Majorly Screwed

By Tom Gungy -
published May 16, 2018
2408 words

A sidekick receives a bizarre phone call from his superhero summoning him to his secret lair.

“Hey, Trust Boy!” I heard Major say from the phone. His inflection was oddly uncontrolled and emphatic. The words were muffled like he had his face covered. On top of it all, he never called me Trust Boy. That was the name the two-bit news gave me when they couldn’t guess my name, but Major always respected me to call me by my chosen name, Captain. Consequently, I was more than a bit confused.

“Major?” I answered. “Are you okay?”

“I’m great!” came the emphatic, muffled reply. “I actually need you. Can you come into the Major hole?”

“You mean the base?”


“Are you feeling alright, sir?” I was a little worried at this point. Was Major drunk?

“I’m fine, Trusty!” he assured with an uncharacteristically boisterous laugh. “Now come on down here. There’s something I need to show you.”

I was going to ask more questions, but a beeping from the cell phone interrupted me. I looked to see that he had hung up. I frowned at the screen in my hand and saw my youthful, twenty-something face frowning back in turn. In the back of my mind I knew something was wrong. Major was always akin to the more serious heroic archetypes and valued stoic professionalism above all else as a vigilante. He would never develop nicknames for things under regular circumstances, and he was never vague as to why he expected me to do anything. He explained exactly as to why or how I was supposed to do anything under his command, so telling me, “Trusty,” to come to “the Major hole” because there’s “something” rose some flag somewhere in my brain.

One of the other things that Major Muscle worked so hard to instill into me though was trust and loyalty. I was to believe that Major Muscle knew what he was doing at all times and at all costs. I hadn’t understood when I first became his sidekick why he remained so adamant on that one rule, but as I continued helping him in his quest to stop crime I saw the rule save my life more times than once. At the end of the day, Major had more experience than me, and I trusted that. That’s why, despite the suspicious nature of the conversation, I found the suit I hid in my apartment, donned the persona of Captain, and exited via the fire escape as I usually did on such risque, latex-clad nights.

Eventually I made it to the old museum. That was Major Muscle’s big secret: His base was hidden in the old military museum. It made enough sense. Major’s only power I know of was his exponentially quantifiable strength, yet he was known as a through and through strategist as to how he applied it, like a major navigating a battlefield. Even his outfit hearkened to the masculine, camouflaged outfits worn by the soldiers of yesteryear’s armies. I suspected that he had previously been an old war dog himself. Major was very keen on both him and me keeping our true identities a secret, even from each other.

I came through the front door. Despite it being well after closing hours, the old, wooden doors were to the dilapidated building never locked on account of no one, not even robbers or thieves, being interested in the old place. My entry was accented by a familiar creak from the rusted hinges which spoke to the neglect of the place and echoed through the empty halls. A large, glass display filled with several mannequins was the first sight that greeted me, and I had expected to see the mock soldiers brandishing regulation rifles and ancient uniforms. I was surprised to see that for the first time it seemed the models had decided to try a new look. Each of the squad were now largely nude, anatomic proportions that I hadn’t known they previously now on display, except for a handsome jockstrap afixed around every one of their waists. Their outstretched arms now held baseball bats, hockey sticks, and other sports implements instead the usual armaments. Even the sign above had been changed. A drab “Welcome to the Museum of Military History” had been cartoonishly spray painted to declare “Welcum to the Museum of Boring Fogeys.”


I jumped when I heard the call. It was definitely the voice of Major, authoritarian and commanding as usual. My first thought was to wonder if he’d seen defacement of the exhibit, but it was a brief one. Major had called, and when I was summoned I was expected to come. It meant that my hero needed his sidekick. So I left the display, albeit with a disapproving glance, and proceeded down the hall. Though I saw even more similarly childish defacements the deeper I went into the building I went. Skimpy football jerseys adorned more mannequins, some were adjusted into obscenely sexual positions, and various other signs and previously informational plaques were ruined with overlaying obscenities. How had Major not seen all of this? There was no way he couldn’t have. I rationalized that maybe it had been a prank. A college fraternity was only a few blocks away. Maybe this had been some sort of hazing. Maybe Major had chased them off. I had a small number of theories, but none of them kept my heart from leaping into my throat when I saw the entrance to the old boiler room, the secret entrance to Major’s secret base. The door that was was locked three times over from both sides was hanging wide open, a travesty that Major would never normally allow, and vulgarly spray painted over the associated room’s sign were the words “Major’s Hole.”

“Trusty, hurry!” Major’s shout echoed from the dark entryway. His dominant demeanor had vanished from his tone and was now replaced with urgent alarm. There was something else too. I slight rise pitch at the end of the call seemed to hint at vulnerability, a vague neediness even.

Regardless how he sounded, I rushed down the dark stairs without even stopping to turn on the lights to show the way. The bizarre state of the museum paired with the bizarre mannerisms of Major had made me ill at ease. The secret entrance to the base being compromised was something else altogether. Something was clearly wrong, and Major very clearly needed his loyal sidekick to help. That’s why I rushed down the stairs with reckless speed. At Major’s comand, I forgot everything that he had previously taught me as a strategist about patience, forethought, and the necessity of a plan. I was quite literally blinded by my loyalty, and that’s why I didn’t see the trap waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. The moment I reached the bottom step I felt clasped over my mouth with a firm, strong hand. In shock, without thinking, I reached to remove the grasp. It was then that a precise, planned grip seized both of my wrists in the blink of an eye, leaving me largely helpless to resist.

I had held my breath, at least remembering that breathing in fumes from a strange cloth forced upon me by an unseen assailant, but eventually struggling against my foe made me week. Despite myself, I gasped for air. A thick, noxious stench shot into my lungs and filled my nose, yet it wasn’t chloroform. It smelled raunchy, like body odor or sweet. This wasn’t meant to knock me out. This was a jockstrap.

“Yo, bro-skee,” a lax, deep voice came from the darkness, “turn on the lights, would ya?”

And with that the world around me came into view, and I gasped to see what Major’s base had become. The gym equipment that me and him had used to work out on was defiled with a series of dildos affixed in various suggestive locations. The arsenal of weapons we’d retrofitted from the museum to non-lethally subdue our more difficult nemesis’ was now replaced with a bunch of sports equipment and corny sex toys. Even the tactical table in the center room that bore a map of the city on its surface was covered in cans of beer, bottles of lube, and various spilled energy drinks, leaving the map unreadable and hopelessly ruined. Most shocking though was to see an entirely new addition: an old, beat-up couch, not unlike one you might find in a fraternity house. On top of it sat the Jocker, a supervillain whose reputation for physical prowess was only superseded by his penchant for gameplans, clad in his usual jockstrap and nothing else. In many ways he was perfectly Major’s opposite and equal in strength and planning ability, and I grimaced at the sight of him.

“Trust Boy!” the dastardly criminal addressed me in that stereotypically relaxed Jock way. Major always theorized that despite the man’s intelligence, he forced himself to speak that way to match the theme of his costume.

“It’s awesome to see ya, dude!” he continued with a villainous smirk. “Bring ‘em on over here, Bro-skee.”

In front of me stood the man subduing my hands and holding the jockstrap to my mouth, Jocker’s own sidekick, Bro-skee. He was not wearing his usual jockstrap, and it wasn’t hard to guess that the stench I was currently inhaling was his. Admittedly, though the young man looked to be only about my age, he had me beat in the ways of physical prowess. While Major always encouraged me to use my mind over physical prowess, the Jocker always seemed to due the exact opposite with his ward. Bro-skee was unnaturally large and muscular, and as I hadn’t had a plan before coming down here, I was entirely in his power now. With a sadistic grin, Bro-skee jerked me over to the couch by my restrained wrist, and all the while kept the jockstrap plastered to my face as he escorted me over. As we got closer I became less focused on the Jockster when I realized that someone else was in the room with us. Between the Jocker’s legs was a stranger I had never seen before. He had on a gray t-shirt that read “janitor” on the back, though he too was missing pants and was wearing a jockstrap. Did the Jocker have fans?

“Show some ‘spect,” Bro-skee grunted as he tugged me down to my knees. I cried out in pain and therefore didn’t notice when Bro-skee stopped holding the jockstrap to my mouth only to affix it to my face by wrapping the straps around my ears. I blushed at the underwear now being adorned by my face yet could do nothing about it as now Bro-skee had both of my hands pinned behind my back. I looked up to see a very smug Jocker grinning down at me.

“What have you done with Major Muscle?” I demanded, trying not to let the jockstrap on my face diminish the effect of my menacing scowl.

“Dude, I ain’t done nothing,” the Jocker guffawed. “He’s right here. Say ‘yo,’ Major.”

A muffled “yo” came from beside me, and I looked in shock at the man next to me, the one wedged between the Jocker’s legs. He didn’t even bother to stop snorting at the villain’s jockstrap. Yet in staring at the stranger’s face, I saw the similarities. I saw the strong cheekbones I was used to seeing covered by a mask, he muscle bulged against the t-shirt in such a familiar way, and the voice, though having lost all authority and filled with lust and desperate need, was undoubtedly that of the heroic Major Muscle.

“I found this ‘ere place while doin’ a lil’ prank, but then I found this ‘ere square,” the Jocker explained, indicating the hero between his legs by squeezing Major’s moaning head between his thighs, borrowing him further in. “He was totally, like, ‘woah’ when I shoved his stupid face into cock, but then he got a big ol’ snort of my cock smell. Then he got a big ol’ boner himself, and then we were down here with the loser begin’ me to take his tight Major hole.”

While Jocker told this horrific story, I started to feel woozy. Something wasn’t right, even more wrong than it already had been. The room was spinning, and I couldn’t focus. Most bizarrely, I was unbelievably horny. Despite myself, I started to grope my cock through my costume with one hand, the other pressing the jockstrap further against my face. I saw Bro-skee come around in front of me, and part of me realized I was now free. I could fight, or run, or do something, yet I really just wanted to feel good. I continued to pant animalistically into the odiferous underwear. Jocker reached down to clutch my reddened face.

“It seems you’re getting hit with Bro-skee’s cock smell too,” he said. “I brewed up a lil’ somethin’ somethin’ that make it irresistible to little goody-two-shoes like you two.”

Jocker released his grasp, but with it his hand tore the jockstrap away from my face. I gasped in shock as if snapping out of a trance. As the jockstrap was removed so was my contentment and happiness. I needed that jockstrap back! I wanted it more than anything. I was ready to plead and beg for it with everything I had, yet I couldn’t formulate the words, not even a “please.” I could only whimper and moan like a dog begging for abone, and that’s when Bro-skee presented his cock in front of my face. I jerked back, surprised at the suddenness. Then I smelled it. Fireworks went off in my brain, and I knew I needed it. My mouth engulfed the cock as I ravenously sucked it. The cock became my world, and I barely even heard the men talking above me.

“So what should we do wit’ ‘em, boss?” Bro-skee asked.

“Rob some banks, take the town, and enjoy our two new cock sluts without any goody-two-shoes to stop us.”

Mind control
Wanking material
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