Superf***er Vol. 03

Reluctant Superhero

I loved hearing her squeak as she absorbed my pelvic thrusts. Her pussy was stretched to the max trying to accommodate the dick whose size had left such an impression on her, but that just made it feel better for both of us. Even by my standards, Zola was a nice catch: a feature dancer at a long-running topless review, her face was plastered on billboards all over Vegas. Her breasts, while augmented, were so professionally done that I needed to use my infrared vision to see where the incisions had been made, and her nipples were pink gumdrops that I couldn't resist popping into my mouth again and again. But I most appreciated her dancer's body--muscled, lean, exceptionally flexible, all of which made me reminiscent of females of my own species. She was damn near doing the splits so that her pussy could make room for me, yet it seemed to take no effort at all to stretch so far.

Not only did I appreciate her as an outstanding example of your species, but I also appreciated how little effort it taken to bed her. I know, that sounds surprising, the girls that work the strip reject twenty guys before breakfast--that's where my not-so-little friend comes in. I was playing blackjack at the Pyramid, having spent so many hours at the Roman Forum where I was staying that I was becoming concerned they might start to notice that I was coming out ahead 4-5k per day. They didn't know me at the Pyramid, so when they saw me playing purple the pit boss came over and gave me tickets to the show--in the special players' row that guarantees that you will be part of the show. Zola, dressed in a man's suit for that number, was grinding her butt into me like a lap dancer. I was surprised how aroused the show had made me, so I was as erect as I could get in the stupid tight pants you humans wear. The spotlight was on her as she danced, but up close I saw her give me a little frown.

"Vaht did you do, shtick a salami down your pants?" she whispered disgustedly and with an accent I recognized as Russian.

Having first come to your planet through a wormhole in space-time in the wake of the Tunguska impact, Russian had been the first earth language I'd learned. It caught her by surprise when I responded to her in her native tongue, but she was professional enough that the audience had no idea she was even speaking."Nyet, that's really me darling," To emphasize my point, I twitched my penis; she could sense the slight pressure.

"Stop by the dressing room after the show,"she replied in Russian.

I did. She and the other two feature dancers came out after the show to wave and be polite to the guests, occasionally signing items for guests. She whispered to me in Russian that I should wait for her at the famous Politburo vodka bar. I did, and an hour later she showed up with another of the dancers. I had by then secured a corner booth and bottle of the rare Russian vodka, still distilled from potatoes like it should be, on ice--the bottle, that is. You would NEVER put ice cubes in the vodka itself. Between speaking Russian and my knowledge of vodka, suitable impressions were made. Once she slipped her hand into my pants (since nothing else would convince her my dick was really that big) it was only a matter of time before she lay naked below me in the master bedroom of my suite, testing it out for herself.

My dick seemed harder than usual while I was fucking her. She was just such an outstanding physical specimen, her blonde hair mashed into the pillow, her hips raised to accept my penetrations. I was getting close to cumming, so it was time to pull out the stops with her. I gently tweaked one of her nipples between my thumb and forefinger. The tender flesh completed the circuit between the negative ions in my thumbs and the positives in my fingers, producing a very pleasing tingle. Her attention had been focused on feeling my dick fill her to bursting, but now suddenly there was the addition of an extremely pleasurable sensation from her nipple. She drew in her breath and her mouth opened slightly. I pounded her pussy with a bit more intensity.

Keeping my thumb and forefinger in an L-shape, I gently slid it down the length of her torso, the pleasant tingle moving with it. An adaptation to help males of my species lower the defenses of our females, it had proven to be a devastating tool when sex with humans. I thrust harder still as I watched her face, rapt in pleasure and about to get the thrill of a lifetime. I moved closer and closer to her wide open and hairless crotch. Without letting up my driving thrusts, I lay my thumb on one side of her clit and my finger on the other, so that the pleasurable currents ran straight through her clitoris. This had triggered intense orgasms in every human I'd fucked so far, usually in less than sixty seconds, and Zola was no exception.

"Oh my god, oh my god..." she cried out, followed by something in Russian I confess I didn't understand--I may have lived on your planet for a hundred of your years, but I just started having sex with the locals. I was now wailing away, too, because watching human females have orgasms almost always brings me off. She was practically screaming now, and then it hit. There was no mistaking it, because all of a sudden she went from being spread out wide before me to being wrapped around me. She locked her legs behind me, threw her arms around my neck, and clung to me tightly. She was so light, she lifted herself off the bed entirely; she was suspended in mid-air, impaled on my pole. She held tight as her deepest insides shuddered; I fucked her pussy at warp speed.

She relaxed her grip a bit as her orgasm subsided, but kept her suspended by simply grabbing a cheek in each hand and fucking her like a madman. She held on, laying her head on my shoulder, pushing her knees out even further, and tried to slide my penis in even deeper, only I was already battering her cervix with every thrust. She had no more room to give, but I didn't need more...I could feel the stirring start in my balls. All she could is hold on as I became rigid as iron. Then I sighed as my orgasm filled her with sticky love juice.

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I slept very well that night, but my peace was to be short-lived. I went downstairs in the morning, humming to myself, thinking breakfast-y thoughts.

"Good morning, Bill," said the player's concierge. Most players are addressed formally, but I insist that everyone just call me Bill.

"Good morning," I replied cheerily, thoughts still savoring the memory of the dancer curling around me in orgasm the night before.

"Are you going out, sir?"

"Breakfast time," I replied.

"Just be alert, sir...there's a red sedan parked outside that is well known to be a private investigator. We don't know who his target is today, but we're pretty sure he's been hired to follow someone."

"Huh," I answered, "that's good to know. Thanks to all you guys for being on top things!" I slipped him yet another $20 tip.

I walked outside and took a hard right, thinking thoughts of fresh crepes at the Tour Eiffel. I saw the red car and walked past. About fifty yards away, I heard a car door open. In the reflection of a just-cleaned window, I saw an overweight man in his early 30s waddling out of the car and heading my direction. What? Was he afterme? My mind raced...already? I quickly switched directions and headed into the main casino of the Roman Forum property. I made a beeline for the high stakes tables area, knowing that security wouldn't allow him to follow me there. I responded in kind to the friendly good-mornings of the morning shift; they all knew me here. Rather than play, though, I headed right to my host's office. It was time to get out of Vegas.

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No, I wasn't surprised to be being followed by a private eye, only that it was happening already. A month ago, I came to Vegas hoping to finally get back to my home planet 300 light-years away through a wormhole following an asteroid collision in the Nevada desert. Then my Interplanetary Motion Simulator updated to tell me that the asteroid had been diverted, and the next collision big enough to create a wormhole wouldn't be for 20 years. Then came the really bad news--that collision would be with an antimatter comet. The resulting clash of matter with antimatter would obliterate the entire inner half of your planetary system.

Now, thanks to the harsh environmental conditions on my home planet, our species has evolved a number of abilities you might term superhuman, but even I can't divert a comet alone. Facing obliteration like the rest of the planet, I came up with a desperate plan; if my biology was so similar to humans that in over 100 years I'd never been recognized as alien, maybe, just maybe, we could cross-breed, and the hybrids might inherit some of the superhuman traits of my species. And so, in violation of every ethical principle of interplanetary exploration, I undertook the quest to raise an army of half-human hybrids, one female at a time, that when the day comes we might be able to band together and save the planet. From that day on, I'd been out fertilizing a new human female every night. I knew at this point that conception and implantation were possible, but it was still eight months before we'd know if a viable fetus would result. Nevertheless, by now probably a dozen or so previous partners would know or suspect they were pregnant--in my species, male sperm carries hormones that stimulate ovulation, so I anticipated a high fertilization rate. Still, I thought I'd have another two or three weeks before they started looking for me. I was wrong.

My host was actually somewhat relieved to hear I was leaving; I'd never stayed for a month before, and I was blocking a prime suite that could be used by other players. But when he asked if he could fly me somewhere, I realized I had no idea where I should go. I had no ties to any place on this planet, save maybe here where I'd been regularly earning my rent for twenty years.

"Yes please, but I haven't decided where I'm going," I declared. Until five minutes ago, I hadn't planned on leaving just yet.

"Domestic or overseas?"

"Oh, definitely domestic." Ever since the crackdown on passports, I've felt trapped in the U.S., not trusting my fake passport would not pass muster at the border. Obviously I couldn't get authentic ones anywhere, since I wasn't born on this planet.

"OK, as long as its domestic just tell the pilot where you want to go when you arrive. But it'll take me a couple of hours to round up a pilot and a plane..."

"No hurry, just let me know when it's ready."

I went back to the room, packed, and ordered room service. So, where should I go? I felt indecision paralysis—there were women everywhere, and I felt confident I'd find suitable partners in all but the most desperate armpits of the world. I sat in my hotel, scrolling around on a map website, trying to pick a destination. Miami? Austin? Phoenix? Boston? They had lots of redheads there, and I was intrigued by redheads, since red hair is unknown on my planet. I was also growing quite fond of the largeness of human breasts, real or otherwise. My planet is the size of your Jupiter, and it's hard to resist the heavy tug of our gravity for very long with big titties, and so since saggy isn't sexy small but perky has been preferentially selected. My encounter with Zola had somehow made me miss my own kind. I was looking for a girl that was tall, thin, muscular, and athletic to remind me of home.

The knock on the door announced the arrival of breakfast. It was good, but not the same as having authentic crepes made by a real French chef, which is what I thought I'd be having. I flipped on the TV for some noise while I ate. Surfing channels, I happened upon of the human pastimes I truly enjoy—volleyball. A wonderful game, one I hoped to someday import back to my own planet. I didn't really play—I'd get too competitive, and would forget not to let on that I could easily jump clean over a volleyball net and blow my cover. Back on my planet, my native jumping ability would equal that of you here, whereas you would have great difficulty even walking. We would have to make the ball a lot lighter, though, and we'd have to play on a magnetically neutralized court...more on that later.

This happened to be beach volleyball, and for obvious reasons the telecast was focusing on the female bracket. As I watched two of the best female pairs in the world duking it out in a nailbiter, it suddenly dawned on me that they, more than most humans, reminded me of my own kind. They tended to have strong muscles, defined abs, and small breasts as a result of all that exercising—thus looking a lot more like the females of my native world. I didn't know if I'd have a chance to nail one, but just watching them play would at least give me something to do during the day. Returning to my laptop, I pulled up the pro beach schedule and found they were playing a tournament in Tampa starting tomorrow. At last—a destination!

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Next morning I was out at Anna Maria beach, watching the girls playing ball. I watched three successive matches on center court, and while the tall, slim girls did remind me of my own kind, I decided that I wasn't going to try to score with any of them. Not only would I have to contend with security to get close to them, but I didn't want to be prematurely ending anyone's career by knocking them up. I was, however, duly impressed with a handful of the beach bunnies watching alongside me.

After watching the #1 team in the world dispatch an overmatched but very cute pair from Europe, I wandered around the beach in search of food, and in the process stumbled across the other major draw of Anna Maria—surfing. Stuffing a boardwalk hot dog down my throat, I watched a couple dozen surfers trying to make the best of decidedly mediocre waves. Most of them were dudes, but there were three or four girls, all of them long-haired, skinny and looking good in bikinis. I guess if I wanted girls like back home, I should spend more time on the beaches. I watched the surfers paddle out then ride back in time and again; I could certainly go for stuffing one of those cuties tonight. Once the sun went down, I was pretty sure I'd find them in the bars by the beach.

My super-human abilities have led me to identify with Kent Clark of your comic books, but I never considered super-hearing to be one of them. Yet in the midst of all the activity and the crashing of the waves, I heard a distant "Help." I turned immediately towards the lifeguard tower, expecting to see him racing out to perform a sea rescue—but he just sat there, too cool for himself.

"Help," I heard again. It was coming from out at sea. I ran over to the lifeguard station and yelled up. "There's someone calling for help!"

"What? Where?" I felt like I'd just awakened a Doberman. I heard it again. "It's coming from over that way," I said, pointing.

"Dude, I don't hear anything," he said, but he did grab his binoculars and search the horizon. Finally he said, "dude, you're hearing things. There's nothing out there!"

"Help," I heard again, more faintly, as if drifting away. I was used to having superior vision, but there was nothing about my auditory system that should give me an advantage hearing, I thought. Maybe it wasn't a physical hearing advantage—maybe my brain was just better at signal-noise detection. After all, on my planet there are always at least three volcanoes active at any one time; we evolved in a frequently noisy environment. Perhaps we acquired finer voice detection to compensate.

I squinted so that I could activate my infra-red vision (another adaptation made necessary by volcanoes and the frequent occurrence of ash clouds). The surfers appeared as red glows against the blue waves—but in the distance, I saw what looked like a tiny red dot of heat far in the distance. I looked up at the lifeguard, but he clearly was not going to pay any further attention to me. "Well, if you're not going to check it out, I will," I announced. Good thing I had decided to wear my suit to the beach today. Tossing my shirt at the foot of the tower, hiding my wallet and watch beneath, I strode into the waves.

Vacationers played in the surf, walking out gingerly, then jumping into the waves as the water pulled them back ashore. I strode out unwaveringly until it was up to my hips, then dove in headfirst and started swimming. In a few minutes I was out among the surfers. One of them called out "dude, there's a pretty strong current, and there's been lots of shark sightings. I wouldn't swim much farther if I were you."

"Thanks for the warning," I called over my shoulder as I came up for air, then continued steaming out to sea.

I knew I wasn't imagining things. I could hear the calls for help more clearly now, although they were becoming fewer and farther between. I wondered that the surfers didn't seem to hear, but no matter—since only I could hear the voice, only I could find its source. It was somehow symbolic of my entire saving-the-planet mission. I kept swimming in the direction of the sound. It was loud now, a female voice, and I could tell now it was screaming at the top of its lungs. Its faintness from shore just went to show how far out she was.

I saw the first dorsal fins before I saw her. I pulled up, treading water. One fin passed from left to right about 20 yards in front of me. Another fifty yards or so beyond that, there was a figure clinging to floating object, and in the same frame, at least six other dorsal fins. Oh man.

I waited until there were no dorsal fins in a direct line between us, and then I tucked my head down and raced to her side at full, superhuman speed. I saw now that it was a young woman, trying to balance herself on top of half of what had once been a kayak. She had large, red gouges on her upper thigh that suggested what had happened before she told me.

"Oh thank god," she gasped, "I was kayaking out in the open water and a shark attacked my boat! Ripped the back end right off. I started rowing toward shore, and it came back, this time right near me. It got me right on the leg—it probably would have taken my leg clean off, only I bashed it with my paddle and it let go. Unfortunately it also shattered my paddle. I've been trying to stay afloat on what's left of my boat..." She didn't need to tell me that the boat was rapidly sinking. She was trying to keep her bloody leg out of the water, but as the boat sank lower she was failing. Red trails stained the water around her.

Just then she cried "oh god, here it comes again," and ducked. Her reaction told me that what she saw was behind me; I spun around and found a shark approaching at full charge. I took a deep breath and dove; the shark, not expecting me to move, let alone that quickly, passed over the top of me. It did a quick turn and dive, surveying with the side of its eye how it had missed. I swam down after it. I've mentioned before the poor air quality on my home planet and how my lungs are so much more efficient as a result—turns out that also means I can hold my breath a lot longer than humans can. I kept following him, expecting that he would soon resume the attack. As soon as he did, I steamed straight for him. Again, I didn't do what he expected, and so he stopped swimming. I did not, and I attacked him with a full power punch in the snout—probably the first time I'd used my full strength on Earth.

I hurt it. It was stunned, but its snout was also off-kilter; being a cartilaginous fish, it was kind of like having a broken nose. It turned and fled.

I returned to the surface, but things were worse not better. Having lost a lot of blood, the girl was struggling to keep conscious. She had slipped off the boat and was now just head and shoulders above water. Surely the sharks could smell the blood.