by Jack Bristol
Ruin her for all other men. No more nameless, faceless guy for Professor Amy (yeah, I know lots of you girls and women fuck the guy with no face or name in your fantasies). All her fantasies will be built around me, Super Fucking Hero.
The serious, all-consuming pressure in my balls is reaching critical mass.
"Come in my mouth," Sally Stripper says. Is that her name? Who cares. What the girl wants, the girl gets. So far she's been barking commands, but not one of them has involved diddling her clit. That's cool; like I said: what she wants she gets.
My dick pulls out of her tight ass with a pop, and stripper girl sinks immediately to her knees, waiting to receive. I don't look down.
Think of it like a fear of heights. If I look down I'll see it's not the professor.
I'm not saying my cock would quit on me and I'd lose my boner, but why mess with the fantasy and risk it?
Don't forget, right now none of my blood is in my head. So whatever I'm saying?
Gibberish.
This load is about to blow. I sound the warning horn for Sally Stripper in case she's the type who'd rather finish me off with her hand.
Which—it turns out—she is.
"Changed my mind," she says. "I want you on my face."
Let me tell you, girls almost never say that. Even to me. So when a girl offers?
There's no way I'm saying no.
But really, painting a girl's face is one of those things that's hot to think about while you're doing a load by hand, but in reality? It's hot, but not that hot. Not nearly as satisfying as shooting down a warm, wet throat. Or pussy. Or ass.
Holes trump hands.
Whatever makes her happy, though. My goal is always for both parties to walk away satisfied and riding that endorphin high.
So I come, unleash all over her pretty face, but I don't look down.
Why, Super Fucking Hero? I hear you screaming. Why? That's the whole idea. Admire your—well, her—handiwork. You think Michelangelo didn't step back, look up at a Sistine Chapel's ceiling and go, "Daaaaayum! That's some might fine brushwork"?
Lucky Michelangelo had the luxury of not wishing he'd painted some other ceiling. At the time there was no bigger fish. No more-important holy structure telling him no, he couldn't touch it with his brush.
God damn. Professor Amy is making me—and my dick—nuts.
Sally Stripper makes a satisfied purring noise. Then she rises from the ground the way I imagine the kraken bursting out of the water. She grabs my shoulders, starts shoving me onto my knees. Oooo, I love a dirty woman who knows what she wants and takes it. It, in this scenario, being me.
"Now do me," she says.
Happy to, baby.
Right up to the point where she lifts her belt-skirt for the second time that night, and I get a look at what's tucked up inside those slinky black panties she's wearing.
A thick roll of salami.
She might be a girl now, but she started out as a boy.
Well played, you twisted, fucked-up universe. Well played.
Fourteen
Don't ask.
Fine. The answer is no.
I've got nothing against cross-dressers, the transgendered, or anyone of a fluid or ambiguous sexual nature. Rock on. Be yo-self.
It's just not my thing, that's all.
If I want to play with a dick, I've got my own right here.
I'm attracted to what I don't have: the almighty pussy. My opposite turns me on. Softness to my hardness. Feminine to my masculine. Breasts to my pecs. Cunt to my cock.
I'm a simple guy. Very binary. You're either my kind of girl or you're not. And anyone who used to be a guy isn't my kind of girl.
If I've offended you … really, it took this long?
So I walk her back to her car, stamp a kiss on her forehead, and she drives off into the sunset—alone.
My phone rings.
"Is this one of yours?"
Hear that gravel-flecked voice? It belongs to Captain Kern at the local PD. It's on his front doorstep that I dump these sorry bastards.
"Yep."
"What did he do? Wait—what did he almost do?"
It's a game we always play. He doesn't fully believe in superheroes, and I don't fully believe the police department is a decent organization, capable of capturing criminals and dispensing adequate and appropriate justice.
That's me walking you the long way around to one of my truths. The police suck. They suck or they'd have caught my mother's killer.
Childish?
You bet. But I was a child—mentally, at least—when she was killed. I'm stunted. Freud would dish out some analysis involving wanting to have intimate relations with my mother (eww …) and my own fears of inadequacy.
About the latter … Yeah he'd be right.
Any decent superhero would have found the guy by now. Instead, I'm standing in the middle of the street, having a conversation with Captain Kern, leader of the idiots and other worthless creatures.
Need them to find a donut?
They're on it. They're on it several times a day—at least until the donut shop closes.
Pizza?
Try and stop that stampede on buffet day.
Coffee?
They're trying to charm it out of the baristas as I narrate.
They know food and beverages, but crime?
Okay, so they do their share, but I'm the one out there fighting crime, killing it at the source.
Back to Captain Kern. He's okay. For a fuckwit.
I spill the details on the carjacking. Facts only. No need to let the boys in blue live vicariously through the sordid, thrilling details of my sex life. They get donuts. That's plenty.
"Is the woman willing to testify?"
"Yep."
"Are you? Because you've bagged a few lately. They're piling up."
"I already did my part."
"Hunter …"
Notice how he uses my real name? That's because: a. He can't bring himself to call me Super Fucking Hero; b. Because we superheroes have to register with the local PD using our real names; and c. Because Jerry Kern was my best friend.
Was. My entire childhood. We were Velcro.
If you must know, I was the prickly side.
Until I ran off to do this superhero gig and he married a prison warden. Well, Shelly isn't a real prison warden, but she's got a death grip on the keys to Jerry's cell. She rattles them occasionally, lets him think he has a shot at going out, being something other than whipped and hosed.
Hahaha-No.
Not Shelly. She makes a ball and chain look flimsy.
"Fine," I say.
It's not fine. I hate going to court.
Lawyers. Judges. Juries. Reminds me too much of the SuperCouncil. All that subjectivity.
"Good," Captain Jerry Kern says.
Sheesh. It's not good. It's fine—at best.
"Wanna go grab a beer?"
He sighs like I'm stabbing him through the heart. Got no idea it could be my last night as Super Fucking Hero. "Yeah, I want a beer …"
Wait for it. Here it comes …
"… but Shelly's got plans for us."
Know what those plans are? Let me enlighten you.
Reality TV. Shelly's a junkie for the scripted, falsified, bullshit that is Reality TV. She's non-discriminatory, too. Meaning she loves it aaaaaall.
Picture me casting my arm in a wide arc as I say that.
Aaaaaaaall.
Seven nights a week, Jerry is her date to the couch and television. She loves to pick them apart, Shelly does. Analyze. This person won't win because this, that person won't win because that.
That's Jerry's life. No beer for him.
Poor bastard.
"She ever lets you out of the cage, call me."
He laughs. "What can I say, I love my wife."
Sure you do, Jerry. Ever hear of Stockholm syndrome?
I end the call with a promise to be in court.
Not looking like I can k
eep that promise, though. Not as Super Fucking Hero. And what's Hunter Forrester done lately to impress people?
Nada.
Exactly.
* * *
Cue the Eric Carmen version of All By Myself.
It's old, I know. But it's that kind of night.
I'd prefer Eye of the Tiger, but …
Twenty-two hours to go until they cut off my superhero head.
And where am I?
If you guessed a lowlife bar, you'd be wrong. Close, but wrong.
Where I am is under a bridge in the park. I'm hanging with my new buddy Sam the Bottle Man. Yeah, he's a wino. Yeah, he's homeless. Yeah, he smells like the city dump met a public toilet. But he's good company. We're contemplating the meaning of life.
By the light of burning newspaper, he points his bottle my way. "To be or not to be. That is the question."
See what I mean? Brilliant. To be or not to be is definitely the question.
To be Super Fucking Hero, or just plain Hunter Forrester.
Been a long time since I was Hunter 24/7.
What would Hunter do?
I suppose I could keep working at Mighty Fine Furniture, maybe do some good deeds with my inheritance. Open a battered women's shelter. Nurse crack babies back to health. Send some dogs to a real farm—not that farm your parents lied about.
Yes they lied. There was no farm.
And there's no Santa Claus.
Tooth Fairy? Nope.
Maybe there's an opening for those jobs …
A philanthropist. Very Bruce Wayne of me.
"You a smart man, Sam. What are you doing under a bridge?"
He takes a short swig of whatever's in the bottle, then smacks his lips. "Fermenting. Getting better with age."
I'm formulating a response when I hear that Twilight Zone twang.
It's the professor.
She's about to be in trouble.
Again.
Fifteen
Fuck her.
Sixteen
Not buying it? Smart.
It's good you know I've got a silver lining beneath the grimy, sexually voracious exterior. Trust is good. You're trusting me to do the decent, just, right thing.
I won't let you down.
Sure, in my head I'm going fuck her—and not in a good way. But I'm currently soaring through the sky with every intention of CLANG, SLAMming the bad guys and dumping them into Captain Kern's sissy hands.
It's the kids again. Those football assholes. They're back for do-overs because—I'm guessing—the sexy professor still won't change their grades.
Fuck, it's cold up here.
Just so you know, I'm several inches more impressive in summer.
You're welcome.
* * *
I land like a butterfly—a hundred and eighty pound butterfly—in the neat, suburban street. Yeah, I can Tinker Bell it and float gently to the ground like an autumn leaf, but I'm in a hurry.
No dark street this time. The boys decided a house call was in order.
What a coincidence, me too.
The front door to the professor's townhouse is locked, the lights downstairs dark. But when I tune in to my super-sensitive hearing channel there's no missing the sounds of a struggle.
I've heard enough of them to know.
Knocking isn't something I'm about to waste to my time doing. With my superhero-booted foot I give the wood slab a love tap, and BAM. No more door.
Imagine if I'd put serious effort into it.
I'm not Wall Puncher calibre, but I'm hell on doors and flimsy walls.
Nice place. Feminine without being girly. Gender neutral enough that I don't feel the sudden urge to eat chocolate and adopt some cats. Too many knick knacks, though. What is it with knick knacks? Mom was the same way. Little things that require regular dusting.
No, don't even go there. My superhero room is different. Every item in there has a specific purpose. And it gets used. Regularly.
I have favorites, like my one-of-a-kind net gun. Predictably, it shoots nets, as you've already seen. And a gravity gun, for those times when you really need to rivet someone to the ground.
My guy hooks me up with all kinds of cool toys.
Okay … kitchen …. kitchen …
Over there. It's one of those floor plans where the kitchen is its own dedicated room. Great place for mommy to hide and take a nip of cooking sherry, while the kids torture each other in the living room.
Not that the professor has kids. But if she did … cooking sherry.
The kitchen door swings both ways, unlike me. There's someone standing on the other side, directly in the line of fire.
CRASH. SMACK.
Not anymore.
"How's it going?" I ask the professor.
They've got her tied up on the butcher's block-slash-island, which normally I'd find arousing, but she doesn't look like this was her idea. She's still in those adorable cow print pajamas, and her feet are ankle deep in fluffy slippers.
Somehow she makes the whole thing work. Rawr!
"Great. Just hanging out with these cunt-juggling thunder-cocks," she says.
"Wordsworth?"
"A parody of Blade 3."
"Huh. Haven't seen that one." I crack my knuckles. Sounds like bubble wrap. One of the pansy football boys winces. "Say, weren't there five of you last time?"
They pass a look around. The big, stupid-looking one (which is all of them, really) on the end says, "That candy-ass motherfucker is in his dorm room studying."
"Got through to one of them." I nod to the professor. "Good job."
"Thanks. I try."
"Too bad the rest of them are happy to sit at the head of the class at moron school. So, boys—" I rub my hands together, flash them a friendly smile. "Who wants to go first?
This time? They all step forward.
Amateurs.
Watch this.
Seventeen
Ka-pow!
Smack!
Craaaaash!
Eighteen
"Comfortable, boys?"
I'm guessing no, but who cares?
They're stacked four-high on the clean curb outside the professor's townhouse. Like the knots? In the early Super Fucking Hero days, I spent hours practicing.
Hey, they asked for it. I'm tired of putting the same trash out.
Captain Kern is sending some guys over to collect them. I'm not popular right now because these boys are college football around here.
But they started it.
Yeah, I sound like a preschooler, but it's true. The sexy professor gave them a choice: flunk or pass. They picked the road that doesn't lead to football.
A couple of cop cars inch up to the curb. We exchange looks (their are dirty, mine is innocent) and I help the boys into the back seats.
Or I throw them.
Something like that. Hopefully it's a night they'll always remember fondly.
Then it's back to the professor, who's huddled on the couch under a blanket, sipping hot chocolate.
Notice she didn't offer me any?
Me too.
That's how I know I'm not about to get my fairytale ending.
"I guess I'll just go." I point to the unhappy-looking front door. "Sorry about your door."
"Sit down."
"Okay."
No way do I go for the couch. This chair over here looks fine, though. It's directly across from her—a respectable distance and a coffee table between us.
"Thanks," she says. "Can I ask you something."
"Shoot."
What? Think I was going to say something else? The answer to that question is eight-point-five inches.
"How do you know?"
"That someone's in danger?"
She nods.
"Superhero secret. The mothership beams me the information."
Why not just tell her the truth, that my old Greek neighbor with a third eye is tapped into the cosmic fortune-telling network?
I don't know.
I guess I could, but—and this is going to sound clichéd—there's a voice inside me telling me to keep Mrs Margarita a secret from the world.
See the look she's giving me? Those raised eyebrows, the disappointed moue? She's pissed that I'm not telling her the truth.
What makes her think she's earned a peek into my inner sanctum? Nothing, that's what.
Then her lips flatten out and start a slow ascent. "It doesn't really matter, I guess. You saved me, and I'm glad."
But not that glad, I'm betting. Which is okay.
Really.
I'm not man-sulking, I swear.
A quick glance at that clock on her wall tells me I'm down to twenty hours. Time flies when you're running out.
"That's what I do. Save people."
"Not all people."
"Well, no. Girls."
"Why just women?"
No, I'm not going to tell her it's just hot girls of a legally fuckable age. Something tells me that wouldn't help my cause. But I'm not flat-out lying either when I say, "Ask the SuperCouncil. They're the ones who dole out the superhero roles."
"Well, why Super Fucking Hero?"
"Why not? There was an opening, so I took it."
"Was there another name available, or was Super Fucking Hero the SuperCouncil's decision?"
"Mine."
Hey, they gave me a choice. Believe me, I took the better deal. As SFH I get to stay in my own city, in my childhood home. But Snake Man?
No. There was no way I was moving to El Paso to wear a snakeskin suit. I hear the water unhinges people down there.
"Ah." She wraps those lips around the edge of her mug. Sips.
Lucky mug.
Now I'm the one hanging my eyebrow on a hook. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She shrugs a slender shoulder. The blankets slides away, revealing several inches of her cow print pajamas. Underneath that, I just know she's naked. Very astute of me, right?
"What's your origin story?"
"Who says I have one?"
"Superheroes always have an origin story. They get their superpowers somehow."
