Fucking a Superhero

Here he comes again, the costumed vigilante, the icon of justice, the steadfast opponent of evil and wrongdoing. Sometimes he's already here when I get home.

Usually crashing on the couch or in my bed, or using the shower. He gets into my apartment via the balcony, no easy feat ten stories up from street level.

I never know what he's been doing or where he's been- whether he's just come from thwarting an archvillain, saving innocent people from certain death or sending a dozen thugs to the hospital- but I always know what he's like: lonely, exhausted, starved for affection, coming down from a major burst of adrenaline and horny as hell.

I've seen him on the evening news and discussed frequently in the newspaper. His iconic, graphic costume is known in every household of the country.

It's like I'm fucking a celebrity, only no one knows it but me.

I was never any sort of fangirl, although the occasional tv coverage of him fighting on rooftops in the city I call my hometown gave me a bit of a thrill. He was an object of fascination, but not relatable. He was a symbol, a costume- albeit an incredibly buff one. Unless I was unfortunate enough to find myself in incredible danger I didn't expect or hope to ever meet him. Some people feel the same about the police.

Being single and sex-less for several years gives you unreasonably high expectations. Working with an all-female, older staff doesn't give you much opportunity to meet men. So when I was set up for a blind date by my co-worker I primped within an inch of my life. Best date dress- black, low-cut and form-fitting- sultry makeup, everything shaved below the waist. What if? Just in case... I had to make a good impression.

Long story short, the blind date bombed, hard- resulting in me sneaking away before dessert and retreating into the darkest club I could find, dancing half-heartedly in a room full of strangers and drinking in earnest, hoping I wasn't as boring as the loser I just had dinner with.

Tired of being splashed with beer and smeared with strangers' sweat, I left before the clubs were even crowded and set off for home on foot, cab money unwittingly spent. My dress had mysterious sticky spots, the "waterproof" mascara I had applied was making for my cheeks and I realized that in my haste to leave I had left my jacket at the restaurant. I was, as the kids say, a "hot mess".

Shivering non-stop, I walked the long trek home alone, sweat seeming to freeze to my skin. Mercifully few people were around to witness my shame and disregarded a sad looking girl hugging herself and marching stiffly down the sidewalk.

When I passed the police station two blocks from my apartment, sickened, disheveled and feeling pitiful, I saw him- the superhero himself- leaving the building, no doubt dropping off his latest capture. I stopped and stared as he emerged- he was so tall in real life!- chest broad and limbs lean and muscled, his chiseled features thrown into sharp contrast under the streetlights.

I saw him stop and inadvertently glance my way. His eyes were obscured by the shadow of the eye mask and I didn't know whether his brows furrowed in concern, or contempt. He made a small move then paused, as if he didn't know whether to approach or call out.

Did he have nowhere else to be this time of night? Did he have time for me?

My heart slowed in this small moment of rare possibility. Mind hazy and dreamy, my body acted on its own, unfolded my goose-pimpled arms, transfixed him with my raccoon-eyes and I heard my voice blurt out,

"Walk me home?"

Incredibly, he did.

Had nothing more to do that night, did you, superhero? Maybe he had been awake for 40 hours straight, or was tired of crime for the day. Something that night made him weary enough to escort a lone drunk girl home.

Although I had sobered up from the cold, I let him open my apartment door and feed me a glass of water. I made sure he saw me enter the bedroom, and as soon as I saw his shadow in the doorway I knew it was now or never, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And I really had nothing to lose if I tried it.

I stripped, slowly and deliberately. I kept my eyes fixed on him as I unzipped my dress, watching his expression change as I slipped the straps from my shoulders, the upper half falling forward to expose my bare tits. Already his mind and suspicions were working, scanning for hidden traps or ambush, anything but this completely random seduction. Of course there was nothing besides me standing before him, getting naked.

He didn't move, except for his throat working slightly.

"I'm cold", I commented, though I'm certain he had noticed my nipples harden.

"Get under the covers", he answered tonelessly, stepping forward with a hand outstretched to escort me, the crazy little lady that I am, to guide me to do the right thing and then disappear from my life.

I stepped forward and pressed myself against him, kept my hands where he could see 'em. He was warmer than he looked.

"Stop it", he said automatically. I pressed my lips against the hollow of his collarbone, through the spandex. He shook his head, exasperated. I slid my hands up to his neck and he grasped my shoulders and held them firmly with another "stop it", though his voice was softer this time.

Seduction wouldn't work, and neither would pleading, cajoling or even honesty at this point. So I gave him options.

"You can leave, or you can fuck me."

That made him pause. I guess it turns out I wasn't the only one having a dry spell.

I had to crane my neck up to kiss his perfect lips and they were dry and cold, tasting of the night air. I wound my arms around his neck and he kissed back hesitantly, opening my mouth just a little, tasting me back. When his hands crept forward and rested softly on my waist I thought, 'this is it.'

I slid my hands down those magnificent biceps and pressed down hard on his forearms. His hands crept lower, felt up my bare buttocks. Come on, just a little farther. You're almost there. I had to jump a little, but managed to brush his palm against the heat between my legs. His fingers curled automatically and suddenly he was cupping my hot moist cunt, my nipples pressing into his chest, a pleased moan escaping from my lips.

Those same devastatingly strong hands that have crushed so many firearms and punched out so many villains gripped my ass and those thick fingers deftly slid inside my pussy. He had a look of surprise on his face at first that gradually faded, giving way to recognition, the familiar but long-forgotten feeling of lust.

Been missing something, mister hero?

His fingers began to move, his other hand grasped my butt and hoisted me against him so my feet left the floor and I blanked out a little bit after this point. Next thing I knew I was on the bed, being finger-fucked by this Herculean god amongst men, his spandex clad body chafing my bare skin, his mouth on mine. I could feel every ripple of muscle through his costume, hard and firm against me but self-controlled, not hurting like I know he could.

Through mutation or alien intervention or simply an overly gifted metabolism, he's sculpted like a marble statue (or better), every prominent muscle under the costume is real.

Holy shit, I wanted him to fuck me- in every way he could possibly take me.

I could feel his cock rising hard and insistent against my leg, trapped and straining against his costume. I vaguely wondered if pre-come stains spandex.

With a tormented groan he pulled away to peel off the lower portion of his costume, his bulging cock popping free from its tight prison. I immediately scooted down and took him deep in my mouth, my fingers forming a tight ring around the base of his cock. He jumped in surprise and let out a hiss- maybe of disbelief. Couldn't believe that he found himself here, that he's actually doing it with a civilian. You and me both, superhero.

I swirled my tongue around as I bobbed back and forth on his shaft, enjoying his gasps and groans. I sucked hard on the sensitive tip and he bucked involuntarily, my fist around his shaft the only thing keeping him from sending his cock deep down my throat. I wondered how many girls had done this to him. It certainly seemed like it hadn't been done for a long time.

He suddenly pulled himself away from my eager mouth, pushed me down onto the mattress and positioned his cock between my waiting thighs. I understood this to mean he wanted to get it over with before the guilt set in, before he could abandon this tryst for higher purposes. It's okay, I could take it.

But when he sank into me and filled me to the brim with his rigid cock I wanted him to stay there forever.

As he began to thrust, my nerves buzzed and leapt and sang Glory Hallelujahs at his sweet length gliding in and out of my lonely, neglected pussy. I thrust my own hips up to meet him and felt his bulging cock head hit so deep inside I was panting within seconds. I wrapped my legs around his lean hips, dug my heels into that rock-hard butt and hung on for dear life. His pelvis grinded against my swollen clit and I saw stars.

Even though I came raucously, pussy clenching and twitching wildly, he continued thrusting as before, with no signs of losing control. He fucked with single-minded tenacity, relishing the fulfillment of a long dormant need. He flipped and flopped me up and down the bed, entering me from the side, from behind, binding my legs together tightly and then opening them wide. The new angles at which he pounded into my pussy awakened nerves I didn't know existed. Even as I climaxed again and again he bent me into another position, making me feel his cock anew, fucking every inch of my cunt he could reach.

I found myself nearly upside down, my hips clear off the bed while he knelt, him clutching my legs to his body the only thing supporting my weight when I begged him to finish. I was practically doing a shoulder stand- I knew I was gonna feel this in the morning. He capitulated by grasping my waist firmly and thrusting into my prone body with burning speed. As the friction eked out one last orgasm out of my weakly spasming pussy he came, and at just that moment he became an ordinary man. He spurted, hot and slick and urgent, emptying his balls, accompanied by uncontrollable moans and embarrassing faces. But he didn't make me explode or anything.

Popping back the Pill before a blind date seemed like pathetically desperate optimism earlier in the evening. Now it seemed a serendipitous blessing. No regrets, my superhero. No scandals or babies on my watch. And I told him so.

He actually smiled. He dressed slowly. As he turned to leave I hoped he would get a good night's sleep. I called after him, softly.

"Stop by again, sometime".

And would you know, he still does.