The Fallen Hero
Copyright 2007 Clayton Kinnelon Greiman
Without saying what was being made,
his wife had taken him to a tailor to have his measurements taken.
“Trust me,” she had said with a grin.
Many months later, on Halloween night,
Brian Danielson sat staring at the finished product, a sleek, black superhero
costume, hanging in the closet.
Kat Danielson, the woman who had
commissioned it, was dead. She had been killed three weeks ago in an armed
robbery. Had all gone as planned, Kat would have
kept her career as an attorney, and Brian would have resigned his position as
high school track coach to become a stay at home father. Brian’s sole desires had been to act as husband
for Kat and father to their unborn son; now that they were taken from the
world, he was without purpose.
What he needed was to forget himself
entirely, and a masquerade seemed an ideal
means to that end.
Sponsored by the law firm where Kat had been
an attorney, the party was to take place on a big estate in the country and
would be attended by a highbrow legal crowd.
Thus, it was guaranteed the alcohol would be top notch, an ideal
requisite for a man who needed to get smashed and to forget the hell that was his life.
A plan began to formulate in Brian's
mind; he’d arrive
late, not take off the mask, and introduce himself to no one. If anyone spoke, he wouldn’t
respond. It’d be all part of the ‘protecting
his secret identity’ shtick. They’d all
go out of their fucking Ivy League-educated minds trying to figure out who he
was, and, once sufficiently intoxicated, he would make his exit, leaving them
none the wiser.
All that remained was to get into
costume.
“And just what are you going to wear
beneath it?” It was Kat, scolding
him in a gently chiding way.
Embarrassed, Brian looked down and shook his head. “I knew you’d forget to buy a jock, Mr. ‘Married to Your
Boxers’.”
“I guess I’ll just have to go commando,”
Brian replied, even though there wasn’t anyone in the room with him.
The suit was designed to fit like a
second skin, accentuating every inch of his well-toned
body. What was out of proportion was his
package. He wasn’t endowed well, five
inches when erect, barely anything when not.
He reached down and adjusted his dick, so it pointed straight upward. The outline of his cock and balls became
pronounced, and the suit fit so well, contouring to the head of his dick, that
it was apparent he had been circumcised.
“Definitely an improvement,” Brian said
aloud.
But his confidence was short-lived; the
old insecurity came back to haunt him.
“You look good, Brian; stop doubting
yourself.” Kat was there with him again, draping her arms around his waist,
staring back at him in the mirror. “And
this,” she said as she fondled his cock, “you always did worry about this, but
it was my favorite part of you. You
certainly knew what to do with it; you never failed to bring me to orgasm. And don’t forget; it made our child. Our little boy. He’s proud of his dad, dressed up as a superhero.”
Standing alone, staring out at someone
who no longer existed, Brian teetered on the edge of a nervous breakdown.
“Don’t do this to yourself, not now,” he
said to himself. Just put on the mask
and forget it all.”
And as the soft cloth covered his face,
Brian Danielson ceased to exist.
The Fallen Hero arrived at the party and
headed straight for the bar.
“Scotch on the rocks,” he said to The
Black Bartender in a voice deeper than his own.
Drink in hand, he lifted the mask just
above his lips, and two day’s worth of stubble became visible.
“Well, you’re Caucasian, so you can’t be
the help crashing the party,” an effeminate man quipped as he brushed his hand
against the hero’s ass.
The Fallen Hero looked around the room,
and a sea of white faces stared back at him.
They were the sharks into whose ocean he had leapt. The growing frequency of their hands
touching his body was a string of menacing gestures meant to telegraph he was their next meal.
“Elitist, racist fucks,” The Fallen Hero
said under his breath as the back of a masked partygoer’s hand brushed against
his dick.
He downed his scotch in a single swallow
and immediately had The Black Bartender pour him another. This scene replayed itself six times during
the course of the next half an hour.
Soon, The Fallen Hero was so drunk that he could barely stand.
After he had taken a few steps and stumbled, an arm slipped around his waist, and a
gentleman’s voice, deep and Southern, spoke close to his ear. “You’re the hit of the party; we can’t have
you falling flat on your face. I’ll
take you someplace private where you can sober up.”
The instant the two men were out of sight
of the other guests, The Southern Gentleman began to fondle The Fallen
Hero. The gentleman’s hand was shoved
away in short order.
“Do all you fucking people have a
fascination with my dick? What the
hell’s the matter with you? For fuck’s
sake, my wife just died. Stop touching
me!”
Unresponsive to the vitriol, The Southern Gentleman led the hero into a bedroom and had him sit on the bed. His head spinning from drunkenness, the hero’s natural inclination was to lie down.
Taking this as a sign of acquiescence,
The Southern Gentleman took off his tuxedo jacket, pulled down his suspenders,
and lorded over The Fallen Hero. Slowly
and deliberately, he began to lower the zipper of the hero’s bodysuit. He stopped when it was midway down the
hero’s chest, taking the time to fondle the hero’s nipples and to run his hand
along the faint layer of sweat that had gathered on his body.
Disoriented, the Fallen Hero struggled to
lift himself from the bed.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“It’ s mighty warm in this mansion,
and as drunk as you are, you’re going to be sick if you don’t get out of that
sweatbox you’re wearing. Just think of
me as your daddy, undressing you and putting you to bed.”
“I’ve got my own damn bed, and I don’t
need your goddamn help getting in it!” The Fallen Hero got to his feet only to
find the
world was reeling. “I’m not like you
people; I’m not racist. You think he’s
just an ignorant black man, but the bartender knows the score. If you get near me again, I’m going to call
for him, and he’s going to come show you what he really thinks of you.” The
hero had made his way to the bedroom door, only to find it was locked.
“Fuck you, pervert!” The Fallen Hero
turned and started banging on the door, screaming to be let out. In a matter of seconds, The Southern
Gentleman was upon him, wrapping an arm around the hero’s throat and pressing
a knife into the back of his balls.
“Now, you listen to daddy, you ungrateful
bastard. You came here tonight,
drinking all my scotch and wearing an outfit that offered everything you had. I watched as you
reached down and readjusted your damn dick until I couldn’t stand it
anymore. You’re not at home giving
yourself an erection. You’re in my parlor doing it in front of a room full of lechers. You want it played with? Well, certain members of your audience are
more than happy to oblige.”
A knock sounded on the door, and the Southern Gentleman extended a cordial
‘come in’ to those who stood on the other side.
Seconds thereafter, his suit had been
unzipped, pulled down past his waist, and someone had their hand around his
limp cock.
“Man meat,” one of the men said.
“Let me be the first to drink,” the
Southern Gentleman added before his mouth closed over the Fallen Hero’s
cock.
When the recipient attempted to sit up, a
clamping down of teeth forced him back into submission.
“If you try to get up again, I’ll bite
the damn thing off!” The Southern Gentleman warned.
“Please, stop; my wife just died. All I wanted…”
The Effeminate cut short the hero’s plea.
“Why the hell do you think you’re
here, if not for your wife? Why do you
think you’re wearing that suit? You
think all of a sudden she got a hard on for superheroes? That suit was made for us; she was
brining you as an offering in exchange for being promoted to partner. She
may be dead; that's her bad luck, but you're alive, and tonight,
we’re taking our pound of flesh.”
The Southern Gentleman ceased with his
preoccupation, looked up, and spoke testily.
“Stop distracting him! I’m
having a difficult enough time as it is!”
“He’s too drunk to get a hard on,” the
woman offered. “I came here tonight,
expecting to get fucked, not to suck on a prepubescent nub.”
“Don’t worry, darling,” The Effeminate
replied. “I always come prepared for
such situations.”
Shortly thereafter, two sets of hands
clamped over the hero’s mouth and pried his jaw open. Something small was dropped onto his tongue, and The Effeminate
said, “swallow.” Feeling again the threat of teeth against his cock, the hero
did as he was told.
“He’s just swallowed two high dose
Viagra. In twenty minutes, you’ll
either be riding him like a pony or he’ll be dead of a heart attack.”
With those words, unconsciousness stole
The Fallen Hero from the savage circle that encircled him.
When the hero woke, the sun was shining through
the windows of his bedroom. His dick was painfully hard; it felt raw. His mouth was coated with something that
made him want to vomit. As he struggled
to sit up, he heard someone moving in the kitchen.
“Who’s there,” The Fallen Hero called
out.
No one answered, but a few seconds later,
The Black Bartender walked into the room.
He was still wearing his uniform.
“I drove you home last night. I wanted to make sure you were you alright before I left. The first
time can be hard on a newcomer.”
“You mean you knew what they were doing
to me and you didn’t stop them? Why
didn’t you do something?”
“I did do something. I wore a condom when I fucked you. No one else did.”
The rationality of his life shattered, The Fallen Hero leaned over the bed and vomited Brian Danielson’s remains onto the floor.