The Gun That Killed Superman

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

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

"Fuckin'A" someone whispered.

"Do-A"

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

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

ZsshhhhWHHHHAPP!!!

"AGGHHH!!!! YESSS!!"

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

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

SlasshhhhWHAPPP

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was no more whipping from the shower room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She made that sound now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What more could any man want?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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