by Jack Bristol
Which makes two of us.
I love ass. Fuck a girl in the ass … it's the ultimate high. Nothing makes me come harder than a tight asshole wrapped around my cock, especially if the girl it's attached to is loving it. And they do, otherwise I wouldn't be balls-deep in there to begin with. I'm Super Fucking Hero, not Mrs Margarita's Super Fucking Villain.
Whoever that guy is.
Sounds like a cheap copycat to me.
Anyway, this girl. I tell her I want her ass and now she's working those tight cheeks up and down my pole. My cock's almost ready to burst out of these tights Alien-style. Minus the blood and death, of course.
"Pull your panties down." I growl the words into her ear. Her pussy clenches again. "My fingers …" Are busy. I'm not about to quit while she's loving it.
She makes a little throaty sigh and reaches up her dress for those silky strings tethered together with a stretch of fabric the size of a quarter.
I mean, why bother? That's not underwear, that's a time waster.
Anyway, they're gone now, crushed beneath my foot or hers.
"Lube?" I ask.
She reaches for her purse, pulls out a tiny pink bottle. Good girl scout, always prepared. I love a girl who's always ready for sex.
"First time?"
Headshake.
Niiiiice. My cock's getting a migraine, all this beating against my tights it's doing. The jizz is knocking in my balls, waiting on the race to start. A girl who's not an anal virgin is a guaranteed good time.
"Lube up that cock."
She pours the liquid into her hand, reaches back to work my shaft base to head. Nice. Fucking great. Makes me almost forget Professor Amy Hart and her big, fat no.
"Put it in."
That sweet girl aims my cock at her hole, then pushes back onto me. There's a moment of resistance, then I'm in.
If you've never fucked a girl in the ass, let me enlighten you.
It's tighter than pussy. And drier. Pussy brings its own lubricant to the party, but the ass isn't as generous. What this means is that there's more friction and a much tighter grip while you're sliding that cock in and out. A pussy is a warm, welcoming hole. It wants you in there, enjoying its hospitality.
Ass? It's a fucking anaconda, and it wants to swallow your cock and jizz and you.
It's a different ride, but once you've experienced it, you want go again and again and again. Every hot girl you look at from then on, you'll be fantasizing about shoving your prick up that dark hole.
Okay, back to this lovely girl. Her ass feels amazing, by the way. She grunts and squeals with every thrust, and it's not long until my cock and balls fire their load.
But my job isn't done. I always—always—make sure the girl gets hers. Unless she says no. It's all about her.
I shove my fingers up inside her stretched hole, coating my fingers in the combination of ass and lube. Then I pull my fingers back out and offer them to her. "Suck on these while I lick your cunt, baby."
She does, of course.
They always do.
See what you missed, Professor Amy?
Six
"Hey, Hunt."
See the guy with the dumb expression on his face? Looks like an Irish Setter with a lobotomy? That's Ethan. My co-worker.
But you're rich, Super Fucking Hero, I hear you saying. You don't have to work at some shitty job. You're a superhero, for crying out loud!
I know. I don't have to.
But … I want to.
What else am I going to do with my time?
I know me. If I sat around my apartment all day, plugged into the television and Internet, collecting dust and food crumbs, I'd devolve into one of those primordial sludge beasts you find living in the basements of respectable, hard-working parents.
The Hunt he's referring to is me, Hunter Forrester. No middle name. No middle name that I'm telling you about, anyway. A man's got to have some secrets.
Also, it's embarrassing. My parents were skating along the edge anyway when they lumped Hunter and Forrester together. When they plucked a middle name out of the name book, I'm convinced they were flying high—chemically speaking.
That's the backstory I've conjured up for them, given that they're not here to defend their choice. It beats the alternative: that they knew full and well what they were doing.
Back to Ethan. Ethan, he of the dim canine expression, works with me at Mighty Fine Furniture. If you're in the market for a new bedroom set, or maybe your old couch is tired of holding your ass in the upright and comfortable position, chances are good that Ethan and I will be the guys who trek muddy footprints into your home. Well, not me—I know how to wipe. But Ethan for sure. He's not really one of those guys who gives a fuck. He's like a big, dumb, lovable dog—light on the lovable. When it comes to Ethan, he's got head and shoulders where his neck should be. The whole thing puffs out into a bloated tangle of muscles, before sharpening to a point below his waist. Ethan lifts. But does he squat or leg press or whatever else it is physically proportionate guys do in a gym?
Nope.
So he's The Rock (minus a neck) on top, with Jack Skellington's legs.
And if you haven't seen A Nightmare Before Christmas, fix that—fast. I can wait.
Cue the Muzak.
Done? Good. Now you know what Ethan's legs are like.
Where was I?
Oh, yeah. About to answer Ethan.
"What?" Anticlimactic, I know.
"You missed the turn." Ethan hooks his thumb over one of those Atlas-sized shoulders.
"I didn't miss the turn." I didn't.
"Yeah, you did."
"Nuh-uh."
"Fuckface, the turn was back there."
The GPS says he's right. Fuck.
So I turn the truck around and go back. It takes a while—tight streets, big truck. Plus I've got a clown in the passenger seat, which always helps.
Anyway, a few minutes later we're hissing to a stop outside an apartment complex where …
I'm not a snob, okay? The world is filled with people whose parents weren't—to put a blunt point on it—loaded. People do what they can with what they've got, and I respect that.
It's factual—nothing more sinister—that all of these soulless boxes combined would fit in my penthouse. And there'd still be room for the drained and leaf-filled pool.
I snatch up the delivery invoice. Check out the address.
Fuck. Third floor. Which means Ethan and I have to somehow navigate this entire living room set up those steep, narrow, twisty stairs, without scraping, denting, or otherwise damaging Rose Garcia's new purchase.
Super Fucking Hero could do it. He could fly the couch, the chairs, and the matching ottoman up to the stamp-sized balcony and into the living room.
But I'm Hunter. Hunter doesn't flaunt his superpowers. The council frowns on it from a lofty, judgmental height. Bastards.
Flaunt your super powers and your superhero identity … That way lies the madness that comes with every one of your friends moving on the same day, expecting you to help.
And stalkers.
I'm not naive. Haven't been in years. What Mrs Margarita said was kind of, sort of true. There have been a lot of women—a lot of women; no way I'm throwing out a number, but let's say once you hit three figures the number gets fuzzy. And I hit three figures a long time ago. So at least one or two or twenty of them are probably a tiny bit bitter that I humped and dumped. Doesn't matter that they were willing and I was honest about my lack of intentions beyond the moment.
So I stay in the superhero closet, most of the time. There's a lot of us in there.
Except those guys in the movies. Showoffs. The whole world knows Superman is Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne is Batman, and Tony Stark is Ironman. They've got recognition problems, and they don't even fuck the girls they save. Well, sometimes they do. But not nearly as often as me.
Imagine if it got out that I, Hunter
&nbs
p; Catastrophe.
So Ethan and I do it the hard way, one slow, painful inch at a time. Up. The. Fucking. Stairs.
I'm not even breathing hard when we get to the top, but you could refill the swimming pool with the sweat oozing out of Ethan's pores.
Rose Garcia opens the door for us. "In the living room," she says. They always say that. We've got no idea where the living room is, but still they say it like we've got a floor plan.
"Which way?"
"Oh!" She points somewhere over that-a-way. But we make it—no bumps, nicks, or scrapes.
Furniture in place, Ethan still a life support system for a sweat machine, I hold out the clipboard for Rose Garcia to scribble her John Hancock. And what does she do?
She bites her lip, looks up at me from under those long, dark, mascara-heavy lashes and says, "Have we met?"
For the record, she's never met Hunter Forrester.
But Super Fucking Man … maybe. Come on, flip (or scroll) back to the part where I tell you there have been a LOT of women. It's not just the number that gets fuzzy—it's their names and faces.
Go on, you can say it, I'm an asshole. Yeah, sometimes I am. What guy isn't? A guy who's been with ten, twenty, fifty women, yeah, he can conjure up names and faces, if there isn't a metric fuck-ton of alcohol involved.
Look. Fucking is part of the job description. It's in my name.
All I can say in my defense is that it's usually dark, and a lot of the time I'm looking at the top or back of their heads.
Maybe if she turns around …
I'm kidding!
Mostly.
So what do I say to a question like that from a pretty girl? And she is pretty, make no mistake. Veering into hot territory.
"I don't think so. I'd definitely remember you." I flash her a quick smile, and then Ethan and I, we're gone.
* * *
"Cute," Ethan says when we get back to the truck. "Know her?"
"Nope."
3:45 p.m. One more delivery to go. Then I can start worrying about this appointment at the SuperCouncil.
"Looked like she wanted to know you."
Big, dumb, not-so-lovable dog Ethan. Anytime this guy gets a bone he refuses to let it go. So I tap on the brake. The truck—and Ethan—lurches forward.
"Asshole."
Guilty.
Seven
I'm not nervous or worried. Nope. Not me.
Are you convinced?
Me either.
The guy in the mirror is the same old cocky, arrogant, swaggering Super Fucking Hero, but me? I know the SuperCouncil. As mentioned previously, I've heard stories.
Ever hear of a guy called Bonfire Guy?
Of course you haven't. Nobody has, these days. You'd have to go wading through an old microfiche catalog to catch a glimpse of his name.
Bonfire Guy was an up-and-comer. Hot stuff in his hometown, Seattle, back in the day (which, in this case, was the fifties). Rescuing people left and right, doing good deeds, all the usual superhero stuff. Until he screwed up by pulling a dog out of a burning building while he was in his civvies.
But, I hear you crying, that was the right thing to do. And I agree.
Not the SuperCouncil, though. Rules are rules are rules. It says so in the rule book, on the very first page—I know, I've looked. It's there in italics and 12 point type.
The broken rule was one of the top ten: Superheroes must only perform superhero actions while in full costume.
Yeah, yeah, I've seen the movies, too. But those guys are different. They've got their own comics, graphic novels, movies, and—in some cases (I'm looking at you, Superman)—their own TV series. The SuperCouncil knows it can't punish its top dogs without attracting a shitload of negative press from all the fanboys. And they can't exactly deport Superman. The poor bastard lost his whole planet. Where are they going to send the guy?
But the rest of us, the bottom to middling superheroes? We're the whipping boys when the SuperCouncil gets moody.
Like me.
I didn't do anything wrong by human standards, but by SuperCouncil standards? Super Fucking Hero didn't live up to his name. Once—just once.
So now I'm standing in front of my bathroom mirror, wondering if I've got time to take a quick dump before my appointment with potential doom. I'd hate to need to go in the middle of fighting for my continued existence.
Scram.
Yeah, I'm a guy. But some of us believe what happens in the bathroom stays in the bathroom.
For—you know—the good of mankind.
Oh. What happened to Bonfire Guy?
Don't know. Nobody's seen him since.
* * *
Where is the SuperCouncil located?
Good question. If you figure it out, let me know.
I know how to get there in my own city, but I have it on good authority that it exists in every city and town simultaneously. Like, a sort of pocket dimension with portals all over the place. Kind of like McDonalds. Even if they look different on the outside, inside they're exactly the same.
As you can tell, analogies aren't my forte.
Anyway, the entrance to the SuperCouncil in my city is through a sad, shitty little bar downtown. It's one part of a rundown little threesome beside a ten-story parking garage. Flanking said shitty bar are a dry cleaner's and a Mexican joint of dubious quality. I mean it smells good, but so does Indian street food.
I land in the park where the only witnesses are drunks, homeless people, and hookers who are too busy waiting on a "date" to notice the guy in tights landing.
My landing was smooth, thank you. I've had time to perfect it. But in the beginning—in the words of an old Jewish woman—oy. No broken bones, but only because my body got kicked up the evolutionary chain a few notches when I took on this superhero gig. But the bruises … For the first few months I was a contusion with feet. And they were bruised, too. Think bellyflopping into a swimming pool from a modest height hurts? Lose the swimming pool. Replace it with concrete. Tack on a few extra dozen feet to that height.
Let me know how you're doing when you land.
Actually, don't. Leave it to the pros and other idiots. I want to see you back here for the sequel. And the sequel's sequel. That's if the SuperCouncil shows mercy.
Heh. Mercy. SuperCouncil. Heh.
So. The bar (AKA the entrance to the SuperCouncil, at least in my city). I'm not telling you what it's called, but it's so cheesy it should be on a pizza. I've given enough clues already. Last thing I want is for you to wander in there looking for superheroes and winding up getting the snot kicked out of you in the back alley.
It's dim. There's light but it's struggling through dusty bulbs. The bar itself is, well, a bar. Picture a long stretch of polished wood, scattered with glasses and bottles holding the remnants of Dutch courage. Butts in the bar stools. Not many, but they're regulars who keep the business afloat. They all share the same defeated posture, like they're waiting on the next of life's whacking sticks. The band only knows one song. Either that or there's some conspiracy to fire up Hotel California whenever they see me coming.
Hey, fellas, here comes Super Fucking Hero. Cue the Eagles.
And by the way, not one of these guys has talent or anything that could be misconstrued as an ear for music.
"Haven't seen you in a while," the bartender calls out. Ted, that's the bartender's name, is basically Bigfoot with a sharp razor. Left unchecked, he'd be a giant fuzzball in no time. Rumor is he's a retired superhero, which I believe. I've seen him take out the trash when the trash gets unruly.
"Just passing through."
We both laugh. Inside joke, which—hopefully—you understood. If I have to explain it …
The entrance to the SuperCouncil can be found in what passes for a janitor's closet, between the doors with a stick figure wearing a triangle skirt and the stick figure wearing no skirt. Glancing around, I check that no one's watching. Then I pull the door shut behind me.
The bottom falls out of th
e closet almost immediately—and me along with it, hanging on for dear life. It's a lot like being flushed, I imagine.
Allegedly—the source was unreliable at best—this doesn't happen if you're not a superhero. But the bucket, that same source told me, makes a decent head.
It sucks, but that's how you get to Wonderland in my city.
Would it hurt them to install a Labyrinth type arrangement? Remember that one? Back in the day when Jennifer Connelly had enough meat on her bones to make her a delicious meal, she was in a kick-ass movie with a tights-wearing, codpiece-stuffed David Bowie. When Jennifer fell down an Alice-like hole, these Helping Hands popped out of the darkness and gave her a choice: Up or down?
I could use some of those hands.
Thirty seconds later (or a week, which is how it feels when you're falling), the floor and I hit bottom. The second I roll off, the floor zooms back into its regular position in the closet.
Let the guy with no artistic talent paint you another picture.
Big room. Enormous. Cavernous. Lots of marble or swirly, polished granite. I don't know the difference. Think one of those big ornate train stations or an airport, right down to the surly security guards. Wherever the SuperCouncil is actually located, it's a sunny day. Definitely not night time. It's full dark at home by five-thirty, at least in February.
People coming and going everywhere. Stepping through walls, falling through the ceiling, shooting up out of the floor.
If you ever find yourself here—which is less likely than fucking a nun—watch where you step. You never know where the next body part is going to punch you.
You'd think the SuperCouncil would have a better arrivals and departures system, but … no.
I think they watch from up high through their little security systems and laugh. Assholes. Not saying I wouldn't do the same thing in their position. Still … assholes.
Puffing out my chest and shoulders, doing my I-own-the-fucking-world walk, I head toward the security gate. It's manned by a couple of human pit bulls. They don't look it. In fact, they're deceptively diminutive, with their slight builds and just-below-average height. I stand in front of the screening station, hands on hips, legs akimbo, and wait for the wall-to-wall, floor to ceiling forcefield to approve me.
