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 flatthwishhh 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.