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Third Class Super or Provisional Super Villain?

not your typical superhero tale

Got the letter today. Guess what? Third time ain’t the damn charm… still not a Super.

Dear Applican’t, (is probably what they wanted to write), after careful review of an impressive candidate pool, blah blah, we regret (sure) to inform you that your application is not competitive enough for entrance into Supers Academy; however, we are considering you as a candidate for blah.


I scan the list of recruits. Those that made it are the who’s who of future Supers. Many were plucked from the same damn orphanage and graduating class as me. You’ve got the tragic childhood stories (though I hardly consider deadbeat dads all that tragic), the sex appeal, and, most importantly, the level five and above powers: teleporters and telepaths, a handful of elastics, twins with flight and level four telekinesis, a half dozen brutes built like Olympic Gods, a giant prick of a super genius, and a Colombian shape-shifter with an ass like sculpted granite.     

I crumple the letter up. I’ve wanted a cape and a mask as far back as I can remember. The only thing they were offering was training as a superhero handler… a glorified assistant.  Someone to do the PR work after infrastructure damage and civilian loss of life. Book the talk show rounds. Wash the costumes.

Fuck that.  

So I can’t do much in a fight. It’s not like I’m asking for much though. I don’t need the paparazzi that stalk The Human Grizzly 24/7 or the modeling gigs and Nike line of the svelte media darling and sex icon, Eclipse. I just want steady work to occupy my time, decent health benefits, and a closet dedicated to super suits. Maybe even find an archenemy to engage in witty banter and extended monologues with. You know what I mean.

Next year I guess.

I stop walking and a small, strong hand yanks me along.

Annabelle gives me a withering look of annoyance that bellies the Disney softness of her name. She’s not the type for self-pity. Or really any emotion that isn’t unbridled rage, disinterest, or the melding of the two. Makes her skin crawl. And if I’m being honest (and I rarely am) she’s also not the type for superheroes. Hates them in fact. Caught her burning my bargain bin copy of the New York Times bestseller, “Superhero 101: How to Be Super Everyday!” Hence the irritation coiled in her like a spring-loaded piston. She’s desperate for a good gloat and rant about the evils of Supers Incorporated and their “rat shit academy of boot licking sycophants.”

“Where we going? Ben and Jerry’s is on the other side of the city.”

Annabelle rolls her eyes. “Ice cream is for pussies and losers. Pretty sure you’ve got a dick. And you don’t want to be a loser, do ya?”
I bite back my retort, as it’d just add fuel to the napalm that is my redheaded…protégé? Friend? I’m not entirely sure but we’ve been glue ever since she got dumped at the orphanage.  

“Lead on,” I sigh, wishing she wasn’t blessed with level three strength abilities and cursed with a nasty temper.


“Here, put this on.” Annabelle shoves a black bag into my hands.

We’re crouched in an alley across the street from one of the recruitment offices for Supers Inc. The sign is a garish mix of neon colors slathered over comic sans font.  It’s the kind of vibrant display that really sets Annabelle off.

“What are we doing here?” I hiss.

“Cheering you up,” she says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

It isn’t.

“Are you trying to fuck me over? If I’m caught sneaking into a recruitment office I’ll… I’ll…”

“Sneaking?” Her nose wrinkles. “We’re going in there to fuck shit up.”

My squawk of protest is met with clenched fists of annoyance.

“You always gonna be like this?” she growls.

“Like what?”


“Clearly not.”

Annabelle mimes sucking a dick. “Don’t deny it, shithead. You want a piece of their commercialized heroism.”

“Fuck. This again?”

Her eyes narrow but she pulls out a thick envelope that’s already been opened and hands it over. “Thought I’d take the initiative for you since you never will.”

“Initiative?” Slammed with confusion, I begin reading.  

Dear Applicant, after considerable review, fierce internal debate, and a surprising recommendation, we are extending an offer of provisional acceptance contingent upon, blah blah, blah, fuck me twice in the ass, into the Academy of Super Villainy.

My mouth gaps wider the more I read.

“You didn’t.”

“I did. It’s time to move on.”

“Move on from what?”

“Heroic fantasy?”



I move to hand the letter back.

Annabelle punches a gloved fist an inch into the brick wall. “That really what you want? Be part of a farcical, fascist cult of do-gooders,” she spits. “They preen and pose like narcissistic little children. Especially her.”

“Who the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know who.”

I do… but it’s not something I feel like unearthing. So I redirect and mollify. I reach into the bag and pull out a costume that has me thinking we’re about to join The Jabbawockeez on tour.


“Fuck you.”


The alarms screech to life as a robotically feminine voice free-styles the lines of this sector’s superhero jingle. Annabelle isn’t wrong. Heroism is a commercialized endeavor these days: from LLCs, to patents, copyrights, and trademarks. Heroism used to be like the comics. Altruistic. Then the Supers explosion happened about a decade ago. Heroism in the read world means money.  

“Upsy-daisy, princess,” Annabelle purrs into my ear.

I’m slow to process her favorite catch phrase in the heat of the moment. Before I can groan out profanity-laced protest, her compact form gathers me bridal-style and her powerful legs send us launching into the night. Behind us we leave a trashed recruitment office with giant spray-painted dicks and an overweight civilian huddled under a desk and crying for his mommy.


We land in a heap of tangled limbs, pain, and a likely concussion.

“Did you see his face?” Annabelle crows in a display of electric emotion. It unnerves me. “Did he seriously piss himself? And what the fuck was with the erection? Gross. What the hell did you do to that neck bearded freak?”

I swallow hard, trying to steady my heart rate after using my powers. More than a few seconds of activation skyrockets my heart rate. Any more than that and I’m probably vomiting up large chunks of the exploding organ, all while sporting an erection not so unlike our poor bearded victim. It’s why I lie through my teeth about my “gift.” It’s only good for two things.

1. Pranks.

2. Slow-dicking the aforementioned shape-shifter into a puddle of goo.

Doesn’t seem like a combat ready ability, does it?


“Wake up, shit head,” Annabelle demands, twisting my nipples.

“Fuck!” I grunt, still seeing stars. I try to throw her off but she doesn’t budge. I’m not exactly blessed in the strength department so all she needs is a super-powered pinky to push me down. Having the build of a skinny jeans wearing hipster really grates on a guy, but what’re you gonna do? Buy a Black-Market elixir? Sure it might work for a while. Maybe even let you fly. Fuck some easily impressed high-society pussy. But then your dick falls off and you’re bleeding out in a pool of bloody cum. Or you get the power to create ice cubes from moisture in the air and instead of becoming a Super you’re the wanker cooling down everyone’s drink down at a fucking BBQ you weren’t even invited to.   

“Amused?” I grumble, trying to ignore the fact that Annabell’s pert little ass is straying uncomfortably close to my groin.
She looks down at me with an unreadable mask, face glistening with sweat and streaked with lines of silver and black eye shadow. I tend to forget she’s younger than me. A recently minted sixteen-year-old with the body of one of those airbrushed SI (Supers Illustrated) models that Jonsey used to wank to when he thought everyone was asleep.

And yet, even though she’s still two years from having to deal with the real world like me, she’s been thinking about it for as long as I’ve known her. Yea-yea. So I’ve only known her for few months. I get it. That’s only a lifetime if you’re a gnat. Still. She’s not a normal sixteen, if a normal sixteen even exists. It’s in her eyes. They…

I don’t have the chance to complete that thought before she’s lifting me up by my shirt collar into a bruising kiss of awkward passion. I’m caught off guard and the intensity of it reels me in. It’s all teeth, painful biting, and a sound I thought I’d never hear from the vulgar little spit-fuck: whimpered moans of vulnerability.

I try to slow her down; she wants none of it. She tears my shirt to shreds and burns a path of arousal down my chest with warm wet flicks of a cherry red tongue.  

By the time I can break through the sudden fog of lust she’s got my pants around my ankles.  

“Annabelle?” I whisper hoarsely.

Her smirk is predatory hunger.

Small hands ball up around my boxers and pull to the sides, tearing the material like perforated paper. My newly freed pick announces its angry presence by slapping her in the forehead.

I groan in both relief and embarrassment. Annabelle flushes crimson and stares with wide-eyed curiosity.

“What the fuck are you doing, Annabelle? This isn’t… we shouldn’t…”

She doesn’t listen. She captures me with a nervous hand, thumb running tentatively over my purpling head and down a pulsating vein.

“Well, look what we have here,” a tragically familiar voice sings. “A pair of criminal deviants adding indecent exposure to charges of breaking and entering, vandalism, and improper deployment of enhanced powers. Would you like to be brought in as is, or would you little miscreants like a moment to compose yourselves?”

With ballerina graze, Annabelle punches a hand into the concrete near my head and lifts out a chunk the size of an apple. She rolls off of me and flings it skyward in one fluid motion.

The improvised missile hits an invisible barrier and explodes into dust.

“Tsk, tsk,” Stargazer says. “Is that the thanks I get for saving you from an unwanted teen pregnancy… citizen?” The condescension oozes from a velvety smooth voice that sends a surge of renewed energy through my flagging prick. While the condescension is a new one for Laila, her effect on me is as unoriginal as peanut butter and jelly.  

“Maybe I wouldn’t mind his baby inside me you odious cunt.”

“His?” Stargazer… no, Laila, scans a holographic readout spilling out from a compartment on her wrist. An unkind laugh fills the cool evening. “Why on earth would you want a level twelve’s weak genetic spawn screaming its way out of you?”

Annabelle grits her teeth and crouches, ready to spring at her.

I don’t give her the chance.

“Level twelve? That kinda hurts, Laila. I know the Academy doesn’t take my power seriously, but that’s really fucking low.”

“Noah?” The high-pitched astonishment does little to comfort my bruised ego.

“In the level twelve flesh.”

Laila floats down out of the sky, majestic in an all-white number of composite armor that contrasts perfectly with her cappuccino coloring. The skimpy nature of it shouldn’t surprise me given all the modeling she’s done since leaving the orphanage, but it does. She never used to be so… vain.

Laila’s gaze lingers on Annabelle and the antlered pendant around her neck.  

“Really, Noah? Fucking around with jailbait?” Laila’s nose wrinkles like she’s evaluating rotten meat. “You’re smarter than that. And you sure as hell should know not to hit recruitment offices. Do you have any idea what would have happened had Bulldozer shown up?”

“Sixteen is the new twenty, Miss Stargazer,” Annabelle drawls. “Only without the cellulite. And I could handle that overweight slob easy.”

Laila cranes her neck, mouth compressing into a tight line. “As I said. Jailbait. With a sewer mouth as well.”

“Least I’m not dressed up like a cosplaying skank whoring herself to Supers’ shareholders. Tell me. How does pickled prick taste?”

A silver ball forms in Laila’s hand. She whips around, arm raised, splinters of black energy burning lines like broken glass around her eyes.

“That’s enough, Laila.” I put a hand on her shoulder to calm her. I give Annabelle a scathing look of reprimand. She sneers right back at me but the ball in Laila’s hand disappears and her shoulders slump from memory and guilt spooling together.

“I’ll handle this, Annabelle.”


“I said I’ll handle it!”

Murderous rage builds in Annabelle as she stares Laila down. For a split second I think she’ll attack me, hell bent on crushing my balls like grapes. But instead, she just flashes Laila a dirty grin.

I, however, get a ‘fuck you” as she slinks away.


“Pleasant girl, Noah.”

“Street life does that to you. You know that.”

We sit, feet dangling over the edge of the roof.

“So… How long’s it been?”

“Six months, twenty-three days. Long time to wait for phone call.”

“I’m… sorry. It’s just.”

“What? Saving the world. Supers Illustrated shoots with Eclipse? Battling Wendigo? Prancing around with Speed Demon? Really? Speed Demon, Laila? What a dumb fucking name for a narcissistic bastard.”

“He’s smarter than he looks.”

I roll my eyes.

There’s awkwardness between us and, still bitter, even now, I pick at the scab.

“I was sixteen too you know. Only, you were older then than I am now by three years.”

 “That was a mistake.”

“Was it? Mistakes are accidentally adding a cup of salt instead of a cup of sugar to cookies. Mistakes don’t usually involve a vagina tripping over a dick.”

“We were family, Noah…are family… You were like a little brother and I took advantage of you when I was drunk and horny and lonely and stupid.”

I roll my eyes; point to her, then back to me. “You coffee. Me milk. No mistake. Mix well together.”

Laila sighs, ignoring my impersonation. “You know what I mean, Noah. Be serious for once.”

Silence sputters to life and drags on for several excruciating moments.

“I saw you were accepted.”


“Oh yea. Third Class Super at your service.” I give her a mock salute. “Reporting for laundry duty.”

“Do you always have to be such an ass? Many consider it an honor.”

“Yea. Certainly is an honor to be some Super’s bitch. I’m all about the bitch in fact. Gets me in heat being the bitch I’ll have you know. May even pump out an honor baby.”

Her pretty little head jerks around. “Would it really be that bad?”

I shrug and Annabelle’s ‘hero philosophy’ pops into my head. “Be a disposable cog in a cycle of authoritarian heroism, Laila? Much fun.”

“Authoritarian?” Laila’s mouth thins.  

“Fine, fine. Commercialized supering, Laila. You can’t deny that one. Can’t believe you’d stoop to a fucking jingle. A jingle!”

“Wasn’t my idea,” she growls, frustration growing, a bit of the old accent she wiped out revealing it wasn’t totally bleached.

“Sure. And the military-style recruitment offices?”

“We save lives, Noah. Protect the people from themselves. Don’t pretend there isn’t another Academy out there pumping out super powered criminals left and right. Better to get powered individuals teamed with us rather than the alternative.”

“Is that the lie you suck down everyday?”

Laila flinches and pushes off the edge of the building to float in front of me. She looks confused, agitated. “I thought you wanted to be a Super? Why are we even fighting?”

I finger the letter in my pocket. “I thought I did. Maybe I’m meant for the alternative.” Or maybe Annabelle is getting under my skin.

Laila’s open palmed slap stings.

“You can’t be serious.”

I’ve hurt her, but there’s no going back. So I double down, the lies and half-truths coming easier now. I pull out the letter and read. Each word is like flaying the skin from the body of our old relationship.

“Maybe I’m not the good little ‘kid brother’ you used to know, Laila. Maybe I never was. Maybe you were ‘lonely’. Maybe I tipped you over the edge with my gift.”

“You wouldn’t… would you?” I wouldn’t, but doubt is creeping into her, dragging up old hurts. Laila squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head, fighting some invisible battle within her. “That’s not you, Noah. You aren’t m…”

“You say that because you always want to see good,” I interrupt. “It’s who you are. You’ve never willingly done something morally questionable in your life, Laila, have you?”

Laila freezes up, but I’m too deep to notice. “Never really lost control. Done anything depraved. Maybe I need some depravity in my life. Supers sure as hell can’t provide that. Maybe they can.”

Laila’s shoulders slump and I notice her hands are shaking and her jaw is clenched.

“Listen, Laila, I…”

A melodic beep interrupts. A holographic alert pops up from the recessed groove at her wrist. Laila’s helmet suddenly materializes around her head.

“I’m letting you off easy this time, Noah. Next time I won’t be so lenient.”

She hesitates for a moment, as if she needs to say something more but can’t find the words. Then she blasts off. I sit watching until she’s just another twinkling light in the blackened sky.


Hours later I make my way into the hidden attic room Laila discovered years ago. It’s a room with history, a room where ‘Stargazer’ became more than just a daydream beneath a broken skylight.

I kick off my shoes and look up. Orion’s belt, her favorite constellation, shines bright and clear. I remember telling her once that’s who I wanted to be if I were a superhero: Orion the Hunter. Protect her from all the evil in the world. It was the childish fantasy of a kid falling in love before he knew what love was.

Pants join shoes in a pile by the door.

I think my powers were destined to manifest in this room, on that particular night. I still remember the glint in her eyes when she pulled me inside her. The lust and the fear and the surprise when I brushed her stomach with my hand and she came so hard it was like she’d slipped into an orgasmic seizure.

That was all past now.

Villain. Hero.

I used to know which path I’d follow. Now though? Laila and Annabelle are muddying my thoughts, terraforming my mind into a swamp… rancid and bubbling and filled with doubt.

I stumble blindly into bed, desperate for oblivion. What I find instead is warm, naked flesh.

“Hi,” Annabelle whispers with over-the-top seduction.

I flinch. “What the fuck?”


I try to pull back and away but she’s too quick. Her arms circle me.

“What are you doing, Anna?” I hiss.

“Finishing what we started?”

“That’s not a good idea.” It never was.

“Why not? Scared of a little jailbait? Don’t you wanna be the first to explore my tight teenage pussy? Fuck, Noah. Can’t you feel how hot I am for you?” she growls.

My hips shift involuntarily and my rapidly hardening prick brushes against the swampy heat of her. “Yes,” I groan, “but it’s more complicated than that.”

She bites my ear. “Why don't I help un-complicate it?”

“Anna…I can’t… We can’t.” My head is fucked. Between Laila, that letter, and whatever the FUCK this is? I’m stretched thin. “I need sleep. I need...”

Annabelle wraps herself around me like a spider and flips us over. Unlike the rooftop, her muscular ass is naked this time and she’s leaking salty sweet arousal all over my groin.   

“I know exactly what you need, Noah. You need relief,” she purrs, “and perspective. I can give you that.” She reaches between my legs and pulls my erection upright. “You just have to beg like a good little mutt.”

I’m too befuddled by her out of place seduction, too entranced by the sweet scent of her to notice her little slip up, the minor tonal fluctuations in her voice. And at this point, it’s uncertain whether I’d even care if I did. My prick may as well be the hypnotized cobra and her teenage pussy the damned flute.

“Oh fuck it,” Annabelle continues. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for far too long. The world said she couldn’t be beat. Couldn’t be broken. Empty-headed sycophants. I broke her. Now it’s time to tame her.”

“What?” the question is a drunken slur as my shaft is swallowed by tight wet heat.

“Fuuuuuck,” Annabelle moans. “At least you’re gifted where it counts.”


Conscious thought bleeds, giving way to base instinct. I grab her ass and grind, causing her juices to slosh audibly.  

Annabelle grinds in tune with me, but eventually lets loose a bored yawn.

“Enough vanilla bullshit. Are you going to fuck me like a virgin all night, Noah?” She flicks my nose. “Always the hero, aren’t you?” She leans down and pulls me into a kiss that’s all tongue and far more experienced than the one she gave me on the rooftop. “Try the villain on for size, Noah.” Her nails claw painfully down my chest. “Hurt me. Abuse me. Fuck me like a piece of meat. Fuck me till I scream. Fuck me till I beg you to stop and keep on going.” Her words are poisonous acid, melting control and corrupting my soul.

Untapped aggression loosens its screws and I roar. Annabelle’s laugh is cruel enjoyment. She cups my ass and rolls us back over, legs scissoring tightly around my waist.

“Hurt me, baby.”

I find her nipples and pinch the eraser-like tips until she yelps for more. I yank her small form up. Teeth replace fingers but she yawns again. I pull her into a brutal kiss and she bites down hard on my lower lip, drawing blood.

“Not good enough,” she drawls.

Under the skylight, the silver moon morphs Annabelle into a wraithlike succubus, teeth stained dark. The sight stiffens me to diamond hardness. I pull her into another kiss. Return the favor. Savor the metallic burst of flavor. Then I’m hammering into her tight teenage cunt as if she’s the last female on earth and this is the last fuck before we’re scorched to ash.

“Use me,” Annabelle screams. I slap her tits. “Fuck me like a disposable street whore no one will miss.” A piece of me is disturbed by what she’s saying. Frightened even. The stronger piece, however, the more awake piece, wants to dive head first into the madness.

I slide a hand between us seeking out her clit. It’s a fat engorged button at this point. I pinch it between my fingers and rotate. Annabelle convulses and her perfect teenage twat grips me like a clenched fist, juices sloshing deliciously.


I pull out of her sloppy hole. Tell her swallow my prick. She smirks and crawls over on all fours. Her tongue swirls around the shiny head. A hand cups my balls and a finger teases my asshole. There’s bored scorn in her eyes as she sucks me off. As if she’s simply going through the motions. It pisses me off. So I grab the back of her head, and thrust down her throat until she’s a gagging spluttering mess, drool leaking from the corners of her mouth.


“Having fun yet,” she sputters, gasping for air as I wipe my saliva soaked prick on her coppery cheeks.

“Just getting warmed up,” I growl.

I push her into the bed and mount her face.

“Lick my ass, slut.”

Annabelle’s mouth splits into a grin against my skin. Then she spreads me open and burrows her long vulgar tongue deep into my asshole.

“Lick it like the ice cream we never got,” I command, dropping more of my weight over her face. Her nails dig hard into my thighs, but she complies, tongue fluttering like hummingbird wings.

“That’s right, bitch.” I grind hard over her mouth, robbing her of oxygen as I savor the hot tongue bath. I grab hold of my cock and fist it furiously, a thought spooling up in my brain.

When I feel the telltale tingle in my groin, I pull off, slap her a few times with the turgid meat of my erection and open up like a fire hose all over her pretty little face.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I grunt as wad after ball-tingling wad of spunk decorates her obscenely grinning face with comic book panel pizzazz.  



“Better,” Annabelle critiques, popping a semen-coated finger in her mouth. “But I think you need an extra little push. Too much Super worship still left in you.” She snaps her finger. “You can come out now.”

A form materializes from the far corner of the loft, a form that shouldn’t be here.  

Laila steps tentatively from the shadows on shaky legs. Her cappuccino skin glistens with sweat and she’s mewling miserably through a ball gag all while trying to keep a hand cupped between her legs.

I dismount the bed on shaky legs of my own and meet her halfway.

“Exquisite, isn’t she?” Annabelle hums. “I can see why you’re so obsessed with her. The perfect skin. That lustrous black hair. And that spicy cunt.” Annabelle smacks her lips. “I prefer her like this. The world’s straight-laced media darling Super reduced to a more… natural state. Aren’t pure as you’d like the public to believe are you, Stargazer?”

“Laila?” I whisper hoarsely. “How?”

“Oh, it was easier, and yet, far more difficult than you could possibly imagine, little Noah.”
I turn slowly around, hands balled into fists.

The mask finally dropped, Wendigo smiles cruelly. All that’s left of Annabelle is the red hair and a singular bright green eye. Her skin is stark white and her body is leaner, longer. Built more like a marathon runner than a gymnast, though her muscles are no less wiry and powerful.

“The little bitch took an eye.” Wendigo gestures to the ruby red implant on her right side. “So I played my favorite kind of game with love of her life.”

My head snaps back around to Laila.

“Didn’t know, did you?” Wendigo’s giggle is motor oil and gravel splashed with one of those posh, leathery cabernets the wealthy enjoy so much. “Full of secrets, isn’t she? Makes you want to punish her doesn’t it?”

Laila whimpers wetly, trying desperately to keep the vibrating egg wedged up inside her.  

Wendigo crooks a finger. “Come.” Laila waddles forward as if she’s pregnant. “Open.” Her legs part and she removes her hand.

I stiffen despite myself. Her once downy curls have been shaved and styled into a thin arrowhead guiding the way to a shiny barbell piercing. Annabelle, Wendigo, strokes Laila’s flat stomach. “Release,” she commands. Laila’s vaginal muscles relax and the shiny metal egg plops wetly into Wendigo’s open palm. She pops it into her mouth, rolling it around like candy, savoring the spicy flavor that’s long fueled both dreams and nightmares.

“Do you know how many Supers she’s fucked? At least fifty. Supers love sleeping around. Stargazer in particular. And your idols have the gall to belittle our initiation orgies? Call them crude? Nothing more than simple brainwashing techniques to take advantage of the libidos of gifted youths?  Unoriginal conjecture and patently false.”

Wendigo reclines back on my bed, legs spread provocatively. She snaps her fingers and Laila climbs on top of her.

“I find that raw, unrestrained sex turns all masks to ash. Reveals our true nature. Isn’t that right, Laila?”

Laila nods vigorously.

Jesus. How far gone is the woman I knew?

Wendigo pulls the ball gag off and Laila feasts on the cool semen still decorating her face. “See?” She pulls Laila into a lazy kiss of passion, swapping my spunk back and forth in a filthy display of eroticism that has my prick throbbing up and down like a pendulum.
Wendigo pulls out a thin glass cylinder filled with a cloudy black substance. “Would you like to put my theory to the test, Noah?”

My eyes are drawn to Laila’s heart-shaped ass wiggling in the air while she laps at the bright red gash between Wendigo’s legs. This fact doesn’t go unnoticed.

Wendigo palms her cheeks and spreads them, revealing the dusky crinkle of Laila’s asshole.

“Do you know how many pricks have filled this hole in the past month alone?” A milky white digit plunges inside and Laila lets loose a crooning song of lust. “One after another pumping hot seed into her while she begs for more. Makes you angry, doesn’t it? Why don’t you show her how you really feel, Noah? Why don’t you show her what you really are?”

I look up through the skylight at Orion’s Belt. What I really am? I have no idea anymore. Good. Evil. Villain. Super. They’re naïve concepts of childhood. Annabelle, real or not, pushed me to that realization. And Wendigo’s tantalizing monologue is a syrupy sweet sermon of poisonous, perverse truth.

Warm hands make their way up my thighs. I look down. Laila looks up, eyes imploring. Good? Bad? Was the Laila on the rooftop my Laila? Or is the Laila kneeling at my feet, my prick in her hands, the real one? Is there something in the middle?

Glass breaks and Wendigo inhales the cylinder’s contents with a contented sigh.

I groan as Laila swallows me.


“Fuck, I love Black-Market tech,” Wendigo grunts, flexing her freshly sprouted cock in Laila’s creaming pussy. “The real thing definitely beats plastic doesn’t it, Star?”

Laila’s answer is an indecipherable jumble of moaned obscenities.

Try as I might, I can’t get past the disturbing reality of Laila’s archenemy growing a thick ivory prick from her clit. Science has gone off the fucking rails. And yet, as I finally plunge my own dick through the constricting heat of Laila’s asshole, I can’t help but enjoy the quasi-homoeroticism of Wendigo’s shaft straining against my mine through the thin membrane of separation. Shit feels good, too good. So in an effort to stave off the end, I pull free from Laila’s clenching sphincter.


Wendigo wastes little time in pushing Laila off her Black-Market gifted dick and onto her hands and knees. With nipple clamps glittering in the moonlight, she settles behind Laila and spanks her cappuccino ass until it’s ruby red.

“I wonder,” Wendigo hisses, notching her thick white erection at Laila’s dusky folds, “if this thing is programmed to shoots blanks.

Would you like to find out, pet?”

Laila whimpers her reply.

“I didn’t hear you.” Wendigo spanks her again.

“Yessss,” Laila moans, gyrating her ass like a seasoned stripper. “Fuuccck. Use me. Abuse me. Fill my cunt with white hot spunk.”
Wendigo howls and violently parts Laila’s juicing folds without further preamble.


Not wanting to interrupt their violent coupling, I fist my throbbing prick as feverishly as Wendigo screws Laila into the bed. If I’m being honest, and for once in this tale I Scout’s honor am, there’s something deliciously wicked about watching the love of your life getting brutally fucked by her archenemy. And not just any archenemy either. Fucking Wendigo with her stark white skin and her flaming red hair. The personification of villainy and dark, corrupt desire.

My prick leads me like a dousing rod, twitching each time Wendigo flexes her tight pale ass to plunge deeper into Laila’s spicy cunt. I take hold of her hips and her head whips around, carnal lust burning in her eyes, her smile cold and black and frightening.

“Hurt me,” she says.


I burrow into the dry heat of her lush ass with nothing but spit for lube.

“God fucking damn. Fucking take that dick you crazy bitch,” I bellow drunkenly, egged on by her screams of pleasure-laced pain.

“Fuck me,” Laila moans. “Spank me.”

“Fucking hurt me dammit,” Wendigo screeches.  


I lose myself to the symphony of depravity. I spank and claw Wendigo’s buttocks. I tug her nipple clamps until her demands are little more than gurgled hisses and grunts and twisted laughter. Her dirty fucking hole is unholy fire and each thrust into it brings me closer to hell.


Time puffs away. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. They’re all the same to me. Right up until I feel the boiling rush in my balls. With a burst of spontaneity, I reach between Wendigo’s legs and grab hold of her thrusting prick. Laila’s hot juices coating my hand, I squeeze hard. Wendigo yelps, unfamiliar with this particular kind of pain.

“How’s that?”

I pull out just as my cock unloads a geyser of frothy white jizz against her pink rosebud. The moment I feel her cock head jerk inside Laila’s supercharged pussy, I release her shaft, take hold of her red locks like reins, and pump her filthy rectum full of molten cum, spurt after ass-filling spurt.


Still pissing straight cum into Wendigo’s tight ass, but on the precipice of losing consciousness, I hear Laila squeal like a pig. Feel her pull Wendigo off my prick and into a kiss of passion. Tell her to put a baby in her.

The fucked up imagery of a pregnant Laila provides one last burst of energy to re-mount Wendigo’s reddened rear and spurt one final glob of cum deep inside her quivering ass before passing out.     


It’s an hour to sunrise when I’m finally pulled awake, first by the sour tang of sweat and sex, then the throbbing pain in my dick signaling the need for extended abstinence.

Unfortunately, Wendigo’s pert ass is wedged against my groin and my dick, fueled by lust, not intelligence, is beginning to swell painfully with arousal.

I roll gingerly over and I’m nose-to-nose with Laila.

“Hey,” she whispers. She looks worn thin, as if sleep never quite captured her in its embrace after our night of twisted debauchery.  


“I’m… sorry.” She averts her gaze. “I’m not exactly what you thought I was. Shit. I’m not what I thought I was.”

Even after all the deranged sex we had, hearing her curse is strange.

“I never wanted you to get involved,” she continues. “Not like this. Not that that means much. Shit happens and things spiral I guess?”

“What happened?”

Laila sighs. “Being honest? I got sick of it all. Sick of saving people all the time. Sick of the photo shoots. Sick of being perfect. Sick of being every little girl’s idol. Sick of heroing. Sick of not telling you how I feel.” She brushes a hand through my hair. “So, like a rational adult, I let Wendigo kick my ass halfway across the Sahara. She didn’t break me so much as I broke myself.”
Laila’s delicate cappuccino cheeks flush crimson. “And I loved every second of it.”

“I can confirm. She ate my pussy like it was the only water source available in that desert,” Wendigo purrs, spooning me from behind. 

I flinch and Wendigo giggles. “Don’t worry, mutt. It’s a one-off drug.” She drapes a pale leg over my waist and I feel damp wet heat slide against my ass. “But if our dear little Stargazer wants to take a spin…”

Laila’s eyes dilate and her skin pebbles. I flinch again.

“Don’t worry, Noah. I’ll take one for the team,” Wendigo purrs as she kisses me way down my back.

“Team?” I grunt as Laila slurps my half-hard prick into her mouth.

“Mhmm,” Wendigo hums, biting my ass hard enough to make me jerk violently down Laila’s throat. “Third Class Super?”

“Or Provisional Super Villain?” Laila garbles around a mouth full of dick while Wendigo spears her tongue deep inside my ass.


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