by Jack Bristol
Super Fucking Hero 2: Starfish
A Super Fucking 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
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
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.
For my super f**king family
One
Every so often, I meet a starfish. I'm supposed to be grateful she's there with her legs open, while she stares over my shoulder at some to-do list only she can see. Some guys would keep on fucking, but not me. The moment I feel a girl switching off, I pack up my cock and balls, and home we go.
Yes, my friends, like shit, starfishes happen to the best of us.
That's what I tell the guy on the next barstool. Except I'm not convinced he's a real person.
What do I think he is?
Window dressing. A prop. A living, breathing, con in progress, in case a civilian steps through the bar's grimy door. Same as the band in the corner that only plays one song: Hotel California.
I like The Eagles, but … Jesus.
This, folks, is the saddest fucking shit-hole bar in town. The band seals that deal.
Ted the bartender, a neatly trimmed Sasquatch of a man, snatches up my empty glass. The bar's clientele might be fake, but the beer is real. I'm on my way to buzzed.
"Think you've had enough," he says.
I have, but what guy admits that? We claim sobriety right up to the moment we're facedown in a pool of our own vomit. So I snap my fingers. "Another round."
Ted folds his arms. "No can do. What if you've got to fly?"
Surely he means drive? you're saying.
Unless you read the first book. In which case, you already know flying is how I get from A to B when I'm not driving Mighty Fine Furniture's delivery truck.
If you haven't …
The name is Super Fucking Hero. The other name is Hunter Forrester, but that guy delivers furniture. Who wants to read about him?
Been a superhero for about eight years. Got my start after my mother was killed in a carjacking and my father …
I don't talk about him. Or to him.
Where was I?
That's right. Eight years in the suit and cape. And I look hot—the sexy kind, not the burning kind—in the suit and boots and the matching cape and mask. There's a reason girls can't wait to fuck me, and it's not just the name.
Two months ago, I discovered I have a nemesis.
Her name is Super Fucking Villain. Professor Amy Hart (her civilian name) is a goddess. Long legs, perfect heart-shaped ass, gravity-defying tits. Too bad she's an evil cunt.
I bet she's not a starfish. That pussy of hers probably has teeth. Rows of them like a shark. The dreaded snatch shark.
She's the first and only woman to turn me down since I started this superhero gig. Which almost bit the end off my superhero career.
I'm formulating a smart-ass reply when my phone blurts out a tinny version of the Twilight Zone theme music, proving Ted right. I've got to fly—and fast.
Super Fucking Hero to the rescue!
Two
Not so cold now, folks. April. In another month, I'll be staring down the barrel of crazy season. The blast furnace that is summer boosts crime, loosens hinges. More people flip the fuck out in those three months than they do in the other nine.
It's mild out, but on this bridge there's a serious breeze. Below me—a long way down—there's a river waiting to slam accidental swimmers between the eyes.
See the bicycle approaching from the west bank? Its rider is blonde and young—but definitely legal—and beautiful. I've got a serious hard-on for brunettes, but I never say no to a blonde. Or a redhead. Or any of the hot girls I rescue.
I put the Fucking in Super Fucking Hero.
Have to, my friends. Otherwise I lose the job. Bam. Demoted to mere mortal. The SuperCouncil almost Neutralized me when that bitch, Super Fucking Villain, thanked me for rescuing her—twice!—with sarcasm and a smile.
Temporary setback. It's been nothing but yeses since. Back to sort-of normal.
Anyway—the girl. She's about to be in danger.
There's a car approaching from the east bank. Its driver is some asshole gangbanger. He's high, drunk, and pissed at the world because one of his buddies just got nailed for life.
Nothing to do with me, his homie's arrest.
In a few seconds, he's gonna lose control of the wheel and jump the concrete divider, slamming into the blonde and her bicycle.
He'll survive; she won't.
I know this because my source saw the whole thing happen with her third eye. That would be Mrs Margarita, my old, Greek neighbor. She lives in the same apartment building—directly below the penthouse, which happens to be mine. Sometimes I call her my Alfred. But the only thing Batman's butler and Mrs Margarita have in common in that they give pep talks. And hers are usually pithy.
Before you get all excited, Mrs Margarita's third eye isn't her asshole. It's a mystical, metaphorical thing. Her two eyes see the present, her third eye the future, and her fourth eye sees the leftovers of meals past.
Like a big bird and a smallish plane, I swoop in, snatch up the car before it slams into the divider.
This stunt is being performed by a professional. Don't try it at home, folks.
Unless you want to wind up another moron on Tosh.0. Then by all means, go ahead. Stop that car. Twirl it on your finger.
Oh, you can't?
I can.
But don't feel bad. My mother was shot by a carjacker so I could score these sweet powers.
After I'm done showing off, I lower the car and its driver—who is freaking the fuck out—onto the bridge's narrow shoulder. It's late and there's no traffic, except this car and the girl who is sobbing on the sidewalk.
I've got just the thing to dry her tears: my chest. It's broad, it's manly, it's covered in something that looks like thick black latex. It's not actually latex—so my superhero suit tailor tells me—but it's close. I call it super-rubber. You know Superman? Of course you do. Where he's got an S, my suit's got a big red F.
F for the Fucking in Super Fucking Hero.
The rest of my suit is black. Black tights, boots, cape, mask. Less Zorro, more mysterious and sexy. There's no new black—only the original.
Yeah, I look gooood.
"What the fucking, fuck?"
That's the gangbanger, freaking the fuck out. I cuff him to his steering wheel, snatch
his keys. Got things to do and I don't want him taking off.
Did I say things to do? I meant the girl. I've got her to do.
Watch me stride across the street, looking like a hundred-and-eighty-pounds of beefcake. Big shoulders, strong arms, enough height to carry it all. My hair is the color of sin (black), my eyes are a piercing blue.
Yeah, I'm one sexy bastard.
"You okay, baby?"
The girl nods. "Uh huh. You saved me," she simpers. That gaze drops, then she peers up at me through her lashes. Bites that gloss-tinted lip.
My cock cheers at the sight.
"That's what I do, baby."
"You're so … strong."
Now, I've got no doubts that she's smart. In fact, I'd wager she's a doctor of something doctorish, or a scientist of the rocket kind, but there's something about me that turns girls into purring kittens in my presence.
Been thinking about that a lot since the Super Fucking Villain showdown at Superhero Headquarters, home to the SuperCouncil. More on that later.
(For those of you who didn't read my previous adventures, the SuperCouncil is a governing body made up of fifty former superheroes and other assorted goodie-goodies.)
"I am strong, baby. And I can fly, too."
"You can fly?"
"Part of the superhero gig."
"Wow …" She looks away, then back at me. "Can I kiss you?"
"You know what," I say. "That's the best idea I've heard all night." Arm curled around her waist, I reel her in, pull her up tight against my chest.
"What are you doing, brah?"
Jesus Christ. It's the gangbanger. Should have gagged him.
"Busy right now," I call out.
"Okay. I'll be right here. Could be dying, but that's cool, man. Take your time."
"Where were we?"
She grabs my cock, shows me exactly where. Mmm …
Things move quickly and smoothly after that—in and out of her hot, wet mouth, mostly. She's one of those natural-born cocksuckers, one who can swallow it whole without gagging or coming up for air every few thrusts. I don't want to blow yet, so I pull her off my crank with a pop.
"You first, baby."
I spin her around, bend her over the railing. The night's holding us in one of its dark pockets, where the gangbanger can't see us. There's a thick beam between us and him, too. But I can hear him, thanks to my super fucking hearing. He's singing an old Black Sabbath tune. Heaven and Hell.
That pussy of hers is raining all over my hand. My other hand's toying with her ass. Ah, there she goes, grinding against my second hand. I offer her my thumb to suck, then return it to her brown star. For a moment she's eager, then—
"Nobody's ever—"
No problem. I want her ass, but she's got to want it, too. Some guys get off on bending a girl to their will. Sometimes I do, too, but only if it's what they want.
It's not like there aren't a million other ways to satisfy us both.
I pick one.
Ten minutes later, I'm kissing her goodbye.
"Will I—"
No. No way. I rarely ever ride the same pony twice. So I tell her that—but in a nicer way that won't get me kicked in the balls.
So after a quick kiss, she rides off into the night, having narrowly escaped death, thanks to Mrs Margarita and me.
Man, I could use a nap about now.
"Hey, man. You done?"
The gangbanger. Is it just my imagination or does the guy sound choked up? I'm not a psychologist. I don't even play one on TV—or in books.
I'm not gonna comfort him. The broad chest is for girls only.
No boys allowed.
Want to guess what he's all broken up about? It's got everything to do with the A story, but it's going to be a while before I make the connection.
Three
"That bitch." He's sobbing. Big, wet, ugly, man tears. "That bitch, she starfished me."
What am I gonna do with this guy? No one was hurt. Technically—DUI aside—he's not really a criminal.
Suppose the same thing I'd do with a buddy: Listen.
The guy's got brown skin, dark eyes, no hair. Not balding, just had a recent collision with a razor. Scored himself a lot of ink, too. Tattoos running wild on his arms, up his neck. Got his mother's name staining his knuckles: M-O-T-H-E.
Guess he found himself a finger short. Evidently no ties to the Appalachians.
No blue-green tears. That's a good sign.
He's wearing the same outfit a million other guys in this city are wearing right now. Baggy jeans. Over-sized shirt. More jewelry than a teenage girl. A winking star in his ear lobe.
"Been there, man. Been there."
We're sitting on the bridge, legs dangling in thin air. Makes me glad I can fly.
"Yeah, right," he says. "You're Super Fucking Hero. Superheroes don't got to work for the pussy."
"True story," I swear.
Earlier this evening, in fact.
Four
I'm rewinding. Deal with it.
Back to the minute after I saved the second-to-last girl. She'd been jogging in the park after dark, got attacked by some guy she mistook for another runner.
* * *
"Oh, Super Fucking Hero, you saved me!"
That's … Uh …
I don't know her name. I never do. If they tell me, I forget. There are a lot of wet girls under my bridge, okay?
Baby. Her name is Baby. Happy now?
Which is why I say, "That's what I do, baby. Save beautiful girls."
She's not beautiful, but on the high end of pretty. Petite, generous curves, big tits. More than a handful apiece—and I'm a big guy with big hands.
"How can I thank you?"
I point to my lips. "Gimme some sugar."
She launches herself at me like a space rocket. Fire, heat, enthusiasm. Her tongue slides into my mouth, buddies up to mine. My cock is punching the inside of the superhero suit, cheering.
Girls are always complaining that men don't have feelings.
Not true.
Right now I definitely feel horny.
And this girl has the temporary cure for my feelings between her legs, between her ass cheeks, and just below her pert nose. She lives a block away, so I fly us there, landing right in her bedroom. Impressive, I know. Not to you, jaded reader, but it's always impressive to the girls whose only experience with flying is United Airlines.
Me? I never lose their luggage.
And I always come on time.
I get her naked—fast. Men, we're visual creatures. Meaning when we fuck, we want to look at all our goodies. The tits, the ass, the pretty face. And who wants to miss the arching of the back?
Not me.
Spectacular body, this one. But then most girls have beautiful bodies—even the ones who think they don't. All that bullshit about how they're too fat? They're not—mostly. Okay, a lot of land whales out there, but guys aren't exempt. Problem is, too many girls listen to gay Europeans dictate how they're supposed to look in their clothes.
You want drop-dead amazing barbecue, who do you call? Your vegan buddy or the guy who mainlines bacon every morning?
I'm digressing. It's a bad habit. No patch for that, but I hear an electric shock works on mice.
Space rocket—remember? The sizzle, the promise of fireworks?
It's on—and she's on me—until her fuel tanks run dry and break away. Then her autopilot systems come online.
This happens the exact moment my cock dives into her saturated pussy. She's so wet I think my cock's gonna drown in there—not that he's complaining.
I thrust. Put a lot of power behind it. Strong ass muscles.
HotwetgloriousdelicousjesuschristImballsdeepinsweetpussy.
Nothing.
Normally girls squeal, sigh, moan, grunt, something—anything—with that first thrust. It's involuntary, because it feels so fucking g-r-e-a-t. The only thing better than the initial moment of penetration is the orgasm.
A
nother thrust. Deep, hard—hard enough to shove her several inches up the bed.
No ass grabbing. No back scratching. No hips thrusting to meet mine. She's lying under me, hands on my biceps, staring up at the ceiling.
"Hey, baby," I say. "You want me to stop? If you're not feeling it—"
"Don't stop." Flat, distant voice. Wherever she is, it's not between these sheets.
Ooookay. My cock's all gung-ho. He's somewhere between granite and steel. He's happy to keep banging away inside her.
Easy to please, the average cock.
But me?
I'm a man. If you're not in it, I don't want to be in it. That's a one-way ticket to a rape charge and an intimate encounter with an inmate named Tiny and his ten other buddies.
I pull out. Roll off her.
"Why did you stop?"
"Because you're not into it."
"I am!"
"No, baby. You're not. And I never push myself on a girl who's not in it one hundred percent. Otherwise I'd be violating the Hero part of Super Fucking Hero."
She sits up, covers her tits with sheet. "Are you saying I suck at sex?"
"What? No!"
A hole is a hole is a—you know—hole.
"Because guys are lucky if I even look at them," she continues. "They're ecstatic if we fuck."
Entitlement 101. Classic starfish training ground. "I'm sure they are. You're a pretty girl—"
"Woman," she says, correcting me.
I'm a pig, all right? In my book a girl is a girl until she's over the hump. That hump's not a number—it's more of a …
Look, I know it when I see it. You do, too. If you're of the straight and female persuasion, you recognize it in men who aren't Sean Connery or George Clooney. The slow descent into stretchy waistbands and Metamucil.
On the other side of that hump you wave farewell to girlhood and guydom.
And this girl? She isn't waving goodbye to girlhood anytime soon. See that selfie wedged into the corner of her mirror? She's in the Uggs-with-tights age bracket. Somewhere around here there's a puffy North Face jacket. Probably black. Possibly red. But my money's on black.
