Anthony Ramirez was known in New York’s leather scene as the Iron Dom. He stood 193 centimeters tall (6'4"), weighed about 95 kilograms (210 pounds), with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and tight, sculpted muscle under the golden-brown skin his Latin blood gave him. When he wore full black leather gear and stood under the dim lights of a Manhattan underground club, he looked like a war god forged in raw desire.
But at thirty-something, after countless whip cracks and commands, a quiet exhaustion had settled in.
He was tired of always being the Dom in control. The sharp crack of leather on a sub’s flesh, the trembling knees, the desperate begging, none of it filled the hollow space in his soul anymore. He craved the opposite: to have another Dom strip away every ounce of his pride, force him to his knees in shame, and turn him into a toy with zero dignity.
That Dom didn’t need to be bigger or stronger. The weaker and skinnier the guy, the darker the fire it lit inside him.
In sleepless nights he imagined a big college kid who looked easy to break pinning him to the bed. The boy would order him to spread his legs in a slightly boyish voice. He was the 193-centimeter Iron Dom who could snap the kid’s neck with one hand. Yet he would willingly kneel at the boy’s feet and beg to be treated like a dog.
That craving was too shameful, too dangerous. He buried it deep. He never wanted any veteran in the scene to find out that the Iron Dom who ruled Hell’s Kitchen and Chelsea leather bars secretly dreamed of becoming a filthy bitch.
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Burning Uniform: The Fallen Night of a Brooklyn Poor Cop
Anthony Ramirez, everybody in the precinct called him Tony, was twenty-nine, Latino, with thick, slightly curly black hair and full lips. The uniform stretched tight across his solid chest and arms, outlining every hard muscle. He stood 6 feet 2 inches tall and weighed 210 pounds, a textbook Latin stud build. Even sick as hell, he still radiated that raw, aggressive masculine energy.
He was working through the sickness tonight. His mom pulled endless shifts at a Brooklyn laundry, his two little brothers were still in high school and needed tuition and food money, and then there was his deadbeat, gambling-addict father… All the bills landed square on Tony’s shoulders. Miss one night shift and next month the lights might get cut off.
His patrol partner, Mike, glanced over from the driver’s seat at the sickly-looking Tony and let out a quiet sigh.
Michael O’Sullivan was twenty-three, Irish, with sharp, deep features, a strong nose, and a permanent cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He stood 5 feet 10 inches and weighed 170 pounds, a good half-head shorter than Tony and leaner. The dim glow of the cruiser lights cast shadows across his pale cheek, making him look older and more dangerous than his years.
Unlike Tony, Mike came from money. His trust fund alone dropped ten grand a month. He’d fucked around at NYU for two years until his grades tanked and he dropped out. Daddy’s connections got him into the academy, and now he cruised the same precinct as Tony. To Mike this job was just a way to kill time. He’d never taken it seriously.
Until he got paired with the tall, handsome Latino.
Mike was a closeted bisexual. He had a steady girlfriend and played the normal middle-class life on the surface, but every once in a while he’d sneak off to the gay bars in Chelsea to get railed by rent boys and blow off steam. Lately though, those pros had started feeling boring as fuck. His eyes kept drifting back to Tony.
This worn-down straight Latino cop with the permanent tired, stoic look in his eyes had exactly the face that got Mike hard: thick brows, deep-set eyes, those full lips. But what really fucked him up was the body: tall, strong, with that perfect bubble ass. Every time Tony bent over to check the trunk, the uniform pants would stretch tight over those cheeks, outlining the juicy curve. Mike had lost count of how many times he’d sat there fantasizing about shoving the bigger, stronger man face-down in the back seat, yanking those cop pants down, and pounding him raw from behind until his legs shook and he begged for mercy.
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“Damn it, are you guys really the ones casting for the Superman movie?”
By the time Tony, wearing the deep blue Superman bodysuit, realized something was wrong, it was already too late. His hands and feet had been firmly locked in heavy chains, making escape impossible.
The fat director, Andrew, sitting behind the camera, yawned and said, “Sorry about that, Mr. Tony. We might not have made it clear at the beginning. We really are casting for a Superman role…just the erotic version.”
“Erotic version?” Tony’s heart sank. He immediately straightened up and demanded, “Aren’t you the crew for the Superman movie?”
The fat man laughed loudly at the short assistant director, Derringer, beside him. “This dumb kid thinks he’s Henry Cavill!” He handed a thin script booklet to Derringer and said, “Show Mr. Tony our script so he can stop dreaming about being a real Superman.”
Derringer took the script, walked over to Tony, and held it up in front of his face. “Take a good look, big guy. Read it carefully this time!”
Tony’s eyes widened as he read the title. He nearly fainted from rage. On the cover of the script were the words:
Super Slut Man trapped in Straight Hell
“You bastards! How dare you trick me?!” Tony snarled through gritted teeth. He desperately wanted to punch the smirking Derringer in the face, but with his wrists and ankles chained to the four corners of the wall, he couldn’t make any significant movements.
Derringer stepped back with a grin. “We didn’t trick you. You just didn’t ask the right questions.”
“I asked if you were casting for a Superman movie! Not some Super Slut Man!” Tony roared.
“Isn’t Super Slut Man still a type of Superman?” Derringer retorted slyly. “There are many kinds of Supermen. There’s the classic Henry Cavill version, and then there’s the Super Slut Man version, like you!”
“Fuck off!” Tony yelled, yanking hard on the chains holding him. After confirming he couldn’t break free, he turned to the fat man Andrew and shouted, “I order you to release me right now! Immediately!”
Andrew sneered, “Even Superman doesn’t have the superpower to control normal people with just his mind, right?”
Derringer chuckled and said to Andrew, “If Henry Superman told me to sit on his cock, I definitely wouldn’t refuse. But Super Slut Man? Nah, I’ll leave him for the boss to enjoy first.”
Andrew smiled. “No rush. Let our Superman blow off some steam first. We’ll talk after he calms down.”
“You shameless bastards! Let me go!” Tony kicked furiously at the chains around his ankles. His black knee-high leather boots slammed against the floor with loud clangs.
Andrew watched Tony’s performance with a smug smile, rubbing his crotch. “What a wonderful show. It’s got me hard already!”
Derringer licked his lips and added, “Exactly, boss! Look how tightly this kid is filling out that bodysuit. He may not be Henry, but he’s still an excellent choice for our Superman.”
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