looked, a bead of sweat running down his forehead.
“C-can we talk about this? Please?” he asked, now feeling genuine panic.
“Nah. My guess is that we already did — not that it matters much, but points for trying.” She raised the mallet once again — up, up, up, until it was as high over her head as her stature allowed.
Tristan squeezed his eyes shut, and waited for the end to come.
CRA-SPLOOOOSH!!!
If she’d hit with the spiked side the first time, it would have only caused surface-level trauma, but her previous strikes had weakened his nutsack to near the breaking point. This final blow, with at least a dozen razor-sharp points sinking into his flesh, was what did it.
Tristan emitted a final piercing wail of agony, tears pouring down his face, unable to do anything but feel his unfortunate testicles at long last burst into at least a half-dozen gooey, blood-drenched chunks, the skin of his scrotum tearing itself apart from the trauma and the force of the blow.
He didn’t know whether it was shock, overwhelming pain, horror at the loss of his manhood, or bleeding out through his mangled crotch, but a few moments later, his whole world went dark. For all he knew, it was probably a combination of all of them.
And the most insulting part? The bottle was only a quarter of the way full.
**********
The next time Tristan woke up, he found himself lying on the plain white bed within what looked like a prison cell. There was a blood-stained towel around his ruined crotch, but other than that, he was completely naked. Most likely, he was still in Copycat’s lair, otherwise she would’ve simply left him to bleed out in an alley somewhere.
Upon lifting the towel, he gasped, and then sighed in relief. His precious cock and balls were miraculously intact — either the previous torture session had been some kind of horrible nightmare, or his sex life had grown back once again. Judging from the dull aching sensations radiating throughout his crotch, probably the latter.
Naturally, the first thing he did upon feeling the pain begin to set in was to grip his shaft and start gently rubbing himself, trying to massage it out. As the seconds ticked by, though, his pumping began to quicken in intensity, and his balls began to swell, their juicy plumpness in stark contrast to the gory mess that they had been reduced to whoever knew how long ago.
Within less than a minute, the young man let out a moan of pleasure, a spurt of fresh cum erupting from his dick and spraying all over his chest. It was comforting to know that his virility was just as intact as his family jewels.
He sighed in pleasure, his limbs flopping listlessly off the bed — only to sit bolt upright a moment later, at the same time frantically starting to wipe the cum off of his skin. Did someone just giggle just beyond his cell?
Sure enough, there was Copycat, leaning against the opposite wall of the corridor outside. Her expression was quite smug, infuriatingly so.
“Shame I couldn’t hook you up to this thing for that,” she said, holding up the bottle of spunk from earlier. “If you were that productive earlier, I wouldn’t have had to unman you the way I did.”
Tristan all but slammed into the bars, reaching through and trying to grab at her, his expression rightly furious. A few fruitless attempts later, he gave up, resorting to glaring at his captor.
“You do realize that you’re the one who’s supposed to be in a cell, and not me?!” he spat.
“You’re one to talk. So, tell me — do you have any means of busting out of there? Super strength, phasing, teleportation, etcetera?”
The look on his face would’ve peeled paint. She decided to take that as a no.
“What do you want, anyway?” he hissed. “Why did you go out of your way to kidnap me in the first place?”
“Who, me?” She laughed a little. “I just wanted to have some fun with a good-looking guy, that’s all. Nothing personal, really.”
“That’s it? That’s your answer?! Why can’t you have picked any other person? I have nothing. I am nothing. And if you’ve chosen to pick on someone who’s nothing, what does that make you?!”
“Nothing? How dare you call yourself nothing!” Copycat pointed at his unblemished crotch. “Look at you! I completely destroyed your sex life, and yet it’s come back as whole and unbroken as ever!”
“So you noticed.”
“If that’s the case, what would happen if someone cut off one of your limbs? From what I heard, you survived a three-foot steel pole going through your belly, so I’m pretty sure you could come out of that too unscathed.”
“If you’re going to test that theory out, forget it!” Tristan finally snapped. “I’m not interested in any more of your sick, twisted ‘playtime’! Or should I even call it that?!”
Copycat stepped back slightly, shocked. She stepped back even further when Tristan pressed his entire body against the bars, looking rightly furious, and completely ignoring the fact that his cock and balls were poking through one of the gaps.
“I’m only going to ask you one more time. What do you want?”
For a moment, Copycat wanted to grab his manhood again and give it a yank, perhaps even pull it clean off. But something told her that it was only going to make things worse for them both — there were so many things she could do with him in the future, and one mistake now could mean she’d lose her plaything forever.
“S-someone who c-can heal any injury you can possibly think of?” she stammered, thinking fast. “W-without even a scratch? I-I’ve always wanted a friend like that!” Then her face fell, and she spoke a bit slower and with more sincerity. “Or just… You know… A friend.”
His eyes widened in alarm and guilt. “Wait. What?”
Copycat stepped forward, now daring to look him in the eye, still looking crestfallen. “If I have to be honest… I’m nothing, too, in a way. I started out with a lot of hope, a dream of a bright future, and I wanted a good life in Monumentropolis just like you do. But fate had other plans, one thing led to another, and now here I am. I’m no more experienced in my field than you are in yours. I haven’t been able to make any lasting connections because the people who try to reach out to me inevitably die in action or get themselves arrested. I… Before I met you, I h-had… Nothing. Nothing.”
She pressed her forehead against the bars, now sobbing in earnest. Tristan, just an inches in front of her, was totally lost for words.
“Y-You’re the first person I’ve ever managed to capture and successfully perform evil experiments on. It… It was a huge moment for me, a-and I didn’t want to lose my chance to earn myself… Well, not an enemy, but… B-but a rival. Someone who was always at odds with me, but would never trade me for anything else in the world. And I almost ruined that chance. I… I’m s-sorry… I’m…”
With that, she burst into tears.
Tristan felt wetness in his own eyes as he took in her words. Frightful as she was, at the end of the day she was just like him in many respects. Most of all, she too was lost and lonely in a world which preferred to pay attention to bigger, better things. They both had a long way to go to reach greatness, and they both knew it.
“I’m sorry too,” he said, pressing his forehead against the opposite side of the barrier. “I shouldn’t have been so—”
“N-no, I should’ve asked if you… If y-you were okay with me doing evil things to y-you—”
“Speaking to a villain, I’d say you wouldn’t have needed to ask. Speaking to a decent human being, though, I’d say you do. If I’d known you were just looking for a practice dummy, I’d have been slightly more willing to help…”
She couldn’t help but smile a little at that, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Still, I get the sense that sympathizing with your evil captor wouldn’t be good for an upstart hero.”
“Yeah yeah, Stockholm Syndrome, I know. If I had my suit I’d have kicked your ass here and now. But as it stands, I can kinda accept your apology for turning my hero parts to a thin red pulp, if only on the grounds that this was your first time doing that to anyone, period. Besides, as they say, ‘tis but a flesh wound!”
Both of them laughed. “You’re funny. I like you, um… What was your name?”
“My hero name is Prometheus, but since you caught me in my birthday suit — and by the way, you still owe me my PJs — my real name is Tristan. And I think you know where I live, but as long as you keep it a secret, we should get along just fine.”
“I’m Chihiro,” replied Copycat. “And while I’m not at the point just yet where I can invite you to my place, I’ll at least provide you with the address to my evil lair, so if you fancy being captured and ‘experimented on’ again, I’ll gladly take up your offer.”
“I’ll be kinda busy with work and such, but I’ll consider it,” replied Tristan, grinning. “Now, about my clothes…”
“Oh, right. And I’ll also need to charter a getaway driver to take you home. You need some sleep, and honestly…” She stifled a yawn. “So do I.”
Tristan chuckled again. He could relate — after all, like her, he was only human. “Same time next week, then? Maybe during a more reasonable hour?”
Chihiro grinned in reply. “You damn betcha!”
Copycat sans villain suit, as played by Ayame Gouriki
No comments:
Post a Comment