Chapter Text
"I say man, this mead is as fine as the choicest ambrosia, drink of the gods!"
"Yeah. I get that a lot."
It was a slow day over at O'Malley's Pub on 133E and 43rd. It was the middle of lunch hour and he only had one customer. Granted, that one customer could drink as much as ten men and tipped well too. Oh yeah, and he was a member of the Avengers. Maybe not such a slow day after all.
Hercules gave an enormous belch, then waved his flagon (he insisted on calling it that) about. "Have I told you about the time I wrestled down Cerberus, three-headed beast of the Underworld, watch-dog of Hades himself, and taught him how to heel on command?"
"Not since yesterday."
"Ah." Hercules waved him off. "I can see I am boring you. I must perform new acts of heroism, so that I have new tales to sing." He stood up, and swayed on his feet.
"'Ey, Herc. You want me to call ya a cab or somethin'? You look a little sloshed."
"Bah! A cab for Hercules? If I couldn't hold my liquor I'd have no right to call myself the Lion of Olympus! Besides, the Avengers Mansion is a mere handful of blocks away."
"Alright... And uhh, about your tab...?"
Hercules turned by the door and gave him a shit-eating grin. "Put it on my Avengers credit. Tony Stark has graciously agreed to pay for all sums of food and beverage whilst I dwell among you mortals."
"Ahh. Okay then. Cool."
Hercules left the pub, humming off-tune and mostly staying on his side of the sidewalk as he made his way down the street. Life was good. He had wrongs to right, justice to uphold, and friends to share his triumphs with—as well as all the free food and drink he wished. But for now, he felt a mighty need to return to the mansion and sleep it off.
Of course, what Hercules did not know was that he was being currently watched from the shadows. In particular, a certain protruding part of his rear anatomy was being observed quite closely.
* * * * *
It was from an alleyway that the lurker had first spotted Hercules, and he now eyed his prize with hunger. It was rare to come across a hero like him so vulnerable.
The man climbed up the fire escape with acrobatics that belied his common human ancestry. Or perhaps he'd become more than human, after the accident that'd given him his powers? Whatever he was, he had one goal in life now, and that was to humble all men who deserved it. The Avengers were at the top of his list, with their powers and their cockiness and their alpha-like status in society. They spoke of their many acts of heroism, but in reality they were nothing more than blunt instruments, crossing international borders with impunity and involving themselves where they had no right to be.
Now though, he had a way to put each and every one of them in line. And Hercules would merely be the first.
He ran along the rooftops, silently hopping from building to building as he followed Hercules along. It was a shame he was so high up. The man's tunic was famous for revealing more than it should.
It wasn't until they'd traveled a block and a half that he dared make his move. They'd left the highly populated commercial district and now found themselves in a nearby warehouse district. While the occasional person could still be seen outside, it wasn't hard at all to find a place to enact his plan. After all, he already had all his necessary equipment stowed away, just waiting for a chance to be used.
* * * * *
"Now, is this the right way...? Or have I once again been turned around on these mortals' streets?" Hercules scratched his head dully as he looked about. It was difficult sometimes, adjusting to life over the many centuries. He'd never gotten lost in Athens.
When the attack came, it was a total surprise. A base, cowardly attack from behind, trying to sweep him off his feet. It didn't work—his knees buckled, but he was able to keep his footing. "And who dares assault the Son of Zeus!" he thundered as he turned around, only to see a shadowy figure run into a deserted warehouse. With zero hesitation or, indeed, thought, the demi-god took off after them.
"The son?" The figure laughed as he fled. "Don't you mean a son? He's had hundreds of them." Fleeting glimpses of a blood-red hand symbol upon his chest could be spied as he dashed among the scores of large wooden crates housed within.
"Who dares besmirch the name of Zeus!" Hercules demanded, looking all about. Only laughter greeted him, echoing from all directions. Hercules began lifting crates one-handed and tossing them aside, hunting for the knave. "True, much has been said of his lusty loins throughout the ages. But let it be known it has always been Hercules who is his favored son!"
Hearing what he thought to be the strange costumed man, he whirled about and hurled a crate in that direction—smashing it and its contents completely. The remains of a tape recorder could be seen amongst the splintered wreckage of the crate. It whirred, trying for a moment to continue playing: "Faaaavooored sooon? Didn't heeee kickkk you ooouuuttt?" before it gave up and only static ensued.
Hercules looked down at it in confusion. "What in the world...?"
An ancient metal chain whipped out, ensnaring Hercules's wrist from behind. He turned with a growl to see a black-clad man emerge from the shadows. A most curious attacker, but not one he'd met before. The man was clad head to toe in skintight spandex, the black material accented by a pair of purple gloves with something strange on the palms, and a matching pair of magenta boots. Emblazoned on his chest was a blood-red hand with a purple eye upon it. He did not recognize the symbol, but it gave him a vague sense of unease.
"You're saying this drunken lech is the favorite of Zeus?" he taunted. He grinned like a madman beneath his mask, although he kept his tone calm. "And here I assumed he'd prefer Ares or even Hephaestus to you." He lashed out the other end of the chain toward Herc as well. "Speaking of which, I thought you might want to check out some of your godly brother's handiwork."
"Nngh!" Hercules had moved to dodge the thrown chain, but it sought him out as if drawn to his blood. His other wrist was seized and locked behind his back to join the other. He glared at the audacious interloper. "I know not who you are, but you shall regret this impertinence," he promised. "For if you truly knew the legends you'd know no mere chain can hold the Prince of Power!" He flexed boastfully before drawing on his immense strength to snap the links which bound him. To his consternation, however, he found they would not give way. In fact, the harder he attempted to break the chain—the weaker he felt. It was sapping his strength!
"Wh-what sorcery is this?" he gaped. "Where could you have gotten one of Hephaestus's creations from?!"
The masked man sniggered. He'd found the chain, once forged to stop the mighty Cronos, for sale in Bangladesh of all places. The black market had provided a great many resources at the time. He was glad to see the rumors behind this particular acquisition had turned out to be true.
With careful manipulation of the chain, he looped it around the demi-god's shoulders and then drew it tight. Hercules groaned as he was wrapped fully around his upper body by the bonds and they pinned his arms to his sides. Shortly thereafter his legs were encircled as well. Slowly, he sank to his knees, grimacing, as he felt his powers drain from him. "Nn-nghh! You...!"
"You'd be surprised. You and your family are famous amongst us mortals." There was a growing strength to the masked man's words as he approached, slowly circling around Hercules. "And they've left lots of their toys laying around over the years."
The demi-god glowered and strained in his bonds. But other than the occasional clink from the links scraping together from his struggles, they held him securely. Forged to weaken the very progenitor of the gods, they were keyed straight to his bloodline. Hercules's massive hairy, straining chest sure put on a show for his attacker though, as it bulged and flexed with his efforts.
From behind, the man patted Hercules's face. He could struggle as much as he wanted. The chain only had to hold him for a few minutes. His gloves had a hole in the palms to show purple skin beneath. It was a vaguely familiar shade of purple, in fact. But even the slight touch of bare skin against bare skin sent a strangely electric jolt, seemingly straight through Herc's mind itself.
"Aah...! What...?"
"Now then..." the man said, his voice now dripping with anticipation. "Let's see just what you have beneath this." He reached down, gripped Hercules' tunic, and lifted up.
"Wh-what are you—!" Underneath Hercules had on only a scant loincloth. Its rough fabric bulging from the heavy contents. "Dost thou mean to strip me!?" he demanded. Oddly though, he couldn't seem to quite muster the indignation this moment required. He twisted in the chains that continued to tighten around him. "W-who are you, who would dare make an enemy of the mighty Hercules?"
The masked man took a deep breath, steadying his trembling hand as he looked at what was below. Such a perfect pair of globes was finally in his reach. He just had to reach down and claim them.
But as much as his mouth watered at the chance of a lifetime, he forced himself to answer Hercules first. "You and your friends will know me as The Handler," he replied, the words precise and perfectly practiced. "But when I am done, you will address me as Master."
One of Hercules's eyebrows rose up. Master? The man was mad! He focused upon the other name first. "The Handler?" he scoffed. "And what exactly will you be handling?"
"You."
In the next moment his loincloth was pulled downward in the back. The demigod gaped at the draft he felt. He had a perfect ass, of course, just like all the classical statues. Muscular and round, and lined with coarse brown hairs.
"And your punishment shall be far more than a mere stripping." There was a theatrical note to his voice, matching his overbearing confidence. Without any further explanation, The Handler brought his bare hand down upon Hercules's exposed rump with a speed and swiftness that could only be borne out of diligent training. SMACK! The demi-god gasped. While certainly no stranger to corporal punishment, it'd nevertheless been centuries, literally, since he'd last been upended over a knee for a well-deserved round of discipline.
But the impact brought something else as well. It was like the feeling Hercules had felt at the Handler's touch before, only much more intense.
SMACK!
As the second whack struck down, Hercules heard himself give an outraged yelp. However, it was like he was listening to someone else. The indignant side of him. But another part, a stronger part, actually wanted—no, needed!—to raise his ass for more. He struggled with the foreign compulsion, even as a strange feeling of euphoria flooded his mind. "Wh-what are you..." He pushed his ass out into the air and bit his lip. "Doing to me!?"
"Haven't you figured it out yet?" The Handler chided, practically beaming as he saw his charge already starting to succumb to his power. And as Hercules raised up his rear, it only looked more pristine. Shapely, hairy, strong—it really was a perfect man's butt. The kind of butt that inspired the masses, and which men aspired to achieve for themselves. Of course, it needed to be redder, but that much was up to him.
"I'm 'handling' you by waking up the dormant parts of yourself that long to submit." He smiled and raised his hand again. "Unsurprisingly, even a demi-god has desires like that." He struck down hard upon the round and meaty buttocks without holding back.
"Oh!"
"So tell me..." The Handler's smile was insidious as he looked down at the man in chains. "How long will it be until you're begging at my feet?"
That was enough to momentarily snap Hercules out from his submission. "BEGGING?" he thundered in rage. But the next spank made him jerk and twist. "Nngh!" He had a broad, tough arse and was easily capable of duking it out with the strongest beings in the cosmos, from Thanos to the Hulk, but something in his assailant's strikes were able to breach even his formidable defenses. The next spank caught him on the lower cheek, and he twisted up with a grimace. Every spank, in addition to giving a burst of pain, also gave him a strange feeling of acceptance and pleasure. Like this was where he belonged—over this stranger's lap with his buttocks upturned. But his pride kept crying out against it.
"The Lion of Olympus begs for NO ONE!" he roared, his mighty voice even shuddering the glass windows of the warehouse and threatening to make them shatter.
"Then call me 'No One'." The Handler placed his foot on Hercules' back, both as a show of dominance and to get a better angle. He could tell brute force alone wouldn't be enough here. He slapped down hard and precise, this time focusing entirely on Hercules' sit-spots with repeated strikes. "Because mark my words, I'll have you begging to get over my lap."
"Oh! Oh, no!" Hercules was twisting and jerking at the slaps. The muscled reddening mounds of his ass seemed to undulate and then clench in rhythm as they got punished. "Aaaarrrgghh!"
It wasn't the pain from the spanking that was getting to Hercules, it was the pleasure. A strange new part of him was tremendously—and terribly—enjoying the sensation of having his ass struck. Furthermore, each blow further reinforced the mental commands the Handler was planting inside him. You're mine. You belong to me now. Hercules was unable to stave off the impulses. And even worse was the effect they were having on his nether regions.
His pride did continue to rise up in the battle for his spirit. But each time he got a spank it seemed to become weaker, and less important.
"Please!" he shouted as he squirmed. "I cannot take much more!"
"That sounded suspiciously like begging to me." The Handler leaned over Hercules, looking him in the face. "What would you have me do?" It was clear from his tone he was only taunting him. But he needed to be sure Hercules was truly his.
So he took his foot off of Hercules' back... only to slam his palm onto his rear-end again. His fingers splayed out as he groped the muscles buttocks, then ran his hand right along the reddening skin. As soon as he let go, he started his regular blows smacks again. "After all, you still haven't said the magic word."
"Hnnggg, I will never... OHHH!" Another stream of spanks cut him off. Unbelievably, Hercules was near tears now. It was a state he'd not felt in centuries... since he'd squirmed bare-bottomed over the knee of Zeus himself, in fact. But the Handler's strange power had him off-balance and without a chance to recover or regroup. His hairy globes practically sizzled under the villain's hand.
"Ahh, stop, please!" the chained hero yowled. But it did no good. The spanks kept coming. And his ass was so red and hot now. He knew there was only one way to get them to stop. He hated it, but it also felt somehow correct. After all, hadn't this man proven himself over him?
So it was, with teary eyes, that Hercules finally said the unthinkable:
"Please stop... master!"
All at once it was like he fell away. His struggles ceased. And the chains which had encircled his body fell slack, then slowly slid off. Hercules kept his ass raised like a good slave. What was left of the Prince of Power was now bound entirely to the Handler's will.