What is it, they wonder, what is it about that girl? The one with platinum hair and too blue eyes? She soars above the city, arms outstretched, feet bare. Wind catches her hair and whips it ‘round, swiping it into her face.
She smiles; she laughs. Here, in the air, she’s free. No one can touch her. No one can stop her. No one can hurt her. Up here, the world is hers for the taking.
Her name is Barbara – but others, normal people, they call her Super Lady.
It’s late in the day. The sun is just starting to set, casting the world in a mirage of purple and orange. The hazy light streams into Barbara’s apartment through an open window. Outside, people are rushing home for the night. Cars buzz up and down the roads; children laugh and shout; music blares from the apartment down the hall. It’s a cacophony of noise, of life, and all Barbara can think is, perfect.
She’s had a long day. The life of a super hero is a hard one. There’s a bruise running the length of Barbara’s left arm, spanning from wrist to elbow. A gash on her side is still bleeding sluggishly, where the energy blade of Vector had pierced her.
Slowly, carefully, Barbara slips out of her plaid suit jacket. The button up white shirt goes next, and then the black skirt is slid off of her hips. The uniform of Super Lady is inked into her skin, bright blue and red, over her breasts and down her arms. It’s on her back and there’s just a dash of color on her thighs, almost non existent.
The voice comes from the bathroom, and Barbara gives the closed door a longing look. “It’s just me, Jim. Give me just a minute.”
Jim says, “take your time.”
She draws in a deep breath, runs her fingers through her hair. Then she’s in the bathroom, in the shower, where the water is so hot that it burns her open wounds. Large, calloused hands run over her body; caressing her sides, her neck, the swell of her breasts. Jim is loving in his exploration of her body. His touch is meant to learn, not to hurt.
Barbara wraps her arms around Jim’s neck, lacing her fingers together and bringing him close. “I’m fine,” she says, words a warm breath against his face.
Jim’s lips pull down into a frown. Carefully, he prods the section of red skin around the cut. “You don’t look fine. This looks like it’s going to scar.”
“It won’t,” says Barbara, because they never do. Her wounds heal in a matter of days, and the flesh is always smooth afterwards. There’s no way to leave a scar on her.
Barbara stretches up onto the tips of her toes and kiss Jim, deeply. Tooth and tongue and the taste of blood. She roams the cavern of his mouth, twining their tongues together, desperate for the comfort that only Jim’s touch can bring.
A hand on the small of her back, another on her hip. Jim nips at Barbara’s lower lip. Then he does it a second time, but harder.
There’s no more time for words. Barbara makes sure of it. She presses Jim back against the shower wall, pushing him out of the spray of hot water. She hooks one slender leg over Jim’s hip and slips a hand down between them, fingers curling around the base of his cock.
“I’m fine,” she says again, lips moving against Jim’s throat. Barbara seeks out his pulse point and sucks at it until the skin goes dark.
It won’t heal on him.
She likes that.
The gash on her side is already starting to heal. The bruise on her arm is getting lighter, less purple and more yellow. Barbara presses herself against Jim, silently begging him to fuck her – because the air might be freedom but this is her release. This is the one spot in the entire world where she doesn’t have to be strong and powerful.
It’s the one place where she can be normal.
And so Jim spins them around so that it is Barbara pressed against the wall. He hitches her legs around his waist and hefts her up, teeth sinking into the side of her throat, nails digging into the tender flesh of her left breast.
It’s not sweet and tender but rough and wild. They are predator and prey, fighting against each other, struggling and flailing. There isn’t any foreplay; just a shift of the hips and a sudden burst of pain. Barbara muffles her scream by biting down on Jim’s shoulders, hard enough that she can taste the now familiar tang of blood.
Jim doesn’t give her time to adjust. Barbara doesn’t want it.
What is it, they wonder, what is it about that girl on the news that looks so familiar? The one with platinum hair and too blue eyes? She looks achingly familiar in a way that has nothing to do with her episodes on the evening news. She gives everyone a winning smile as she walks into the studio, wearing her trademark plaid suit jacket and a knee length black skirt.
She smiles; she laughs. She hides herself behind the lens of a camera, securing her place in society by announcing the weather. “Sunshine in Toronto,” says Barbara, with a flip of her long hair. Beneath the sleeve of her jacket, the bruise is almost completely healed. There’s nothing but a faint swipe of red on her side.
The only ache that ever remains is the one between her legs. That subtle spark left by a night of untold pleasure. The twinge deep inside of her anytime she takes a step, left over from being thoroughly and completely fucked.
Here, she isn’t safe – but she can pretend. No one recognizes her here. No one knows her secrets. Down here, the world is vast and strange.
Her name is Barbara – and no one knows to call her Super Lady.
Barbara’s wrists are wrapped up tight with leather. The buckle of the belt digs into her flesh and nails do the same to her hips. She’s pressed face down into the mattress, arms pulled taunt behind her back. It’s uncomfortable, but not near as uncomfortable as the cock buried deep inside of her. It’s pain and pleasure all at once, that sweet burst of release that she’s so seldom given.
Heat races up Barbara’s spine, seeps into her veins, soaks into her bones. She’s reduced to little more than a shuddering mess of tattooed flesh. The bruise is gone from her arm. The cut is gone from her side.
They never last long.
But this? This lasts forever.
She tilts her head to the side, gazing up at Jim, who is all broad shoulders and dark hair. “I love you,” she says.
Jim’s fingers tight on her hips. He bucks against her, hard. Fucks her until she’s shuddering and gasping, until all that she knows is pleasure and the burn that comes from being far too full. Even then, he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t stop until he’s satisfied that she’s been thoroughly used and debauched.
And then, in the darkness of the night, curled up against each other, he tells her, “I know.”
What is it, she wonders, about having two identities? Her platinum hair is still damp. Her too blue eyes are rimmed with red. It doesn’t matter what name she goes by, Super Lady or Barbara or something in between. None of them feel just right.
Vector’s mask is still clutched in her hand. Jim lays prone on the street, amidst the chaos and wreckage of a battle between two supers. A scuff on Barbara’s palm is already starting to heal.
She thinks about being bound to a bed and ravaged, lips roving her body, tongue slipping into her cunt. Thinks about loving Jim and hating Vector – and wondering, wondering, how they could ever be one and the same.
Barbara stumbles to her feet, limbs weak for reasons completely unrelated to injuries. The paparazzi are already swarming the streets, eager to take photographs of Vector’s revealed identity. They swarm her, too, asking for a statement, a proclamation, a word of relief.
Aren’t you glad, they ask her, aren’t you glad to finally be rid of your arch nemesis?
Super Lady is.
And so she takes to the skies without a word, because that’s the only place she can really be free.
Story by: Paintedzipper