KING REX -- Chapter 1: Superion

By absman420 published February 28, 2019
Summary

Superion vs. King Rex in a battle of dominance

KING REX – Chapter One: Superion by absman420

The summer heat in Megalopolis usually brought the city to a standstill. Those who could afford to escape it would often run to their houses in the Hamptons or up to the cape – which is Amazon Woman’s turf, so it holds little interest to our story at the moment. This year, however – thanks in large part to a failed plan from Dr. Frost – the northern hemisphere was experiencing the mildest summer on record – temperatures, even in the depths of July – hadn’t risen out of the high seventies. Naturally, with lower temperatures came lower tempers – crime in Megalopolis virtually disappeared. And with the summer people gone, and the heat abated, the city felt almost abandoned. Superheroes and police were tripping over each other looking for something to do.

Superion almost didn’t go on patrol that night. He and Maggie Malone – fellow ace reporter – had actually found time to get together and have a romantic dinner. He still debated telling Maggie that he was secretly Superion, defender of honesty, integrity, and civil freedom, not just well-mannered news journalist Mark Trenton, but they’d only been dating for six months or so – even though they’d known each other for years as fellow reporters – and Superion wasn’t completely sure the relationship was ready for the news.

Everything had been going well until Maggie’s story broke open and she had to cancel dinner, to follow a lead. Mark had smiled, kissed her on the forehead, and watched her run out the city room door. She has a reporter’s spirit, he thought, and I have nothing to do tonight.

Even though crime lately had been handled almost completely by local law enforcement, Mark Trenton had decided to go on patrol anyway. As soon as the elevator door had closed on Maggie Malone, Mark had made his way to that wonderfully convenient store room/ custodial closet, ripped open his shirt, exposing his massive chest and the “S” that adorned it, and with a burst of super-speed, had flown out the store room window dressed in the primary-colored tights of the mighty Superion.

Now, at dusk, the sky was glowing in pinks and oranges, the sun only recently having disappeared over the horizon. Superion secretly loved this, flying above the city in the quiet sky, the wind against his muscular frame, Megalopolis spread beneath him in panoramic beauty, lights twinkling in the windows of skyscrapers. From this height, it was possible to believe that there was nothing wrong in the world.

That was when his super-hearing picked up the “silent” alarm at the Megalopolis Museum of Antiquities. He flew quickly toward the sound, believing himself ready for anything.

Although there were two security guards stationed at the Museum, Fat Tony never went on rounds, remaining instead at the console in the main lobby, eating donuts and watching Pro-Wrestling on one of the security TV’s. Johnny J walked the halls tonight, as he did every night, expecting to find just as much nothing as usual, not really paying attention, but happy to be away from Fat Tony and his constant complaints. Johnny J thought about stepping out onto the roof and smoking the phat joint he had in his pocket. He was certain he could get away with it – it wasn’t like Fat Tony ever watched the monitors.

Entering his code in the door’s security lock, the light went green and he hefted his weight against the metal door. Johnny J was perhaps a buck-twenty, the thin, goofy-faced nephew of some board member, and pushing open this security door took almost all his strength. He didn’t even open it all the way, just enough to slide his skeletal body through, jamming the base of it on the tar and gravel of the roof. He could slip out, smoke this joint real quick, and slip right back inside, able to tolerate Fat Tony for a few more hours.

But standing on the roof – as if waiting for him – was the biggest man Johnny J had ever seen. A massive, hulking, muscular giant of a man, dressed in purple spandex shorts, banded at the waist and thigh with golden metal, distinctly displaying his abnormal package, his heavy cock. Golden boots and wrist bands. Otherwise, his skin was bare, showing his incredible vascularity, leaving no question that his muscle was genuine – not like the molded rubber bodysuits of Night Owl and Wonder Boy.

He was the most handsome man Johnny J had ever seen, and he reeked of power and masculinity. Johnny J wasn’t gay, but he knew a superior man when he faced one. This guy had to be one of those superheroes that constantly flew around the city. He was too handsome to be evil.

“Wh-wh-who are you?” Johnny J stammered, instinctively reaching for his pistol. (How frightening for us all that Johnny J should ever have passed his firearm proficiencies.)

“Don’t,” said the big man, his voice deep and melodious. Johnny J found he couldn’t lift his arms – they were suddenly too heavy. It was like someone had dumped him into a hole filled with dirt – pressure around him. Density.

The massive man approached him, his muscles flexing powerfully as he stepped. Johnny J barely came up to his shoulder. “My name is Rex,” this hulking beast said. “And soon I’ll be your King.” Johnny J was erect and cumming from the moment Rex put his hand on Johnny’s forehead.

Triple-H slammed the Rock hard into the mat, and when Fat Tony booed, crumbs flew from his lips. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Fat Tony reached for his soda – the Big Gulp one – which dripped drops of condensation on his beer-barrel gut, his sloppy, over-the-belt flab, the dump-truck spare tire that earned him his nickname. He glanced at his console just long enough to see the roof door light blink off. The kid was done with his cigarette, or whatever the hell he was doing up there. Jerking off, no doubt, Fat Tony thought. Puking boss’ nephew. Skinny fuck.

Triple-H was spewing some nasty venom in a sweaty close-up when Fat Tony again focused on the tv. A couple of minutes went by until he heard the kid’s approach from the hallway. Fat Tony didn’t even wait until Johnny J was in the lobby before he started berating him. “What the fuck is it with you, boy?” Fat Tony called out, without looking up from Triple-H’s tirade. “You know better than to smoke on company time. Dumb fuck.”

When he heard the boy’s voice, he knew something was wrong. Powerfully – for such a wisp of a puke – Johnny J called out, “All hail the great King Rex, who deigns to enter here! All kneel before His Majesty!”

Fat Tony actually said, “What the fuck?” as he looked up, but then he was dumb-struck. Johnny J was before him, falling to his knees, but radically different. Johnny J was built like a brick shithouse, like those fitness models on the Soloflex commercials, like those muscle boys on Baywatch – he had torn out of his security uniform, though it still hung on him in scraps, shoulders destroyed and sleeves gone, muscular arms exposed, veiny and flexing. His pants still fit him at the waist – his belt was still buckled! – but they’d exploded at the thigh, giving Fat Tony the impression of shorts – or a wrestler’s costume. Johnny J’s legs had grown from willows to redwoods. Maybe not as big as the pro wrestlers he idolized, but damn close.

“Johnny…?”

Johnny J met his eyes – his gaze lusty and satisfied – and then looked away, toward the hall where he’d entered – a smile bloomed on his face. “King Rex!”

Fat Tony almost stood when the stranger entered the room. This guy made Johnny J’s size look small. This guy made Triple-H look small. This guy made even Superion seem small. He had muscle on his muscle, thickly built and dominating, barely contained in his purple spandex shorts. “Who the fuck…?” Fat Tony said, starting to stand. When he did, this hulking giant raised his hand, and Fat Tony fell back into his seat, as if he suddenly weighed a thousand pounds – a thousand more, anyway. As he fell, he deftly – a word not usually associated with Fat Tony – hit the silent alarm button.

“Kneel before His Majesty!” Johnny J shouted angrily, looking apologetically at the stranger.

“I have him,” the gigantic man said. “Don’t worry.”

With his final bit of panicked strength, Fat Tony tried to rise, then fell back in the chair, immobile. “Who are you?” Fat Tony asked, sweating nervously.

The massive man walked toward him – God DAMN this guy was huge! – and the closer he got, the more aware Fat Tony became of his beauty. His masculinity. “I’m Rex,” the giant said. “I’m your King.”

As he reached for Fat Tony’s head, Johnny J suddenly shouted, “He’s tripped the silent alarm, Your Majesty. I see the light on the console.”

Rex smiled. “Take care of it, Johnny. I have something to do here.”

The last thing Fat Tony heard was Johnny J on the phone with the police, giving his “all clear” code and laughing away the “accidental” alarm. Then Rex’s heavy hand settled on Fat Tony’s forehead, and the pleasure began.

Fat Tony, who was mostly a stranger to pleasure, gave in quickly.

As Superion descended from his high altitude, he quickly scoped the Museum with his Superior Vision. One guard sat calmly at the lobby console – it looked like he was flexing his arms before himself, checking out his own biceps – but it was hard to tell. X-ray vision wasn’t like conventional sight – details were often fuzzy. He made out the security guard with a combination of x-ray and thermals – hard to describe. As to whether he was flexing or not, well, Superion thought, must be a mind-numbing job – anything to entertain yourself.

In another part of the Museum he spotted the other security guard – in shorts? – leading what seemed to be a VERY big man through the exhibits – they were in the Medieval British area, but the lead in the Knight’s armor messed up Superion’s x-ray vision, so he couldn’t guess their activity. Nobody’s vital signs revealed the slightest bit of panic or excitement. It didn’t seem suspicious to Superion at all. Why the alarm?

But then he noticed that the alarm had stopped. Maybe it had been false. He decided to check anyway, and lowered himself to the skylight, punched in the code that allowed him access to city buildings – Superion had long been entrusted with his own city-wide security code, which saved private insurance companies a fortune on smashed exterior walls – and flew into the lobby, landing gracefully before the security console.

The guard looked up and smiled. “Evening, Superion,” he called with a mock salute. The guy had an excellent build, Superion noted, ripped up and vascular, but why he was wearing a shirt that was obviously five-sizes too big for him? “You musta heard the alarm. I set it off by accident.”

“What’s your name?” asked Superion, hands on his hips, legs spread, ready for action.

“Everybody calls me Fat Tony,” the guard said, laughing, raising his shirt and exposing his rock-hard stomach, his sculpted ten-pack. “But my nickname’s about to change.” He stood up then, and his pants – which were also clownishly big on him – fell to his feet, revealing his generously muscled, but totally-ripped legs, his diamond calves. His over-sized underwear only stayed on because the band had caught on his half-hard dick.

Superion remained outwardly unfazed, and said – though his tone was a little more suspicious, “Tell me the Museum’s ‘All Clear’ code, and then we’ll discuss what’s going on with your uniform, or perhaps what you’ve done with the REAL security guard.”

But Fat Tony gave the correct “All Clear” code, then added, “And nothing’s going on with my uniform. I was the one who changed – when I became a loyal subject of His Majesty, King Rex.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s talking about me, Superion,” came a deep, musical voice from the top of the staircase. Superion glanced up quickly, focusing on the massively muscled man who stood there, and the lesser muscled security guard who stood a step behind the big man’s right shoulder, holding what looked like a pillow. Superion was hard pressed to remember the last time he confronted a man so much bigger than himself. And this guy was huge, heavily muscled with thick slabs of beef. He was even hung like a horse, all too obvious in his spandex – Superion didn’t need x-ray vision to know this man wore no underwear.

Fat Tony intoned, “His Majesty approaches! All hail King Rex!” and fell to his knees, his face to the floor.

Superion showed little emotion. “You’re ‘King Rex,’ I take it,” he said, crossing his arms before his own impressive chest. This guy may be bigger, but few were as tough as Superion.

“I like to hear you say my name,” said the overly-muscled giant, and Superion felt a sudden glint of pleasure – Superion’s dick mysteriously twitched beneath his tights, the trunks he wore over them, and the underwear he wore beneath. He didn’t consciously connect it with Rex. “I’d like to hear you say it without the sarcasm.”

“What have you done to the guards?” Superion asked, holding his ground, keeping his calm.

“I’ve given them the honor of becoming my subjects,” Rex said as he descended the stairs, his tree-trunk legs flexing, his chest bouncing, his dick flopping back and forth. The other security guard followed quickly at his heel, carrying the pillow – something on it, Superion registered quickly – wearing clothes that were far too small for him – he’d obviously torn through most of the seams. Though dressed oppositely, he wore the same musculature and dizzy smile as Fat Tony. “They know nothing but the pleasure of serving me. Isn’t that true, boys?”

“All hail King Rex,” shouted the security guard behind him, his smile widening.

“All hail King Rex,” said Fat Tony, still on his knees. He had tears in his eyes.

Superion was horrified. These two innocent men, transformed and enslaved by this egocentric madman. He may have had the body of a god, but that didn’t make him sovereign. “Change them back,” Superion said, in his most commanding tone.

Rex just laughed. At the bottom of the stairs, he stood facing Superion, a good head taller – and Superion was six-foot four. “They’d have to want to,” Rex said. “And they won’t. No one has ever wanted to.”

Superion perked up. “There are others?” He realized that he’d stumbled onto a major villain without even trying – what pleasure that gave him. It was gonna feel great to take this guy down, even better than he felt now.

Rex never lost that smug little smile – not right that a villain should be so handsome, Superion thought briefly – “Quite a few,” Rex said, stepping closer to Superion, lowering his voice a peg. Strange that he’d still sound so commanding. “They await me at the Castle.”

Superion momentarily visualized Rex’s throne room, the gigantic man before him perched on his throne, one leg casually draped over the chair’s arm, legs spread, package displayed, with about twenty guys in various degrees of musculature and dress kneeling before him and worshipping. A cult! Superion realized. This “King Rex” was the leader of some weird muscle-cult. Why did they call Night Owl the World’s Greatest Detective? Oh, it was gonna feel so good to take this guy down. The very idea started to turn him on. He was starting to get an erection.

Then, reality. Something was wrong. “What are you doing to me?” Superion asked. He wanted to back away, to put some distance between himself and his adversary, but he didn’t want the guy to think he was afraid, either. He wasn’t even sure if what he was feeling was Rex’s doing. It was hard to think.

Suddenly, Rex was serious. Smile gone, eyes penetrating, he growled. “You may show me the proper form of address. You may call me ‘King Rex’ or ‘Your Majesty.’ Give me the respect I give you, Superion.”

“Fine,” Superion said, rolling his eyes – play the madman’s game and catch him with his guard down. He resisted the urge to adjust himself beneath his bright-red trunks. “What are you doing to me… Your Majesty?”

The second he said the words, a wave of pleasure crashed through his body – his dick sprang to attention – and he did have to take a step back, to steady himself until the wave washed off, leaving behind a watery film.

“I like when you address me correctly,” Rex said. “I like rewarding you.”

Superion had to get away. He knew it. Sometimes flight was important to win the war. Get away. Regroup. Maybe bring back his allies from the Justice Club. He tried to take off, but his legs were too heavy, as if they weighed a million pounds, as if they had the density of the earth. “Don’t go, Superion,” Rex said. “You were just starting to enjoy yourself.” He brought the next wave on slowly, so Superion could feel it coming.

“Stop it. Please,” said Superion, his breath hitching. He tried to resist, but it was all he could do to keep from touching himself. Touching himself would feel so good.

Rex leaned in close, and hoarsely whispered, “Correct form of address.”

Even though Superion knew what would happen, he said it anyway – it wasn’t fair that his dick was so clearly on Rex’s side. He mumbled, “Your Majesty.”

Rex chuckled. “You superheroes are so used to resisting pain that you don’t know what to do when confronted with pleasure.” He laid his hand lightly on Superion’s forehead, and Superion briefly thought about grabbing Rex’s arm at super-speed and bringing him down – he could resist, no matter how good this felt.

But as he moved his arm, he felt the muscles begin to pump up and grow. Then his other arm. His shoulders. Coursing through him – mass and weight. His chest swelled, his legs became as solid as they felt, his ass thrust and flexed. He could feel himself straining the fabric of his uniform, popping the material’s seams beneath his arms. He liked that feeling. It felt good. He wanted more. The mighty Superion wanted the physical manifestation of his power. If he was lucky, he’d get as big as His Majesty, King Rex.

And when the final, blinding wave of pleasure rolled through him, when his heavy cock burst through his bright red trunks and began shooting his orgasmic load, Superion did fall to his knees, where he suddenly knew he belonged.

It was almost midnight, the lights of Megalopolis twinkling beneath him. The city was just as alive at midnight as it was at noon. Maybe more so. At this altitude – surprising at this time of year – the air was a little cool on his bare skin. Still, the modifications he’d made to his costume were worth it.

He’d abandoned the tights – useless, inhibiting things – but still wore the belted, bright red trunks and the boots. His superior cock and balls were barely held by the thin material, though now everyone could get a good look as his obvious masculinity. The top part of his uniform was simply the metallic “S” shield – connected to his belt with a gold cable – and his flowing red cape. His heavy pecs supported the “S,” leaving his nipples exposed on either side of the triangle. His cape connected to the top of the molded shield, hanging over his massive shoulders and traps. He also wore a pair of golden-metal wrist straps, which helped the veins stand out in his forearms.

Thank God he had never told Maggie Malone that he was Superion! How that would’ve complicated their break-up. What a kink that would’ve put in his plans to abandon his identity as Mark Trenton. A life that was so unnecessary now.

The Castle was located in the heart of the Village, in the Gay District. On his way there, he broke up a mugging in an alley – wrapping the perp in a flagpole until the police could arrive – and accepted the accolades of the many queers who came out of the bar to watch him in action. They approved of the changes in his costume. One guy even patted him on the ass. Superion smiled, enjoying the attention, and the touching. When he took off, he was sure they could see his budding erection – he even stopped about ten feet in the air to wave goodbye just to be certain – and he took the hoots and hollers as a compliment.

He arrived at the Castle with a minute or so to spare – the ceremony was at midnight – and he could hear the sounds of the men singing their adulation. His heart joined them. It was a momentous occasion, and he was lucky to be a part of it. In the antechamber, he took a moment to fix his hair, and check himself out in the mirror for flaws. Flaws. As if. The mighty reflection that flexed back at him was almost as perfect as His Majesty, himself.

A quick knock at the door brought Fat Tony in. He was dressed in the golden thong and livery of the servant class. Every now and then, the material would flip up, and Superion would get a look at Fat Tony’s incredible abs. “His Majesty requests your presence,” Fat Tony said formally. “The ceremony begins.”

They entered the Throne Room together, although Fat Tony made sure to stay a step behind Superion, as was appropriate for his station. The room held approximately twenty muscular men, all on their knees, singing praises to their sovereign God. Superion knew the singing wasn’t for him, but he could almost pretend it was – if the object of all this worship wasn’t directly before him.

He ascended the stairs to the dais, opening himself to the pleasure of approaching His Majesty, King Rex. The Muscle God sat on the throne, his legs spread, his gorgeous body pumped and primed. Superion resisted the urge to drop to his knees and pay tribute to King Rex’s mighty cock.

Instead, Rex himself stood, and walked the two steps dividing himself and Superion. With a smile, he went to one knee and bowed his head. Muscular Johnny J stepped up from behind the throne, also in golden thong and servant dress. He bore the same pillow he’d held at the Museum – Johnny J was created to bear it, after all – it was his honor. On the velvet pillow sat the Golden Crown of King Arthur, the jewels – diamonds, rubies, precious stones – deeply crafted into the hand-wrought metal. Glistening and sparkling in the soft, white light, it was more valuable than some small countries.

It still wasn’t good enough for His Majesty, but it would have to do.

Superion lifted the crown from its pillow, saying, “As the official guardian of Megalopolis, and until recently, the most powerful man in the world, I have the sacred duty of crowning you King.” He proudly placed the crown on Rex’s handsome head. It looked so right – so natural. “Rise, Your Majesty. Rise and accept the devotion of your loyal subjects.”

“All hail King Rex!” shouted Johnny J – his erection barely contained in his thong.

The chorus of men’s voices took up the chant. And when King Rex stood, cheers rang through the hall. “Hail King Rex!”

Superion had fallen to his knees as Rex had stood – his head bowed. Rex cupped Superion’s chin and raised his head until they looked at each other. Superion was sobbing with joy, a worshipful smile quivering on his lips. “Hail King Rex!” he said through the tears.

His Majesty, King Rex, new ruler of Megalopolis and soon to be most powerful man in the world, allowed Superion to collapse beneath him and kiss his feet.

Rex’s plan was in motion.

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