by Jack Bristol
Now you know why you see a lot of superheroes in that same pose.
"Super Fucking Hero?"
I don't look at the female pit bull. It interferes with the security check. Eyes straight ahead—always.
"Yes," I say.
There's a beep and the security forcefield flashes green.
If I wasn't me, the beep would be a screech and there wouldn't be time to see the red flash because I'd be evaporated.
That's right, Star Trek got its phaser idea from the SuperCouncil. Someone on the production team must be one of us.
I step through the bright green forcefield. A door to the left swings open and I walk through it. Because that's what I'm supposed to do.
Long hallway. Long, long, long. Tedious. Nothing to look at on the walls. The floor and ceiling are repetitive.
Walk …
And walk …
And waaaaalk …
Until I reach another door. This is where it gets confusing. On the other side of the door there's one of those greeters who points you in the right direction. Her name tag tells everyone she's Belinda.
Where's the confusion?
On her chest. She's sporting the most magnificent rack I've ever seen in my life—and I've seen (and touched) a lot. They're not huge but they're … perfect. They're held in place not with a bra (I can tell) but some kind of invisible forcefield. There's no other explanation for their natural perk.
On the one hand I want to stand here and admire the view, on the other, time's ticking while I gape at her tits.
Go ahead and oink. I'm oinking at myself.
"Name?"
"Super Fucking Hero."
She scans the list. "The English Tea Room. Have a good day."
Dismissed—by Belinda and her gorgeous tits.
Eight
Who is the SuperCouncil?
I've got this one.
They're a group of fifty retired superheroes and another assorted goody-goodies. I know a couple of faces from the history books (I was an honor roll student—surprised?), people with a reputation for performing good deeds for mankind. But mostly they're retired superheroes.
Not that we all make it that far.
Some of us Fall. It's catastrophic when we do, because with us we take all the information we've gathered on the sunny side of the street.
Others … They're not really SuperCouncil material. Like, oh, me.
You can say it—I did. And it's true. I'm not SuperCouncil material. Aside from Mrs Margarita and—during daylight hours, five days a week—Ethan, I'm a loner.
There's no Super Fucking Hero in team.
Nature of the beast, my friends.
Which is why there's always so much squabbling between SuperCouncil members. Shoving a bunch of people into one room and expecting them to agree, when each of them is used to being right and just, is like …
Like …
Like shoving a bunch of people into one room and expecting them to agree.
The difference between them and me (besides my devastatingly good looks and my youth) is that I'm honest about my weaknesses.
So that's the audience this rubber-wearing monkey has to entertain.
The English Tea Room is set up like a living room. Comfortable couches, overstuffed chairs, tiered trays of little cakes, sandwiches (cucumber, by the looks of their pallor), and a fancy teapot that fell out of that British show everyone is watching these days. The wallpaper is flowery, the carpet something sedate in the region of beige.
Serious Anglophiles, this bunch. Don't ask me why. It's reason number nine hundred and ninety-nine why I'd never be invited to sit on the SuperCouncil.
The seats are all butt-filled, except one. It's one of those spindly, mean-looking chairs that's exactly the wrong height for anyone. But it's fancy and probably cost somebody a trust fund.
"Ah, Super Fucking Hero. Come, have a seat. Sandwich? Tea?"
That's Viola Crowe, the former Blonde Bane. This one saw her heyday in the seventies. Now all she's fit for is a muumuu and that beehive. Oh, and apparently the SuperCouncil. She's a direct contrast to the woman beside her, Clarissa Westlake. Clarissa resembles an uptight elderly British woman, right down to the sensible brogues and lace-edged cardigan.
The council is a clear demonstration of contrasts, but they've got one thing in common: they've all got that faint mothball stench.
I was right about the chair, by the way. Fire is the only thing that could make it less comfortable. I wave away the offer of tea and sandwiches. I'm a coffee and burgers kind of guy.
Viola's beehived head says, "We have a problem, Mr Forrester."
Uh oh. Things are bad if they're using my real name. It's like when you're a kid and your mother uses your full name—that's when you know shit's going down.
Also, what's with the royal "we"?
I have a problem called the SuperCouncil. There's no "we" in that equation.
"Let me guess. You mean the professor?"
All fifty aged heads nod. Definitely not good. The SuperCouncil normally squabbles its way through a meeting. But on the subject of me, they're all in comfortable cahoots.
"We mean the professor," Viola Crowe says.
"I can explain."
No, I can't.
But they're all waiting patiently on my explanation. And here I am without one.
"Uh …"
Viola Crowe speaks up again. "It seems you failed to live up to your superhero title—a title that's gone unsullied for two generations now."
"I'm still super." Great defense—no?
No.
"But we're not ogres, Mr Forrester. We're giving you a chance to rectify the problem. To seal the deal, if you will. If after that time Professor Amy Hart won't—pardon my French—fuck you, then you'll be neutralized."
My world caves in. And it's a big, beautiful world filled with cool gadgets and gorgeous women. Who am I if I'm not Super Fucking Hero?
Not Hunter Forrester. He's an okay guy, but he delivers furniture, for Christ's sake. Furniture!
"You have forty-eight hours," she continues.
"Forty-eight hours!"
Is she gloating? Because it looks like she's gloating from where I'm sitting. Granted, this chair is coloring my attitude a shitty shade of brown.
"Forty-eight hours is ample time for a man who usually entices a woman into his bed in minutes."
She's got it wrong. I never invite a woman into my bed. Bring a woman into your place and she has a way of setting down roots and instigating a coup. Like ivy. Poison ivy.
Not to be confused with Poison Ivy, eco-terrorist.
You'd think they whacked me over the nose with a rolled-up newspaper, the way I slink out of there.
How bad is it?
So bad I don't even check out Belinda's spectacular boobs on the way out.
Nine
Neutralized¸ Super Fucking Hero? What does that even mean?
That's what you want to know, right?
Okay, here's the 411 on neutralizing a superhero.
Hand over the cape, the shirt, the tights, the boots. The guns and other toys? Buh-bye. They've got to go. If you're hoarding those and you're not a superhero? You're going down—and not in a good way.
Super strength, speed, whatever the superhero's special skills are?
Wiped.
Ability to fly?
Grounded.
You're stripped back to what you were before you were a superhero. In most cases, that's—you guessed it—human.
Not cool.
Being vanilla human is okay, I guess. For other people.
But I've been extraordinary for far too long to go back.
* * *
Picture me as a cute little puppy, perking one ear. Because that's how I feel. Yeah, they punched me in the scrotum with their neutralizing threat. BUT …
The good news is they're giving me a chance to fix things.
Right?
Right.
Very good news.
So somehow, I've got to convince the stunning, gorgeous, boner-inducing Professor Hart to pony up the pussy. Or either of her other holes. Any of the three is enough to yank me out of the danger zone.
How hard could that be?
Uh …
* * *
Okay, full confession time. At least on this particular subject.
Are you ready?
I don't know how to seduce a girl. More than one quarter of my life I've been Super Fucking Hero, which means I show up, BANG, CRASH, SLAM the bad guys, then wait on the girls to rain their sweet, wet gratitude all over my cock.
Convincing a woman to fuck me through the art of seduction and being a generally awesome dude?
No idea.
It's been years since I randomly hit on a girl. Hannah was the last one, and I don't even remember who seduced who.
So I'm starting over.
Time to call in the experts and ask them how to seduce a girl who's already turned me—me—down.
* * *
Ethan—he of the absent neck—is looking at me like I dropped my pants and took a shit in front of him.
For the record, I'd never do that. I have trouble going anyplace but home.
Then he says, eloquently, "Huh?"
"Never mind. Let's tilt this fucker left."
The fucker in question is a bookcase.
* * *
Mrs Margarita is full of good ideas.
"First you go to her father …"
Yeah, that's not one of them.
* * *
Fuck it.
I'm direct.
Most guys are.
We say what we want, we want what we say. We don't do hints and guessing, and we don't read between the lines unless we've run out of reading material in the bathroom.
I want to fuck Miss Professor. Need to. This isn't just my cock we're talking about, or even my ego. It's life as I know it.
So, how do I find her?
The tinny Twilight Zone theme song jangles out of my phone. Text message from Mrs Margarita.
It reads: How should I know?
That third eye of hers is really something. Too bad it's completely fucking useless when it comes to finding the professor.
Lunch break time. Nothing to do but wallow while I eat this limp sandwich.
Wait. English literature is what Mrs Margarita originally said. So all I need to do is hike it to every college in the area, checking out their faculty members.
Or, even better, Google.
Two minutes later, I'm flying out the window. Destination: College
* * *
A bit of backstory.
I started college. I meant to finish, but then my mother was murdered. Then my father lost the plot and there was no way I was staying in school after that.
Vengeance is mine, sayeth the fledgling superhero.
Okay, so what was a guy like me studying? A bit of this, a bit of that. I was like a coin circling a wishing well. Round and round and round. I figured eventually something would suck me in. Then I'd be that.
Something turned out to be murder. Which you already know, because I just told you.
Anyway, I've been back to college a lot—strictly as Super Fucking Hero. Maybe one day I'll go back for the education, but I find I learn more on my own. I'm what they call self-taught.
Colleges attract a lot of girls who do dumb things because they're young and lovely and they think the world is ponies and parades.
Truth is, ponies poop. A lot. And parades are shabby things when you get close up. Parades are that one sad, older woman at the bar—you know the one, she's been there since you were a kid—squeezing herself into something new and sexy all the hot girls are wearing. A parade is like Bedazzling a wino's blanket.
So I spend too much time on college rooftops.
Which sounds kind of creepy, I know, but remember: I'm the good guy.
Don't ask if I fuck them after I save them. You know I do.
College girls are insanely grateful, especially when their rescuer looks like, well, me.
Zoom in on the back row of Professor Amy Hart's English Literature 101 class. See the handsome bastard sitting in the aisle?
I'm waving. Wave back.
Good to know you're still with me. Hopefully I'll give you a happy ending.
Unless I fail and wind up … snip, snip. Superhero castrated.
If the lovely creature at the front of the room has noticed me, she isn't giving anything away. She's strolling back and forth on spindly heels, in a tight pencil skirt that does magical things to her ass. If there's a girl alive who doesn't look better in heels, I want to meet her, because I don't believe you.
She's not just beautiful, she's smart. Sounds like she knows everything about Byron.
Yes, I know a thing or two about poetry. I read romance novels, remember?
Shh, it's our little secret.
A couple of girls turn around and wave. Have we met? Hard to say. I'm too busy trying to convince my cock that now's not the time. It's a struggle but I've almost got him convinced, when the professor reaches across her desk to grab a book.
You know what I'm talking about—physics. She bends over, the skirt rides up and tightens over that luscious ass, then my cock starts rattling its cage, demanding some of that sweet sugar.
My prick and I, we're shameless sugar addicts.
Could be worse. At least sex makes people happy. Endorphins.
Quick, SFH, do something. I need a boner slayer and I need it fast.
Not the girls—no college girl deserves to be used as an instrument against a hard cock. Girls these days have enough problems. But the boys …
The big guy over there. Mr Happy Meal. I conjure up a mental image of him twerking against his acne-dotted neighbor.
Instant hard-on killer.
My cock goes back to sleep, but there's a dull ache in my balls that says they want to douse Professor Amy's throat in a thick coating of juice.
I know the feeling, fellas.
Time's up. Everybody pours out the lecture hall's back spout. After a minute, it's just me and that fuckable, delicious girl in the high heels.
I put everything into making the walk down there a performance for her eyes only. Chest out, gaze locked onto hers, an alpha-male swagger. I'm the sexiest man she'll ever meet, and I want her to know it.
It's working. She's backing up to her desk, lips parted, breathing shallow, pulse gaining speed, those dark pupils dilating. She wants what she missed out on the other night—the best, wildest, most life-altering fuck she'll ever have, with Super Fucking Hero.
And. I. Will. Deliver.
"We meet again," I say, in the low voice that has never—except that one time with this very girl—failed to peel away a pair of panties.
I move in close. Her perfume is a combination of sugar and orange and some kind of flowers, layered over chocolate. Lust rolls off her in waves. Her pussy is pumping its own perfume into the air; hot, wet, intoxicating. I want to bury my face between her legs and make her scream.
But not until I've tortured and teased her.
Hey, fair's fair.
By the way, ladies. If you want a man to fuck you, skip the perfume. Think of your dream guy, get that cunt nice and wet, the dab those slick juices on pulse points.
Pheromones, baby. Pheromones.
Few straight guys are going to resist the allure of clean, sweet pussy if they find you even remotely attractive.
God, I want to shove my—
No time for the rest of the thought, because she's laughing. Not a with me kind of laughing, but at me. AGAIN.
At me! Super Fucking Hero! Sexiest bastard in the skies and on the streets.
The way I jump back, you'd think a snake bit me. I'd prefer the snake over the laughter.
Except, she has the most beautiful laugh. It's like a wet finger tracing circles around a crystal rim. Only huskier. How's that for poetic?
"What's so funny?" Jesus, listen
to me. I sound like a petulant kid.
"You are," she says, turning away. "Does that actually work?"
"Which part?"
"All of it." She scoops up a pile of books, waves a hand at my everything. "The costume, the name, the swagger, the cheesy lines."
"Hey, I don't do cheese."
More laughter. All that seismic activity in her thoracic cavity is making those beautiful tits shake. Let me just revel …
I'm not alone. My cock props himself up for a look, too.
Oink. It's okay.
The laughing stops. The mirth, however, remains. "Why exactly are you here?"
Oh, to fuck you so I don't get tossed out of the super-secret superhero club. That's all.
"I wanted to see if you were okay. Is that a crime?"
"Do I look okay?"
More than okay. Edible, fuckable. "I guess."
One perfectly arched eyebrow hikes north. "Oh?"
Hey lady, you just kicked me in the metaphorical balls. What do you expect? No way am I opening a vein and bleeding compliments all over her.
Still, I do need to get laid. It's a matter of life or lesser life.
* * *
I know what you're thinking: it's the sex I don't want to give up.
Look at me. I can get laid without the costume. I was in double digits long before … Before my mother's incident. Yeah, I won't deny it. The sex is fucking GREAT. How many guys would turn that gig down? Not many.
But the reason I do it, the reason I want to keep the cape, the F shirt, the tights, boots, and toys? Not to mention all the super skills?
Let me bottom line it for you: Scumbags. I don't want them on the streets.
It's that simple.
Now let's get back to the girl.
* * *
"You're beautiful and you know it."
Approximately ninety-nine percent of the time, when I tell a woman she's beautiful, she either: a. argues with me, or, b. denies it.
