Weedman the Mighty Lover

My decision to smoke weed for the first time was both a long time coming and a spur-of-the-moment decision. I had thought about it for a long time, but between my strict Bible Belt upbringing (the first 18 years), my involvement with the military (the next 11 years), and then my employment with a national retailer that didn’t allow marijuana in any form (2 more years), I had never really gotten around to it.

Sure, I’d considered it. I had played around with the idea in my mind, systematically resolving many of the mental obstacles I was raised with. This wasn’t some hardcore drug, cooked up in a lab, refined and mixed to a fine degree of chemical composition… no, this was literally just a plant. Getting baked was no different than getting drunk from an intoxication standpoint, and pretty much everyone I knew had done that at some point. One by one, the objections fell until that fateful night I was hanging out with a girl I had recently started dating—and she had just finished rolling a joint.

She started to light it, and I looked over at her. “Mind if I smoke with you?” I asked.

Her jaw dropped. She knew I had never smoked pot before. “Sure!!” she replied, rather enthusiastically, then lit the joint and handed it over.

My first inhale nearly killed me. I’m a social smoker, but one thing I had forgotten to consider was the presence of a filter on the end of a cigarette. This requires significantly more suction to pull the smoke through than it does on, say, oh, a hand-rolled joint with a completely open hole straight to the good stuff.

I almost died coughing.

She almost died laughing.

She took the left-handed cigarette from me, saying that she was helping me out; in reality, I think she was not only trying to save the doobie she had just rolled but was also making an earnest effort to keep me from setting her apartment on fire. Once both of us had recovered and were breathing normally, she re-lit the J and demonstrated how to slowly pull the smoke into your mouth, then inhale slowly. She kept emphasizing this word “slowly” like I had just tried a Santa Clause over a lit chimney, but instead of trying to go down it with a bag of gifts, I’d attempted to put the fire out by inhaling the entire thing.

(I don’t know if I mentioned this or not, but she’s exceptionally gifted in the art of sarcasm.)

I gingerly took it from her hand, slightly traumatized from my apparent betrayal of every childhood Smokey the Bear warning, and copied her technique as closely as I could. I still coughed, but not nearly as much. After three hits, she advised me to wait and see what happened. At this point, I was feeling slightly buzzed, kind of like the nicotine high you get with that first cigarette after you haven’t smoked in years. I’ll admit, I was disappointed. “This is what all the hype is about?” I thought.

Three minutes went by.

Five minutes.

Nothing.

Then it hit me, like a freight train out of nowhere. I’m not really sure what happened, but time and space warped, the room shifted, and happiness descended upon me like a warm blanket. As the test subject in Pineapple Express says, I felt “like a slab of butter melting on a big ole pile of flapjacks.”

Unfortunately, just like a slab of butter, I couldn’t move. I was, almost literally, stuck to the couch. She left the room and took a shower; having lost all sense of time, I contemplated waiting somewhere between two minutes and a hundred years before she would come back and help me to bed. Approximately three decades and half a movie later, I decided that she wasn’t returning, ever. Rather than do the heroic thing and search for her apparently lost soul, I assumed she must have died of old age and decided bed was the only logical option.

I mustered up the courage and somehow managed to get from the couch to the bedroom, primarily by a combination of a low crawl and crawling on my hands and knees with all the skill of an infant who just figured out he had knees. I dissolved into the bed and stared at the ceiling, enjoying the absolute, complete, utter relaxation that washed over me. A few years later, she returned, and after recovering from a fit of giggles at my expression, we made love.

And how. Wow.

That was, to date, the single most epic lovemaking experience I’ve ever had. I’ve already described how I lost sense of time, so I don’t know how long it went on, but it felt like forever (in the best way possible). The following day, I asked her how long sex had lasted. She rolled over, lifted herself up on one elbow, and stared directly into my eyes. “Hours,” she said. “You were amazing.”

Slowly the image of my rapidly evolving alter-ego, Weedman The Mighty Lover, materialized before my eyes. Thoughts of heroic deeds were quickly dashed as I realized this superhero would never be able to bypass a buffet or Krispy Kreme; regardless, I couldn’t wait to experience this phenomenon again. It wasn’t long until I smoked pot again, and for each of the next two or three times, that first experience repeated itself.

Over the next few months, my tolerance grew, and the experience changed to a generally relaxed experience; the best word I can think of to describe the way it has felt since then is “mellow.” Completely mellow. I’ve struggled with anxiety and depression for most of my adult life with a laundry list of tried and failed prescriptions for both, and weed has been the one thing that has turned it around for me. It’s something that I would highly recommend to anyone.

Just make sure that when you go to smoke that first joint, you’re in the spot you plan on sitting for the next centuries, with an appropriately sized supply of Doritos and a well-lit path to the bedroom.

Surprise!

Dozens of would-be attackers had originally surrounded Lois Lane, but Superman had heard her cries for help. Before they could even touch her, he had appeared seemingly from nowhere and pummeled the intended assailants.

BAM!

A left hook tossed one into the side of a brick wall, leaving a permanent indentation in the shape of Frank Schumer’s now rather flattened corpse.

POW!

An uppercut launched Carlos Pinchero into the stratosphere. Twenty years later, his body was discovered in one of the Apollo space missions as it orbited the Earth. Initially assumed to be an extraterrestrial being, his presence was explained when a reporter named Clark Kent wrote an expository article in the Daily Star that revealed how Superman had, quite literally, rocked Pinchero’s world.

WHAM!

The Man of Steel picked up George Santoro and tossed him into ten of the remaining assailants in the same way a bowling ball clears a lane. The superhero paused momentarily to initiate the world’s first fist pump, calling “Steeeeeeeerike!!! You’re OUTTA here!!!” Despite his superior abilities in numerous arenas, the Last Son of Krypton knew little of Earth’s sports and was not immune to using mixed metaphors.

Most of the remaining thugs scattered in every direction. One unfortunate soul was so panicked that he ran into a dumpster, knocking himself out cold. Superman chuckled in amusement.

And then there were 5. Each of the remaining assailants was armed, giving them some measure of courage against the seemingly invincible demigod standing before them. “Get lost, you alien creep,” one of the thugs rasped at the Metropolis Marvel in a voice that indicated he’d smoked a pack of unfiltered before noon. “She’s ours.”

Superman shook his head, clearly wondering whether they’d ever learn. He sucked in a deep breath, then blew it out in a hurricane-force wind. The five landed three blocks away, and it took them quite some time to recover their faculties. Brushing his hands together in a gesture of self-satisfaction, Supes chuckled under his breath, “Now that’s what I call a blow job.” He turned to the damsel recently rescued from distress and offered her his hand.

Lois had watched the scene unfold in breathless wonder. Her infatuation with the superhero had gone from crush to near-psychotic obsession in the few months she’d known him, and watching him manhandle those men so easily had given her quite the lady boner. As Superman stepped forward, his hand extended, she felt her panties dampen with anticipation.

“Where were you headed, Miss? I’m happy to take you there.”

His pretend act of not knowing her made the woman smile. She knew very well that he had feelings that mirrored her own. “I was actually headed home. I’d love to take you up on your offer.” The Man of Steel grinned with boyish enthusiasm. “Of course,” he stated in a deep voice. Picking her up, her arms wrapped around his neck, the Man of Tomorrow launched skyward, then turned his direction toward her loft apartment.

Moments later, they landed on the balcony, and Clark Kent gently set the slender woman down. One of Lois’s hands remained draped around his neck, and she brought her other up to clasp her hands around his neck. Superman felt her toy with his hair, wrapping his locks around her fingers as they locked eyes. “You should come in,” she whispered seductively, batting her lashes in a naturally flirtatious way.

Supes was used to being able to hear everything around him, including others’ heartbeats. He wasn’t as used to feeling his own. His blood pressure rose as lust filled him, and he felt the skintight suit begin to expand in his nether regions. “Of course,” he whispered in a low, husky tone. Lois unclasped her hands, letting them run slowly down his shoulders to his chest, then dropping them further as she explored his toned abs. Her fingers continued their exploration, reaching the middle of his stomach, then drifting lower; with every inch, she admired his firm, muscular body. Their eyes met, and the woman unconsciously bit her lower lip. She stopped just below his beltline, and the Man of Steel felt one part of his body harden to tungsten in response.

“Come with me,” she said, then grabbed one of his hands and led him through the balcony door into her living room. The man lustfully ogled her tight ass, so perfectly accentuated in that form-fitting skirt. Without thinking, he activated his x-ray vision, watching her figure sway as she sauntered to her room. The brown lacy panties and bra that she wore matched her brunette locks perfectly, and he salivated at the thought of fully exploring her body.

When they reached her bedroom, Lois stopped at the foot of the bed and turned to face him. Her eyes inflamed with desire, she spoke in a firm, commanding tone. “Take me, Clark, and don’t hold back.”

The superhero stepped forward and placed his hands on her trim waist, pulling her toward him. “Yes, ma’am,” he said with a smile, then leaned forward to meet her lips with his own. Their kiss openly communicated how they felt about each other, each motion demanding more, as if their desire could be quenched by making out alone. The Last Son of Krypton slid his hands higher, centering them on the line of buttons clasping her blouse. With one pull, he ripped her shirt apart, shredding both the front and back of the garment in two, then tossed them on the floor.

Their lips had never parted, and Lois smiled against his as she felt her upper body suddenly stripped except for her bra. The cool air rushed across her skin, raising it in erotic anticipation. Her partner’s hands returned to her body, immediately moving toward her skirt. His fingers dipped inside her waistband and hesitated for just a moment before pulling outward, ripping it in half as he had done her shirt. This time, he raised the two halves out to the side, lifting them at shoulder height as if they were trophies while grinning into the kiss.

Lois was wet before, but now, she was soaked. The Metropolis Marvel dropped the shards of cloth, then cupped his hands under her ass cheeks and lifted her toward him. The woman wrapped her legs around his firm body, flexing her thighs to draw them together as close as possible. The heat emanating from his body caused her clit to throb with an intensity she’d never felt. She grabbed the hair at the back of his head viciously, using it as leverage as she thrust her hips forward, rubbing up and down his abs. Superman was so well-formed that she felt every ridge of his 8-pack, and within sixty seconds, she was almost ready to cum.

Despite his inexperience as a virgin, the Man of Tomorrow was intimately acquainted with the signals that human bodies emitted. He sensed her pheromones reach peak levels, Lois’s breathing quickened as she lay her face cheek to cheek with his, and the woman’s thrusting reached an almost frantic pace. He placed one hand on the small of her back, pulling her even more tightly to his body. The other wrapped in her hair and pulled downward, forcing her body lower and closer. That was the final push, and Lois gushed as she squirted all over him. He lifted and pushed her downward, prolonging her orgasm as the woman’s clit slipped against his rock-hard abs.

Lois had never experienced an orgasm like this. The months of anticipation, the erotic display of raw power in the alleyway, the impassioned kisses, how he had ripped her clothes from her body without breaking a sweat, all of these had heightened her horniness to a new peak. Sensuality rose within her to unprecedented levels, pulsing with each breath; again and again, she thought the tsunami of pleasure had peaked. Each time, she was wrong. Superman’s lover had no idea what he was doing to her; in truth, he couldn’t describe it himself. Krypton’s people were physically superior to Earth’s in every way, and apparently, that extended well into the bedroom. His control over her experience was complete.

Finally, he allowed her to come down. The woman collapsed against him, exhausted. Her legs relaxed, and she was held aloft only by the strength of his right arm, now supporting her thighs and ass. The Man of Steel rocked her gently, caressing her skin with his left hand as it drifted across her back, her neck, and her arms.

His lover nearly fell asleep, so complete was her relaxation. The orgasm had ended perfectly, and she felt she’d descended on a cloud into a state of pure bliss. However, she wasn’t done with him yet. Desire, sharpened by countless nights where she had fingered herself, aching to feel the thrusting of his cock, would not be left unfulfilled. She pulled herself from the overwhelming sense of euphoria that filled her, then looked deeply into his eyes. “Now, fuck me.”

Supes grinned, his anticipation evident in every line of his chiseled features. “Yes, ma’am,” he said again. The Man of Steel’s hands shifted so one was beneath her ass and the other was planted on her chest. He tossed her onto the bed, and she pulled herself back to a seated position against the headboard. “Strip,” she ordered, biting her lower lip in anticipation.

The superhero’s skintight suit was apparently comprised of two pieces, and she gasped as he slowly pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it and the cape aside. Clark’s body was every inch that of a god: muscled, veined, and as defined as if he’d been sculpted from granite. “You have been drinking your milk in Smallville, I see!” Her flirtatious remark dripped with an undertone of desire. The man winked at her, momentarily posing with his hands on his hips. He continued the corny flirtation. “Fresh off the farm!” came the enthusiastic remark.

Lois smirked at him. “I’m a city woman, Kent… a bit inexperienced with farmhands. Especially farmhands that can lift trucks. So be gentle, okay?” As she uttered the last words, she winked, obviously communicating that “gentle” was a relative term. “Of course, Lois,” Supes rejoined.

The Last Son of Krypton hooked his thumbs inside his pants and bent over, pulling them to his ankles. Stepping out of them as he rose, he again proudly posed in a way that accentuated his muscular physique. Clark was expecting to see an expression drenched with lust, and was confused to see Lois’s face twisted in horror. Her focus had inched up his body as he rose, naked: first his calves, then his thighs. Finally, with an eagerness sharpened by months of desire, the woman lustfully gazed at his cock. What she found was not what she expected.

Her arm shot up, finger outraised to point accusingly at his crotch. “W-W-W-WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!?!?!?!” The woman’s tone reached a near fever pitch. Clark was confused, and his answer came in the form of a query. “Um… my penis? Why?”

Lois quickly replied: “WHY??? IT HAS PINCERS! WHY DOES IT HAVE PINCERS!?!?!?” There were many advantages of Clark’s human parents insisting he never participate in sports, but one experience he missed out on was the locker room. This is rarely considered to be an advantage, but in light of the current situation, it would have provided a bit of a heads up about the scenario that was now unfolding. The virgin superhero hesitated, unsure of his own inexperience as he spoke. “To… grab onto you?”

To say that the night had taken a turn for the worse would be to understate the situation drastically. All sensuality and eroticism vanished from the room, and Lois rolled to her side. She reached into her nightstand drawer and pulled out a rather impressive dildo. The woman turned toward Clark and shook it at him in what would have otherwise been a rather hilarious display of fit throwing. “THIS IS WHAT A DICK IS SUPPOSED TO LOOK LIKE, OKAY???” The Kryptonian reached forward, gingerly taking the molded impression of a well-hung human phallus in his hands. “Oh,” was all he said.

The awkward silence hung in the air, so thickly one would have choked on it by drawing too deep of a breath. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Clark glanced up from the dick he was holding and looked at his intended partner. “So… um… no sexy time?”

As is often the case with women, Lois’s frustration had only increased with the silence. Now, it erupted via her voice. “NO, THERE WILL BE NO GODDAMNED ‘SEXY TIME’!!!” Her hands raised mockingly in heavy air quotes surrounding the last two words. “I’M NOT LETTING YOU SHOVE SOME MOTHERFUCKING PINCERS UP MY HOO-HA!!” Taken aback by the entire situation, the Man of Tomorrow wisely deduced that now was not the time to further extend his sexual body of knowledge by asking what a “hoo-ha” was, and that tomorrow (or a few tomorrows from now) would likely be more appropriate.

“Okay,” he mumbled. Arguably the most powerful superhero of all time had been reduced to shambles of embarrassment by the situation. He took full advantage of his supernatural speed, dressed in less time than it took Lois to blink once, then waved goodbye. The gust of wind that followed his exit nearly pulled Lois off the bed.

In the hour that followed, the woman calmed down substantially. She realized that, although her reaction was completely understandable by any human standard, she had overreacted within the context of their relationship. Her lover’s expression of shame haunted her, and she tossed and turned that night, unable to rest for any significant period of time. Lois resolved to make the situation right when she saw him the following day, and that decision finally allowed her a few hours’ rest.

When she awoke, the sun was shining, birds were singing, and every clue pointed toward it being the perfect day for reconciliation. She quickly dressed in a new business suit, then traversed the few blocks to work in record time. As she walked, she noticed that something felt different, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The flow of traffic was unlike it had been in the preceding days; a unique clientele populated the coffee shops and cafes, and everything felt… slower, somehow.

When she arrived at the Daily Star, the security guard at the front wasn’t who she expected. She approached him in a driven manner, determined to get some answers. “Where is Carl?” she practically demanded. The man was a bit taken aback by her direct approach. “Umm, he’s off for the day.” This made no sense to Lois.

“Why?” the woman queried again.

“Because it’s Saturday? He’s normally off?” In the short space between interpreting the man’s tone, body language, and facial expressions and actually grasping the meaning of his words, the results-driven journalist realized that her demeanor apparently threw men so far off guard that they questioned even the facts they knew to be gospel truth. She’d have to work on toning that down a bit.

Then, the words sunk in.

“Wait… what?” It was her turn to be unsure. “It’s the weekend?”

“Yes, today is Saturday,” the security guard repeated, suddenly doubting the mental faculties of the paper’s star reporter. “Yesterday was Friday,” he further explained, as if to a child, ensuring that there was absolutely no confusion as to their current relation to the calendar. “The day before that…”

“Yes, okay, I get it,” the woman waved her hand in frustration and turned back toward the front door. It was the weekend. She wouldn’t see Clark for two days.

A few hesitating steps reflected her indecision about how to handle the situation. However, within moments, the resolve of her previous decision asserted itself. Lois’s pace quickened, barely slowing as she walked out the front door and toward the street. Hand raised, the woman hailed a cab and gave the driver Clark’s address. With weekend traffic, it took nearly twenty minutes to travel the distance; every moment that passed chipped away at the woman’s preconceived notion of how the morning would go. When they finally arrived, she threw cash at the man in the front seat and practically ran up the stairs to Superman’s door.

Her first knocks were polite but insistent. When no answer came, they grew more desperate. No sound came from within, and Lois dug in her purse for the spare key he had given her. She fumbled with the lock, finally managing to open the door. It took only a few steps to view his entire apartment, and each forward motion increased the disappointment she felt as more of the space came into view. He was gone.

~

Chapter Two

~

The weekend passed at a torturously slow pace. Clark wasn’t answering his phone, and he hadn’t been home at all. No one had sighted Superman in Metropolis since Friday. Lois didn’t know what to make of these events; it was possible that the Last Son of Krypton was halfway across the globe fighting crime, combating some toothed alien vagina eating and maiming someone, but she had a sneaking suspicion that his absence was related to their Friday night encounter. Although she’d felt bad on Saturday morning, by the time Monday rolled around, she was firmly in the “I feel like I’m a horrible person” stage.

The woman went to work a half-hour early, but Clark’s desk sat empty. As the minutes rolled by, people walked in one by one and began their workweek. Monday morning rituals were in full swing: conversations droned by the coffee pot, coworkers stopped at other’s desks to chat about their weekends, numerous aspirin were popped by the younger crowd as they attempted to escape their hangovers from a weekend of drinking. By 10 AM, the office was a buzzing beehive of activity, and everyone had shown—except for the one person she wanted to see.

She was about to leave for lunch when her ears, subconsciously attuned to any sign of her would-be lover, heard a deep voice with a slight Midwestern accent greet Harvey Brzezinski, who sat closest to the elevator. At nearly the same speed as Supes had left her apartment, she leaped from her desk to stand in her doorway. There, down the hallway formed between cubicle dividers, the tall, muscular, spectacle-wearing hunk of pincer-possessing penis strolled toward his office chair, greeting those along the way in a friendly fashion. Just as he was about to turn into the space that bore his nameplate, he looked up, and their eyes met.

There was no awkward pause in his eyes, no hesitation in his demeanor. He simply smiled just as he’d done to everyone else, nodded his head in greeting, and said, “Hello, Lois.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and entered his cubicle.

The woman was torn. Should she walk up to him and start a conversation, pretending nothing had happened? Should she wait for him to come to her? For all of the thought she’d invested in the situation over the past 48 hours, nothing had prepared her for him acting… normal. Finally, she decided to say hello and gauge his reaction.

The hall had never seemed as long as it was during those next 22 steps. Her heart pounding, she peeked around the corner to see him sitting in his office chair, then attempted to casually lean against the cubicle divider.

She missed.

The brunette leaned into thin air, unintentionally avoiding the cloth-clad wall by inches. On her way down, she grasped frantically for anything to hold onto, managing only to grab the WWII-era drawing Clark’s neighbor had hung on his wall featuring a smiling soldier drinking from a stainless-steel canteen cup, overshadowed by the caption, “How ‘bout a nice big cup of shut the hell up?” In retrospect, those words would have been good advice. As her eyes took in the drop ceiling tiles above her while she lay on the floor, she earnestly wished she had just stayed in her office.

Her crash had caused quite the commotion, and heads stuck out of cubicle entrances like so many meerkats on the African savannah. Clark was by her side in a (human-speed version of a) flash, and he helped her to her feet. “Are you alright, Miss Lane?” he politely asked. “I’d be better if I could vanish,” she muttered under her breath. For a moment, the alter-ego of Superman briefly considered making her wish come true, but decided against it. Instead, he chose a more gallant action. Seemingly ignorant of all of the eyes staring at his companion, he loudly stated, “I shouldn’t have left that extension cord hanging out! I’m so sorry! That was completely my fault!”

Seemingly satisfied with his simple explanation, heads retreated into their cubicles as quickly as they had popped out. The female reporter shot Clark a look of gratitude, entered his workspace, and sat at the lone, cheap chair sitting across from his standard-issue metal desk. “So, how was your weekend?” she queried in a rather meek fashion. The Kansas emigrant smiled as he tucked his tie to his chest with one hand, seating himself in the rotating chair he typically occupied.

“It was good. I swung by Gotham to visit a friend.” Lois’s thoughts instantly turned to Bruce Wayne, the bat-suit-wearing billionaire who had formerly been Superman’s nemesis. “Oh really? Did everything go well?”

His face spread in an easy smile. “It did! One of them managed to help me solve a bit of a personal problem I’ve had. Speaking of which, are you doing anything tonight?”

“NO!” Her response was a bit too enthusiastic, and she blushed.

Clark’s smile reflected the twinkle in his eye. “Perfect. Say I swing by your place around 6 PM?” He rose, signaling an end to the conversation. She stood in response to his nonverbal cue, nodding enthusiastically. “I’ll be there!” the woman said, then (rather carefully) exited his cubicle and returned to her corner office.

To say she got much done for the rest of the day would be to overstate the situation. Despite the interest that her piece on a nuclear-waste-infected urban river typically initiated, much of her afternoon was spent working through the logistics of various sexual acts she could complete with a pincer-clad penis. Although her earnest desire to make it up to Clark was robust and undeniable, she also had to admit that allowing the equivalent of a set of crab claws in any personal orifice wasn’t a concept she was able to reconcile with. By the end of the day, she was no closer to a tangible solution than she had been at the start.

She exited her office a few minutes before 5 PM; as Lois walked by Clark’s desk, she noticed that he had already left for the day. Resigned to the fact that she wasn’t going to be able to pick up any clues as to how he was feeling, she walked the three blocks to her upscale apartment with thoughts and emotions in a jumble.

The loft was already clean, but she busied herself with making it spotless over the next hour. By the time her wall clock indicated it was five minutes to six, she had prepped her place and herself as much as possible and sat nervously on the sofa, awaiting the knock on the door. Punctual as always, a quick rap four minutes later signaled the start of the evening. Lois stood, nervously brushed the front of her skirt flat, walked to the door, and opened it.

There stood Clark Kent in a navy blue suit, a bouquet of roses in his left hand and a small paper sack in his right. She smiled, then stepped back and motioned him in. He entered, stopped, and turned in the foyer as she swung the door shut behind him. “These are for you,” he said, offering her the flowers. “And this,” he lifted the sack to eye level, tapping it mischievously, “is for me.”

The woman gratefully accepted the bundle of roses, then said, “Clark, before anything else, I want to say that I’m sorry for the way…” The man stepped forward, leaned down, and kissed her, interrupting the apology in the most chivalrous way possible. A bit taken aback and surprised by his response, Lois recovered quickly and returned the kiss with passion. After a moment, Clark stepped back. “There’s no need for that,” he said. “Take a seat.” The Metropolis Marvel motioned to the sofa.

The female reporter was growing used to things going entirely against her preconceived assumptions and followed his direction, seating herself on the edge of the cushion. Supes unrolled the top of the bag, reached in, and pulled out a flesh-colored object. He turned his back to her, and she watched in confused fascination as she heard his zipper lower. The man’s shoulders hunched and his head lowered as he worked with intense concentration. A few moments later, his posture straightened, and the man glanced back over his shoulder. “You ready?” he asked, the smile evident in his voice.

Responding in what had apparently become the new normal in their relationship, Lois’s statement ended with a question mark. “Yes?” came the answer.

Clark boyishly leaped, spinning in the air as he turned to face her. There, amidst an otherwise blue cloth background, hung his cock. The coloring was the same, but the difference was immediately evident. Instead of pincers, the Man of Steel’s rock-hard smaller head was now shaped like a typical circumcised human penis. She stared at it in confusion, then let her eyes drift upward to meet his grinning countenance. “What is that?” she asked.

With obvious pride, Krypton’s Last Son stated, “It’s called a Clawndom. Bruce made it for me.” Stepping closer, he explained its features. Constructed from a super-sensitive material, any sensation outside the supple sheath was transmitted through human-like nerve endings to his cock inside. The head folded his pincers inward, wrapping them neatly to form a normal dickhead. By the time he finished, the woman had fully accepted that this was happening and moved forward, kneeling before him and taking his cock softly in her hands. Clark shivered with the sensation, unwittingly verifying that the Clawndom performed as advertised.

A smile spread across Lois’s face, and she began to stroke his cock. He responded immediately, his stiff member raising upward as his excitement increased. Wondering how it would taste, she leaned forward and took his dick into her mouth. Surprisingly, the “Clawndom” (in her mind, heavy air quotes manifested as she slowly accepted the term) felt precisely like natural skin. For the briefest of moments, she marveled at Bruce Wayne’s technical skill, but her attention quickly returned to her partner.

Slowly at first, her head bobbed back and forth as she took him deep into her throat. Her tongue stroked the underside of his shaft, then explored the newly reformed head. Lois’s lips wrapped around his cock, and the degree to which they stretched informed her that this was among the largest she’d ever experienced. She felt her pussy respond in anticipation, moistening her panties as she continued sucking his hardened member.

Clark groaned in ecstasy; this was the first time another being had ever touched his alien tallywhacker, and the actual experience far exceeded his wildest expectation. He knew Lois was a master with the pen, but he chuckled silently at the thought that her written expressions must naturally flow from her skill with her tongue. The woman’s left hand took his cock and followed the motions of her mouth, caressing his shaft with a firmly erotic grip. The feel of manhood in the back of her throat had always excited her, and Lois placed her right hand on his tight ass and pulled him into her.

A few minutes later, she could tell that her partner was ready to cum. Withdrawing her mouth and hand, she looked up at him, wiping saliva from her lips with the back of her hand. “Not yet,” she stated with an impish grin. The woman rose, turned, and walked to her bedroom. She stripped as she went, casually tossing clothing to the right and left. By the time she reached the bed, she wore nothing but a pair of high heels. Kicking those off, she turned and reclined on the king-sized mattress, spreading her legs in invitation. Clark stared as she extended one hand over her pussy, then curled her index finger inward, beckoning him forward.

With the same speed he’d used in an exit a few days prior, Superman suddenly appeared before her, naked. He leaned forward, his muscular biceps contacting her thighs as he lifted her and pushed the woman back to the center of the bed. He climbed up, took his cock in one hand, and placed it at the entrance to her soaked lips. The man paused, looked into her eyes, and pressed forward.

Lois groaned in ecstasy as she felt him fill her. The man’s dick touched all of the right places, and he began thrusting and withdrawing in a slow, steady tempo. The woman reached around him, positioning her hands on his shoulder blades, and pulled him into her. As his pace increased, she raked her nails across his back, knowing that even the most intense attempt would fail to mark his skin in any way. He grinned, reached beneath her knees, then threw her legs onto his shoulders.

The superhero pushed deep inside of her, eliciting a nearly animalistic moan of eroticism. This time, instead of pulling back, the man stayed where he was. The next moment blew Lois’s mind as she experienced a hint of what Kryptonian sex must feel like. Instead of the rigid phallus that humans have, Clark had complete control of his cock. He flexed it inside of her, curling it upward to press hard against her g spot. The woman’s eyes and mouth flew upon with this unexpected sensation, and she stared at him in wordless pleasure as he explored her pussy in every direction. Reaching, pushing, pulling, twisting, the Man of Tomorrow gave her a taste of the joys her future sex life would hold as his hips remained motionless and his cock fucked her relentlessly.

Lois repeatedly came, each orgasm leading to the next as naturally as train cars follow the one before them. She thrashed beneath him, nonverbally expressing the uncontrollable pleasure he gave her. After her fifth ecstatic crest, the Man of Steel ceased all motion with his hardened member. His lover shivered as she drifted back down from her endorphin-infused high, then looked up at him. “Are you ready to cum, baby?” she whispered.

His lustful gaze answered her question without words. Supes pulled back until his dick almost slipped out of her, then rammed it forward. Lois screamed at the sensual fulfillment she experienced; his forceful thrusts pierced her repeatedly, stretching her fully but stopping shy of causing any pain. It was, in a word, perfect—the best fucking she’d ever received. One could expect little else from a man who exceeded every male member of the human species in all conceivable ways, even if this was his first time.

In less than a minute, Clark’s breathing intensified. Lois sensed what was coming, and she focused exclusively on him, wanting to observe every detail of his body as he orgasmed. The man’s pupils dilated, hands clenched on the bedspread to her sides, and his entire body began to shake as his cock pulsated inside of her. The woman gripped him intensely with her arms and her legs, wrapping herself around him in absolute intimacy. His pace slowed, then ceased, and she felt his weight settle on top of her as he relaxed in post-orgasmic bliss.

Their loving respite lasted only a moment before Bruce Wayne’s roguish personality manifested itself in the privacy of Lois’s bedroom. The billionaire had secretly programmed the Clawndom to respond to a male orgasm, and after a ten-second delay, in the absolute silence filled with only the echoes of the pair’s heavy breathing, a sound emitted from the sheath that had been Superman’s saving grace.

“I’mmmmm BATMAN!!!”

Their reactions were understandably apprehensive. Lois shoved the man off of her, desperate to get whatever was happening inside of her most intimate organ out immediately. Despite his lack of costume, her lover manifested his superhuman abilities and literally levitated off her, rising instantly to the ceiling. As she stared up at him, she saw the bat sign flashing on the tip of his faux dick as her ears detected the sound of “duna dunnanuna dunnanuna dunnanuna BATMAN!!”

The Metropolis Marvel felt his face turn crimson. “I’m… going… to… kill… him…” he muttered through clenched teeth as he ripped the Clawndom off and threw it to the side. Lois overcame her momentary horror, then shock, and finally settled into a fit of laughter at the absurdity of it all. Clark watched her from above, the natural seriousness of a just-deflowered virgin slowly transitioning into a smile, then a grin, and culminating in a chuckle. He floated back down to the mattress, then pulled her to him as they cuddled.

The two talked and laughed long into the night, interspersed by several rounds of lovemaking. Much to her enjoyment, Superman filled her in on the events of his weekend. He’d confessed his issue to Bruce Wayne and experienced a half hour of mockery as the egotistical billionaire bragged about his prowess with his own allegedly sizeable penis. He forgot that Clark had x-ray vision, and Krypton’s Last Son told Lois how the Dark Knight was rather less impressive than the braggadocios claims he made. “Alfred, on the other hand…” Superman silently spread his hands apart, indicating that the humble butler was hung like a small horse. The thought of her partner spending his weekend using see-through abilities to inspect dicks was too much for Lois, and she laughed until she cried at his stories.

Clark discovered that he could silence the obnoxious sounds of the Clawndom by emitting a high-pitched frequency, silent to human ears, but sufficient to muffle the insufferable theme song completely. This allowed them to resume their sexual explorations without further disruptions. After their fourth round, even the superhero was exhausted.

Supes pulled the sheets over them as his lover nestled against him, her back to his chest. Before they fell asleep, Clark couldn’t resist a small practical joke of his own. Although the pincers of his natural member retracted when he was soft, Lois was still getting acquainted with Kryptonian cock behavior and didn’t know what to expect. The man reached beneath the sheets and, with two fingers, pinched her ass.

Although the rest of the details of the night were omitted, the woman’s reaction was one that Superman would later relate to Barry Allen after the next time the two men raced. The Metropolis Marvel looked over at The Flash at the finish line and said, “Let me tell you what. As quick as you are, you’re no match for how fast Lois moves when you pinch her butt.”

With a chuckle, but without further explanation or context, Superman flew away, leaving Barry to wonder what the hell that was all about.

Alien Abduction

The writing prompt was to write about an alien encounter, and this is my first attempt at anything in the genre. Let me know how it turned out!

~~~

They saw each other across the room, and their eyes locked in a mixture of emotions. Lance Corporal Karen M. O’Quinn’s expression was apprehensive, aware, and obviously determined to escape as she strained against her invisible bindings. The young Marine knew that her training had prepared her for this moment; as a POW, her job was to find a way out. Her ramrod posture indicated that she was ready to go to her dying breath without revealing a single detail that would help the enemy.

Across the circular white room sat someone with a markedly different demeanor. Colby Windbreaker was slumped in his seat, his bleached blond hair hanging to his shoulders, and his eyes bore the hazy relaxed expression that occurred in the moments immediately following a massive bong rip. In fact, that’s precisely what had happened moments before he was beamed into the enormous ship floating above their apartment complex.

LCpl O’Quinn lived three doors down and had been preparing for an inspection scheduled for the following day at 0600 hours. Her dress blues had been dry cleaned and subsequently scrubbed with a lint roller. She’d used a ruler to ensure that her insignia and medals were perfectly aligned. The Corfams that adorned her feet had been scrubbed with a damp cloth and soap, dried with a soft cotton towel, and shone so brightly that the black shoes positively glowed. As a final step, she’d put her uniform on to ensure, one last time, that its fit was immaculate. It was when she approached the mirror that she, too, had been irresistibly lifted by the tractor beam, phasing through the two apartments above hers and the roof before being confined by invisible bindings to a chair that looked like it came from the Museum of Modern Art.

She stared at Colby, not even attempting to hide her disgust with the disheveled appearance of her completely relaxed companion. “Hey!” the Marine whispered hoarsely. “Are you stuck?”

The target of her words seemed utterly relaxed. “Whut?” he replied, straightening his posture somewhat. “What do you mean, stuck?”

“Are you restrained? Can you move?”

The apparent surfer raised his hands and waved them, obviously entertained by the motions. He giggled, then said, “Dude, I feel great.”

Surprised at how the reality of her neighbor had failed to reach even her lowest assumptions, she responded sternly. “Look, get your ass over here and help me get loose!”

Colby, still entertained by the effect that the lighter-than-earth gravity had on his floating arms, failed to respond to her words. It seemed as if he hadn’t even heard her. The man climbed onto his chair, then giddily jumped off and waved all of his limbs as he floated to the floor. “Bruhhhhh…” His feet hit the ground, and he immediately launched himself upward, reaching toward the twenty-foot-high ceiling. “This is epiiiiicccc!”

The Marine’s disappointed surprise quickly transitioned into confused shock. She tried each of her hands, then her legs. Each was frozen in place without so much as an inch of give. “Hey!” she shouted, surrendering all attempts at subtlety. “Come help me get free!”

Colby twisted his head toward her as he descended from above. “What do you mean? Aren’t you American? You’re free as fuck!” He chuckled as he began singing the theme song to Team America World Police. “America FUCK YEAH! Comin’ again to save the motherfuckin’ day, yeah, America (FUCK YEAH!), Freedom is the only way, yeah!” What began as an off-tune drone quickly escalated into a full head-banging, air-guitar-screaming solo. Within moments, his voice crescendoed. “Terrorist your game is through, ‘Cause now you have to answer to, America (FUCK YEAH!), So lick my butt and suck on my balls, America (FUCK YEAH!)”

LCpl O’Quinn was equal parts confused and frustrated. Her assumptions, sharpened by the time she spent in SERE training, was that all other prisoners would have the same goals and be onboard with any escape attempt. Her compatriot, however, seemed utterly content where he was. He continued to leap around the room, drifting softly back to the floor, screaming obscene lyrics while enjoying the hell out of himself. The noise had apparently alerted their captors, and the wall to her right whirred softly as it transitioned into a set of double doors that retracted on themselves.

She stared as three green beings entered the room. They were approximately three feet tall, with disproportionately large heads and eyes. Seemingly without chins, their nearly non-existent jaws transitioned seamlessly to toothpick-sized necks. The rest of their body mass combined equaled the size of their heads, with hands and feet that were long and slender. All three stopped, turning in robotic unison to look at her. Despite her previous determination to remain silent, a low “what the f…” slowly escaped her lips.

After a moment, the aliens turned, again in unison, to check out her fellow human. Colby was experimenting with front flips in the low-G environment, his headbanging continuing with undampened enthusiasm. He’d reached the point in the chorus where he was outright screaming, “Porno (FUCK YEAH!) Valium (FUCK YEAH!) Reeboks (FUCK YEAH!) Fake tits (FUCK YEAH!),” when he noticed their visitors.

The singing stopped immediately. Caught in the midst of a flip, the stoner was inverted and immediately assumed that the three newcomers were walking on the ceiling. “Duuuuude,” he whispered softly, obviously in awe. “This is unbelievable!” At that moment, his delayed descent concluded, and he bumped his head against the floor. The rest of his body followed, and he rolled into a seated position. Rising, he ambled toward the three, his body posture indicating an intense curiosity without any semblance of fear.

Karen loudly whispered, “Get away from them! They’re the enemy!” Colby continued his stroll but turned his head slightly and giggled. “Bruh, enemas are my friend. I was blocked for three days solid, and that sucker set me free.” The last word brought him back to the song, and O’Quinn heard him mutter one final, “America (FUCK YEAH)!” under his breath as he took the last few steps toward the aliens.

The three visitors gazed up at the five-foot, nine-inch, completely relaxed college dropout before them. Colby bent at the waist, leaning forward until his face was mere inches from the leading alien’s expressionless features. “This is friggin wicked, man!” With the demeanor of one attempting to make friends with a stray dog, the surfer extended his hand, raising it in a “high five” motion, and paused, awaiting reciprocation.

For the first time, the three acted independently. Each turned toward the others as if silently discussing what this gesture could mean. LCpl O’Quinn strained against her seat; this idiot might be completely useless, but he was a fellow human, and she was determined to rescue him from the impending danger he’d brought upon himself. Who knew what these aliens could do? Thoughts rushed through her head of them ripping him apart with invisible force fields, anally probing him with thick metal rods, or brainwashing him into complete submission. She paused at the latter thought and realized that probably wouldn’t be much of a change for this weirdo, but quickly removed it from her mind.

The three aliens slowly turned to face Colby, who remained absolutely still, a dazed expression of amusement marking his features. The leading alien took a single step forward, then head-butted Colby’s palm. “Bruuuuuh!!!” the man exclaimed, erupting into an ecstatic chortle. “Right on!” He got down on his knees and nodded encouragingly to his new friends, indicating he was ready to return the favor. The alien raised his right hand, and Colby softly head-butted it.

Although their faces remained expressionless, all three aliens began to glow a softer green, obviously communicating their satisfaction. Karen stared with outright incredulity as Colby exchanged greetings with the other two, each alternating hand-raising and head-butting. The four formed a circle, and from the man’s facial expressions, it was apparent they were having a conversation. Colby alternately nodded his head in agreement, laughed, and shrugged. His verbal responses of “yes,” “well, not completely,” and “I feel you there, my man,” were seemingly without context until O’Quinn realized that they must be speaking to him telepathically.

The moment she realized this, all four turned and looked in her direction. A tingle of fear ran up her spine. After a brief pause, Colby verbalized, “They’re gonna check us out. That means we’re gonna be nekkid. Heads up.” Before she could object, the second alien snapped his fingers, and their clothes unraveled into mere threads. The cloth floated off of each human, gathered in the center of the room, and was sucked up through an air vent that suddenly appeared.

Most men would have taken the opportunity to gawk at the newly nude, rather attractive, completely restrained woman. Marijuana, however, often causes someone to have much more juvenile reactions. Colby immediately stared down at his genitals, stood up, and began to make use of the low-G environment once more. He leaned back, arching his body as he thrust his hips forward slightly, and begin to spin his dick in a helicopter fashion. He laughed so hard that tears poured from his eyes, and the three aliens—despite their lack of complementary genitalia—joined him in the gyrating motions.

LCpl O’Quinn had been immediately embarrassed by her clothing’s disappearance, but quickly forgot all about it as she stared at the locker room-style juvenile male bonding that was taking place in front of her. The words “what the actual fuck” rolled through her mind, causing the three aliens to stop and look at her. Colby, on the other hand, was undeterred. He began a series of leaps and downward floats, giggling as his male appendage drifted downward in a delayed reaction relative to his body, causing it to seemingly drift weightlessly in the air.

Karen’s green hosts began to walk toward her. “Hey! Hey man! What are they doing??” she exclaimed, focusing the words on her tattooed, denuded human compatriot. The surfer stopped his motions mid-descent and turned toward her for the first time since their clothing had vanished. “I dunno. I think they’re going to examine you.” He shrugged, then did a cartwheel.

“Tell them I want my clothes back!” O’Quinn shouted, a sense of panicked urgency filling her voice.

The stoner didn’t even look at her to respond. His attention seemed entirely focused on calculating the logistics of launching himself from one wall and reaching the other before the slight gravity that still existed pulled him to the ground. “HEY, YOU! LISTEN TO ME!!” the woman shouted.

Colby turned his head toward her in bemusement. “What? Are you nervous that your coot coot and prune chute are hanging out? Don’t let it bother you. They have X-ray vision.” Karen didn’t pause to wonder how he had gained this knowledge; the aliens had arrived and surrounded her. Motionless, they stared at the woman with unblinking eyes. She felt fear rising inside of her. “What do I do???”

The man had launched himself from the top of the wall and was speedily approaching the other. He’d spun his body and was rapidly rotating while screaming, “I’M A TORPEDO!” Colby bumped into the wall before hitting the ground, rose to his feet, and gave a Tiger Woods-style fist pump. He turned toward her and said, “Oh, they respond to your thoughts. Just think of something fun instead of getting anally probed.”

Karen’s confused and panicked mind retrieved the first memory it could from her scrambled mess of thoughts. Immediately, the entire room transitioned into a perfect replica of her high school prom. She looked down and saw the smooth, wooden planks of the gym floor, then realized a disco ball was spinning in the center of the room, reflecting the neon lights shining from all sides. Immediately, the tunes of Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” drifted from the speakers. Colby was fascinated by his new clothing; wrapped in a cheap tux, he examined his threads in evident satisfaction.

The young Marine wondered how in the world THIS was the memory that she’d retrieved, but didn’t object. There were undoubtedly far more embarrassing situations that could have manifested. Colby walked toward the aliens, bowed deeply at the waist, and asked, “May I have this dance?” Karen shook her head in amazement as one of the aliens took his outstretched hand and walked with him to the center of the dance floor. The music shifted to a gentler tempo, and the surfer and his host began an intimate slow dance.

Remembering the single shot she’d taken before beginning her uniform prep that night, Karen swore to herself that she’d never taste tequila again. The two aliens reached forward and started gently batting her knockers, taking soft swipes and watching them lazily drift back and forth until they finally settled, each motion exaggerated by the spaceship’s environment. She was too shocked to object. Her assumption about any alien environment involved some version of “Take me to your leader!” but obviously, these fancy cats were far less interested in meeting the top brass than they were observing the effect of booby bouncing in low-G.

She closed her eyes, shook her head, and reminiscing about the time she watched The Wizard of Oz, focused intensely on a single thought: “I wish I was home. I wish I was home. I wish I was home.” The sounds slowly drifted away, and the feeling of alien hands on her chest disappeared. She felt bathed in a warm, fuzzy sensation and focused on the peace she felt. After a few minutes, she opened her eyes.

Karen was back in her bedroom, in her pajamas, staring up at the ceiling. She looked over at the clock, which registered five minutes before her alarm was supposed to go off. In a state of utter confusion, she rose and walked around her apartment. Everything was exactly as she remembered it. There was no indication that the night before had been anything but a dream. The Marine shook her head, showered, and dressed for the inspection.

As she walked out to her car, she glanced to her right. Colby was standing there in board shorts and an open, button-up Hawaiian shirt that flapped in the light breeze. He was loading his surfboard onto his 1965 yellow Volkswagen Beetle. Although she’d seen him around and knew he lived in the apartment complex, she’d had no interaction with him outside of the dream the night before. Without pausing, she spun on her heel and marched toward him.

The surfer heard footsteps approaching and turned to look at her. “Oh, hey.” His tone was friendly and familiar as if he knew her. At any rate, he seemed utterly unsurprised. LCpl O’Quinn struggled to find the words to ask him about what she assumed was her dream alone, knowing she’d sound crazy if she voiced her question. Colby continued strapping his board to the car. “You get home ok last night?”

Karen was shocked. “Umm… yes?” she haltingly stated, wondering whether he was asking about her commute from the base to the apartment or her shockingly realistic dream. Colby checked the straps, walked around to get in the driver’s seat, then cranked the engine. He leaned over to look out the open passenger window at his neighbor, then said, “Pretty crazy, man. I will say he was a friggin good dancer.”

The woman’s jaw dropped in shock. “You… you mean… that was REAL?? It actually HAPPENED???” The man shrugged his shoulders, his blond hair swaying with the movement. As he shifted the Bug into reverse, he made eye contact and casually said, “All in all, not my weirdest Thursday night,” then drove away.

The Caped Crusader

I wrote this blog in response to a writing prompt that required me to blend erotica with humor. I’ve never combined the two genres, and I’m intensely curious about what y’all think. Let me know!

~~~

She opened her eyes and couldn’t believe what she saw in front of her. For a moment, Katie wasn’t sure if she was dreaming or awake. There, at the foot of the bed, was Batman in full regalia. His fists were planted firmly on his hips, elbows angling outward in a classic superhero pose. The man’s body faced her, but his head was cocked to the right in a dramatic fashion. She rubbed her eyes—hard—then blinked. This must be a dream; she was inside her house, but Batman’s cape fluttered dramatically behind him in the breeze. Where could the wind be coming from??

The Dark Knight’s face slowly turned, casting a sidelong glance at her. As their eyes met, he winked. A sly grin spread across his face. That’s when she noticed the sound of air blowing and realized that her husband had placed an oscillating fan on the ground and positioned himself in front of it to blow the cape back. She burst out laughing.

“Honey, what in the world are you doing?!”

The masked figure replied in a deep, raspy voice. “I’m not your honey. We don’t have that kind of relationship. I’m here to rescue you from your tedious and uninteresting sex life.”

Katie immediately thought back to a conversation they had had a month prior about spicing up their time in the bedroom. She had mentioned roleplay, but her assumption was closer to a boss-secretary vibe than a marriage of DC Comics to a Viagra ad. She looked at him again, trying hard not to laugh but failing miserably.

“Babe, I’m so sorry. This isn’t working for me. I just can’t take you seriously with that on.”

To Justin’s credit, he remained undeterred and never broke character. Batman was as stoic in the bedroom as he was on screen, and he silently walked from the foot of the bed to her side. “Some people don’t want to be rescued, but they won’t know freedom until they are.” With that, he reached into his utility belt and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Grabbing her wrist, he quickly cuffed her to the bedpost.

“Justin!” Katie exclaimed. “What are you doing???”

As the mysterious superhero walked around to the other side of the bed, his raspy voice corrected her. “I’m not Justin,” he muttered. Then, with a wry smile befitting Justin’s sense of humor, he said, “I’mmmmm BATMAN!” With that, he removed another set of handcuffs and seized her other arm. Katie resisted this time, attempting to pull her hand away. Batman, being much stronger, pulled her wrist until it was outstretched and secured it to the other bedpost.

Katie’s feelings had changed markedly from just moments before. She was positive that she was awake, that the masked figure was her husband, and she knew what he was doing and why. In one sense, she thought the whole thing was dumb—I mean, who dresses up as Batman and fucks his wife?? Certainly, no one in her friend group. At the same time, she noticed that she was slightly aroused. She had been forcefully restrained in her bed by a masked man who had stated he was going to ravage her. As confused as she was, Katie was willing to see where this went. But she was going to make him work for it.

As the Caped Crusader neared the foot of the bed, he produced a length of rope and grabbed one of her ankles. The woman immediately pulled away, wrenching free from his grasp. “No!” she said emphatically. “You can’t do this!” During the previous conversation about sexual exploration, they’d agreed on a safe word if they ever needed it down the line. Katie was intensely aware of the fact that she could use it, and she trusted Justin to stop. She was also aware that, right now, she didn’t want him to.

Gotham’s Defender was relentless in his pursuit. As Katie thrashed on the bed, he climbed on top of the mattress, wrapped his arms around her thigh, and then straddled it. He slid down until her knee was trapped, immobilizing her entire leg. Patiently, the superhero tied her ankle to the bottom bedpost. When he’d secured her, he transitioned to her other leg. Katie resisted as best she could, but her one remaining limb was no match for her (assaulter? rescuer?)’s strength. In short order, she was tied down, spread eagle on their bed.

Katie’s typical bedtime attire was an old, oversized t-shirt and a pair of cotton panties. That’s what she wore at the moment, and nothing else. Batman stood and sauntered around the bed, admiring her figure. She regularly complained about having a mom bod, but Justin had consistently reassured her that her curves were erotic to him. His current demeanor was either a convincing part of his act or a reflection of intense desire. From his apparent alter-ego behavior over the course of their relationship, she knew it was the latter.

“Now, you need to remain still,” the husky voice commanded. He reached beneath his cape and withdrew a knife from his belt. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you.” Katie froze, not quite sure where this was going. The Dark Knight knelt on the bed between her legs, took the edge of her shirt, and lifted it as high as it would go. Slowly, carefully, he moved his knife-bearing hand up to the collar of the garment, then lifted the blade through. He positioned the cutting edge to face back toward himself and sliced through the fabric. When he reached the end, he tossed both sides of her shirt open, revealing her voluptuous breasts. “Mmmm,” he rasped in apparent satisfaction.

Katie could no longer even attempt to deny how aroused she was. This man had just cut her shirt open with a knife, denuding her while she was tied to their bed. The Caped Crusader moved down to focus his attention just below her waist. “Don’t move,” he commanded. Katie remained obediently rigid and observed Batman’s actions. He took a different approach with her panties; rather than slicing through them, he lifted the hem that formed the hole for her left leg and, using just the tip, cut through it. He repeated this on her right side and once more at the waistline. Stepping back, he laid the knife on her nightstand and admired his handiwork. “That should do it,” he rasped.

The woman watched as he approached the head of the bed. She was slightly confused by the fact that he hadn’t removed her panties, but her attention quickly shifted as Gotham’s Greatest Detective placed his hand on her throat. He leaned down and kissed her deeply. Katie had accepted that this roleplay was going to occur; now, she embraced it. She pulled back, twisting her head to the side to escape his kiss. Batman’s hand moved up to her jaw and locked it in place; his other hand moved to her forehead, firmly pinning her to her pillow. He leaned in again, and this time, the woman had no choice. He kissed her deeply. His commitment to the scene had obviously turned him on as well, and the passion he displayed was evident. Katie was almost surprised to find herself kissing back just as eagerly.

The Dark Knight moved downward, adjusting his hand as he went. He kissed her neck, then her collarbone, exploring her chest thoroughly before he moved toward her left nipple. His lips gently caressed it for a moment, then sucked it into his mouth. The way he suckled her reflected everything Batman was supposed to be: rough, but caring; intense, but aware; displaying intense passion for everything he did, laced with a surprising gentleness toward those he rescued. Katie gasped as he suckled her. This was inarguably the most intensity her breasts had ever experienced, and the masked man flirted with the line between affection and affliction. The results were undeniable. She had always enjoyed nipple play and wondered if she could cum from it, but Justin hadn’t made it a point to pursue, and she had never asked. But right here, right now, the question was about to be answered.

Batman lifted his mouth and transitioned to her right nipple, and began anew. This one, however, had already tightened into a firm mound of erotic anticipation, and she could feel his smile as his tongue explored her. He gently but firmly grasped her left nipple with his right hand and began to roll it back and forth. He timed the movements of his mouth and hand perfectly; when he sucked her deep into his mouth, he pulled her other nipple taut. As he grasped one with his teeth and lightly rolled it to and fro, he did the same with his fingers.

Katie began to moan, and her arms and legs subconsciously retracted. She was writhing in pleasure, and the more she reacted, the more enthusiastic the Dark Knight became. The woman became aware of the rising tide of desire that always preceded an orgasm, welling up deep in her belly and spreading its warmth across her entire body. “Oh don’t stop, don’t stop,” she gasped breathlessly. Batman had no intentions of quitting now. His pace became more rapid, and he alternated techniques and pressure with furious intensity. A few moments more, and Katie climaxed.

This was unlike any orgasm she’d ever experienced. Her pussy hadn’t been touched, yet she came with an intensity that felt as if she’d been passionately fucked. The woman’s legs shivered, straightening and flexing as she rolled side to side. She pulled her arms inward as far as the handcuffs would allow, then straightened them, curling her hands into tight fists. She had completely surrendered to the pleasure that the Caped Crusader had forced and was enjoying every moment.

As her orgasm peaked and then subsided, Batman’s movement slowed. As it ended, so did his stimulation, and he removed his mouth and hand from her breasts. His hand slid up to her neck, and he let the weight of it rest on her throat. Making no attempt to squeeze or even grasp, he simply reminded her of his presence, then leaned down and kissed her again. Their lips met with every ounce of the passion they had experienced previously, but noticeably gentler. It was a sensual exchange; Katie had always admired her husband’s kissing abilities, but in the moments after her virgin-like orgasm, she felt the love and warmth pour from his body as their tongues danced together.

After a few minutes, Gotham’s Greatest Detective withdrew, then stood up. The wry smile reappeared as his eyes traveled down her body. “Now,” he rasped, “To the bat cave!” The volume was so low that Katie couldn’t tell if he was whispering to himself or for her benefit. Justin had always laughed harder at his own dad jokes than anyone else had, and she loved that he found himself so infinitely amusing.

Batman reached down, grabbed her panties, and forcefully ripped them from her body. The cuts he’d made on each of the hemlines ensured that only the light cotton fabric needed to be severed, and he did so easily. The jocularity disappeared, and Katie was shocked at the feelings that enveloped her as the Dark Knight tore her underwear from her, leaving her nude except for the fragments of shirt that still lay against her arms. She felt her pussy flood and shivered in anticipation of the acts of dominance that were appearing before her eyes.

The man moved to the foot of the bed and paused. He placed one hand on his chest and the other on the waistline of his pants, then wrenched them forward. Both came off easily, and she realized that he’d worn a tearaway costume. He stood before her now, clothed in nothing but a cowl, a cape, and a utility belt. Katie busted out laughing. Rather than indicating any sense that he felt threatened, Batman grinned back at her. He turned and climbed on top of the dresser, then resumed his initial stance. His stiff erection extending past the buckle of the utility belt added an element of absurdity that redoubled her laughter. The man seemed to be enjoying the humor of the moment as much as he had the passion that preceded it.

When his wife had finally caught her breath, Gotham’s hero turned to face her. “Now,” he muttered in a low voice, his eyes gleaming, “For the rescue.” With that, he knelt and launched himself through the air toward the bed.

For all the advantages that his outfit had rendered thus far, one outstanding shortcoming quickly became apparent to both of them. The cowl had restricted the Caped Crusader’s vision to some degree, including what he could see just above his eyes. When he leaned into his leap, his head lowered, prohibiting him from seeing what lay above him. Batman was immediately and regrettably reminded of the ceiling fan he’d installed just a week prior, one that hung from their vaulted ceiling on an 18-inch down rod.

The mischievous cowl at least bore its part of the ordeal, being the first to forcefully encounter the ceiling fan. Batman’s forward momentum didn’t slow as his head stopped suddenly; rather, his lower body continued to propel itself forward as his top-end toppled backward. He hit the edge of the bed, then collapsed on the floor.

To say that Katie was shocked was an understatement. She attempted to rush to his side, but she was (now, unfortunately) inescapably restrained. The woman could hear her husband breathing and could tell that he was at least alive, but she also quickly surmised that he’d been knocked out cold. She shouted his name repeatedly, trying to rouse him from his forced slumber, but to no avail. However, this isn’t to say that her screaming didn’t produce results.

Stephanie, their fifteen-year-old daughter, was in her bedroom at the other end of the house. She had stayed up to complete a project that was due in school the next day and was listening to music while scrolling through TikTok. Her peaceful Zen was interrupted by her mother’s screams, and the girl rushed to her aid.

Nothing would prepare her for what she was about to see.

She swung the door open and immediately saw her mother naked and tied to the bed. The ceiling fan was in complete disarray: two blades were broken, and it was hanging at an awkward angle. What lay on the floor was what would result in several months of counseling, and as her eyes took in a semi-naked Batman, she did what any normal teenage girl would do.

She screamed. And she ran.

Moments later, as she was safely locked in her room, she remembered her mother. Her perception reawakened, and her mother’s voice shouting her name became apparent. The teenager unlocked her door and moved slowly down the hallway, not quite sure what else might manifest in this new, strange world that now surrounded her. The girl stopped just outside of her parent’s open door; she could see her mother, but all that was visible of the masked invader was his feet.

“Stephanie!” her mother shouted.

“Mom!” she screamed in return. “WHO IS THAT????”

“It’s your father!” came the reply.

“WHAT?????” Stephanie’s mind was having difficulty reconciling everything that was happening.

“Call 911 and then untie me!”

Stephanie slowly pulled her cell phone out of her jeans pocket, then dialed the three numbers.

“911, what’s your emergency?” The question was one she was wholly unprepared to answer. “Ummm…” she hesitated. What in the world was her emergency? “My parents are acting really weird, and they need help right now. Send an ambulance.” With that, Stephanie hung up.

The 911 dispatcher had very little to go off of with this cryptic message, so she assumed the worst. She rapidly pinged the cell signal and dispatched police, fire, and EMS to the location. To say that this was about to be a shit show was to drastically understate the situation. The neighborhood was soon filled with flashing lights and sirens as three police cars, a fire engine, a ladder truck, and an ambulance crowded the street in front of their residence.

Meanwhile, Stephanie had attempted to release her mother. She’d succeeded with the ropes but had no answer for the cuffs. “Where are the keys??” she asked her mother. Katie was equally confused. “I don’t know, honey. I didn’t even know we had handcuffs.” As the two thought intently, Katie had an idea. “Check your father’s utility belt. They’re probably in one of the pockets.”

Stephanie looked at her mother with an incredulous expression. “His what?”

“His utility belt. He’s wearing it.”

“Ummmm… he’s naked.”

“No, he’s not. He’s wearing a utility belt. Check it for keys.”

Stephanie’s current world continued in a downward spiral, divorcing itself entirely from the combined experiences of her fifteen years. She silently shook her head in confusion, then mentally prepared herself for having to explore the utility belt of her nearly naked, wholly knocked-out father. Slowly, she rose from the bed and woodenly turned toward the foot, steeling herself for what she was about to do. Just as she reached the footboard, the front door was assaulted by a series of blows. Stephanie screamed in surprise. “POLICE! OPEN UP!!” came the call from the front of the house.

The teenager was halfway to the door, wondering how her night could get any weirder before she remembered that she’d dialed 911, and they were there in response to her call. She unlocked, then opened the door, and two officers rushed in. “Are you ok??” the leading cop urgently asked. “Yes… yes, I’m ok,” she stammered. “My parents are that way.” Stephanie pointed in the direction of the master bedroom. “They need mental help.”

The confused police officers rushed to clear the room and ascertain the situation. Two minutes later, they’d accomplished the first goal but were nowhere near achieving the second. Recognizing Justin’s need for medical attention, they’d called the EMTs in and succeeded in unlocking Katie’s handcuffs, freeing her from her bed. One of them found her robe and handed it to her, and she rapidly dressed.

Stephanie was standing in the hallway just outside the master bedroom, and Katie anxiously stood nearby as the EMTs triaged Justin. “Oh man,” one of the medics stated. “We’ve got to remove this before putting him on the gurney.”

“What is it?” one of the cops queried.

“Well,” the EMT said as he concentrated intensely on the task at hand, “It’s a Batman butt plug that’s fully inserted in his rectum. And it’s flashing the bat signal.”

For a moment, silence engulfed the room. Then, with an amplified emphasis that comes when everything else is quiet, Stephanie’s voice wafted from the hallway. “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, MOM??”

Within a few hours, (almost) all had been set right. Stephanie, somewhat traumatized by the whole event, had spent the night with her best friend. Katie had accompanied Justin to the hospital, and he regained consciousness on the way. They both spent the night there as he was kept for observation but released the following day. Both took the day off work; although there had been some awkwardness early in the morning, they’d discussed what had happened and laughed uproariously as they filled each other in on their perspective of everything that had happened. By the time school let out, they were in a downright jovial mood.

When Stephanie got home, she walked through the door and just stood in the entryway. She glared at her parents, who were standing in the kitchen. She didn’t say a word; for a moment, neither did they. Katie broke the ice. “Stephanie…”

The teenager interrupted them. “I have only one question. Why??”

The married couple looked at each other, desperately trying to telepathically agree on a concise explanation that would somehow reconcile the situation with reality. Finally, Justin grinned. He turned toward their daughter, still glaring at them from the entry, and said:

“Because I’mmmmm BATMAN!!”

The Taco Bell Fiasco

It was the beginning of the end.

The thought came automatically. The moment that Jake took Exit 217, Veronica knew where he was headed—Taco Bell. Every time… e.v.e.r.y. t.i.m.e. that they went out for a drink, it would turn into three, and the House of Americanized Burrito became a stop on the way back. On each occasion, disaster awaited them within the next few hours.

No, it wasn’t always like you assume it was, dear reader. I’m sure you think that the following paragraphs will be filled with fart jokes and stories of inconsolable, explosive diarrhea. That would be easy to deal with: open a window, turn on a vent fan, or duct tape his ass to the toilet. Sigh. Truth truly is stranger than fiction.

“Please don’t,” Veronica pleaded. “You can’t do this again. We got a letter from the homeowners association last time.”

Jake laughed maniacally. He always did this when he was buzzed—still sober enough to drive, but sufficiently intoxicated to shift into a higher personality gear. The man rolled down his window and hollered into the interstate-induced wind stream, “THE HOA CAN SUCK MY DEEEEEYOCKKKKKKKK.”

His wife buried her face in her hands and slowly shook her head. She wouldn’t get much sleep tonight. As the two pulled into the drive-through, Veronica pulled out her phone and texted her sister. “I’m going to need you to bring me the ladder, a rope, two rolls of duct tape, and some bolt cutters.”

The text bubbles popped up immediately. A moment later, the response came through. “Is Jake at Taco Bell again??”

“Yep”

“Crap. How many beers has he had?”

“Three”

“OMW”

Meanwhile, Veronica’s husband had leaned out the window and was having an in-depth conversation with the menu board. Unfortunately, they were still a car back from the speaker, and the driver in the first car was desperately trying to order over Jake’s enthusiastic ramblings.

“I’d like a Cheesy Gordita Crunch…”

“WOOOHOOOO!!! WRAP DAT MEAT IN YO CHEEEEEEESY SAUCE!!!” Jake began thrusting his hips against the steering wheel enthusiastically.

“…and a chicken quesadilla…”

“OHHH, YOU WANT A QUEASY DOLLA?? YOU DIRTY BOY!!” The slightly inebriated driver pulled a handful of change out of the center console, transferred it to his left hand, and rapidly shook it to and fro. “DIS MONEY BE SO MOTION SICK IT BE ONE QUEASY DOLLA!!”

Veronica buried her face further in her hands, turning beet red.

Jake hurled the coins at the now-departing vehicle. It was fortunate for him that he missed; otherwise, the driver’s noticeable relief at completing his order and intense concentration on leaving the immediate vicinity might have transformed into more irate emotions. The couple’s automobile rolled forward, and they were soon at the order screen.

Jake chuckled. “Hey babe, watch this.” Veronica lifted her head to look at him and saw the toddler-level mischief plastered on his expression. Her husband faked a thick Southern drawl, then faced the speaker.

“Welcome to Taco Bell. May I take your order?” The feminine voice on the other end belonged to someone who was either confused by the previous mixed order and giving the newcomers the benefit of the doubt, or was a world-class customer service rep. Either way, there was nothing but innocent enthusiasm in her voice.

“Yeeaaaahhh, y’all got any o’ them there pink tacos?” Jake turned toward Veronica and winked.

“Ummm, no, sir. We have soft and hard tacos.”

Jake’s juvenile laughter filled the car. “Awwww, I bet y’all do. Now Imma need a number 4, a number 7, and a number 69.”

“I’m sorry, sir, there’s no 69.”

“Yeeeaaahhhh, I get that from my wife all the time.” Veronica punched Jake’s arm as he recoiled in mock agony. “But if you HAD a number 69, what do you think it should be?”

There was a brief pause before the response came. “I don’t understand.”

Jake’s fake drawl thickened, the very tone as dense as sweet tea. “Aight, sugar pie, lemme ask you a question. If you was the CEO of this here yonder Taco Bellio, and you had to come up with a number 69, what would you put in it?”

Another awkward silence. “You want me to invent an order for you to order it?”

“YAHTZEE!!” Jake’s enthusiasm grew into a near scream.

“Well, I’d say you needed 14 bean burritos, 26 soft tacos, 28 hard tacos, and a black bean burrito.” The cashier had begun to giggle, and her laughter came through in her voice.

“Yeeeeahh, gimme one o’ them. That’ll be it!”

“Your order comes to $119.74. Please pull up to the next window.”

As the car began to roll forward, Veronica looked at the driver with incredulity. “What in the world are you going to do with that many tacos and burritos??” Jake’s goofy grin had already spread across his face. “Hell if I know, but we ain’t letting it go to waste!!”

After he’d paid (and only let one remark slip about how much better a 69 was when a black burrito was involved), the cashier handed him three bags loaded with faux Mexican food. Jake stacked them all on Veronica’s lap with a satisfied smirk. He didn’t say a word, just smiled that idiotic expression that said he’d reverted to an odd combination of a two-year-old, 15-year-old, and 21-year-old boy that emphasized the most immature aspects of each. By this time, his wife sighed in acceptance, knowing that the events of the night had already started. There was no stopping this train wreck now.

Forty-five minutes later, Veronica’s sister arrived. She parked, exited her truck quickly, and began walking toward Veronica, who was standing in the front yard with a flashlight pointed up in the tree. “What’s he doing??” Cassidy asked the question without even seeing Jake; she knew that’s where he had to be.

Veronica sighed. “He’s making a swing.”

“WHAT?!? It’s 1 in the morning!”

Another sigh. “Trust me, I know. Last time, he…”

Her words were interrupted by a shout from the branches above. “OK BABE, CATCH THIS!” A rope dropped from the heights of the tree, followed immediately by a Tarzan-style yodeling shout.

“You said he had only three beers???” Cassidy’s surprise was apparent.

“Yeah,” came the response. “AT the bar. The moment we got home, he wolfed down three soft tacos and a black bean burrito, then five shots of Fireball. We’re fucked.”

“HEY BABE, YOU GOT THE DUCT TAPE?!” Veronica glanced over at her sister, who shook her head but retrieved one of the rolls from the truck, handing it to the relatively calm but obviously exasperated wife. “Yes, hon. I have it.”

“WELL, TOSS IT UP!” Resigned to the ensuing events, Veronica threw the roll of gray tape toward the shadowy figure wedged in the crotch of a V-shaped branch. Jake caught it, then yelled back: “OK, NOW I NEED TWO OF THOSE BEAN BURRITOS!!”

“Babe, you don’t have to scream. I’m literally fifteen feet away.” As the woman walked toward the house, she heard an adolescent chuckle, followed by the sound of Jake’s drunken singing. “Do yo’ dick hang low, do it wobble to and fro, can you see it from the yard, alla fitteen feet below…” A few moments later, she returned with the required food items.

“Ok, I’ve got ‘em. What do I do now?”

“TOSS ‘EM UP!”

One after another, she threw the phallic Mexican food toward her obliterated husband. It took several tries this time, but Jake eventually managed to catch both. The sounds of unraveling duct tape, ripping, and Taco Bell wrapping paper crinkling followed for several moments. Cassidy inquisitively looked at her sister, who just shook her head in stoic acceptance.

Moments later, the juvenile giggling from above was interrupted with another request. “I NEED A FLASHLIGHT.”

His angelically supportive wife responded. “What size?”

“A BIG BLACK ONE. THE BIGGER AND BLACKER THE BETTER!!”

“Oh gawd…” she muttered as she headed toward the garage, then returned with a 5D Maglite. Veronica looked at her sister with an expression that was equal parts embarrassment, sarcasm, and resignation. “This is what he used last time.” Then, turning her attention, she said, “Tally ho!” and threw the metal tube in Jake’s direction. Once again, her aim was true.

In the moments that followed, the neighbors began to arrive. Awakened by the shouting, several came to watch the scene. “He drunk again?” old Mr. Johnson asked. “How many did he have?” nosy Sue from next door queried. “Taco Bell?” came the inquisitive statement from John, Jake’s best friend who had arrived with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

More sounds of duct tape unwrapping and ripping followed. It couldn’t have been more than a minute before Jake shouted, “Y’ALL READY TO MEET TYRONE PEDRITO THE THIRD?!?” Without waiting for an answer, he pulled up the end of the rope he’d previously tied off, then repeated the Tarzan yodel. As absurd as his previous shenanigans had been, no one below was prepared for the sight that followed.

A pale, nearly nude male figure swung from the tree, completing a near-perfect arc. The only part of him that could be called clothed consisted of several strips of duct tape wrapped around his thighs, anchoring two burritos that hung out in front of his crotch and the now-lit Maglite that extended rearward from between his naked butt cheeks.

As the neighborhood watch filled its role in stunned silence, Jake began his return arc. That’s when everyone noticed the plastic bag hanging from one arm, from whence the yodeling nudist withdraw soft tacos and began launching them at his audience. “TYROOOOONE PEDRITOOOOOOOO” came the wafting screams as the torrent of soft tacos rained down as the third arc began.

By this point, everyone had shifted into defensive postures. Mr. Johnson lifted his cane and began swinging it like a geriatric D’Artagnan, Sue dove for the hydrangeas while Veronica and Cassidy sprinted in the other direction. John, the lone holdout, was attempting to catch tacos and toss them back, apparently considering the sport of denuded pinata launching worth the risk of being nailed with greasy tacos. To be fair, he was doing a rather spectacular job. One of the quasi-Mexican delicacies found its mark square in the middle of Tyrone Pedrito the Third’s back, while another slapped him across the face, leaving a trail of hamburger meat and lettuce across TPIII’s maniacal features.

Realizing both the sport and danger posed to him by his cannon-armed neighbor, Jake began a series of contortions that would have certainly landed him at least the silver medal in men’s gymnastics at the Olympics. All of the onlookers stopped and stared in awe at the flyaway that immediately transitioned to a double layout and finished in a momentary front giant.

The unfortunate side effect of Jake’s gyrations was that it changed the direction of his swing. Already twisting in a slightly counter-clockwise fashion, the rapid shifts had altered his arcs by a full 45 degrees. This put him on a collision course with two things: Mr. Johnson, and Fate.

Despite his cataracts, the elderly neighbor was acutely aware of motion and had lost none of his mental faculties. This includes the renowned “fight or flight” response, which dictates that when a mortal threat is swinging toward your melon, the physical reaction is to push it away. And when one has a cane, that automatically becomes an extension of one’s hands.

Tyrone Pedrito the Third’s twisting motion had oriented him to face away from Mr. Johnson. The commotion had also partially inverted him, angling him in an ungainly fashion for a direct collision with Fate. The gap closed. Mr. Johnson’s survival instincts drove his cane forward. Even with poor eyesight, it’s difficult to miss the shining spotlight of a 5D Maglite—unfortunately situated perfectly between Jake’s butt cheeks—and Fate combined with subconscious reactions to foster a rather calamitous encounter.

Mr. Johnson pushed.

Tyrone Pedrito the Third swung astern.

Veronica, Cassidy, Sue, and John gasped.

In some unknown realm, Fate laughed maniacally.

The night’s first casualty occurred.

The shrill scream that issued forth from the Tarzan facsimile could be described as nothing short of what a Hollywood sound editor would have deemed a personification of Terror. Knocked backward by TPIII’s insuppressible momentum, Mr. Johnson was flung rearward into the hydrangea bushes.

Where Sue was hiding.

Fate claimed its second and third victims with enthusiasm. 

John, intent on helping his two injured neighbors, spun toward them when Fate turned its attention on him. Jake’s reaction to being… manhandled… was to spiral in the accelerated version of his former gymnastic feats. This put him in a (quite literal) tailspin, and the rotation swung what was formerly Mr. Johnson’s (and now, indisputably, Jake’s) cane toward John’s head.

The fourth casualty of the night collapsed.

Veronica and Cassidy, having retreated to the relative safety of the driveway, stared slack-jawed at the graphic scene unfolding before them. A moment of subconscious sibling clairvoyance joined their minds as one, and both turned to sprint toward Cassidy’s truck. Jake’s wife seized the bolt cutters while her sister hoisted the ladder. That’s where the telepathic connection was severed.

If they had paused to discuss their intentions, they would have realized that their goals landed at opposite ends of the spectrum. Veronica intended to sever the rope, dropping Jake immediately. Cassidy assumed they would set up the ladder and gently rescue him from his perch.

As often occurs with contradictory attempts, neither happened.

Veronica reached the tree first and immediately set upon the rope. Cassidy was mere steps behind her, the ladder hoisted on her shoulder like an adrenaline-fueled firefighter dashing towards a raging inferno. TPIII was once again reaching the height of his arc, screaming like a banshee and twisting frantically as he began his return swing.

The next three events occurred simultaneously.

Veronica cut the rope, unhinging Jake from his uncontrolled careening. Jake continued in the direction he had been headed but added a rapid descent to his forward motion. Cassidy, the ladder hoisted on her shoulder, swung to position it for a rescue.

Jake’s forehead met the aft end of the ladder with such force that it knocked him senseless. Propelled by his momentum, the ladder swung clockwise, and its perch upon Cassidy’s shoulders was ideally situated to greet the equal height of her sister. Knocked unconscious by the ladder, Veronica tossed the bolt cutters backward, nailing Cassidy in the back of her skull.

In the ensuing silence, one could almost picture Fate’s invisible figure strolling past his fifth, sixth, and seventh victims and chuckling with satisfaction. After all, even immortal forces must find their humor somewhere, and after millennia of interaction with homo sapiens, Fate’s jocularity had reached “full buffoonery” levels.

It was Officer Johnson’s first night patrolling the small town, and he had enthusiastically responded to the noise complaint in a nearby suburban neighborhood. He was about to discover that police academy, with all of its emphasis on attention to detail, hadn’t come close to preparing him for the sight that lay before his eyes as he exited the patrol car.

For a moment, the man paused in stunned silence. He grasped for his radio and managed to find it on his third swipe. “Uhhh… uhh…multiple code 187s! It’s a massacre!!”

The rest of the town’s night shift police force, as well as half the volunteer fire department and two ambulances, arrived on the scene promptly. The ambulances had to make four trips each before everyone involved had been transported to the local hospital. At the same time, Officer Johnson and his associates attempted to make sense of the incoherent and contradictory statements of those who had started to regain consciousness.

Within twenty minutes, the on-shift police supervisor arrived. He exited his patrol vehicle, then walked up to the young cop. “What in the world of three-toed bare-backed berry pickers is going on here?? I can’t make heads or tails over what’s being said on the radio.”

Johnson swallowed, then wiped his brow with a combination of nervousness and frustration. “Sir, all I can make out is that somebody got anal plugged by an order 69 from Taco Bell, and an alleged perpetrator named…” the officer flipped several pages back in his patrol book, “…Tyrone Pedrito, who was apparently demon-possessed, turned into a Tarzan turd tornado and leveled everyone.”

His supervisor stared at him in disbelief. “Say what?”

Johnson shrugged, resigned to the fact that he’d be on night patrol until he retired. “You’ve got me, sir. It started as a noise complaint. When I got here, I thought everyone was dead.”

A month later, Veronica and Jake appeared in court, both represented by their respective divorce attorneys. The courtroom was silent as the judge finished flipping through the last page of documentation. He glanced up, his gaze shifting between the two parties. With a sigh of amused exasperation, he finally settled on Jake. “Well, do you have anything to say in response to this?”

Veronica’s soon-to-be-ex-husband had always been relatively unflappable and capable of taking everything in stride. With a wry smile, he glanced toward his lover-turned-hater. “Only one thing, Your Honor.” There was a pause for dramatic effect, then he reached under the table to retrieve a large paper sack. “Does anyone want Taco Bell?”

And that, my friends, is how Veronica wound up in jail for homicide.