tagBDSMThe Gun That Killed Superman

The Gun That Killed Superman


Circumstance occasionally lead an author to venture into subjects he or she would not usually visit in order to create a certain quality or mood he seeks to express, and such is the case here. This story deals in intentionally brutal and abject forms of sex, and readers who are offended by violence and the grosser excrescences of the human body are cautioned to engage this piece at their peril. The author himself, who usually deals with the more positive and pleasant sides of human sexuality, has come to feel that perhaps he has accrued a certain debt of omission to the darker and less wholesome sides of the sexual urge, however, and with this piece he feels that debt is paid, and paid for some time to come.

My special thanks to the incomparable Cloudy for her help with my hapless Spanish. She had no knowledge of the context in which her translations would be used.


It was while passing each other on the stairs on a Saturday afternoon that Barry McWheeler glanced up absently at his wife Olivia and saw with stunning but unmistakable clarity that she was having an affair. It should have been a normal glance, a simple, friendly greeting meaning nothing, but instead of that sweet caress of eyes, he found himself unexpectedly looking into the hot, dilated pupils of a woman in a full-body sexual fantasy, either being double fucked by a couple a well-muscled young himbo's or perhaps fisting one swollen pud into her mouth while a thick bridge of semen arced from a recently withdrawn choad and splashed against the base of her throat. Only women came up with such disgustingly juicy, degrading fantasies

He was stunned. It was as if he had opened the bathroom door and caught her crouched there like a beast in full masturbation just seconds from orgasm, and his shock brought him painfully back to the present, making him realize that he was no better. He'd just been so engrossed in his own sexual daydream of driving his mouth against the quivering clit of his mistress's pussy that his eyes were glazed and his tongue was actually curled and protruding slightly from his lips, a noxious little spit bubble at the tip. He quickly pulled it in, blinked, and fixed on his face the best smile he could find under the circumstances,

The smile wasn't necessary because Olivia never noticed him at all and continued floating down the stairs past him with her novel and iced tea, totally oblivious. He'd been so shocked by what he'd seen that he hadn't noticed whether she'd really seen him or not, but it didn't look like it. Nothing in her actions suggested it. Maybe he'd gotten away with it.

As she passed him she suddenly came out of her reverie. The privacy screen went up behind her eyes and the show ended, her cheeks lifted into her normal camouflaging smile and she made a sort of unconscious move with her shoulders—like testing the space to see if she liked the fit.

It all happened that fast and that unexpectedly—a meeting of eyes with shields down and their secrets were out, or at least hers was. Barry already knew about his, of course, but Olivia? His Olivia? The Self-Defroster? The shock was deafening.

Holy fucking god damned shit almighty! he continued as calmly up up the stairs as possible, ice water bathing his balls, blood pounding in his face. What did I just do? What did I just see? Olivia's having a fucking affair! I saw it in her eyes! I saw it clear as day! And she saw me! She knows about me and Dana! She must have seen me too! What was I thinking? What was I fucking thinking?!?

His legs propelled him on to his antique dresser. He still held the package that had seems so importanat just minutes ago: paper, a box, more paper, bubble wrap—the very 1932 Pearl-handle Luger pistol that George Reeves, TV's Superman, had used to blow his brains out with on June 16, 1959. It had just come in the mail, just come from e-bay, and that's why he'd been coming upstairs, to admire it, clean it, and put it in its spot in the collection, but now he just pulled it from the bubble wrap and held it in its chamois bag, listening to the sounds in the house, unable to erase the image of Olivia's face from his mind. He stared himself, his eyes looking at nothing, past the muzzle of the gun, watching the sun motes wander on the patterned carpet. Is this how a marriage ends? he thought, with a moment of silence like this? And then what? Feet charging angrily up the stairs? Olivia's angry growl, demanding to know what he'd been thinking?

But there were no footsteps, no angry growl, no footsteps on the stairs. Just dust motes in the sunlight and the muzzle of the gun that killed George Reeves.

So maybe she hadn't seen the look on his face. She still didn't know about Dana? Too bad. The thought of discovery while holding the gun gave him a slight thrill in his balls.

This is the gun that killed Superman! Cunt!

No, no. He was a collector, not a murderer, and he actually loved his wife. In fact, he had no intention of leaving Olivia. It had just been so stupid, walking around with his emotions on his face...

What had I been thinking!? Where had my mind been?!

Between Dana's thighs, that's where.

More precisely, he'd been standing on the floor as he held her over the bed in her black stockings, arching her back, laughing and protesting, one of her hands trying ineffectively to push his head away from her crotch, the other trying just as uselessly to pull her dress down over her naked pussy. SHe'd been wearing the black garter belt with the little pink bows he'd bought her. The Eirlands' barbecue had been going on in the backyard right outside the curtained window, Anyone might have walked in anytime...

But the hell with all that now. The consequences, the enormity of what had just happened seeped into him slowly, like melting ice, like the hyphae of some saprophytic organism burrowing into the limbs and joints of his life.

He sat on the bed, had to think. His whole marriage—Olivia—fucking someone else—inconceivable. She was so undersexed, so bland. And what did that say about him? No—couldn't be him. He had Dana, before Dana, Ruth, anyone he wanted. No. It was her Olivia—attractive enough, neat and rich-chic, old-money-slim but uninspired and uninspiring; a woman to be seen with, not to be with.

But who could it be? Who would even have her and why? Let alone inspire that kind of look in her eye, that look of deep, sensual depravity, that come-on-my-tits-look? That gang-bang look? What would make her look like that?

Hell, for Olivia, maybe someone did her from behind...

He stood up, slid the gun from the envelope once more and held it. It was a beautiful piece. He'd always loved Lugers, always wanted one. Beautiful and reptilian. He already had the shells for it in the car. He'd bought them three weeks ago as a kind of charm to make himself buy the gun.

He put the gun back into the box, picked it up and went to the stairs. He knew who would know who his wife was fucking. She'd know for sure.

He went downstairs

It was quiet down here, but it always was, quiet and sunny. Olivia had some music playing in the living room where she'd curled up to read, and Barry stepped buoyantly across the carpet, master of his home..

"That Luger's a beauty! The guy took excellent care of it. Barrel's like new. Mechanism like butter" he announced. He took the absence of a response from his wife as a good sign.

It was a fine home. The McWheelers were set and everyone who lived around them was set too. The fact that all the houses in the development were laid out differently couldn't disguise the fact that they were all the same and that the landscape and the very earth hated them and would always hate them.

Olivia had excellent taste, so the first floor comprised an eclectic blend of antiques and quality modern, on the whole favoring the French country tradition, masculine in weight and line but feminine in detail, and Barry approved of the result. It felt butch and smart.

He let himself out into the attached the garage and punched Dana's number on his cell as soon as the door opened.

"Mrs. Sprague?" he asked in a bright, salesman's voice. He walked around the back of the car and dropped the gun into the trunk, putting some rags and the cargo net over it.

"It's okay," she answered, meaning the coast was clear.

"God!" he relaxed physically, but his voice got tense and urgent and he cupped the phone against his face. "Got to see you! I think she knows!"

He pulled the cell away from his ear, anticipated Dana's response: "What? How?"

"Not 'Knows everything'," he corrected. "But like 'suspects'. Or she might. But that's not all. I'll tell you about that later." He spoke tightly, through clenched teeth, "The most amazing thing, the incredible thing is—she is too! She's having an affair too! I saw it! I know!"

"Saw what? Know what? Barry, what are you talking about? Where are you? Are you home? You think it's wise you see me right now? If she knows..."

"Fuck that! Don't worry about that. Meet me at Kubelski's Can you get away? An hour? Sooner, I'm already in the car."

"I won't have time to get dressed."

"Screw dressing, Dana! Just meet me. Who's she fucking, that's what I want to know, and I want you to give me a list. I want to know! A list!"

He closed his phone and went into the house. He was going out to meet his lover by pretending to go over to his business, but he was self-conscious now and he couldn't remember how he usually left the house under these circumstances, what his usual routine was, the tone of voice he used, whether he kissed Olivia goodbye or not or embraced her or just what he did to look appropriately casual and innocent.

He walked into the living room where Olivia was stretched out on the sofa, still reading.

Her legs were exposed from the knees down and they were gorgeous legs and he suddenly was sorry for cheating on her. It wasn't just the pain of jealousy he felt now that someone else was fucking his wife, but real regret that he hadn't been She could be a difficult woman and she was shit in bed, but then, he'd been looking for an excuse to start an affair with Dana from the start. Dana was hot. She did the kinds of things a man liked. He'd been looking for an excuse to start an affair with anyone, really. He'd caught on quick that it seemed to be what people did down here in this kind of pre-retirement community for the had-it-mades—play golf, play cards, fish, and have affairs.

He had an urge now to touch her, to caress her, to promise to bring her a gift or do something nice for her, but he doubted very much that's what he usually did when he left the house to see his mistress, so he stopped and put his hands on the armrest of the sofa and leaned on them instead, trying to look casual. It turned out to be a bad choice of gestures to make, because it made him look as though he suddenly needed to use the bathroom very badly. Olivia looked up at him curiously, her mouth expressionless, saying nothing, and he smiled awkwardly as if to show he was fooling around, but Barry never fooled around. He was not a playful man by any means.

"Are you all right, Barry? Is it gas or something?"

"Oh, nah, no." He shook his head

Apparently she hadn't seen into his eyes or seen his secret or she would have said something by now, because Olivia never kept anything inside. He sometimes wondered if she had an inside, if there was room for one in there, but that was typical. His main complaint about her was that she never paid attention, or she paid attention to the wrong things. She never heard what he told her, se never even seemed to notice his comings and goings. She seemed to choose not to notice.

That was good though. It meant she probably never noticed how he usually said goodbye to her when he went out to see Dana, so it didn't really matter what he said. That was a relief.

He took a breath and stood away from the couch.

"Nah, it's my wrist," he said. "I want to take the lugey over to the shop anyway. Break it down and clean it up, screw around a little. You be all right while I'm gone?"

She glanced past him to the clock on the wall. "So you'll go to Steve's from the shop?"

He smiled at her as if she were feeble-minded. "Steve's?"

"It's Thursday, Barry. Poker?"

"Oh, right, yeah! Thursday. Yeah. Of course. With the Superman gun and everything..."

She raised her eyebrows in sympathy and went back to her book.

Poker night, Barry thought. How long had she been enjoying thatpun?


Before the developers got their hands on it, their was no San Isabel, just a mess of sea wrack and sedge where the Asenootchie ran into Compasenee Bay but the Bayerton Company had set their dredges to work and now there was a nice chunk or shoreline and neat, muffin-like islands and causeways and bridges to connect them all, four golf courses, a pool, Laguna, country club, and a town far enough away to keep them out and close enough to let them come in and pick up the trash and every thing was nice and civilized.

Barry was odd in that he was one of the few men on San Isabel who still worked and did it visibly, though his shop, a neat brick and tinted glass place by the shiny new blacktop of Frontage Road, looked more like a restaurant than a body shop that specialized in restoring leather and fabric tops of classic automobiles. It was more of a hobby than a business anyhow. The income was negligible but they didn't need the money. Olivia had all the money they'd ever need, part of it in a trust and part of it in the trucking and storage business that had made the family fortune and that her four brothers still ran, cutting Barry in on every now and again in an amiable way just to show Sis she hadn't married too much of a schmuck. The warehouse space that comprised Barry's own rag-top restoration business was part of that schmuck-proofing deal It cost the brothers nothing to carve out a space for Barry shop from the front of one of the chronically underused warehouses they'd build industrial park on Commercial, and it make him happy, gave him something to do, and provided him with a convenient excuse for getting out of the house. Also, he honestly liked the work, and there was just enough of it to keep him happy.

He thought as he drove that maybe this had all been a kind of wake-up call, a blessing in disguise. He'd found out about Olivia but she hadn't found out about him, and maybe this was his chance to set things right, to break things off with Dana. It had been almost a year now and maybe that was enough. It was going no where. Maybe this was a warning.

Why did he do it? he wondered as he pulled into the lot at Kubelski's. He didn't know. Olivia was a bitch. It was like cracking oysters with herm while with women like Dana, they were all juice and enjoyment, a pleasure, succulence to be drained, And what did it matter? It wasn't like he loved her. It was just his dick in there doing what dick did, sliding around and making a mess of things. It was all a mystery to him.

He was never sure whether they should sit outside at Kubelski's or inside. If they sat outside in the merciless sun there was a chance they'd be seen f as people stopped for their crab cakes. On the other hand, that was the whole idea of Kubelski's—their crab cakes—and if they sat inside, it looked like they were hiding—no one sat inside. But this time He grabbed Dana's arm as she got out of her car and pulled her inside. They sat at the back like conspirators, huddles against the white-washed walls like conspirators, back at one of the sticky tables.

Before they even sat down, Barry asked, "So? Who do you think it is?"

Dana enjoyed seeing him squirm. "Jerry Royal." She game him the most unlikely name first. This would be fun.

"The basketball coach? Christ!. He couldn't find it without a fucking diagram."

"Okay. Then that Herb Sorrett. The one with the boat."

Barry thought about it. The guy was slim, athletic, predatory. Not really classy enough to be Olivia's type.

"He stares too much. Looks at women's asses. Not smart enough. She goes for brains."

A kid put down two glasses of sweet iced tea and Dana held her smile till Barry noticed.

"Very funny. Don't fuck around. I thought women were supposed to be good at this kind of thing."

"And why is that?"

"Because you notice things, You notice things about people. Watch who people watch, you now, how they touch their hair, that kind of thing."

"So I can tell you who you're wife's fucking by the way someone touches their hair."

"Don't fuck around with me, Dana. I'm a wreck."

"Why?" she asked him.

Barry looked at her. He had very pretty eyes, blue, with long lashes, always his best feature and now they were vacant as they stared into hers.

He had no idea why he was upset. None.

"Someone's fucking my wife." was the best he could come up with.

She took pity on him.

"I don't know a thing about Olivia," she said. "No one does as far as I know. She never opens up to anyone."

Barry seemed to realize now that his eyes were empty so he blinked them and focused them on her. She was wearing a peach sweater and white jeans and she seemed suddenly greasy, too fleshy.

"What do you mean? I see you guys talking all the time at the club. She talks to everyone."

Dana sucked her straw. "Oh, but that's just talk. No one really says anything there. She's the best person at not saying anything I know. Sometimes I wonder what she's like at home, what you two really talk about."

Barry ignored her. "Well, I'll tell you one thing. Tonight's my poker night. If she's fucking around, tonight's when she's going to do it. Thursdays I play poker and she goes to her sister's house, so she says. Tonight I'm going to find out. I'm going to follow the bitch."

Dana made a face. Like most cheaters, Barry made a ludicrous jealous husband, and all she could think of was an image of his dick hanging out of his pants. She just couldn't resist sticking in the knife a little more.

"So what about it, Barry. Just what do you two talk about?"

He started to answer, then closed his mouth. He looked at her angrily but she stood her ground.

"I don't know," he shrugged. "Stuff. Grapes."



Dana laughed. "Okay."

"No, I mean, we talk about a lot of stuff. It's just something that comes to mind,. Something I remember."

He pushed his sunglasses back up on his nose. It was very bright outside and the glare reflected inside, the waves dappling the walls. It hurt his head. "I just remember this one time we were having fresh fruit salad and she asked me if I noticed how good the grapes were."

Dana laughed through her nose. "And that's what you remember? Married what? Twenty three years and you remember once she asked you about grapes?"

Jerry looked out over the water. It was a hot day an he could taste it now, feel the grape in his mouth, the cool flesh, the surprisingly bright flavor when he bit into it, how sweet and wet it was.

"And she was right. The were really fantastic, just excellent grapes. Just really excellent. I never would have noticed if she hadn't said anything."

There was something else he wanted to tell her, something he'd wanted to tell Olivia too at the time but didn't, because it had bothered him. It had really, really bothered him. It bothered him again, sitting there at that sticky table in the glaring sun at the crab shack.

You couldn't tell how delicious and perfect the grape was without eating it. To know it was to kill it.


After he dropped Dana off he went to the shop and changed cars. He took Vinny Stitts' kids old Crown Vicky with the torn landau that he was letting the kind fix up gratis because it had a good muffler and it was a townie car so no one would recognize it. He went into the garage and changed into some work blues and got on a windbreaker too and took a foot-long stretching iron from the shop, an ugly thing with teeth on one end and a blunt iron striking head on the other and he wondered if he'd have the balls to use it on the bastard who was fucking his wife and rip him open like a piece of vinyl.

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