tagMind ControlIt's a Super World

It's a Super World


Gossip reporter Heather Hendricks has been granted an interview with SuperYoni, one of the most powerful beings in a changed world. Her readers want the latest scoop on the super-powered and super-sexual females in their midst, but what does Heather want?


"The earth shaking last night—do you think she did it?"

"The earth shook last night?"

"For at least two minutes! You didn't feel it?"

I had, though I'd thought the source local because my head had been between Silver Slit's thighs just then. My nipples stiffened with the memory and I had to give Chad credit, because his eyes drove into my cleavage zone without taking up annoying long-term parking.

I'm used to having my chest stared at. I'm no SuperGlands, but neither was she before her forty-second shirt-exploding miracle boobjob made her the most downloaded woman in internet history. I have to dress carefully to keep paparazzi lenses from swinging away from the truly famous to me, and from my photo assistant's reaction I'd hit the balance about right, living dangerously while still playing fair.

Okay, fair-ish.

"I mean the rhythm of the shaking, the pulses getting faster at the end—that was definitely some sort of super-fuck," Chad added.

"I live in Riverside, Chad; maybe it was only Manhattan that shook. Hell, you could even have a supe living in your building."

"You think one could live nearby without me knowing?"

"There's no law making transformed women don tights and a cape, is there?"

"There are no laws, period," he nearly spat. "Except their laws."

I was a bit shocked, because Chad wasn't a complainer by nature. I debated whether to ignore the bitter tone as the newest How To Help Your Emasculated Loved Ones articles advised. Before deciding, my eyes were drawn to an odd motion outside the floor to ceiling windows near the elevators. A flying black limousine; or more accurately, a limo being carried aloft over the East River. It was either a flying supe doing someone a favor, or... No, no favor. Not unless those inside wanted to plunge into the river today.

"Two minutes sounds like a lot of time for an Invulnerable," I tacked back to less violent territory, happy that Chad hadn't witnessed the scene. "I'd guess three seconds for SuperYoni to achieve an orgasm, tops."

"You think she has to do it at super-speed?"

He had an erection, though he was trying to hide it. My tits, combined with mental images of super-sexy babes leaping or fucking tall buildings inside his brain. "We can't know whether she can control herself during sex or not, Chad. Her vajayjay certainly looks..."

"Super," he interjected, brown eyes wistful. "Really super."

As if I hadn't noticed. "Speaking of powerful privates, did you know a new one announced herself just yesterday?"

"Women are still transforming? I thought it had ended weeks ago."

"She changed in September, but lived in a remote village in China. She wants to be called Squirt Girl, and her moniker isn't about being short. I haven't seen the video yet, but they say she fingered herself to orgasm in a public square and what shot out melted a tank."

"There are tanks left to demonstrate on?"

"Maybe she had one built just for the performance. Really though, Squirt Girl? What an awful name."

"What a power! Where did you say she was?"

I laughed. "Feeling suicidal?"

"I just wondered if she'd be considered a supersexual, since it's her, uh..."

"It sounds like a real power, even if it's located in her sweet spot. I can't see where she could have sex at all, not unless she hooks up with an Invulnerable."

"That would make for an interesting video."

"Which we'll probably see, since sex has become a form of public theatre for them. I'm tempted to ask SuperYoni if she ever does it without a mirror present. I bet she flexes and admires herself the whole time she fucks."

"Heather, stop! What if she has super-hearing?"

My normal hearing registered the click of heels approaching on the polished marble floor. "Miss Hendricks? SuperYoni will see you now."

I did a double-take, because SuperYoni's receptionist was just the kind of woman I would have fallen for two days ago. She had pale smooth skin and luxurious red hair, beautifully shaped lips and tranquil eyes doeishly enlarged behind stylish eyeglasses. I thought she looked like Bambi with oodles of sex-appeal, and for some reason my eyes kept coming back to the lips. I imagined Bambi in a meadow, peacefully munching grass. Then I pictured silky red locks tickling my thighs, those incredible lips not so peacefully munching away. Rowr!

I caught her admiring my tits, which was only fair. The receptionist appeared ready to make some sort of comment, but the moment passed. We rose and followed behind her fetching behind, me ogling her calves while Chad hugged his camera bag to his abdomen, shielding his erection from view. Dicks can be so hopelessly confused—he'd been dreading this interview, with good reason. You couldn't believe half of what you heard these days, but rumor had it that SuperYoni hurled a certain Middle Eastern head of state into orbit when he said some weird thing about her looking as appealing as a blonde camel.

We came to goldleafed double-doors so tall that you'd think SuperYoni had been turned into a giant. The receptionist didn't knock, and she didn't attempt to open a door for us. I signaled Chad to do the deed and sure enough, he had to put all his weight against a single door, giving it everything he had to make it budge. It was a reminder, a way to put us in our place. SuperYoni could probably fling them wide with the tiniest bit of pressure from her pinky, while Chad barely created a space we could slither through. He dropped to one knee on the other side with his head bent, which I figured she just loved. He was only trying to retrieve his breath, but still.

I suppose you could call the cavernous space an office since it had a desk at the end, behind which sat one of the most powerful beings in the world. Otherwise it looked like somebody with a bottomless budget had filled a mini-Chartres with favored objects from every major museum, periods and cultures thrown together with no sense of restraint.

"You may approach," sounded the familiar voice. Some of the superpowered had vocal chords so altered that they sounded inhuman, and SuperYoni's voice was unnaturally amplified, as I expected. It was also a sexy purr of a voice, even with its force.

As we approached upon a plush red carpet, I recognized the Jackson Pollock hanging behind the desk as having been in the collection of the Museum of Modern Art my entire life. A marble Athena gazed upon us with unseeing white eyes, and the two painted ceramic warrior gods flanking the desk were Chinese in origin, belonging to the British Museum. Correction, they had once belonged to the British Museum. Nothing short of a nuclear strike would come close to retrieving an institution's property from an Invulnerable, and then only maybe. Everything else had been tried, and everything had failed.

SuperYoni didn't have heat vision; even so I'd swear my breasts grew warmer as she evaluated my figure. She might be used to seeing women in gaudily colored leotards these days, but I knew I looked damn fine in sensible heels and a grey wool skirt just tight enough and short enough to make a statement. She stared right at my jiggling tits, and I suppressed a smile.

"Miss Hendricks," her voice boomed, eyes still locked on my boobs. "Your, er, reputation, precedes you."

Yes they did, there was no denying that.

"You brought a male photographer?" her voice suddenly shook the room.

Marking her territory, because she'd seen him there all along. "Chad Wilson is my right hand, and worthy," I replied as we came to the far end of the carpet. "You agreed to photos and his presence is non-negotiable."

It was an involuntary action, the way Chad and I both fell to our knees from the statue-rattling sonic boom. SuperYoni practically stood over top of us in much less than the blink of an eye, her super-speed creating its own localized weather. My skirt felt like it might tear off my waist for an instant, and most of my dark hair settled in front of my face. I had to yawn to correct the pressure in my ears, and I knew I didn't look happy when I smoothed my hair back.

Chad's close-cropped hair appeared untroubled, and I'd swear his erection had just grown an erection. I concurred, allowing my eyes to slide along every super-delectable super-inch of SuperYoni's super-defined super-physique. She could wear any damn thing she wanted, and she was presenting herself to the world today in the hot pink latex outfit that clung to her impenetrable flesh like an additional layer of worshipping skin. Every muscle was highlighted in gleaming watermelon hues, as were her super-tits with the renowned nipples of steel punctuating the big yellow Y on her chest.

Y? Why not try? As of yesterday that was my motto, and my mission.

I didn't even attempt to hide my fascination with SuperYoni's namesake, and the way the crotch of her outfit accentuated the form of what most women tried to keep private. The exaggerated latex folds (they were artificially exaggerated, right?) made her cootchie look all pumped up, as if it had its own membership to a gym. If everything I could see there was real, not some molded insert...

"Why aren't you trembling?" SuperYoni glared at me.

Oh, I was trembling—more like hydroventilating where the sun don't shine—and if she had super-smell she'd already know it. "The interview was your idea and why would you harm me if you wanted an interview?" I spoke hurriedly. "Silver Slit said you were merciful and Chad is the best photographer in New York even if he is male and I thought it would be disrespectful to give you anything but the best because you're, you know, you?"

That satisfied the super-ego. "Rise." She pointed to two ornate chairs that probably came from a French palace. "Sit."

As if we were dogs. "Chad will need freedom of movement to explore different viewpoints for the photos that accompany the article. With your permission..."

"You may move about," she granted with a dismissive wave of the hand. "Don't break anything."

Chad's rigid jaw confirmed that he'd heard the unspoken, "Or I'll break you". He backed away and raised the camera for his first shots.

I cleared my throat, loudly. "Chad? The lens cap?"

"Oops," he fumbled with his equipment. He looked like a flustered amateur, which was understandable. A lot of guys would have come in their pants by now, or even lost their bladder.

SuperYoni did not look amused as she returned to the plush chair behind the desk. The bright pink boots thumped upon the desktop and she leaned back with hands behind her head, uncuttable blonde hair cascading and biceps bulging.

"The Triumviri have agreed that we will sometimes use conventional media to make our decisions known throughout the world," she announced. This was progress, as they had pulverized cherished monuments at the beginning, issuing decrees in front of the smoldering ruins. "Know that without Silver Slit's persuasive recommendation, you would never have been chosen for this interview. Feel proud, feel feminine, knowing how The Triumviri considered you worthy of delivering our wishes to all of womankind."

I felt feminine, all right. So many wondered what it would feel like to have sex with a supe, especially a supersexual, and now I knew. Something like beads of shimmering mercury had darted out from Silver Slit's metallic pussy just moments before she came, and they had become surrogate lovers for their writhing host, finding my clitoris and coating it, then doing God knows what to make me feel what I felt. The living beads slipped inside me after I came and they knew exactly where to tease, giving me no time to recover before I was bucking and screaming again. It took hours to get over those orgasms, and when I could think again and see again I knew I'd never be the same. I loved sex—who doesn't—but after that it was like my purpose in life had suddenly become clear.

"Many are stricken with flushes of lust in my presence," SuperYoni mistook the reasons for my excited state. "Calm yourself."

I nodded, secretly delighted that my nipples felt almost impossibly hard and tingly. She was looking right at the punctuations pushing at my blouse and I took a deep breath, outlining them further. Some have been stricken with lust in my presence, too.

SuperYoni appeared to lose focus, absently licking her lips. "You had a prepared statement?" I prodded.

She gathered herself before launching into it, declaring that all financial institutions of any kind would have thirty days to replace their male presidents or board members with females, three females from each newly created board being designated as links to one of three Councils of the Transformed, which would in turn communicate at regular intervals with The Triumvirate. I wrote it all down on my notepad as another part of the new world order became apparent. So many threes—were they adhering to a particular form of governing or taking their cues from Triadic Treat, who always seemed to be hanging out with one of them like a groupie?

Everybody knew by now that SuperYoni, SuperGlands and SuperBod—the three Invulnerables—had formed The Triumvirate, which would lead the world's women as they corrected the mess the men had made over the last several thousand years. The more she spoke the more I admired how SuperYoni's statement pulled no punches, telling the formerly powerful that they were being counted on to know their place no matter how disorienting or humiliating it might feel. Capitalism, communism, socialism, cronyism—all such distinctions were dust ground under the super-feminist heel. She didn't say one word about the world leaders and bankers and CEO's that had "mysteriously" disappeared, which was a statement in itself. Resistance was futile and everybody with any sense had known that after The Great Wall of China had been reconfigured, overnight, to spell "Comply Or Else", clearly visible from space.

I have a talent where my ears hear and my hand writes even as I think of other things, and I used it, picturing the magazine cover I'd seen which asked the question: Evolution, Or Did God Create Our Goddesses? Even as SuperYoni communicated these new structures, the old world order was disintegrating of its own accord. Religious types all over the globe were struggling to incorporate the arising of the supes into their theologies, their confused sermons delivered to conspicuously empty churches and mosques. Governments had disbanded or gone into hiding, and it sometimes felt as though all of humanity—excuse me, all of huwomanity—was holding its collective breath.

I'd studied the numbers and double-checked the known facts in preparation for this interview. There were slightly less than a thousand transformed women according to the most recent estimates, and not one was plain or fat or over thirty, nor did they have pimples or flat chests—hell, it appeared that they'd rarely had a bad hair day before changing. Did good genes and youthful vibrancy somehow presage the transformations, or was it more like nature abhorred a super-skank?

The most recent polls showed that women worldwide were 68% in favor of the supes' arising, although that result was thought to reflect an element of jealousy, as 92% of female respondents also expressed disappointment in not having developed superpowers of their own. Formerly affluent or influential males were overwhelmingly against the supes, as were those who described themselves as highly religious. Teen-age boys, however, were a whopping 92% in favor of the new super world, and in polls that only dealt with the arising of supersexuals, minus the superpowered, the separation between male demographic groups evaporated, with an astounding 98% in favor.

I'd been collecting plenty of anecdotal data of my own since the changes began, and most of the men I knew were like Chad, quietly terrified of the superpowered even though their dicks gave stiff applause to the feats of the shapely costumed females in their midst. Show them the newest video of a supersexual fucking twenty guys and all the toys in a sex shop in a span of three minutes and they just went chronically bone-hard. Guys' dicks dug hot babes with impossibly needy and impossibly efficient cunts, big surprise.

Some attitudes were universal, however. Whether drooling or applauding or envious or fearful, it seemed as though everyone everywhere was asking the question: What does this mean for me? How will this affect my life, and what is my role in this brave new world? For gossip journalists like me it was mostly positive, the gorgeousness of all super-beings assuring that celebrity-driven media would flourish in a changed world. That wasn't enough, though, not for me. I'm not particularly religious and had no established faith to lose; even so I couldn't believe that the transformed had transformed without some greater purpose involved. I thought it especially relevant to ask: Whether it's uncaring evolution or a loving God, why would invulnerability—the supposedly ultimate power—be given to the three hottest women of professional wrestling and no one else? Sure, all three Triumviri had looked like the superest of super-beings even before the changes, but the world was going to be ruled by three twenty-something blondes who'd faked fights for a living before becoming all-powerful?

I'd been as confused as anybody; more confused than most, actually. Until yesterday. Until Silver Slit and all I'd felt with her. Now I kept having this image of a jigsaw puzzle composed of a thousand pieces. Each piece was incredibly dazzling when seen on its own, yet when all of these super-lovely pieces were interlocked into their inevitable pattern, the larger picture was a major disappointment, the whole so much less exquisite than its individual parts. I kept wondering: What were the individual pieces supposed to feel if they could see that final picture, and didn't like it? What was one individual piece supposed to do if she opposed that outcome, especially when the three pieces at the puzzle's center were essentially all-powerful and couldn't be harmed?

"Read every word back to me," SuperYoni commanded, interrupting my divided attention.

Though she looked the part, she had never been a dumb blonde, and she had the sense to double-check that the announcement of the future of the whole frickin' world didn't contain any careless errors. I read from my notes and her head nodded a few times, after which she granted me twenty minutes to ask "the people's questions".

"Only twenty minutes? I think it would be best if you cleared your schedule for the rest of the afternoon. It would help others to obey if we could dispel some of the rumors flying about."

SuperYoni's brow furrowed and her biceps twitched reflexively. I never would have thought of myself as a muscle freak, but the flush of lust she'd mentioned before was beginning to feel more like an elephant stampeding under my skirt. Otherworldly power really was sexually intoxicating, and I was no more immune than anyone else. That woman could literally move the earth if she put her mind and body to the task, and my frothing girlmones kept wondering what it might feel like to move her.

"Leave us alone for the next hour!" SuperYoni's voice rattled the statues, the furniture, the walls. The walls of my pussy, too. She was granting the request, and who needed an intercom when half of this midtown block must have heard her wishes? "You may begin," she continued in a less deafening voice.

My inbox, the computer one, was filled with questions my readers wanted answered. Could a supe get pregnant, or were male sperm not up to the task? Would a supe age or were they essentially immortal? Did they need oxygen like any normal, or could the flying ones go into the upper atmosphere, or even space? Did they still need to eat? If an Invulnerable pooped, was their poop invulnerable? Why were their costumes always getting torn away at the breasts? How did Minirette get her costume to shrink when she shrank? Was it true that Shapely Shifter could approximate the powers of another supe if she took their form? How many supes had been lesbians before the changes, and what supes were doing which others? Were Dyspareunia and Terrible Tongue officially dating? Why weren't MasoKristy and The Sadistress a couple? Did some of the superpowered keep supersexuals as love slaves?

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