by Jack Bristol
Super F**cking Hero
A Super F**cking Hero novella
Jack Bristol
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
About the Author
Copyright © 2014 by Jack Bristol
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
For my favorite superhero
One
There's a guy on the ledge, looks like he's about to jump. And he is. But he's got a damn good excuse.
I know, because I'm that guy.
Check out the tights and cape. Slick, right? I look a ridiculous sort of hot. Like, you'd be swooning over me if this was a superhero movie, but if you saw me riding the bus, you'd assume I got on at the Crazy Town stop. That's if you're of the female persuasion. If you're a dude you'll recognize the cool factor involved. The whole ensemble is black. Black swirly cape. Black tights and boots. Black mask and shirt.
Okay, so almost all black. There's the matter of the huge red F on my chest. Doesn't matter, I still look cool.
Seriously cool.
I'm freezing my balls off. February will do that to a man in tights.
So let's go to the excuse, the reason I'm up on a ledge in the middle of one of those cold, starless nights.
It's the girl.
But you're out there alone, Super Fucking Hero, I hear you think. And … yeah, you're right. I'm a guy in tights at the top of … whatever this building is (twenty-something stories of offices and those shitty, cramped dog kennels they call cubicles), crouched and freezing my sack off.
But there is a girl.
Or, there's about to be.
In fact, here she comes right now.
Round the corner, carrying Chinese takeout, one of those messenger bags slung across her body.
One thing you should know about me—and I'll tell you this straight up, no bullshit—I'm kind of a pig. A woman is a girl until she's old enough to be my mom. If she's fuckable … she's a girl.
Hate me for it, that's okay. I'll charm my way back into your good graces later—if you've got what it takes to stick with me for the duration of this story.
Anyway. The girl. You'd call her a woman, but … you know.
See above.
I have super-duper vision thanks to the Super part of Super Fucking Hero. We'll get to how that happened later, because in a moment that girl is about to find herself in some serious trouble. She's a brunette. Long, dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail. Skinny jeans (hard to get off, but man, they look goooood). Spectacular rack hiding under the leather jacket she's zipped up to her neck. Beautiful face in an old-school Golden Age of Hollywood way.
Exactly my type.
Most beautiful women are.
How do I know to be on this exact ledge at this exact moment?
Well, like Batman, I have an Alfred. Only my Alfred is the old Greek woman who lives below me. She doesn't buttle (buttle is what butlers do), iron my clothes, make my bed, or anything else Alfred does. But sometimes she cooks for me, and she's always there when I need her.
Mrs Margarita has superpowers of her own, namely something she calls her third eye.
No anal jokes. I take anal seriously and as often as possible.
Hold on a moment. Here comes the guy. Fateful meeting in five … four … three …
The dirtbag grabs her messenger bag on the way past. He flicks out a knife with a gleaming blade, intending to slice the strap.
And that's when I swoop down off the ledge, and knock him to the ground without his prize.
The girl jumps back. Squeals.
Underneath my rubber-covered bulk, the bad guy gurgles. Then he says something that sounds like, "Get the fuck off me!"
Yes, sir.
The moment I'm off him, he—predictably—takes a swing at me. But he misses because my fist is faster.
For those of you who are into superhero sound effects, it sounds like BIFF.
My punch sends him flying into an expired parking meter. I drop a couple of coins in the meter because it's a rust-mobile. Whoever owns it, doesn't look like they can afford the ticket. I cuff the guy, throw him into the alley for safekeeping. When I'm done here I'll dump him outside the precinct house and let the cops know they've got mail.
Now for the best part: the girl.
She's looking up at me, all wide-eyed and delicious. Petite with curves. A perfect handful of tits. Full lips—the kind that look spectacular wrapped around a hard cock.
Preferably mine.
"Oh," she gasps. "Are you?…"
"Yeah, baby, I'm a superhero. The name's Super Fucking Hero."
The beautiful face crumples. I've confused the poor girl. "That's your real name?"
No more than hers is "baby."
"It is when I'm wearing the suit, baby."
"Oh." Head tilt, like a puzzled damn dog. "And when you're not?"
Okay, I'll bite. She wants conversation before we get down to the second part of business—the fucking part in Super Fucking Hero. It's tedious, but it's all part of the game. A heroic rescue, where I snatch them out of danger's savage jaws, a little light banter (if I'm really lucky the girl is witty and bright; I love a girl who gives good wit), and that always leads to grand finale, the climax of our little adventure together: the sucking and fucking.
"When I'm not wearing the suit and rescuing beautiful women from danger?"
She bites her lip. I've got her.
Of course I do. I've got a mirror. I know how girls and women have been looking at me since I grew pubes and my voice got deeper. I'm the kind of guy you don't take home to your parents, because Mom wants to fuck me, and Dad's in his La-Z-boy, questioning his sexuality.
Let me paint you a picture. My talents don't extend to art, so humor me.
I'm six feet (exactly) of hard muscle. I've got an ass like Captain America and shoulders like I punch the shit out of bad guys for a living—which I kind of do. There's not much money in the superhero gig (unless you turn to the dark side), so I've got a day job, which I'll also get to later. My hair's a wicked shade of black, my eyes are dark blue, and when I tan it comes easy. Teeth? Naturally perfect. Not-so naturally white, but I guzzle coffee. So it's a lifetime addiction to Whitestrips for me. I turn heads and I walk like I own the world—which I don't, but it's a useful skill to cultivate. I look like a bad boy, but I'm a superhero—how bad can I be?
"You think I'm beautiful?"
They almost always ask that. It got old years ago—about six months after I started this superhero gig—but I've accepted it as part of the job, along with the cape and the big red F.
"Gorgeous. Stunning. Very sexy." I give her the old up-down look. My cock follows, much like the way a cat chases a laser pointer.
"What do I owe you—for saving my life?"
"Nothing." Look deeeeep into her eyes, SFH. Make her feel like she's the only woman in the world. Which she is, temporarily, until the next damsel in distress comes along. "So beautiful. Can I kiss you?"
* * *
Ten minutes later, she's sucking on my crank ten feet away from her would-be attacker, who's still out in la-la land. The Chinese food's getting cold while she's two fingers deep in her pussy, helping herself to a little me-time while she sucks.
She's good, I'll give her that. But I'm never gonna come this way. So those two fistfuls of soft, dark brown hair I'm holding? I tighten the reins and ride her mouth until she's spluttering and gagging on the end of my cock.
Gotta stop for a second. "You okay?"
She nods on my cock. Anything for the hot guy in the costume. That's consent enough for me. I keep fucking her face until the orgasm punches me in the balls and shoots down her throat.
She swallows like a champ. Probably figures the Kung Pao chicken will neutralize the taste.
Although I've been told as far as jizz goes, mine's mild-tasting.
Must be all that pineapple I throw on my pizza.
Yeah, I make my own pizza. Surprised? I'm twenty-six-years old—been taking care of myself for a while now.
I finish her off, kiss her forehead. And now here it comes. Wait for it …
"Will I see you again?"
"Sure, baby. Next time you're walking down a dark street alone, just look up." Then I flash her my biggest smile and escort her back to the street. I loop the bag of Chinese food over her wrist, thank her, and I melt back into the night.
Actually, the alley. There's still a scumbag to deal with.
Him I dump in front of the precinct house three blocks down. No mercy for guys who get their kicks picking on women, so when I say dump, I mean dump—from about ten feet up. I'd go higher, but I'm not a killing kind of guy.
I hear you asking, Why just a blow job, Super Fucking Guy? Why not an actual, well, fuck.
Time, my friends. Time.
See there's another damsel about to shoot up a distress flare. According to Mrs Margarita (she of the third eye) a group of college football assholes are waiting on their English literature professor to show up at her usual bar, where they're going to convince her to switch their fails to passes.
Mrs Margarita tells me it's going to end badly for her if I don't step in.
Oh, and apparently she's quite the looker, too.
Down in my tights, my cock is twitching. It's asleep, yeah, but it'll leap into position once it comes time for this next little lady to say her thankyous.
Not one girl has ever said no.
Ever.
In all the years—six—I've been doing this.
I know, I know—I'm the man.
Are you seeing the writing on the wall?
I'm not. I'm all about this suit, but my ego? His favorite outfit is blinders.
Two
Got time for an origin story?
Go grab a drink, a cookie, a slice of pie. Whatever makes you happy while you read. Me, I like Twizzlers with a good book. I bite pieces off, a fraction of an inch at a time, until it's gone and I reach for another floppy stick.
I can't speak for those other superheroes, but this guy loves books.
What kind of books?
Uh … does it matter? Books are books, right?
If you glance at my nightstand and see a pile of romance novels …
Not mine.
They belong to the cleaning lady I don't have. She can't get enough of them. Always leaving them all over my apartment. And she never listens when I tell her to get rid of the things, because she doesn't exist.
Okay, okay, they're mine.
Happy?
I love romance novels. There, I said it.
Big, tough superhero loves him some romance novels.
What can I say, I like a happy ending.
(That innuendo? Completely intentional.)
Okay—deep breath—my origin story.
Here's what Wikipedia has to say about it:
After his mother was killed by a carjacker, the man now known as Super Fucking Hero vowed to fight violent crimes against women.
So there you have it. My origin story. In a very tiny nutshell.
There's really not much more to it than that. Those are the facts. Anything else is just emotional fluff. As you may have noticed, I'm not a guy who does fluff.
Except for the romance novels.
All you need to know is what's in that nutshell: my mother was murdered by a carjacker. I swore to fight violent crimes against women.
The end.
Where do I live?
Imagine a city near you.
Three
Quiet street. Bar on the corner. Occasionally someone enters or leaves, and for a moment music and light pours through the crack before the door cuts off its life signs.
My bad guys drove to the scene of their imminent crime in a red Jeep. Late model. Still got that new car smell.
Before you get envious, consider that an enhanced sense of smell isn't always your friend. Don't believe me?
Someone recently unleashed a hot stream of piss on a nearby wall. And see those weed wannabes punching up between the concrete slabs of sidewalk? No fewer than seven dogs shit on them earlier today.
If I'm starving, the tantalizing aroma of fast food can push me to insanity's brutal edge.
Sometimes superpowers can be super-annoying.
But mostly they're awesome.
The college kids slam the Jeep's doors. They're huffing and rubbing their hands together, trying to make heat. Good news, fellas. Things are about to get warmer.
There's five of them, one of me. Two of them are about my size, one smaller, which leaves the last two. They're big, brawny. Built like tanks.
My cell phone shudders. Incoming message from Mrs Margarita.
Huh. One word: No.
What's that supposed to mean? It's all Greek to me. Yuk, yuk.
No time to fire off a question mark, because here comes the professor.
The bar's door opens, and out onto the grimy street steps an angel. In a world filled with beautiful girls, she's a knockout, a goddess, a … I … I'm all out of descriptors. Whatever the pinnacle of beauty looks like to you, multiply that by a thousand. Then double it.
My knees tremble. Which isn't good news for a guy crouching on top of a building. There's a lot of air between me and the hard sidewalk, even for a man who can fly.
Her hair is long, dark, glossy. Even at this distance I can tell it's soft from the way it bounces when she walks. Big, dark eyes. Full mouth. Perfectly rounded tits. It's winter but she's wearing a knee-length dress with knee-high boots. The boots are black, the dress red. And it hugs her like she was poured into it, one delectable inch at a time.
A heart-shaped ass, with just enough meat to sink my fingers into while I'm plowing into her holes. I imagine that long, dark hair bunched in my fist as I'm shooting my load.
My cock loves the idea. In fact, he's waking up in anticipation.
The beautiful professor has no idea that around that next corner there's a posse waiting on her.
There she goes.
The football goons push away from the Jeep, two of them immediately blocking the path. She steps toward the road, but there's meathead block set up there, too.
Backwards? No dice, thanks to four and five.
Her body language switches from confident to defensive.
One of the clowns speaks. "Professor Hart? You shouldn't be out here alone. Need a ride?"
"It's very thoughtful of you, but no."
That voice. It's a perfect match to her exterior. Low, husky, but with a bright, feminine lilt.
I can't fucking wait for her to scream, "Oh, Super Fucking Hero!"
"It's not safe for … for a woman like you to be walking home in the middle of the night."
"I can take care of myself."
The two assholes at the back lunge forward, grab one arm apiece. The clown with the mouth steps closer, until he's in ball-crunching distance. Either he's wearing a cup or he's stupid. He's failing English lit—how smart can he be?
Stupid kid yanks the front of her dress open.
Yeah, not gonna let him get any further than that.
When I drop out of the sky, it's behind the idiots gripping the professor's arms. Their heads make cool cymbals. Not so much a clanging sound, though. More of a dull, satisfying THUD.
"What the fuck, man?"
"Wrong superhero. He's down in Florida. I'm Super Fucking Hero, pansy boy."
I push the professor out of the way. She's whimpering. Poor girl. I'll make it up to her in a few minutes.
Now it's one against three.
"Bring it." I crook my finger.
I'll say this about them, they put up a good fight. The stupid ones usually do. They make clumsy moves, yeah, but they make them hard. These three throw out a few accurate shots, but in the end my score is higher. Not only do I hit harder and faster, but I brought weapons and other toys to this sidewalk party.
See this cool, sleek, black canister in my hand?
Watch.
I push the button on top, and out sprays a net that covers and scoops them up. I know it looks flimsy, but it's pretty much everything-proof. Only a couple of things can cut through the netting, and one of them is in the custody of Captain Kern at the precinct house.
The other one's at home. Only a dumbass brings a problem and its solution to a fight.
So now they're bagged and squirming on the sidewalk, I turn my attention to the professor. She's up against the wall, those big eyes wide, her mouth in a loose, shocked O.
"It's okay, baby. The cops'll take care of them."
I plant myself in front of her, flash her my you're-the-only-woman-in-the-world smile. And she could be. The girl is a goddess among goddesses. She might be the most stunning creature in the universe. My cock is in raging lust with her. He's busy pumping blood so he can get a better look.
