Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So this is the big gift?” Rebecca bent over the table, eying the cart as a guard wheeled it into the preservation room. “I was hoping it was something bigger.”

“Historical impact isn’t always determined by size.” Angela directed the cart toward the table. “Not every critical anthropological discovery is a sarcophagus or statue.”

Michelle sighed. “Just as well. We don’t need some dead Pharaoh or angry golem running around campus.”

“A…what?”

Michelle gave her a smirk, but a wry one, without malice. “Right, you’re still new in town. Let’s just say you get used to a little weirdness around Gotham.”

“Thanks, Carl,” Rebecca nodded at the guard, who left the women alone with the cart. “Still, something big really gets the donors worked up. We get a statue or a bejeweled necklace, do all the research, present it as the showpiece of an exhibit in the Gotham Museum of Antiquities, and boom! Woodside College is back on the map.”

“We are on the map, Rebecca.”

“Sure, as a footnote. Hard for any women’s college to get press in this old boys’ club of a town.”

Angela cleared her throat. “Let’s get started, shall we? Mister Luthor has generously let us borrow these from his private collection, and I’d like to at least give him a preliminary assessment by morning.”

The other women nodded, and Angela lifted her sheet with perhaps more pomp than was strictly necessary. She opened the simple wooden box and revealed two bronze amulets, each about the size of her palm. Matching bronze chains lay against the black velvet interior, and dull amber gemstones glittered in the preservation room’s fluorescent light.

“Wow, I take it back. Pawn-store jewelry is definitely worth spending a weekend at work,” Rebecca deadpanned as she draped her coat over a chair.

“Hush,” Angela spat, letting a snippet of irritation slip out. “How about a professional opinion before any unnecessary commentary?”

“Fine, fine.” She peered at the amulets, careful to keep her breath far from the delicate artifacts. “Hmm…they look Greek.”

Angela’s fingers worked their way down her shirt buttons. “That checks out. Mister Luthor said they might have once been in the private collection of Markos Stratallis.”

“I have no idea who that is.”

“I do.” Michelle’s skirt hit the floor, and she stepped away from it to approach the table. With only her bra covering her from the waist up, bending over to get a closer look made her generous cleavage even more apparent. “Greek general, post-Caesar. Wealthy. Misogynist. Usually generous with gifts to his favorite peons. Ardent believer in the mystical.”

Angela stepped back, leaving her shoes behind. “Mystical? So this might be…”

“He certainly might have thought it had a magical effect.”

Rebecca shimmied her panties down her legs, gradually leaving herself totally naked. “So what kind of magic would be on something he wanted to keep in his private collection?”

Angela’s underwear dropped as well, and she stood in the preservation room, her place of work, without a stitch of clothing, much less safety equipment. “Perhaps he thought it would give him power over women, if he was as misogynistic as you say.”

Michelle’s breasts pressed against the cold metal table as she leaned on it. Her eyes never left the amulets, not even to notice her equally-nude coworkers, both of whom were just as intent as she on the box and its contents. “I have heard some rumors of magical tools in his possession that could work their way into the minds of women. Make them do things they didn’t want to do, or things they didn’t even know about. Some insidious spells that forced them to obey all sorts of depraved commands without even letting them know they were under control.”

“Ha! Good one!” Rebecca stretched, showing off her firm, smooth body to her fellow researchers. “I think we’d know if we were being controlled. But that’s a heck of a story for the exhibit. ‘Come see the mighty accessories of mind-slaving!’ If this doesn’t get those rich old men worked up, I don’t—”

An explosion drowned out her plot, blasting through one of the walls and knocking the women to their feet. In the dust and confusion, three pairs of boots tromped toward the table. Muffled voices said something alongside the ringing in Rebecca’s ears, and through hazy eyes she saw a strange woman in a mask grabbing the box. The attackers nodded at each other, and as they made their escape, one of them shrugged off a leather jacket and left it in the doorway behind her.

Rebecca coughed and groped around until she felt a chair, using it to hoist herself up. “Everybody okay?”

“Y-yeah.” Angela peeked over the table, and Michelle’s hand popped into view to give her a thumbs-up. “But the amulets! They stole them! What do we do?”

Rebecca sat in the chair and leaned back, still trying to clear out the cobwebs between her ears. “What everybody does in Gotham. Call the police, then wait for Batwoman and her crew to actually solve the problem.” Something hard pushed into her back, and she turned around to look at her discarded outfit, neatly laid right where she had left it. “Hey…whose clothes are these?”

Less than an hour later, several blocks away, Rebecca was proven right: the thieves lay against each other, bound by cable, with bruises rapidly forming on their heads and legs where several well-placed Batarangs had made their impact. The Batwoman herself, all cowl and gloom, towered over them with her trademark mildly-irritated glare, while the much livelier Batgirl crouched a few yards away. “Catwoman they ain’t.”

“Mm,” Batwoman replied, skulking over to the wooden box tossed carelessly on a chair. “It does seem like a amateur operation. And yet they knew exactly where the amulets would be, and they attacked right as they were delivered. Strange.”

“Know what else is strange? I mean, I know you’re the master detective and all, so I imagine you’ve noticed our criminals are buck-ass naked?”

“It had occurred to me. Not least because we could follow the trail of clothing right to this warehouse.” Batwoman picked up the box and carried it over to the bound trio. “Care to talk?”

The women remained silent. Batgirl rubbed her chin. “Hmm. They must be masters at resisting interrogation. Or they’re concussed.”

Batwoman opened the box, looking the amulets over. “They’re still here, which means…” She trailed off as something attacked her thoughts, a subtle sensation, undetectable to anybody who hadn’t spent decades hardening her mind. She clutched her head and the box clattered to the ground, sending one amulet skidding over to Batgirl’s knees. “Batgirl, wait—!”

Batgirl stopped, but her eyes didn’t, and they rested on the amulet for a long minute. Instead of reaching for the artifact, she reached for her cape, dropping it behind her. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s…I don’t know. Some sort of magic.” Batwoman reached for one of her gloves and pulled it halfway off before she realized what she was doing. Her fingers tightened around it and her arm strained, but she couldn’t stop herself, and the weighted glove thudded on the warehouse floor. She looked down to Batgirl, who already had her gloves off and the zipper of her bodysuit halfway down her back. Something about it seemed…wrong…but what? “We don’t know what we’re facing yet. Get one of these amulets to the Watchtower. If it’s dangerous, it will be safer in the vault than in the Batcave or back at the museum. I’ll see what I can dig up with the other one.”

“You got it, Batwoman.” Batgirl picked up her amulet and clasped it around her neck, letting it rest atop her perky breasts. “It’s safest to wear it, right? No chance of it getting loose.”

“Good thinking.” Batwoman wore the other amulet. It rested over the insignia on her chest, covering it, drawing her eye…she shook her head. “And hurry. No stops. We have to learn the story behind these pieces.”

“Can do, boss!” Batgirl saluted with such force that her entire body jiggled, and she rushed out of the warehouse.

Batwoman watched her protégé go, glancing at the bouncy ass resting just below all that red hair. Her fingers rested on her thigh, then inched inward—and she pulled them away. She had to stay in control. Something was going on here, and it was up to her to figure it out.

“What an ordeal.” Angela flopped into a seat and rubbed her temples. “I think I would rather live through another explosion than deal with the police interview process afterward.”

“Tell me about it.” Michelle rested one calf on the table, propping her legs apart and rubbing her pussy in full view of her co-workers. “Whatever happened to just letting Batwoman handle it? I could swear the cops think they’re actually investigating a crime, what with how long they grilled us.”

“They are investigating a crime.” Rebecca panted quietly as her bare breasts rubbed against the cold metal table. Her toes curled and her knees trembled on her chair, the only outward signs of the orgasm her fingers were channeling through her clit. “They need all the information they can get.”

“What’s to investigate? Bad guys blow hole in wall, bad guys take valuable artifacts, bad guys show up a few hours later dangling from a streetlight or something. Maybe they have a little bat-shaped note on them. Here are your criminals. Put them in jail. Signed, the Batwoman, XOXO. Like the cops are actually going to follow evidence for a real jury trial? That’s not how Gotham works.”

Angela’s fingers had stopped circling her temples, and now they circled her nipples with equal fervor. “Normally I would support the rule of law, but something about those officers rubbed me the wrong way.”

“I know, right? Like they were undressing us with their eyes.” Michelle snuck a finger deeper and stroked her insides, releasing a long moan before she continued. “I’m sure I have a rack as great as the next collegiate researcher, but I’d appreciate it if the police, of all people, could look me in the face.”

Angela nodded and wriggled her chest. “Agreed. You’d think we were naked or—oh my God!” She curled into a ball, hiding herself behind the table from the neck down. “What did—oh my God, Michelle! Your clothes!”

“Is that it? I swear, if I had a whole conversation with Gotham’s alleged finest and I had ketchup all—shit!” She clapped her legs shut so fast she tumbled from her chair. “My clothes! Your clothes! Why are we naked?!”

“I don’t know! I don’t know! How are—there!” Angela clambered to her shirt and held it tight against her, covering about a single square foot of skin. “Did this happen in the explosion?”

“How?! What, some nude bomb tore the place apart, and we just now noticed?” Michelle skipped her panties entirely, going straight to her skirt to provide maximum modesty. “Shit, maybe it’s a hypnotist? Check your hair for the Mad Hatter’s card thingies!”

“Um…” Rebecca whimpered from under the table, where only the metal slab and her own hands protected her. “D-do you think the police saw?”

Angela looked at Michelle (with only a quick, unintentional glance below the chin) and vice versa. “Were they naked too? I didn’t even notice. The last time I remember wearing clothes is when we put on our gloves, before the amulets came in…”

“Maybe the amulets did it!” Rebecca gasped, reaching for her underwear with her toes and failing wildly. “And those amulets are out there now! What’s going to happen?”

“It’ll be fine.” Michelle stood, wearing only a disheveled skirt and blouse and still by a wide margin the least naked woman in the room. “Whatever’s happening, Gotham’s actual finest will figure it out.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely,” she beamed. “Batwoman and her team wouldn’t fall for any weird magic tricks. I’ll bet you money they already have it wrapped up—and they’re fully-clothed, at that.”

On the one hand, Supergirl was proud of herself. Even with Kryptonian hearing, detecting the Batwoman was not the easiest feat. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d noticed Batwoman in a room before Batwoman wanted to make her presence known. So spotting her tonight, creeping along the rooftops of Gotham, was a point of pride for the fledgling superhero.

On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t actually Batwoman. The important parts were all there—the height, the build, the mask, the scowl, and so forth—but several less-important parts weren’t. Namely, uniform parts. A good bit of her reinforced suit was missing, and the only things she wore above the waist were her cape, her cowl, and a plain black sports bra. Even Supergirl knew how cold Gotham could get on a fall night, so watching an ordinary human woman leap around half-naked piqued her interest.

She flew down to rooftop level, noting the half-interested look Batwoman gave her well before she was in range. “Hey, hold up!” She hovered alongside, waiting for Batwoman to come to a halt in the shadow of a water tower. “What’s going on?”

“Supergirl,” Batwoman nodded. “This isn’t your usual city.”

“Sure, okay, but more importantly, why are you…” She drifted off as her eyes sank toward Batwoman’s tits, wondering what could possess a woman to strip down like that, and landed on the amulet resting alongside her cleavage. It derailed her train of thought, abolishing all questions about Batwoman’s nudity. Suddenly she didn’t notice all the bare skin, any more than she noticed the color of a person’s belt or whether a single leaf on a tree was out of place. She shook her head and set herself in order, casually unclasping her skirt and dropping it onto the random rooftop. “Why are you in such a rush?”

“Because I can’t fly at the speed of sound like some people.”

Supergirl rolled her eyes, and her shoulders, which let her cape fall off. “Haha. I mean, what’s the current crisis?”

Batwoman hesitated a moment, and Supergirl almost thought she saw Batwoman examine her legs, but the action was gone before it started. “A few no-name thugs robbed a museum tonight. Stole some artifacts they shouldn’t have even known about.” She raised an eyebrow. “Artifacts donated by Lex Luthor.”

“Ugh, I knew it. That’s why I’m here. Any time Lex catches a flight to Gotham, the big guy gets antsy.”

“Lex is in town too, is he?” It wasn’t a question as much as an intrigued statement. When Supergirl nodded, Batwoman tapped the amulet. “Batgirl is taking one of the artifacts to safety. This is the other. I’m trying to drum up some leads.”

“Mind if I tag along? You might need the muscle.” Even after removing her bra her chest barely sagged, the benefits of youth and Kryptonian physiology. Her nipples immediately perked up in the cool night air, one of the few reactions to her state of undress.

“This is a fact-finding mission. But I also doubt I can convince you to stay away.”

“You know me so well.” Supergirl knelt, dropping her panties and picking up her discarded top. “Uh, is there a cosplay convention going on? Why is there a Supergirl costume lying around?”

“Don’t know. Found a Batgirl costume at the thieves’ hideout, too. Might be somebody trying to frame superheroes.”

“We should keep it as evidence, then.” Even as she said it, she let it fall from her fingertips, back to the heap with the rest of her outfit. She punched her palm, which wiggled the few fatty parts of her lithe body. “Alright, let’s go hit some bad guys!”

“I told you, this is a fact-finding mission.”

“Well, let’s figure out which bad guys to hit, then.”

Batgirl popped into the Watchtower, courtesy of the Boom Tube technology she only partially understood. The security cameras turned to record her—all of her. Between her neck and her shins the only piece of clothing she still wore was her utility belt. The Watchtower’s video system captured her bare breasts and her immaculately-trimmed pussy the second she came into view, and as she sauntered from the teleporters, they got a perfect close-up of the young woman’s gently swaying ass.

She only made it halfway down the hallway before Hawkgirl flew—literally and figuratively—from the security room, trying her level best to look Batgirl in the eye and only the eye. “Batgirl! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Just dropping this off in the vault.” Batgirl tapped the amulet resting on top of her tits. “It’s evidence in a robbery, but we think there’s something deeper going on deeper.”

“Not that, I mean your…” Hawkgirl fell silent as she gave in to her curiosity and glanced down at the amulet. It wasn’t to ogle her fellow superheroine’s nakedness, just to see the item in question, though she couldn’t resist just a little glance at how Batgirl looked under her skintight unitard. But as soon as she saw the amulet, Batgirl’s state of undress didn’t seem so important. It slipped completely under her notice, even as she reached behind her neck to unfasten her halter top. “I mean how you didn’t call us to say you had something we needed to secure.”

“It’s not dangerous. Probably,” she waved off her own concerns. “It’s just to be sure. You know Batwoman.”

Hawkgirl pulled her top completely off and started on her leggings, shimmying her panties down with them. “It doesn’t matter. League protocol is that anything going in the vault requires at least two members, in case something happens. And since I’m on duty, I’ll accompany you.”

“Sure, why not?” Batgirl’s chest bounced when she shrugged, but not nearly as much as Hawkgirl’s did when she kicked her bottoms and boots against the wall, leaving her in nothing but a golden mask and a half-hearted scowl. “Maybe we can talk to a few other people too, see if anybody can tell what this is?”

“Alright. We’ll take the long way.” Hawkgirl lifted one breast, rubbing her thumb over her nipple. It wasn’t a conscious thought, just a natural instinct like breathing or remembering how to walk. Batgirl didn’t say a word, not with her own fingers inching their way between her legs, and they set off down the hallway, two effectively-naked woman bringing the amulet even deeper into the Watchtower.

“This isn’t your normal haunt.”

Catwoman didn’t jump when Batwoman snuck up on her, not any more. A jolt of adrenaline still surged through her body, her knuckles tightened near her whip, but she no longer gave her sometimes-ally, sometimes-enemy the satisfaction of seeing her panic. She only smirked, assuming Batwoman could hear it in her voice. “And what is?”

“Penthouses. Art shows. Museums.”

“You make me sound so predictable.” She stood from her perch at the top of the fire escape and stretched, deliberately teasing every curve packed into her tight black catsuit. Batwoman never reacted, but she liked to imagine the fantasies she triggered in the emotionless hero’s head. “Isn’t this what we good guys do? Scout, patrol, keep watch for—oh, interesting.”

Batwoman’s eyes narrowed as Catwoman caught sight of the amulet resting against her cleavage. “Look familiar?”

Catwoman’s eyes, though, weren’t on the jewelry. They preferred the ample chest, secure inside a plain sports bra. “I wish. If I could get my hands on…” Now she spotted the artifact, and a dozen ways to tease the half-naked superheroine fell by the wayside. Batwoman’s luscious breasts, her iron-clad stomach, her panties peeking from the rolled-down waist of her pants, they just didn’t matter any more. The amulet itself, however, that was interesting. “If I could get my hands on that little trinket, I can think of a half-dozen people who would be willing to pay a real premium for it.”

“I bet.”

“Collectors, honey. All on the up-and-up.” She took a deep breath as her zipper slid down to her navel, letting the cool night air finally flow into the confines of her suit. She peeled it off, never breaking the flow of conversation even as the black spandex gave way to carefully-maintained skin. “My days of finding fences are behind me.”

Batwoman didn’t glance down, not even to take note of the bra and panties Catwoman kept under her catsuit—lacy, sexy, elegant, and far more impractical than she would have worn herself. “So you’ve said.”

Catwoman’s bra fell over the edge of the fire escape, wafting to the alley below. She spread her arms and tilted her hips, the same casual flirting she always used with Batwoman, thought it took on another tone when her gloves and her cat-ear headpiece were the only adornments she wore above the waist. “Are you just here to tease me? Or did you and your floating friend have something else to say?”

Finally she got a reaction from the caped crusader, a small grunt. Catwoman had heard Supergirl mumbling before Batwoman had said a single word, and if she had looked up she would have seen a flying blond girl wearing only boots and a miniskirt, which might have led to a very different conversation. But as it was, none of the flesh before her merited her attention, nor did either of her ostensible allies say anything when she hooked her thumbs in her panties and pulled them off her legs along with the remains of her uniform. It was just a normal conversation on a normal night in Gotham, with the abnormal result of Batwoman begrudgingly acknowledging Catwoman’s well-honed senses. “Do you recognize this amulet?”

“Hmm…” She stepped out of her boots and bent full at the waist, putting her face inches from Batwoman’s tits and sticking her ass out far more than necessary. “Not right away. I’m guessing Greek, and old. But it doesn’t ring any bells.”

“If you had a piece like this, how would you try to sell it?”

“Hypothetically?”

“Hypothetically.”

“I wouldn’t. It’s not blingy enough for me to pass it off without attaching a story to it. I’d have to have a buyer lined up first, which means I’d need somebody who wanted this in particular. Whoever stole this wasn’t looking for a random score, they were looking for this specifically.”

“I didn’t say it was stolen.”

“You didn’t have to.” Catwoman’s fingers traced up Batwoman’s bare arm and dipped into her cleavage, but neither they nor their onlooker noticed the extra skin-on-skin contact. “Sorry, I’m afraid you and the Girl of Steel are on your own here.”

“We’ll figure something out. Have fun ‘keeping watch’.”

“I intend to.” She turned away and leaned over the railing, softly swaying her rear as she watched the street. She knew Batwoman probably wasn’t checking her out when she disappeared into the night. But it was nice to pretend.

The gym on the Watchtower had several safety measures built into its equipment, keeping them accessible to both island-lifting powerhouses and nimble but otherwise ordinary fighters of street crime. One of those safety measures triggered when Batgirl and Hawkgirl walked into the gym, because it was the only way the barbell Wonder Woman dropped didn’t crash straight through the floor. “What in Hera’s name?”

Vixen looked up from her treadmill. “What’s wrong? Is—oh, huh.” She leapt off and let the machine slow itself while she stormed over to the new arrivals. “Girls, at least put on some workout gear…and maybe take care of yourselves in private?”

Batgirl removed her finger from between her legs and wiped it off on her flat stomach. “We’re not here to train. I’m hoping Wonder Woman can take a look at something for me.”

Vixen chuckled. “You may be overestimating how much a native of Themyscira is comfortable with random naked women showing her their goods.”

Confusion wracked Batgirl’s face. “What? I don’t understand. Can you just tell me if this amulet rings any bells?”

Wonder Woman finally set her eyes on the artifact, and she forgot all her complaints about her allies’ nudity. She wriggled out of her star-spangled bodysuit as she crossed the room, and she said nothing about groping Batgirl’s bare tits as she pulled the amulet closer. Vixen leaned in as well, but not before she crumpled her own catsuit into a bright orange bundle just above her waist and sliced her bra off with the razor-sharp claws on her gloves. Despite being inches from the chest of an equally topless pseudo-goddess, Vixen’s attention hung entirely on Batgirl’s jewelry. “Look familiar?”

“I can’t say,” Wonder Woman muttered, angling the artifact in the florescent light. “It looks Greek, but nothing of a make I’ve seen before. The style reminds me of Dionysus, but only distantly.”

Hawkgirl paused her self-satisfaction for a brief moment. “I can never keep your gods straight. Dionysus is…alcohol?”

Wonder Woman released the amulet so she could slide her bracers over her hands. None of the women said a word about them clanging to the sterile floor. “Among other things. This looks more like pieces that reference his liberator aspect. But it’s not actually a holy relic, I think. More inspired by one.” She released it and stood tall, and since her heeled boots were among the few things she did still wear, this put her breasts right at Batgirl’s eye level. “Where did you get this?”

Batgirl returned to fingering herself, ignoring her own shortness of breath and Hawkgirl’s quiet moans. “Museum robbery. Batwoman’s researching it. I’m just putting this in the vault, but I thought I’d check with you first.”

“Good plan. The last thing we need is Dionysus’s influence running rampant.” Wonder Woman nodded and returned to her lifting bench, spreading her legs wide around it and airing out her pussy for the entire room, not that anybody noticed.

Hawkgirl turned to leave and nearly tripped over Vixen’s catsuit, a solid mass of spandex neck to the shredded remains of her underwear. “Um, laundry day?”

Vixen crouched to look at her own clothes, frantically rubbing her clit the whole time, her claws only an inch from her puffy lips. “Weird. How did these get here?”

Batgirl shrugged as she left. “Seems to be going around.”

A shrill alarm echoed between narrow buildings, screaming for as much attention as possible. Batwoman dropped to a rooftop ledge and scanned the street, pinpointing its source: a masked man with a coat hanger trying to break into a car parked by the side of the road. She sighed. “You think they’d learn.”

“I got this one.” Supergirl hovered next to her, her blond hair swaying in the breeze. Normally her skirt would flutter in the same way, but that skirt currently lay on a sidewalk several blocks back, and only her cherry-red boots and alien physique protected her from the elements.

Batwoman stared at Supergirl’s backside, chasing the feeling that something was wrong the the view, but she lost the thought. “I’m heading to the north end. Catch up when you can.”

“Right. Be there in a jiff.” In a blink, Supergirl was a foot above the sidewalk with a small trial of litter blowing in her wake. She gave the man a once-over and scanned him with her x-ray vision, just in case he had a weapon about which she need be concerned. Nothing about him struck her as dangerous, so she took the hero pose she had practiced for so long and cleared her throat.

The man turned around and froze solid. His reaction didn’t surprise her; most people lost their train of thought when a superhero showed up four feet from them. Nor did it surprise her that the first thing he noticed was her chest; a sizable percentage of the crooks she caught didn’t try to hide their lust, and by now she was used to them staring agog at her long legs, short skirt, and tight tee shirt. Of course, she didn’t have said clothing to protect her, nor did she have the red underwear she usually wore under them. She was floating in midtown Gotham with her hands on her hips, one leg bent, and her athletic body on full display, and she didn’t even recognize it. The man, however, did. “Ha—ah? Um…”

She wagged her finger at him. “What, you thought only Batwoman watched this city?”

“Huh? Uh, no, that’s, I mean, no, but…wow!”

“Impressed? You can get an autograph if you want. I can give it to you in…five to ten?”

He tore himself from her chest, which shook every time she moved, and focused instead on the blond tuft peeking from between her thighs. “I don’t…what?”

“Is everybody in Gotham this articulate? I’ll use small words. You—steal—car! Bad—crime! Strong—hero—put—in—jail!”

“Jail…wait, no!” He came to his senses, though it just meant he could hold a conversation while he ogled the exhibitionist from Metropolis. “This is my car! I just locked my keys inside.”

“Right. And I’m Gorilla Grodd. This body is just an illusion!” She ran her hands over herself, hefting her tits and shaking them in the man’s face. Her fingers kept going, over her minuscule waist and to her trim hips, but when they got there they refused to leave. Her middle finger brushed against her clit, and she spread her tights to give herself some room to work, displaying her naked pussy to her quarry.

“That would…yeah…” He forgot himself again as he watched Supergirl masturbate. He didn’t know whether she sighed from pleasure or irritation, and he chose not to risk it. “But seriously, this is my car! My keys and wallet are in there, in the glove box!”

“Oh, really? Since this is your car, what else is in there?”

“Um…owner’s manual, napkins, one of those window scrapers…mint gum…”

He continued while Supergirl looked into the car, checking for everything he said. It struck her all as lucky guesses, something anybody might have, until the last item. “Say that again?”

“The action figure?”

“Of who?”

“Stargirl. She’s my daughter’s favorite.”

“Your daughter has good taste.” Supergirl blinked. “I can get you into the car. But you’re doing to stick around so I can check the license in the wallet you allegedly left there, understood?”

“Yes! Yes, thank you!” He stepped back, and as she took the coat hanger and used her x-ray vision to work it into the car door, he half-knelt to get a better look at her ass. “I’m lucky you didn’t just knock me out when you saw me.”

“Helping people isn’t always about going at something hard,” she said as one hand manipulated the wire and the other fingered her progressively wetter pussy. “Just as long as you post those pictures you’re trying to take in secret.”

He froze with his phone halfway out. “Y-you want me to post these?”

“Pictures of a superhero helping a guy get through a bad day? Of course. What’s the point in being a hero if we can’t show off every once in a while?”

She smiled as she heard the camera click. She didn’t really understand why he wanted to get so many pictures, from so many angles, but she didn’t mind a little posing. All in a day’s work.

Hawkgirl needed more training. There was no other explanation for why she would get winded just crossing the Watchtower, large as it was. If she had noticed that she was halfway to an orgasm from fondling her own breasts for several minutes, she might have realized the true cause, but as it was, she simply thought she was out of shape by the time she and Batgirl reached the cafeteria.

Black Canary, however, did notice, and she nearly choked on her sandwich when she saw the young superheroines stroll into the room, bouncing with every step. “Girls! Is—uh—is there something you want to explain?”

“Oh, this?” Batgirl pointed at her tits—or, rather, at the amulet resting atop them, but Black Canary only noticed it after a good, long look at Batgirl’s flushed, perky chest. “We’re just getting this to the vault.”

Black Canary sighed and shrugged off her jacket. “If it belongs in the vault, you shouldn’t be wearing it around.”

“What, like we’re worried about somebody stealing it from the Watchtower?”

“It’s…well…what does it do?”

“We don’t know yet,” Hawkgirl replied, even as she pinched her own nipples and hummed with simmering tension. “Batwoman’s checking it out.”

Huntress chose that moment to enter the cafeteria behind them, and her eyes fell upon the following stimuli, in order: Hawkgirl’s bare ass squirming as her thighs rubbed together, Batgirl’s legs slightly spread so she could pump two fingers in and out of her dripping pussy, Black Canary kicking off her boots so she could get her fishnet stockings over her ankles, and finally the amulet once Batgirl turned around. She blinked at the amulet, forgot everything else, and unzipped her bodysuit, parting the black material to reveal the bright skin beneath. “Nice bling.”

“Thanks.” Batgirl pushed her chest forward to show it off. “It was a gift for taking out some museum thieves. I think it goes great with my boots.”

It did, not least because the bright yellow boots were just about the only clothing on her, but Huntress saw no need to point it out. She pointed to scattered places on her own upper thighs, spots the same purple as her gloves. “And here all I get as a reward for crime-fighting is these lovely bruises.”

Black Canary sat in her chair, spread her legs, and started rubbing her pussy. “I still have a few of those on my legs from last week’s tangle with the Legion of Doom. At least you cover up your trophies with those leggings.”

Huntress nodded and dropped the first of those leggings behind her. The other stayed on for a moment as she rested her bare foot on a chair, lifted one knee high, and pushed two fingers into herself. “Well I can’t exactly go around naked, can I?”

Batgirl chuckled. “It’d be a hell of a distraction, though.”

Huntress’s free hand dislodged her cape, and she paused her masturbation only long enough to tug her gloves off, which left her in just a mask and a single thigh-high legging. “To men, maybe. And certain women. But it certainly wouldn’t help our reputation.”

The room vibrated slightly as Black Canary moaned. “I think we get enough attention from those creepy fansites. We don’t need to give the perverts any more fuel.”

“I hear that,” said Batgirl, and as she turned she showed her whole naked body to her teammates. “Gonna drop this off. We can trade stories about creeps in a minute.”

“And I have a hundred of them.” Black Canary thought about all the stares, all the comments, all the things she saw posted about her online, and a flare of anger rose in her chest. If only people would stop being such perverts…and as her knuckle circled her clit, only an extensively trained response kept her from letting a glass-shattering canary cry accompany her orgasm. Huntress had no such instinct, and as she cupped her own dangling breast and announced her release with an uncharacteristic stream of loud, filthy thanks, the security cameras continued to roll.

Batwoman’s panties hit the floor, along with the last vestiges of her willpower. They had remained with her all the way across the city as she shed her suit, her gloves, her cape, even her bra, now all distributed on various rooftops. The amulet had finally beaten back her good sense with its relentless spell, and it only spared her mask, her utility belt, and her boots, strips of black and yellow protecting her identity and very little else. In this state of near-total undress she entered Zatanna’s workshop, slipping through the private rooftop entrance. She dropped to the ground heedless of how she bounced upon landing or how Zatanna nearly choked on her coffee. “I have something for you.”

“I don’t think I want it!” Zatanna wiped down her desk, the better to avoid looking at Batwoman’s naked body. “You had better have an amazing explanation for showing up like this.”

“Sorry to come by unannounced—”

“That’s really not the problem here!”

“—but we need you to take a look at this.”

Zatanna followed the line of Batwoman’s finger and squeaked. “I don’t care how proud you are, I don’t…swing…” The amulet’s magic latched onto Zatanna’s distraction, washing away her thoughts. Her jacket fell onto the half-cleaned puddle of coffee, and her bow tie was halfway off before she could see the amulet close-up. “Wow. What’s this?”

“Not sure. We were hoping you could tell us.”

“We?”

“Supergirl’s catching up.”

“The gang’s all here, huh?” She unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it away, though she had trouble getting off her leotard with one hand occupied by inspecting the artifact. “I’m guessing it’s magic?”

Batwoman’s fingers finally made their long-awaited trek to her crotch, pushing against her clit with a force that made even her blush. “Of a sort.”

“Interesting. Yfitnedi.” She released the amulet as she worked her magic on it, and vice versa, since her spell ended right when her boots came off. “There’s definitely something here. I’m getting some kind of hypnosis, but I don’t know the specifics of the trance. What triggers it, how deep it goes, what it does…if you give me some time to—”

“Gooooood evening, Gotham!” Zatanna’s window shattered into a hundred pieces, destroyed by a whirlwind of blue and pink. Harley Quinn hit the floor and rolled upright, splaying out her legs and arms in an ostentatious pose. “Ta-da—whoa, somebody’s happy to see me!”

Two other windows caved in, and four other women barreled through them, glowing with various forms of magic. “Dammit, Harley!” yelled Star Sapphire, conjuring purple shapes to defend herself as much as to attack her own teammate. “This was supposed to be a surprise attack!”

Harley rested her oversized mallet on her shoulder. “I dunno, I’m pretty surprised.”

“How did—oh!” Star Sapphire noticed the heroes as the same time her allies did, and she reacted with a similar lack of aplomb. “Why are—is this—are you two…like that?”

Zatanna put up her gloved hands and braced her fishnet-covered legs, displaying the only clothes she had. “Are we going to kick your ass? Count on it.”

Killer Frost raised her hands. “Whoa. I didn’t sign up for mud wrestling.”

Tsukuri’s katana never wavered from Batwoman’s neck. “Don’t take them lightly. Their uniforms are not what make them formidable.”

Tala shuddered with poorly-concealed fury. “Is this why Luthor sent us here? To see this? What is he planning?”

Batwoman’s hand—the one that wasn’t savaging her own pussy—crept toward her belt. “Luthor, is it?”

“Really?” Star Sapphire huffed. “Way to give away the game, Tala.”

“Yeah, this is all suddenly Tala’s fault!” Harley stuck out her tongue. “But don’t worry! I’ll save us from the Ladies Godiva with a patented Harley actual surprise sneak attack!” She pounded the handle of her mallet on the ground. One of its faces popped open like a lid, shooting metal balls into the room. Multicolored smoke poured out of them, blinding the heroes and the villains alike. Something tugged at the amulet, and Batwoman felt its cord snap around her neck. A flurry of activity whipped the fog around in quick, strong gusts, but when Batwoman’s vision finally cleared, the villains were gone, and so was the artifact.

“Ria raelc!” Zattana coughed, and the room returned to its earlier state, albeit with a dusting of rainbows glitter on every surface. “Okay, what? Also, the hell?”

“The Legion of Doom.” Batwoman rushed to the window. “And they’re working with Luthor, here in Gotham.”

“Yeah, no kidding. How is…whoa! Your suit!”

Batwoman looked at the familiar emblem on her chest, only to see an equally-familiar rack. She reached for her cape to cover herself, but its familiar weight didn’t rest against her backside. “My suit…and yours. Something in the smoke must have damaged them.” She slid into the shadows, the only modesty she could get on such short notice.

“Yeah,” Zatanna nodded and brushed glitter off her panties before she tugged them on. “Yeah, that makes sense. Enog eb rettilg! …ugh, even magic can’t get rid of this stuff.”

“Whatever the amulet does, if Luthor wants it, we have to make sure he doesn’t get it.” Batwoman reached for the communicator in her belt, which she thankfully still had, no doubt due to its high-tech, very expensive construction. “We need the Justice League.”

“And a new uniform.”

“And that, yes.”

Batgirl typed her passcode into the computer with fingers still sticky from her pussy juices. Just behind her, Hawkgirl leaned against the wall, her fingers a blur around her crotch. “Fuck! Fuck, I’m cumming! Yes, yes, yes, yes! Oh, fuuuuuuck!” She raised her body up on her toes and arched her back, shaking from top to bottom with the second orgasm she had given herself during the walk from the security room. Batgirl ignored it completely, just as if she’d merely heard Hawkgirl sneezing, and a moment later it was quiet save for Hawkgirl’s ragged breath and the wet friction of Batgirl’s own hand. The deposit box opened, and Batgirl laid the amulet in it while Hawkgirl peered over her shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe we should bring it to somebody else before we put it away. Who else is good with magic?”

“I’m sure Batwoman’s on it.” Batgirl closed the tiny door and waited for the lock inside to engage. “We’ve done our part and gotten this one out of the wild.”

“I suppose. There’s no use arguing with Batwoman’s plan anyway, whatever it is.”

“Now you’re getting it.” Batgirl smirked as the girls left the vault, letting the automated systems seal it behind them. “Speaking of which, I should get back down there. Still a lot of patrolling to do.”

She rounded the corner and ran straight into Wonder Woman’s well-secured bosom, nearly knocking herself on her naked rear. Wonder Woman shielded her eyes, peeking at the sidekick over her fingers. “Batgirl! I see it reached here as well.”

“Here? What did?”

“Your state of undress.”

“My…what are you talking—ahh!” Now free of the amulet’s influence, Batgirl slapped her forearm over her chest and covered her pussy with the hand she had moments ago used to fill it knuckle-deep. “My suit! What happened to my suit?”

Hawkgirl’s wings folded around herself, and her full-body blush covered everything they didn’t. “Are we under attack?”

“It’s not clear.” Wonder Woman lowered her hand, but remained careful to look her allies only in the eyes. “We noticed something similar in the gym a few minutes after you came by. Our clothing strewn around—or, in Vixen’s case, partially destroyed—in an instant, without our notice. It may be some villain trying to rob us of our equipment.”

“And our dignity,” Hawkgirl grumbled. “Where are our uniforms? Shouldn’t they be right here?”

“We found yours near the entrance. Batgirl’s, I’m afraid, is nowhere to be found.”

Batgirl examined herself visually, keeping her naked backside against the wall. “I still have my belt, though. If somebody’s trying to disarm us, they did a shoddy job of it. I’ll have to—”

“Watchtower. Come in.”

Batgirl had her fingers halfway to her earpiece before she felt her chest bounce free again, and her modesty left only the dressed superhero free to answer. “Batwoman, this is Wonder Woman. We have a situation here.”

“So do we. The Legion of Doom.”

She rolled her eyes. “It figures.”

”They attacked us and took an amulet we were investigating. Has Batgirl secured the other one in the vault?”

Batgirl gave Wonder Woman a sheepish thumbs-up. “Yes, it’s safe.”

”Good. We’ll need some help down here.”

“I’ll rally the troops.” Wonder Woman nodded at Batgirl and Hawkgirl. “Get your backup clothing. We’ll deal with this problem once we’ve handled the Legion of Doom.”

By the time the assembled Justice League arrived in downtown Gotham, the Legion of Doom had already made a mark for themselves, upending cars, smashing storefronts, and engaging in dedicated if haphazard chaos. Most citizens of the city had enough experience with supervillains to know to keep their distance when one went on a rampage, but on this night the Legion of Doom had gathered a decent crowd. Dozens of people lingered on the fringes of the action, staying out of the path of carnage but remaining close enough to witness it all. A gracious observer might say this was because such a large crew of villains rarely appeared together at the same time, but anybody being even a little honest with themselves would admit it had more to do with their total, brazen lack of clothing. The state of undress varied from woman to woman—Tsukuri still wore a few piece of armor along with her mask, Star Sapphire kept only her headpiece and bright purple boots so tall they almost gave her some actual modesty, and Killer Frost didn’t have a single stitch on her—and the only items they shared were identical amulets around each woman’s bare neck.

Supergirl covered her eyes, badly. “Oh, God, them too?”

Zattana stopped with her hands halfway up. “Too? You mean you—”

“It’s been going around.” Hawkgirl spotted an amulet and tugged her hastily-donned top back down her chest, letting her breasts pop free. “Either they haven’t noticed, or they just don’t care.”

Batgirl chuckled with a wry smirk. “Harley definitely doesn’t care. Heck, she’s probably loving it.” She tossed her gloves behind her and reached for her zipper again.

Wonder Woman cleared her throat as she pulled her bodysuit over her hips, baring her ass to the delight of the man gathered behind her. “If we’re done gossiping, it’s time to take care of the five of them.”

“Six.” Batwoman fought with her hands, resisting the urge to shed the suit Zatanna had conjured for her and slowly losing. She nodded toward Lex Luthor, lingering against a building with an amulet of his own. While the rest of the League jumped into battle, she made her way to the Legion’s ringleader, leaving a trail of clothing behind her. “Luthor.”

“Ah, the Batwoman.” He managed not to look as one of his biggest enemies pulled her bra over his head, but it took most of his willpower. “It seems some supervillains are causing some havoc in your city. Maybe you should deal with them.”

“Save it. I know you’re involved in this. I’m not losing you.”

He smirked and watched her hand stick to her crotch like a magnet. “Oh, you’ve already lost, Batwoman. You just won’t know it for a few minutes more.” He relaxed and sat back to watch the fireworks; Batwoman still loomed over him, but even such a menacing figure lost some of her intimidation factor when she was masturbating on a public street.

Only a few yards away, the Legion and the League made contact, separating into pairs so they could fight one-on-one. Supergirl reached her target first, a benefit of super speed, punching straight through one of Star Sapphire’s energy constructs. “Huh. I thought they’d be tougher. I guess Green Lantern’s that much stronger than you are.”

“Strength isn’t everything, girl. There’s also leverage!” Purple light rushed from Star Sapphire and circled Supergirl’s wrists and ankles. It formed solid shapes and snapped into place, forming two pairs of manacles that stretched the Kryptonian spread-eagle. Star Sapphire laughed, oblivious to how openly she displayed the naked superheroine to the rapt crowd. “It’s time I expose you as the rookie you are.”

Across the street, Killer Frost whipped up energy of her own, blowing a frigid wind at Hawkgirl. Her sky-blue chest, topped by deep blue nipples, bounced as she cackled, and her whole body writhed as she rubbed her pussy against the cap of a frozen fire hydrant. “What’s wrong, birdie? How’s about you fly south for the winter?”

Hawkgirl protected herself with her mace, though it didn’t stop the chill air from leaving her even perkier than before. “Like I haven’t heard that one a dozen times.” She gritted her teeth, forging onward through the cold.

Tala flew around Zatanna, blasting at the magician with beams of energy. Her hair hovered around her, long enough to cover her sculpted ass if it hadn’t been floating as she used her powers. “This is no place for a third-rate magician who only knows parlor tricks!” she yelled, her eyes filled with manic fury. “You’ll never get to Luthor without going through me!”

“Dleihs! That’s the idea!” Zattana hid behind a floating manhole cover, suspended by her own magic. She fumbled with her bow tie and fishnets, but they remained on as she focused on staying alive.

“Incoming!” Harley Quinn, a blur of white skin, leapt onto Batgirl while the superhero was kicking off her panties. She landed on Batgirl’s shoulders and wrapped her thighs around her head, clamping down on her airway. It didn’t occur to her when she linked her sneaker-clad ankles behind Batgirl’s back that this mashed her pussy against another woman’s face, even when her clit brushed Batgirl’s nose and triggered a loud, eye-rolling moan.

“Mm—mmph!” Batgirl tried to speak, but her lips only teased Harley further. She grimaced through Harley’s two-toned bush and grabbed her thighs, trying to pry them apart. With only boots, gloves, and her mask on, she didn’t even have her arms free to hide her nudity, not that she would have if she could.

Tsukuri swung her blade at Wonder Woman, fencing the Amazon back into an alleyway. She swayed back and forth in a blur of red, keeping up an offensive with her fingers mashed against her clit. “Please realize, I don’t want to kill you. Luthor’s paying a very large amount for us to perform some property damage. This is just business.”

“Yeah.” Wonder Woman blocked a swing with her bracers, the only thing she had on besides her tiara. They formed gold streaks as she moved them in and out, protecting her vital organs while keeping at least one hand clamped around her breasts at all time. She pinched her nipple and gasped, throwing back her head in an accidental feint, and when Tsukuri fell out of place to follow, Wonder Woman laid her out with a single punch to the stomach. “Likewise.”

A nearby car window shattered as Supergirl screamed, but the manacles held fast, gradually pulling her wrists backward. Her back arched, thrusting her tits into the air. Star Sapphire gritted her teeth, equally focused on keeping up her constructs and rubbing her own thighs. “See? It’s not about the size of your grasp, but how tight you squeeze.”

With a burst of effort, Supergirl craned her head forward and looked at Star Sapphire. She didn’t see the bare body sandwiched between a purple top and bottom, only the dark hair swaying behind it. She narrowed her eyes and shot a beam from her heat vision, catching Star Sapphire’s hair on fire. The manacles evaporated while Star Sapphire flailed, and in the space of a breath Supergirl knocked her out. “Funny, I agree,” she picked up the villain with one hand and grabbed her own tit with the other, “but I squeeze tighter.”

“Hraaaaah!” Hawkgirl hurled her mace at Killer Frost, taking advantage of a moment of distraction. She didn’t know the distraction was because of the orgasm rippling through Killer Frost’s body, only that her enemy looked away, and thus it was the perfect time to strike. The villain fell off the hydrant, and though Hawkgirl did retrieve her, she first rubbed her breasts against the cold metal, shuddering for reasons she didn’t comprehend.

“Why! Won’t! You! Die!” Tala hurled spell after spell at Zatanna, constantly foiled by the magician’s quick thinking and quicker tongue—even with both hands working away at her pussy, Zatanna could still cast with only her mouth. “You can’t even attack! All you can do is sit there and hide!” Her barrage faltered as she ran out of breath, and she laid her hand against her chest tattoo, the only spot of black covering her body.

Zatanna snapped to attention, through her stocking-clad legs stayed spread as wide as a contortionist’s. She pointed one froth-slathered finger at Tala and shouted her first offensive spell: “Uoy dniheb!” Tala finched and braced herself for an assault, which meant she didn’t see the blue mailbox before it clipped her in the back of the head. She fell face-down, her bare ass jiggling for a few long seconds while Zatanna panted.

Batgirl, low on air herself, dug her yellow fingers into Harley’s thighs. While Harley obliviously ground her pussy against her rival’s nose, Batgirl broke into a running charge. She barely saw a car around Harley’s thin white waist, and she bent forward at just the right time to slam the supervillain back-first into the windshield. The legs relaxed and Batgirl pulled back, though instead of arresting Harley her first act was to idly rub her aching clit. “Thanks for letting me watch wrestling, Dad,” she muttered. “Looks like I learned more than just what clothing can survive a fight.”

With the threat ended, the police rushed onto the scene, snapping handcuffs around every one of the villains. None of the women nearby, not even Batwoman, noticed any of the male officers taking any liberties with the nearly-naked criminals, nor did they say a word when the female officers stripped down to match. The heroes gathered, a show of solidarity, putting a rainbow of boots, gloves, and other accessories on display framing a collection of six fit, voluptuous bodies. Dozens of phones snapped picture after picture, and a few video cameras joined in, with one led to the Justice League by a skinny, nude redhead. “Summer Gleeson, Gotham Live. Can we get a shot of our triumphant heroes?”

As the police led Lex Luthor into the back of the wagon with his exhibitionist allies, he couldn’t help but smile. It had been great to watch both the Justice League and the Legion of Doom prancing around in their birthday suits. And still, despite all he had seen, the true show was about to begin. The heroes lined up for their moment in the spotlight, some with more enthusiasm than others, and the cameras all took positions to get every moment on film. Even the officers escorting him paused, staring at the impromptu show and letting him have clear sight of the culmination of his master plan.

Supergirl caught his eye first as she hovered above the rest, an easy sight for even the people in the back of the crowd. She didn’t have her skirt or boots any more, and nothing protected her completely naked body from the onlookers gathered to watch her finish herself off. She ignored them just as the amulet ordered, massaging her clit at superhuman speed. Her knees lifted higher and higher until her ankles floated above her hips, blatantly exposing her masturbation to the cameras. No matter how hard she bit her lip she couldn’t entirely keep her voice under control, and her glass-rattling “fuck, yes, fuck, yes, FUCK, YES!” seemed like the starting bell for the other women arrayed under her.

Wonder Woman had much the opposite technique, though she showed it off just as openly. She crouched low so she could get her knees wide apart, putting her head at crotch-level and no doubt inspiring many a fantasy in the men who saw her. One bracer-clad wrist pushed against the small of her back, a sign of the bondage fetish Lex had always suspected she secretly held. Her tousled hair almost covered her tiara, but it was still very obviously the Amazonian heroine who stroked herself off, releasing only a steady stream of “Great Dionysus, yes, I’m almost there…” until her thighs jerked, her arms twitched, and a satisfied smile crept over her face.

Every way Wonder Woman was a pinnacle of mature, stoic beauty, Batgirl was not. She had one yellow boot propped against a mailbox and one gloved arm leaning on a streetlight, putting her at an odd diagonal while she jammed two fingers into her sopping wet pussy. Her purple mask still covered her face, but not her eyes or mouth, leaving it painfully obvious how much her eyes rolled back and how far her tongue lolled out of her gaping lips. She didn’t say anything intelligible, just half-formed grunts like “Ahh! Ahh-eeeh! Aaah, aah, aaaaaah!” But her lack of diction didn’t cloud her meaning, and her crossed eyes and drooling mouth almost took attention away from the perky tits jiggling uncontrollably with every spasm that wracked her slim body.

“Fuck!” Hawkgirl shouted, with one hand grinding against her bud and the other popping herself up on a building. “Fuck, how does…how does it feel…so…gooood!” A brick shattered in her grip and her wings unfurled, along the most obvoius tells Lex had ever seen. She trembled like a woman who had never cum before: bucking her hips, shaking her knees, jerking her head back and forth so hard her helmet nearly flew off. Her legs gave out and she fell forward, curled into a ball while she begged her witnesses, “More! I want more! Give it to me!”

Lex almost didn’t see Zatanna, not through the mass of bodies in the way. A group of topless female officers moved to push the crowd back, and then he finally found her, lying on the sidewalk. She had likely started off kneeling, but as lust took over she had bent farther and farther back, and now she only had her tiptoes and shoulders on the ground. The rest of her, from her fishnet-covered knees to the bow tie around her neck, was completely arched, and she humped into the air like she was trying to throw somebody off. “Gnimmuc gnimmuc gnimmuc gnimmuc gnimmuc!” she screamed, and she shoved several fingers into her pussy one last time before somebody blocked the view again.

Only Batwoman had held out thus far, no doubt the result of her admirable mental fortitude. But no woman could totally resist the amulet’s effect, and just as she eventually found herself down to her mask, belt, and boots, she too succumbed to the hypnotic command. As the women around her came as loudly as possible, she gritted her teeth, suppressing outward displays of her arousal much like how she had tried to ignore it in the first place. But her flushed chest, the hard nipples at the ends of her quivering breasts, the pussy juice shining on her fingers, and the sheen of sweat all over her body betrayed her feelings. The sound she loosed was barely human, more like an animal at the end of a hunt, a protracted “Uuuuuuhhhnnn!” as she hunched over. Lex thought he saw her eyes roll back just like her protégé’s, and then she was back in control, albeit with her other hand crawling toward her pussy to join in on her next impending orgasm.

One by one all six heroes came again, showing their fans and the world how they looked in the throes of orgasm, completely blind to the effect their unintentional display had on the men who would no doubt play this memory, or this video, over and over again. Lex tilted back his head and laughed as the wagon doors shut. It was a shame he couldn’t stick around, but it was safer this way. In a few minutes, after the amulets got some distance from the heroes and they realized what had happened, where their clothes were, and what they had done in front of uncountable witnesses, he didn’t want to be somewhere the Justice League could reach him. Better to let this one play itself out.

Besides, he had a wagon full of masturbating supervillains to keep him company in the interim.

Chapter Text

“Y’know, I’m starting to think Gotham isn’t as safe a city as it’s made out to be.” Harley Quinn reclined against the side of the police van, staring dreamily at the ceiling. “Sure, there’s all the crime, and corruption, and the disasters, and us, I guess. But a girl should be able to bust up a city block without a—mmm, yeah, that’s it—a buncha cops thinking they can get handsy with her!” Her dramatic sigh rose in pitch and volume, transitioning into a full-blown lusty moan. She decided not to drum her fingers on her leg, heedless of what they were actually doing: burrowing into her own pussy with mindless fury, a hole so drenched with honey it practically shone in the bland florescent light. “Seriously, I think Sargent Barerra frisked me so…hah, hah, haaaaard I’m wondering if villain health insurance covers mammograms. Oh! Oh, yeah! Oh, fuck, you think we can sue them for harassment?”

Lex Luthor smirked at her, then returned to wrinkling his nose. The smell of sex had filled the van to capacity, the result of five women all hurling themselves into depravity like amateur camgirls four hours into a cosplay show. Harley, naked and pale white below her mask, had her legs stretched nearly across the entire space, a feat of athleticism that let her hump her fingers nearly as hard as they slammed into her cunt. On one side of her, Killer Frost hunched over with her wrists between her legs, grinding the metal base of her handcuffs until they iced over, with her eyes cloudier than usual and her tongue nearly dry from lolling out. On the other, Star Sapphire put her concentration into defying her power-dampening manacles, not to break free of police custody but to create a floating energy dildo, which spun and fucked her until she squirted yet again onto Harley’s extended leg. Even Tsukuri, normally so stoic and silent, ignored them all as usual, mumbling and staring at the wall, her fingers an absolute blur around her clit. And Tala? She was getting what she’d always wanted. None of the women actively participated with each other because they didn’t notice anything amiss—in fact, they didn’t even consciously know what they were doing to themselves. He owed his excellent view to the amulets, the bronze discs resting atop five pairs of naked, heaving breasts.

Star Sapphire came down from her high first, slumping after another floor-drenching orgasm and licking her purple lips. “It’s a clever idea, but I doubt it’s what our fearless leader had in mind.” Despite her overt sarcasm, she still rolled her hips as she looked at him, already working up to her next peak. “What part of your brilliant plan gets us all sent to prison?”

“Oh, God!” Harley bit her finger and arched her back, supporting her body only with her shoulders against the wall and the tips of her toes. “Yeah, babe, just like that! Just like that! Fuck, I’m gonna cum! I’m cumming! Cumming, fuck, fuck, cumming, fuck, cum—”

“Shut up!” Killer Frost roared, almost as loud as the rest of Harley’s screams. Her grinding stopped only long enough for her to turn toward Harley, pointing her bare blue pussy at her orgasmic ally. “How the fuck am I supposed to think when you won’t stop screaming in my ear?!”

Star Sapphire laughed into a groan and back again as the dildo pushed even deeper. “Think? I wasn’t aware you could.”

“Bitch, I don’t have to think to twist that pointy mask into a knot around your neck.”

“Children,” Tsukuri muttered, and the room devolved into a screaming match. As soon as she could speak again Harley joined in, tossing blame for their failure all around the room. Lex chuckled at the sight, four women—even Tsukuri got into it, though she delivered more short, pointed barbs than expletive-laden tirades—jumping to point sex-soaked fingers in each other’s faces, shoving each other with no regard for the extended skin-on-skin contact, and still cumming their brains out regularly with their legs wrapped around each other. It was an excellent final push for his own orgasm shot deep into the womb of the slender, violet-haired witch in his lap. With an amulet of her own, she too felt an instinctual urge to masturbate heedless of her audience or conscious will. She just did it more directly than the others, by planting herself in Lex’s lap and riding him until her knees shuddered and her blank white eyes rolled.

She rubbed her back against his chest and nuzzled his neck, with a single hair flip as the only indication of anything out of place. “Ignore them, Lex. I understand your plan. You, me, a private holding cell, and all night to ourselves…” She put her best into seducing him, as she always did. To her nothing was different—she didn’t remember leaving her dress in a basement several miles away, she didn’t feel a draft from her small, perky breasts heaving in the open air, and she didn’t even notice Lex’s cock wedged inside her, locking in a fresh creampie. She only knew she lusted after him, a logical escalation from her standard flirtation. To her, everything was normal. That was the point.

Lex, however, noticed everything. The amulets didn’t work on men the way they worked on women, and he kept his wits about him despite the nude villains squawking and masturbating almost to the point of collapse. “Not tonight.” He lifted Tala off his dick and pushed her to her feet, ignoring the pathetic pout she returned. As soon as he was free, Tsukuri seized the opportunity, breaking from the fracas to take Tala’s place. Lex watched his new Asian lover settle in his lap, scowling at the other women while she sunk inch by inch until his full, cum-covered length rested inside her. He waved his hand at her as she began to bounce, even knowing Tala wouldn’t understand anything amiss with the sight. “By the time we reach our destination, I think I’ll be too drained for any extracurriculars. But don’t worry. Despite appearances, we’re still going by the plan.”

All the women stopped masturbating for a moment except for Tsukuri, who continued trying to wring another load of sperm out of Luthor’s dick. Harley, ever the talker, replied first. “Uh, not for nothin’, Lex, but this don’t feel like a win just yet.”

“Patience, ladies. We’re just getting started.” Lex smiled as the orgy picked back up, and the van filled with the familiar slaps and squelches he had come to know. “When we reach the jail and I get some time to myself, we enter phase two.”

Brandon collapsed onto his sofa with barely the energy to grunt when the familiar broken spring stabbed his lower back. His television—still a CRT—reflected each line in his haggard face. A pile of unread mail collapsed on the thrift-store table before him, disturbing the layer of dust; after a long, grueling day cleaning the facilities at a Gotham branch of LexCorp, he could barely pull together the energy to eat, much less spend his limited free time scrubbing his own apartment. He repeated his mantra—”eighteen more minutes, eighteen more minutes”, a reminder of his daily vacation time accrual—as he sank into the musty cushions. It was easier to think he was actually building a reserve of time off for an eventual holiday rather than paying back the debt he owed for spending his vacation time and sick leave far earlier than his co-workers. It wasn’t fair. If he was going to work so hard, he should at least have a family or friends to come home to instead of another few hours in front of the television before he slept just enough to survive tomorrow’s shift.

He flailed for the remote and pointed it vaguely at the television, letting it hang in his hand while the screen flickered to life. He didn’t even remember what he had watched the night before. The TV started on a news channel, or something else with an interview, where a talking head smirked at him through an ominous haze of orange. For once he recognized the face: Lex Luthor, his boss’s boss’s boss’s boss’s boss’s boss. Or maybe there was another boss in between? Whatever. It wasn’t like he’d ever have any actual contact with the CEO of the company where he powerwashed chemical tanks and scrubbed metal floors, especially when one of them was in jail.

Luthor didn’t say anything to the interviewer, though his expression did fall from a sneer into a glare. “You could at least act surprised to see me, Mister Townsend.”

Brandon’s heart jumped. What were the odds that the other person on the TV show shared his last name? He laughed at the thought.

“I’m glad to see I amuse you.”

…wait. “Mister Luthor?”

“Good, I was starting to wonder if you knew who I was.”

The remote bounced off the carpet. “A-a-are you talking to me?”

“Of course I am. And sit up, you look like a slob.”

He jumped bolt-upright on his couch, ignoring the piercing spring. “How? How are you on my television?”

“Mister Townsend, if I told you, do you think you’d understand?”

Brandon’s eyes flicked around his room, searching for cameras or microphones. “…no?”

“Good answer.” Luthor nodded at him, and the lump in his throat fell into his ribs. “I don’t have long, so try to pay attention. I’m sure you’re aware of my recent incarceration and the events around it.”

Brandon nodded. Who wasn’t? There hadn’t been a bigger news story in years. At this point, everybody in the world with access to media had seen the photos and videos of the Justice League naked and masturbating on a public street or broad moonlight, and every man (or, statistically, about 96% of men and 5% of women) had spent a great amount of time poring over the footage, recorded only a dozen blocks from his apartment. Brandon himself had downloaded the high-definition live feeds before they had been taken down, and the ensuing masturbatory marathon had cost him his remaining vacation days and a trip to the pharmacy for a cream to relieve chafing. From what he’d heard, he wasn’t alone. If a person was at all attracted to women, they were likely in a similar situation if not quite as intense. He opened his mouth but, in a rare glimmer of foresight, decided not to explain how he jerked himself ragged watching the same event where one of the most powerful men in the world had been arrested. No, Brandon would play it cool. “I’ve seen a few reports.”

“I bet you have.” Luthor’s raised eyebrow blew away Brandon’s misplaced calm in an instant. “Since you’re caught up, how would you like to get your grubby hands on some of those women?”

“…what?”

“I have connections that will allow you to infiltrate the Watchtower under the guise of an upstanding member of the janitorial staff, and while there you will have free reign with all the superheroines your heart desires.”

“…what?”

Luthor rubbed the bridge of his nose. “God, why aren’t the necessary ones ever smart? I’m getting you a job at the Justice League’s space station, and you’re going to have sex with them. Understood?”

This had to be a joke, right? Or a fever dream. Maybe Brandon had inhaled too many chemicals at work. He knew he should have made sure his mask was on right. “Okay, I understand,” he lied, “but how would it even work?”

“You wouldn’t be the first plant I’ve had in their organization. Let’s just say their hiring system isn’t as robust as they think.”

“No, I meant, how would I have sex with Wonder…with all of them?”

“Ah, of course. I should have known the mechanics of corporate espionage weren’t your primary interest.” Brandon recognized the look on Luthor’s face from most of his teachers, co-workers, and ex-girlfriends. “Did you notice the amulets the heroes were wearing, or were you too distracted?”

“The necklaces?”

“Yes, the necklaces. The amulets affected the minds of the women who wore them. The same amulets have a different effect when worn by a man. They make the wearer totally imperceptible. Silent. Invisible. A ghost who cannot be detected by even the most sophisticated technology.”

“So if I had one of those, a woman wouldn’t notice if I touched her?”

“Not just touched her, Mister Townsend. You could bend a woman over and take her in the middle the Gotham Freeway, and nobody would give you so much as a passing glance.”

Brandon started to put two and two together. “And if I’m on the Justice League space station, I could do it with all those superheroes?”

“I’m counting on it.”

“That would be amazing! Any man would kill for a chance to…wait. Why me? Why not a supervillain, or…or you?”

Luthor’s smug cheer returned to his voice. “Good, you’re thinking. Rest assured, the amulet isn’t dangerous. I’m sending you because you’re the only person who can do it. My extensive research shows you have a specific deficiency that makes you uniquely suited for the job.”

“Are you saying I’m stupid?”

“Not out loud. I mean you have a genetic quirk, a mutation that suppresses the development of superpowers. Any child of yours is guaranteed to be an ordinary, humdrum boy or girl, even if their other parent is a genius, an athlete, or a Kryptonian. It’s a rare trait, found in only one in a thousand men, and among those men we found your other inheritable traits made you best suited to this opportunity.”

“But that doesn’t matter unless…wait. Wait, wait, wait. It sounds like you’re expecting me to go to the Justice League, have sex with the heroes there, and knock them up.”

Luthor snapped his fingers, the first time Brandon had seen anything below his neck. “And he’s figured it out. You, Mister Townsend, are going to give the entire Justice League little bundles of joy, burdens to keep them out of the public eye and away from crime-fighting for months or years, and gifts who will never grow up to follow in their mothers’ brightly-colored boots. These children won’t be superheros. They’ll be just like you.”

His nearly-bare apartment came back into focus, and his head dipped as he mulled over Luthor’s full meaning. Just like him? No family, no friends, no relationships, no savings, stuck in a dead-end job, literally counting the minutes until their next day off? “But…that sounds awful.”

“Awful is what they make of it, Mister Townsend. Rest assured, the mothers of your children will be able to care for them far better than you might expect. The kids will never be scientists or gold medalists, but who is? Are you so concerned about it that you would give up a chance to have your way with the entire Justice League, and get paid while you do it?”

“Yeah, paid a janitor’s salary.”

“Then how does seven figures sound?”

Seven…figures? He must have meant dollars. Seven dollars per hour, even less than minimum wage. “It’s…”

“Millions. Millions of dollars, and a one-way ticket to any location of your choice when it’s all said and done. As long as you’re leaving the country. It’s another reason you’re perfect for this job. It’s easy to subject me to a paternity test, but some random gentleman in Europe? Tracing a child to you would be nearly impossible. All I ask is that you have as much fun as possible along the way.”

Brandon’s eyes lost sight of the room. This was wrong, wasn’t it? Lex Luthor was a supervillain, according to the news. This was an evil plan. He’d basically said as much when he talked about how pregnant heroines would be on the sidelines for months. How many people would get hurt because there were fewer heroes to save them? And what about the women themselves? How would they feel about it?

Then again, he reasoned, they wouldn’t feel much, would they? They would never know he was the one who had done it. If any of them had a boyfriend or husband, they would probably just assume a child was his. It was exactly the sort of thing couples planned for. And there were a lot of superheroes, so if a few went on maternity leave now and again, the others could pick up the slack. At least he’d know the women were safe and sound instead of kidnapped by aliens or something. And if he refused, Luthor would just find another person to do it. One in every thousand men? So, what, twenty or thirty thousand men in Gotham alone? Had he refused, Luthor would offer the same deal to somebody else and there was nothing Brandon could do to stop it. But if he accepted, he would be in the best position he could imagine. He could grope Wonder Woman, taste Vixen, smell Supergirl, spank Black Canary, and fuck every single one of them as often as he wanted with no repercussions.

“I’ll do it.” He didn’t say it. The words left his mouth without his consent, and his stomach reeled as he heard them in his own voice.

“Excellent.” Luthor nodded at something off-camera. “My assistant will visit you within the week. She will bring you the amulet and give you all the information you need for your new job. Oh, and Mister Townsend?”

“Y-yes, Mister Luthor?”

“Congratulations.” The television shut off on its own, plunging the room into darkness.

Chapter Text

Brandon never knew a simple knock could sound so imperative. Was it just anxiety at what lurked behind the door causing his heart rate to skyrocket, or was it something in the actual force of the sound? Just a simple tap on the door, yet to him it felt harsh and commanding even without the overbearing volume of an irritated landlord. Fear tore him in two, urging him toward the door but keeping him rooted on the couch he knew. Should he answer it? Could he afford not to? What if it was all a trap, and the—

“I don’t have all day.” A woman’s voice had him bolt-upright in a second, in more ways than one. He raced to the door and unfastened the locks (all apartments in Gotham came standard with at least two deadbolts), nearly bruising his fingers in the process. He pulled the door open, and before he could get out of the way a woman shouldered past him with enough strength to send him a step back. She scanned his front room with discerning eyes just below the brim of a chauffeur’s cap, and an ankle boot with a sensibly low heel nudged one of the dirty socks piled on the carpet. “Classy.”

“Um, can—“

“The door.”

“Right.” He closed his front door with a near-slam. “So how—“

“ID.”

“What? Why? Don’t you know who I am already?”

Her woman’s mouth twitched in a momentary approximation of a smirk. “I do. Still need to see some ID, just in case.”

Brandon opted for his Lexcorp badge, still in the pocket of his coat, over the (suspended) driver’s license in his wallet. The woman examined it front and back, but she didn’t take out any tool to scan it. She just checked the numbers, nodded, and handed it to him. He tucked it in its safe place and allowed his shoulders to loosen slightly. If this was a hit, or a sting, or something like it, he probably wouldn’t have lasted this long. “Am I good, Miss…?”

“Graves. And you’re good enough.” She proffered a small box, one he hadn’t even noticed until she held it within arm’s reach. “I assume you know what’s in here.”

He took it with clammy hands. “A necklace?”

“An amulet of Dionysus. As of tomorrow, you’ll be a temp worker at the Watchtower. Go to 19400 Malvern, office 15C, by eight. That’s where the general-access teleporter system to the Watchtower is in Gotham. You’ll be expected to actually work up there, and you don’t want to do anything that puts you under suspicion, so you’ll follow the actual contractor policies. You know, when you’re not screwing people.” She paused for laughter; none came. “The full policy paperwork is in the box.”

Brandon opened it and looked at the first page of documents sitting on top, but just a few sentences of “eligible contractee” this and “limitations of interaction” that made his eyes water. He could probably just assume it was like LexCorp: stuffy, secretive, impersonal, and far dirtier than anybody in management wanted to let on. Instead he let Miss Graves drone on while he lifted the papers, and there it was. He knew the necklace—the amulet from all the videos, and now one of them was here, close enough to touch. Was this the one that had laid atop Wonder Woman’s warm, bouncy tits while she fingered herself stupid? Or had it sat between Killer Frost’s more modest breasts, jangling against her sternum while she humped a fire hydrant in broad moonlight? He imagined what it might have witnessed, even things that hadn’t made it on camera, and for an instant it all seemed so real, so close. With this, could he really have the most desirable women in the world? Any woman, any time he wanted?

He glanced at Miss Graves, who sneered at his apartment while she said…something or other. He wasn’t listening. While she was distracted, he looked her up and down. She wasn’t a superhero, but she could have been one with her statuesque physique and curves to die for. Her black stockings reminded him of Black Canary’s fishnets, and the dark miniskirt teased him with visions of what hid beneath. It was a shame she wasn’t one of his targets, or he could…but, actually, wasn’t she? She was a woman, so the amulet affected her, didn’t it? He could try it, and if it failed, he could just say it was a test to make sure he was using it right. He laid the box and paperwork on his sofa and slipped the necklace over his head, laying the chain on his shoulders and letting the amulet itself settle against his stained tee shirt.

Miss Graves stopped mid-sentence, and her eyes bored holes through him. Just her glare caused him actual pain, and he raised his hands to defend himself. And then she looked left, then right, and all around the room. “The hell?” she muttered, only audible because he stood a yard away. “Did he leave in the middle of my speech? Where could he even go?” Her jaw bulged and her teeth ground together, but her glare didn’t settle back on his face. “I swear, does Lex get off sending me to talk to the assholes or something?”

Brandon poked her in the shoulder, right in front of her, where she could have stopped him in an instant if she’d so chosen. The foam shoulder pad under her jacket buckled, and she shifted a fraction of an inch, but she didn’t otherwise respond. He tried something more daring, taking off her hat and letting deep brown hair spill across her shoulders. She brushed it back with her fingers, an unconscious adjustment to keep it under control, and tapped her foot on his worn carpet. Throwing caution to the wind, he splayed his fingers out and raised his hand, giving her one last chance to avoid his grasp. When she only huffed, his hand fell directly onto her breast, squeezing the giant mound through layers of fabrics.

And still she did nothing. Miss Graves ignored him completely. He added another hand to grope her tits from behind, and she checked her watch. He unbuttoned her jacket and shoved his hands under her shirt to fondle her more closely, and she drummed her fingers on her waist. He hiked up her skirt and rubbed her lacy black panties, and she murmured something ironic about a janitor keeping a filthy apartment. Her only reactions were subtle: her nipples growing hard, her face turning red, her panties dampening with moisture. While she ignored him entirely, her body still knew what he did, and slowly he turned her on while she stood blithely unaware.

In a burst of passion he grabbed her head and pulled her to him, shoving his tongue into her mouth. She kissed him back despite her wide open eyes, trading spit with a man she barely knew existed. He worked his finger into her panties, slowly burrowing to her pussy, and he had barely reached her clit when she made a grunt like half-formed words. He pulled back, and she sighed. “Hell with it. If he’s not even going to listen, he can find his own damn way there.” Miss Graves looked at the door, but her hips nudged Brandon’s hand and drew them lower. He let her grind on him for a moment longer, then pulled his hand back and stepped away. As soon as he broke physical contact, Miss Graves grabbed her hat and stormed out his door without bothering to fix her untucked shirt, unbuttoned jacket, or raised skirt.

Brandon looked at his own hands. This was real? This was real! He’d actually felt up one of Lex Luthor’s personal assistants in his apartment, and she hadn’t so much as winced. She had acted like he wasn’t there, even when he was halfway to finger-fucking her and her tongue had his pinned to the bottom of his mouth. This couldn’t be a trick. It was too thorough. Why would Lex Luthor, of all people, go to such an elaborate ruse to fool some custodian into embarrassing himself in front of the Justice League? It made no sense. It had to be true.

A genius billionaire had contacted a random grunt in another city and given him magic powers so he could knock up as many superheroes as possible. This was somehow the most logical explanation, and yes, Brandon understood exactly how insane it sounded. But what was the saying? “When you eliminate the impossible, what’s left must be true, however improbable.” Brandon was pretty sure Spock had said that.

Tomorrow he would be living a life of fantasy, sneaking around the Watchtower and banging any woman he wanted. But…but why wait? This was Gotham! His city had more costumed heroes and villains per capita than pretty much anywhere in the world! Especially in his low-rent, low-maintenance part of town, there was about a fifty-fifty chance he could pop into any police precinct and find at least one D-list mask-wearer sitting in a holding cell or waiting for the cops to process their latest catch. And if he remembered correctly, the precinct a few bus stops away was actually being used as a local foothold for the investigation into the original amulet incident. Which meant the Justice League had been popping in and out of it for the last week, and individual villains had been shipped in (under heavy watch, of course) for interrogations and examinations. Everything was under total lockdown, and nobody, not even Summer Gleeson, had been able to get a glimpse past the front doors. But if he could walk right in, undetected, and find his way to where the League was working…

He left without even grabbing his coat. Gotham could get chilly in the fall, but he would find something to warm him up real quick.

Brandon learned something real quick: men still noticed him. The male bus driver still asked him for his fare, and the grungy men near the back of the bus gave him an eye that told him to stay far near the front. It was a shame, too; a cute young woman nearly sat in his lap, completely oblivious to his presence, and he only slid to an adjacent seat because he didn’t want any strange looks from people who could see him. It was a nice wake-up call before he waltzed into the police station heedless of his limitations.

When he did make his way into the 71st Precinct station, practicing his excuses all the while, he at least only had to deal with a woman at the front desk—which was to say he didn’t have to deal with her, and he strolled past her without so much as a passing nod. By meticulously  avoiding any male officers, a skill he had honed during long shifts at work dodging managers and co-workers who needed favors, he made his way to the back of the building. The place he wanted wasn’t hard to find; the Justice League had their logo on signs blocking off a hallway, either the work of a fan in the department or a heavy-handed act of branding. He stepped over the rope and hid around the corner, staying out of any officer’s field of vision by virtue of his new amulet. From there he milled about until he found an interrogation room with the lights on.

His heart soared and his stomach fell. He hadn’t let himself hope until this point. While he knew the station was being used by the Justice League, he could only cross his fingers and pray they were using it right this moment. But there it was, a place with nobody close enough to hear and the adjacent observation room dark. This was it. Behind this door sat his goal, his dream, and his greatest fear. He slapped his face to wake up and grabbed the handle, twisting it and bursting inside before he could second- (or seventh-) guess his actions.

Inside he found two women, neither of whom acknowledged his presence. As he turned to close the door he found a third woman tucked in the corner, the undeniable cape and scowl of the Batwoman herself. He froze, as statue-still as she, waiting to give her the explanation he had practiced for the entire trip. She raised her hands and he gave a brave, manly cower until she tugged off her glove, then the next. He blinked, rose, and actually laughed in her face before he realized what he was doing. It was working! In fact, it was working better than it had in his apartment! Was it because he’d worn it longer, or because she had already been subject to the amulet before? It didn’t matter. He just shut the door and watched the women strip as he pulled off his own clothes.

By the time he was naked, Batwoman was down to her cape, mask, boots, belt, and underwear, and her main struggle was getting her sports bra off without disturbing her mask (he understood the struggle—if he planned to wear the amulet much longer, he saw the wisdom in switching to button-down shirts). While he longed to get two handfuls of the Caped Crusader’s plump tits, he turned his attention to the more animated women around a table. He knew Batgirl immediately, both when she stood, arms crossed, in her purple suit and after she wore nothing more than her cape, her mask, and a pair of bright yellow boots. Her trademark red hair gave her away, as did the slender ass and perky titties he had watched for hours on his computer screen. The third woman escaped his memory until she spoke with the grating Brooklyn drawl of Harley Quinn, a voice he recognized even on a random slim woman with blond pigtails. With her wrists handcuffed to the table she couldn’t disrobe as effectively as her interrogators, but with some impressive gymnastics she did get her orange prison shirt and bra bunched around her hands and her pants and panties off her ankles. While the representatives from the Bat-family could finger themselves with ease, Harley had to make do grinding her hips against her cold metal chair.

Batgirl sighed, a shuddering moan indicative of arousal as much as exasperation. “Do you even remember where you got it?”

“Hmm…hm, hm, hmmmmmm…” Harley made a show of thinking while she bent forward to get a better angle. “Maybe Sal’s, you know, on Beech? Mistah J and I hit it up a couple of times. Nice earrings.”

“Stop playing games, Quinzel. Just tell us about the amulets and we’ll see if we can get you transferred back to Arkham. You like Arkham, right? More than Blackgate.” Batgirl leaned over the table, wiggling her tight rump back and forth under her cape with her smallish tits shaking as she pumped her own hole. “We just need a lead.”

“I don’t know nothin’! And even if I did, I wouldn’t say it to the Dork Knight and her squire. So nyeh!” She stuck out her tongue, and a moment later her mouth hung open and her eyes rolled back, completing the look.

“Cum…c-cum!—come on, Quinzel,” gasped the barely-legal sidekick. “Give us a name, anything.”

Harley opened her mouth to retort, but something got in her way. Specifically, Brandon sat on the table in front of her and jammed his dick into her mouth, cutting off her smart-aleck retort and giving him a few blessed moments without her voice. He knew it wasn’t part of Luthor’s orders—Harley was the opposite of a superhero, and nobody ever got pregnant via their mouth—but he felt like a little warmup before he got to work. She tilted her head to look at Batgirl behind him, treating him no differently from a wall blocking her line of sight. As he grabbed her pigtails and forced her face up and down, she even closed her lips and moved her tongue, sucking him off like it was her intention. Occasionally she mumbled in response to one of Batgirl’s repeated questions, but for the most part she humped her chair and blew Brandon until her spit dripped down his cock and pooled on the table in front of her. Only after he’d come to the brink of orgasm did he let her go, and she gasped aloud and smiled at Batwoman. “Little girl’s not gettin’ it done, Bats. Sure you don’t want to take a crack at me? I promise I won’t bite. Hard.”

Batwoman didn’t move, except for the fingers sliding in and out of her spread pussy. Her gravely voice stayed level in spite of the red showing on the visible parts of her face. “Answer the questions.”

“Nevah! My lips are sealed!” Harley shook her head, totally ignorant of Brandon pulling her to her feet. She leaned over the table now, just like Batgirl, except her hands were chained far away from her hips. Brandon took it upon himself to help her, and he lined himself up behind her and aimed his cock at her lips. “Threaten me all you want, but I’ll never say a single woid. Oh my God, fuck, shit, yes!” She came like a rocket just from the first penetration, her greedy walls shuddering and milking him for everything he had. Her feet arched and her torso slumped, presenting her bare ass to him and bouncing like he had her on a rodeo bull. “Fuck me, baby, yes! And fuck you, Bats! You can call me in here every single night, and you’ll still nevah hear a single peep outta my FUCK! I’m gonna cum! Gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna cuuuuumm!” Her body shook from her tiptoes to her pigtails, a massive orgasm he heard as much as he saw and felt. After fooling around with Miss Graves and getting a forced blowjob from a handcuffed supervillain, Brandon couldn’t hold back any longer. He blew his first load not into any of the heroes he should have been targeting, but into Harley Quinn, possibly impregnating the girlfriend of the most dangerous man on earth.

The magnitude of what he had done struck him at once, and he pulled out and backed against the wall. White cream seeped from Harley’s lips, and rather than panic or wipe it, she pulled her chair back under her with her nimble legs and got right back to grinding, rubbing his cum all over her crotch. He laughed. He had to! He’d actually done it! He’d fucked Harley Quinn herself, in front of Batwoman, and the only thing the veteran superhero had done was mumble something about her own climax before her hand picked up speed. Watching one woman rub herself in the corner while another accidentally forced his sperm into her body brought his erection back with gusto, and he leered at the third woman in the room, who by his count was biting her lip to hold back the screams from her second peak.

He circled the room and pushed Batgirl’s cape to the side, revealing her entire lovely back to him. His fingers traced lines down her spine to her ass, which he treated to a single eardrum-splitting smack. Batgirl jumped and yelped, and then she went right back to her interrogation. “The silent treatment won’t work, Quinzel. I can be here as long as you can.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Harley sneered at the young redhead. “A girl like you doesn’t have much of a nightlife, does she?”

“Excuse me?”

“Batgirl,” Batwoman moaned, “don’t let her fluster you.”

“I’m not flustered,” she replied, though her chest grew red as Brandon groped her boobs from behind. “Besides, I’m not the one spending my nights in cuffs with a bunch of other women.”

Harley laughed, a breathy ha-ha-ha very much like panting. “Nah, you’d rather spend it in spandex tossing around poor, defenseless girls.”

Brandon slapped his dick against Batgirl’s pussy, triggering another pleasure filled shudder. As he prepared to rape her dripping cunt, he waved his cock at her boss, the stoic Batwoman jilling off in the corner. “What’s wrong? I thought you were the world’s greatest detective, and you don’t even notice me right in front of you? I’m about to fuck a baby into your partner here, and you won’t even lift a finger, will you?

Batwoman stood upright and looked at him, and time froze. Her livid stare turned his blood to ice, too cold to shiver. Batgirl and Harley sniped at each other only a few feet away but he didn’t hear a word of it. There was no interrogation room, only darkness and two eyes scanning his very soul. He could feel his life about to end, yet he couldn’t even see the fist heading for him.

And then she fell back against the wall and returned to her oblivious masturbation. Brandon stood in disbelief until his heart pumped again, releasing all his air in a single breath. That had happened, right? For just an instant Batwoman had defied the amulet. He considered what would have happened if she hadn’t fallen back under its influence and he nearly vomited in the corner. Clearly he would have to leave her alone for a little while. She would succumb eventually, or else Luthor would have warned him. Probably.

Luckily, the cum-stained thighs of Harley Quinn and the perky ass of her teenaged rival helped him recover his erection in mere moments. He humped Batgirl’s backside, preparing to take her while Harley hunched over and moaned through her latest insult. ”Look, Red, I’m just sayin’, Maybe if you got some dick once in a—fucking yes!—while you wouldn’t be so excited about spendin’ time with me.”

“I do not need dick! Oh, God, give me that dick.” Batgirl’s eyes rolled as Brandon sunk into her, hammering her hips with his hands around her tiny waist. “I need answers. Just t-tell me where you g-got the amulets, and I won’t have to c-cum! Back.”

“Look, I’m just as confused as you are! One minute I’m havin’ a party with the girls, and it gets a little wild, and then you and your squad show up and I’m in a cell wearing nothin’ but a towel, and there’s all these videos of me doin’ stuff on the street? Mmm, yes, right there. I’m a good, civil girl! I’d nevah do things like that with people watching! Oh, fuck! Yeah, baby, watch me cum again!” Harley pounded the chair so hard she knocked it over, and she crouched over it from the side to grind out the last of her orgasm. “Look, you were there just like I was. Why aren’t you askin’ yourself questions?”

Batgirl fell to her elbows, propping herself up with one hand while the other pinched her own nipple. “Because I’m in the same boat you are. We’re both—fuck, fuck, yessss—the victims here, Harleen. Something happened to both of us. We—mmmmm—we need to figure it out together, before anything else happens.” She rolled her hips at Brandon, fucking him almost as much as he fucked her. Her head swung to the side and her brow cinched, trying to keep a straight face and failing badly. “I doubt either of us want anybody taking advantage of us.”

“Cumming again.” Batwoman muttered.

“Exactly. Whoever did that to us, they might come again. When—oh, fuck—when it happens, we need to protect ourselves. We don’t—oh, yes, yes, yes! I don’t have any—fuck! I—God, yes—I don’t have any protection! I’m not on protection! Fuck my unprotected—mmm, aaaaaaah!” Her back arched, thrusting her chest forward and bending her hips just right to rub Brandon’s cock. Her accidental warning set him off, and he blew his second load of the night directly into Batgirl’s fertile womb. He could almost feel her suck his sperm deeper as he came, giving it the best chance to fertilize the barely-legal sidekick with his very first superhero baby. She shook her head and crossed her arms, still unaware of the man plugging her pussy full of spunk. “This is hitting heroes and villains alike. We need to work together.”

“You need to suck a lemon.” Harley turned up her nose, which happened to be the same as throwing her head back. “I told you, I’m out of answers too.”

Batgirl sighed, and when Brandon pulled out she flopped back in her chair, though she did perch her feet on the table and slide her finger back into her creamy cunt. “It’s going to be another long night, isn’t it?”

“You can handle it,” Batwoman said, and Brandon remembered he still had another hero to knock up tonight. “I have to leave.”

“Yeah, yeah, patrol. Just keep your clothes on.” Batgirl looked up from her masturbation, and even the amulet couldn’t keep her from withering under her mentor’s icy glare. “Just a joke.”

“Funny.” Batwoman opened the door and left the interrogation room. Brandon considered the remaining girls, wondering how long he could seed and reseed them until he couldn’t stay awake any longer, but he wasn’t about to coop himself up in a single tiny room. He had an ocean of women to conquer now! He snatched his clothes from the ground and tugged them on as he chased the nearly-naked Batwoman down the hall. Wherever she was going, he wanted to be there.

Brandon, it turned out, was not Batwoman. While she had a body honed by years of crime-fighting and endless training, he was just a guy who worked on his feet all day. Keeping pace with her as she raced along rooftops was not easy. His saving grace was the amulet. Batwoman leapt from building to building, but stopped every few steps to rub her nearly-naked body. From street level it only looked like she was brooding, at least to the men who noticed her, but Brandon knew the truth. By running full-tilt he barely managed to catch up with her time and again, getting his wind back for a second or two before she took off. They crossed four blocks this way as she raced without an opponent and he without a destination, tearing through and over Gotham while men gawked and women ignored them.

He also learned something important: when women ignored him, that also meant female drivers. He was extra-careful crossing the street after the first time.

Finally she dropped into an alleyway, and Brandon just saw her cape as it slipped into a building and a window slid shut behind her. After an intense fit of wheezing he dragged a trash can over to a fire escape and climbed his way up to the seventh floor, a welcome cool-down for his burning lungs. When he reached the window he pried it open and climbed inside, finding himself in a normal apartment, fairly mundane except for the diplomas on the wall and the nearly-naked women making out on the couch.

“Mmm, wait. Wait.” The woman on the bottom pushed Batwoman off of her, holding her just a few inches away. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

Batwoman cupped the other woman’s face with her bare hand, running a thumb over her cheekbone. “Are your instincts telling you something, Officer Montoya?”

A smile broke out over Brandon’s face. He knew Renee Montoya, one of the policewomen who had helped arrest the nude Legion of Doom. She had become something of a sensation as one of the rare females on the force during the night the heroes stripped in public, and he recalled some online chatter wishing she had joined them. And now he had her right in front of him, wearing nothing but a tee shirt and panties, getting felt up by Batwoman as part of an apparent lesbian tryst? His clothes hit her carpet before she even finished speaking. “Don’t get me wrong, I love having you over. But taking off your suit outside and sneaking into my apartment naked is a little much.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Batwoman replied, and once she started suckling Montoya’s neck the officer was too busy to ask more questions. The amulet took hold of her—or she just wanted to get closer—and she snuck off her clothes while Batwoman’s groping grew more and more daring. Montoya laughed as she rubbed her partner’s back, humming and pushing her chest gently upward, and Batwoman nuzzled her cheek until she turned for a kiss.

Brandon’s heart ached; he had never imagined Gotham’s dark savior could be so utterly, unabashedly cute. He could have sat and watched for hours, and they would have let him, if the amulet’s demand for masturbation could be satisfied by normal sex. But he had a duty to perform. He sat on the couch behind them, pushed their writhing legs out of the way to make room, and rubbed his cock along Batwoman’s moist lips.

Batwoman backed into him, but only to slide down Montoya’s body to lap at her nipples with slow, wet feathering. As he pushed into the oblivious superhero’s pussy, he nudged her cape out of the way so he could watch the girl-on-girl action continue. The new position also freed the Dark Knight’s chest, and he enthusiastically kneaded one of the top five racks in the Justice League. He had always thought it a shame that Batwoman and her circle tended to wear so much more clothing than the other women, and his opinion only intensified when he had seen just how much flesh she hid behind the logo on her chest. He smacked her fat tits so hard they bounced long after he let them go to grab her ass and pound her harder, rutting her with as much force as his hips could manage.

Montoya stretched out on the couch and laid a hand on Batwoman’s head, caressing her through the mask. She never looked at Brandon, not even when he spanked her girlfriend right in front of her. She focused entirely on the romantic attentions the amulet allowed her to notice, not the naked man she’d never met humping on her couch. Brandon stared directly at her, using the arousal in her face as fuel for his aching thighs. His balls tightened for the third time that night, and he grabbed Batwoman’s shoulders and pulled himself into her as deep as he could get. He knew she likely had some level of defense against him, given her renowned skill at planning for every occasion, but for now he satisfied himself with pumping his hometown’s greatest hero full of sticky white sperm.

A hollowness struck as he pulled out, and he thought he knew the source. Fucking Harley and Batgirl had given him such a rush, and fucking Batwoman hadn’t, specifically because he thought she was on protection. Nervousness no longer plagued him. He wanted to knock up the entire Justice League, to fill every one of those fertile bellies with children they could never trace to him. After a few rounds of breeding sex, he wanted more, and Batwoman wasn’t cutting it. He would have to find a way to get rid of her safeguards. In the meantime, he had another idea. He stood and tugged on the women until they moved, still thinking they acted under their own volition. When he had Batwoman sitting on the sofa and Montoya in her lap, he pulled the officer’s naked ass to Batwoman’s knees. While looking the Dark Knight right in the eyes, he crouched behind Montoya and slid his cock inside her.

Batwoman didn’t look back at him. She closed her eyes and pecked her girlfriend’s lips, a delicate side she never showed when throwing criminals into dumpsters. Her hands held Montoya’s sides, massaging her lower back muscles and accidentally holding her in place so Brandon didn’t jar her loose. He squeezed Montoya’s breasts until skin poked through his fingers, using them as handholds. Her panting grew in waves, the result of stimulation far beyond what simple kissing and fondling could provide. Despite his exhaustion he forced himself to continue, holding Montoya’s soft, dark body tight against his chest. His balls ached and his legs throbbed, but he had started this and he intended to finish it. What finally pushed him over the edge was picturing the inevitable conversation when the lesbian police officer told her girlfriend she was pregnant with no idea who the father was, a conversation he intended to cause. With a gasp more like a whimper he shot the last of his cum into her, envisioning his seed taking hold inside her womb, and the moment his orgasm ended he fell back to the floor with a dull thump.

The women continued without him, though Montoya kept trying to move from simple making out to heavy petting. Dollops of white oozed between their thighs, and Brandon crossed his fingers. Two superheroines down, plus one ally and one supervillain, and he hadn’t even started his first day.

His first day! He searched the room for a clock. 2:14 in the morning. Didn’t he have to be at work by eight? He dressed as he stumbled toward the window, then thought better of the climb down and went to the front door instead. His body screamed at him for the late hour, the race through Gotham, and of course for the vigor it took to fuck four women in one night. If he was lucky, he might be able to get three or four hours of sleep before he started his new job. Hopefully the allure of being surrounded by the planet’s hottest, most unattainable women would give him the energy he needed to power through the day. Though, even if they didn’t, he planned to have many, many more chances.

Chapter Text

Brandon died overnight. Or it certainly felt like it, given how deeply he slept and how tired he was when his alarm rang much too early. He practically tumbled out of bed on his way to the most cursory of morning cleaning rituals: deodorant, comb, splash water on face, breath mint. In his foresight he had at least laid out a clean set of clothes, and he tugged them on in between bites of a cereal bar. With his paperwork in hand (he checked three times) he lumbered out of his apartment and began his new commute.

Gotham in the morning was the same sort of madhouse as every other city, a welcome break from the madhouse it was at all other times of day. Even supervillains slept, it seemed. He only had to deal with the noise, and the cars, and fumbling for his subway pass, and cramming himself between a middle-aged businessman with too much aftershave and a grungy man in a small, stained tee shirt. Then a few more blocks of walking to the nondescript office building, into the nondescript elevator, and toward a nondescript office. Only the cameras in the ceiling gave any indication that the office was anything more than home to a mundane accountant or optometrist, and Brandon only noticed them because he had developed a sixth sense for dodging security at LexCorp, honed by years of stealthily finding the best places to nap.

In retrospect, maybe he hadn’t been as stealthy as he’d thought. Luthor had picked him for a reason, right? Maybe this was part of his unique skill set. He was almost like a superhero himself. “The incredible Amulet Man! With a genetic tendency toward being aggressively normal and the amazing power to hide from the watchful eyes of electronic security and supervisors by generally being beneath their notice, Amulet Man wages a never-ending war for a half-decent job with reasonable benefits and an apartment that doesn’t smell like wet cat!” He chuckled, drawing a worried glance from a man he passed in the hall.

Though superheroes probably didn’t get their powers from mind-control magic handed to them by billionaires. Brandon was fairly sure—at least ninety-four percent—Luthor was a villain. And Brandon’s path to (silent, unknown) glory was to sneak into the Justice League Watchtower, a space fortress with top-of-the-line security and dozens of heroes, and rape as many women as he could find with the express goal of knocking them up without their knowledge or consent. He was probably a villain too, all things considered. But it beat being a destitute janitor, and even with Luthor’s help, accessing one of the solar system’s most secure facilities was a task for a veteran in stealth.

The Watchtower wasn’t impregnable, and he would prove it by making the people inside pregnant. This time he did laugh aloud. The young man at the office desk—likely some sidekick in disguise, doing grunt work—gave him a strange look, but he passed it off with “sorry, didn’t sleep much last night. First day jitters,” and a sheepish smile. The guards seemed to buy it.

As expected, getting into the Watchtower wasn’t easy. He had to sign in, leave his fingerprints, take a retinal scan, and go through what seemed to be an X-ray machine that would make airport security salivate. He left his phone, wallet, and other personal effects at the desk, even his wedding ring (he didn’t have one, but the guard mentioned it as an example of how thorough the screening process was), and changed into the boring custodian’s uniform in a space with roughly the same size and design aesthetic as a windowless closet. Then it was a quick walk through an ordinary door, through a scientifically magical series of glowing rings, and after a brief bout of mild nausea he was in a metal room with a glass wall looking onto the Earth below.

His co-workers and supervisor allowed him a few moments of awe before he got his marching orders. As expected, his duties were much the same as he’d performed at LexCorp: empty trash, straighten areas not currently in use, vacuum or mop where necessary, periodically check on the bathrooms, and similar mindless drudgery. But he immediately noticed how the culture at the Watchtower was unlike his former employer. Instead of milling about half-dead, the other men asked about him and joked around (“Oh, you used to work at LexCorp in Gotham? So you’re, what, already a Superman and Batwoman villain? Hell, next you’ll say your girlfriend is an Amazon.”) Instead of being constantly under the watchful eye of too many cameras and inattentive middle managers, he only received a list of tasks and he otherwise had free reign. “Do your job, follow the rules, don’t make trouble for the superheroes, and nobody minds if your lunch is a little long,” as his supervisor put it. All the better. If he hurried through his work each day, he’d have a lot more time for his true goal.

He didn’t notice anything amiss until a few hours into his shift, when he saw the hallways roped off with large “Female Only” signs hung from them. He withheld his curiosity until lunch, and his co-workers informed him that the Watchtower had been gender-segregated following the first appearance of the amulets. While half the world had seen the Justice League’s best and brightest masturbating themselves dizzy on live television, similar problems had befallen the Watchtower far from the public’s reach. As they understood it, the segregation was a precautionary measure in case another problem happened. Even the security systems were split down the middle; men had no access to the women’s camera systems or any room that required a keycard, to say nothing of the gym, quarters, cafeteria, or other areas. Crossing the line was grounds for immediate dismissal, and opinions seemed to vary on whether “you will be asked to leave” meant “you will be fired” or “you will be directed toward the nearest airlock.”

While his fellow custodians debated whether there was a meaningful differentiation between mind-controlled nudity in the presence of members of like gender versus a mixed-gender gathering of people at large, whether the current precautions were only meaningful in a society that treated nudity as a source of shame and a means by which one might gain and exert power over another, and whether inter-gender nudity was necessarily a precursor to sexual thoughts or interaction any more than intra-gender nudity given the possibility—even statistical likelihood—of individuals within the subject group who were not exclusively heterosexual, Brandon fretted. No superheroines? How was he supposed to fuck women who weren’t even there? But after a few minutes of thought he decided to treat it as a blessing. If half of the Watchtower contained women and only women, within that half he was entirely invisible. He didn’t have to dodge the Flash or Superman or any other men wandering the halls. He just had to escape into the women-only area and don the amulet, trivially easy compared to hiding his every movement. The space station was basically his playground, and as long as he did his job, nobody would be able to link him to the wave of pregnancies due to start any day now (or, any day within the next one to five weeks).

It did end up taking a little longer than he had expected, specifically because of the security measures. He took careful note of his tasks and the cameras and such, and he soon knew the best ways to sneak into the women’s section unnoticed. The problem was remaining unnoticed, because the ground-level office was remarkably thorough each and every morning. Waltzing in with an amulet around his neck would be a little too obvious for his covert mission. Eventually he formed a plan, though he needed a call to Miss Graves to accomplish it. The next day he had a special LexCorp-issue wallet, just barely big enough to fit both the amulet and his subway pass. If he peeked into the office in the morning and saw a male guard at the desk, he would turn his wallet over like normal and go through a standard shift at work. If he saw a female guard, he could slip the amulet from his wallet, put it around his neck, and go through the check-in process while she sat unaware. He could write his name on the sign-in sheet, put his personal items into an empty bin, change his clothes, walk through the scanner, and everything else without any interaction, and with the amulet under his grey work shirt, none of his co-workers knew he had smuggled a powerful weapon into the Justice League’s home base. The League had accidentally given him the best gift they could; if he never interacted with a man and a woman at the same time, there would be no opportunity for them to notice anything amiss. A few hours of hurried work and a few long steps down a hallway, and he stood in the forbidden zone with dozens of women ready for the taking.

His mind reeled with possibility and a mental map of the station’s facilities. Should he see who was sleeping in their League-appointed bedrooms so they could wake up hot and sticky? Should he stop by security for the wonderful irony of raping the woman who was specifically assigned to prevent men from coming in? Should he find a communications room and listen in until he heard somebody he liked? He wondered which women were even on the station, and whether some might never cross paths with him just because of time zone differences. As he contemplated ways to expand his reach across most of the League, he heard something that answered his immediate concern: the sounds of women gasping with exertion.

He followed the grunts to a small gymnasium area, less of a basketball court and more of a dojo. There he found the women who would be his first victims (well, his first victims of the new job, technically). At first he thought there was some shapeshifter at work, or a holographic training exercise, or a pair of twins he didn’t know about, something to explain why two nearly-identical women flew around the room, occasionally clashing in bursts of blue and blonde. In the rare moments they stood still, he could see the differences, and he couldn’t have picked a better pair to start with.

One was Supergirl, the Kyrptonian sidekick of the Justice League’s more-or-less leader. Like her more popular mentor she disregarded masks, and unlike him she also disregarded pants. Her red miniskirt clung to her hips and thighs as she swung here and there in the air, followed by a trail of golden hair and red half-cape. However he peered, he never caught a glimpse of the panties or shorts underneath, a testament to how much she had trained to avoid flashing opponents and bystanders. It didn’t bother him, really. Brandon had an image of the naked superhero burned into his brain and his hard drive, though there was something nice about seeing her in private.

The other was Stargirl, a hero he hadn’t yet had the pleasure of seeing naked. Though her athletic shorts were more practical than her sparring partner’s bottoms, they were just as tight as her top, a star-spangled second skin leaving nothing to the imagination. Her body had developed a bit more than Supergirl’s as well, with more rounded hips and a bigger bust. If only she’d taken a note from the villains and used a star-shaped cleavage cutout instead of a simple white decal, he was sure she’d have far more online fans hoping for her nudes. Why didn’t the heroines ever think of their males fans when they picked their costumes? At least both girls kept their tight midriffs bare to give him something to think about. He couldn’t wait to be the reason they started to swell.

A pang of anxiety stabbed him in the stomach. What if the amulet didn’t work? He could, possibly, have explained bungling into an interrogation room in Gotham and gotten away with only a few stern looks. Or he could have pretended he was a burglar in Officer Montoya’s apartment, where he might have gotten some ribs broken and a little jail time. It was nothing compared to what he’d get if he was found sneaking around in the females-only half of a space station, especially if somebody put two and two together and figured out who had put him up to it. On the verge of a minor panic attack, he almost forgot to watch the fight, and what brought his attention back was Supergirl dropping her miniskirt.

His eyes bulged at her bright red panties, then at the crack of her slender ass poking from the top of them. She floated in midair with one knee up, stretching the fabric taut, and folded her arms. “I thought this was supposed to be a workout.”

“Some of us are just boring humans,” Stargirl panted, slightly muffled by the top she struggled to pull over her head. A combination shirt and mask, it left her exposed from the waist up save for a dark blue sports bra pushing her tits into an impressive amount of cleavage. “Twenty minutes is a long time for mere mortals.”

Supergirl tugged off her own shirt and began fiddling with a yellowish bra, surprisingly light and cute given the activities she regularly performed in it. “If you can’t go at least half an hour, how do you expect to keep up with Batwoman?”

“I am convinced Batwoman has powers. They’re just not obvious. Some sort of withering glare or something, I dunno.” Stargirl fell to her back and lifted her hips to start forcing her shorts and panties down her legs. She humped her fingers while they were in a convenient location, licking her lips as she propped herself up on her shoulders and tiptoes. “Dang, I’m—mmm—I’m even more tired than I thought.”

Supergirl’s panties joined the rest of her clothes, and only cherry-red boots remained to protect her. “Take a breather, then. I’m sure all those supervillains will gladly let you lie there for a while.”

“Fine, point taken.” She pulled up her bra, letting her round breasts jiggle and bounce while she tugged it over her head. Her boots also stayed on, along with her belt, but her gloves were an unfortunate casualty of removing her top. Without her mask or uniform she barely looked like her superhero persona at all except for the hourglass shape and the golden staff she planted on the ground between her feet. “I’ll give you everything I got.”

“And I’ll be happy to take it.” Supergirl balled up one fist, but the other hand remained at her thighs, where it could rub her toward the orgasm she didn’t know she had coming. She still floated in midair, but now her legs were spread and her knees high, in exactly the pose Brandon had studied in her involuntary porn video. Stargirl took two steps toward her, not to close for a punch but to touch her pussy to her staff. Heedless of the sparring partner masturbating a few yards away, she rolled her hips, grinding her clit into the cold metal.

Their erotic grunts fueled Brandon’s need, and his fear of getting caught sat down and let his libido take over. He shed his custodian’s uniform and hid it in a corner of the room, somewhere he hoped nobody would stumble on it. Like the women, he wore almost nothing when he properly entered the gym, just the amulet and a lecherous grin. Unlike them, he knew what he was doing.

While the women stared each other down, he took his time looking them over, deciding where to start. In a sense, it almost felt wrong to call them women. Obviously they were adults—the League wouldn’t put anybody underage into active superhero work—but their builds and features fit the “girl” suffix in their superhero names. He openly ogled Stargirl’s bust as it heaved, wondering what it would be like to get his hands on it…but he could! He rubbed his palms together and slapped them on Supergirl’s tits, kneading them like dough. Her nipples perked in his hands and her humping grew more frantic, and if he positioned himself just right her eyes stared right back at him as he molested her. When he looked down, he could see her nectar glistening on the staff, making it ever slicker so her hips could glide along it faster and faster. She whimpered for a moment and screamed toward her opponent, “See if you can handle this!”, and then her thighs quivered and her hair flew back as an orgasm rattled through her body.

While Stargirl recovered, Brandon turned his attention toward Supergirl. Though he fully planned on taking the busty young heroine for a ride later, the slender Kryptonian had played a role in his fantasies for far longer. He wanted his first, strongest load to go into one of the women from the video that had started it all, a perfect way to formally introduce himself to the Watchtower.

He laid his hands on her bare calves, and his eyebrows jumped when he felt her skin. It was soft! It felt, honestly, like a nice pair of legs. He had expected…ceramic, or something? He’d never touched anybody with superpowers before (unless Batwoman had powers, and the jury was still out on that). If she hadn’t been floating, he would have assumed she was just a normal young woman, normally pawing at her clit right in front of him. A part of him relaxed. He’d feared some intimate damage would occur if he tried to fuck anybody made of steel. If all heroines felt just like normal women, he could do whatever he wanted to them.

Supergirl didn’t notice him groping her legs, nor pushing her slightly lower until her spread thighs hovered at the same altitude as his hips. She moved, light as a balloon, still furiously jilling herself with an iron gaze pointed roughly in Stargirl’s direction. “Keep a grip on—mmm, fuck—on that staff. Wouldn’t want to drop it in a fight.”

“I’m gripping it!” Stargirl yelled back, and when Brandon glanced back he saw her stroking it back and forth between her legs like a five-foot-long golden cock. “I know how to work my own staff!”

“Just saying. There’s a reason powerless heroes tend to have backup gadgets. You don’t want to be caught unaware.” She closed her eyes and started humming to herself, inches away from a shuddering orgasm, and Brandon lined himself up and waited. The moment he saw her start to tremble, he grabbed her waist and slammed her onto his dick.

Or, he tried. His intention was to catch her so she technically came just from the first thrust. He hadn’t anticipated one little wrinkle: Supergirl was a virgin. Soft or not, a Kryptonian was still much tougher than most, and any small barrier took more effort than it would if he had deflowered a fellow human. As it was, his first attempt slowed due to a suspicious pinch around his head, and he needed a few more pushes before he broke through. By then Supergirl was halfway through her orgasm, though he did have the great pleasure of being nearly face-to-face with her as her eyes popped open from the intangible sensation of having her chastity ripped away. He hilted himself inside her and waited for her to calm down while enjoying her pussy spasming around his dick, and when she started to rub her clit again he tucked his arms under her legs, grabbed her ass, and met her rhythm.

Behind him Stargirl shouted a challenge, something about getting the upper hand followed by another scream of ecstasy, but Brandon ignored her for the moment. Supergirl required all of his attention; she took to her rape more emphatically than most, and her whole body floated up and down on his cock, putting her full weight into each thrust. Even if she didn’t acknowledge it, even if she thought she was still in the middle of a friendly spar, Brandon was her first penetration, and from all indications she loved it. Her spine arched, her abs grew taut, and her mouth dropped in a wide O. With one hand she touched herself right above Brandon’s dick, accidentally rubbing him even more, and with the other she cupped her orange-sized breasts and squeezed them with fitful spasms across her uncontrollable fingers. He barely had to do a thing, just grope her and shift his hips, and the oblivious teenaged sidekick put in the rest of the work.

He knew he wouldn’t stand a chance. Though it would have been nice to say he bedded Supergirl for the better part of an hour, he hadn’t realistically thought he’d be able to last very long. He’d been on a self-pleasure moratorium since his first night with the amulet, the better to save up for all the lovely women who didn’t realize how much they needed his sperm, and breaking his streak tested his resolve to the limit. He’d be done in minutes with any woman, and Supergirl was anything but. The final straw was when her breath hitched and one of her boot-clad legs wrapped around his waist, along with a half-hearted battle cry. She pulled him into her, as deep as he could physically go, and called out to Stargirl: “Keep it up! Nail me so hard I’ll be sore in the morning!” Stargirl screamed something inarticulate behind him, Supergirl followed a moment later with another seizing orgasm, and Brandon dug his nails into her ass and shot days of pent-up frustration into her virgin womb. Her eyes glazed over and her tongue peeked out of her mouth, silencing her for several dreamy seconds while her pussy sucked up his sperm and sent them on the rest of their mission.

“Time out! Time out,” Stargirl panted and slumped to the floor. “I’m beat.”

“Aw, too bad. I could have taken a lot more,” Supergirl measured her breath carefully, trying to hide her own exhaustion. If only she knew how hard she’d really been worked. “But yeah, it is kind of late. Want to call it a tie?”

“Gladly.” Stargirl pulled herself back to her feet, leaning heavily on her staff and sticking out her rear. “God, I need a shower.”

“Same. You got me working up a sweat.” She pulled her hand from her crotch with a dollop of Brandon’s cum attached to her fingertips, a few drops that had leaked out when he filled her to capacity. When she wiped her brow, the white fluid left streaks across her forehead. Her leg freed Brandon, and she frowned as she tried to fly away despite still being impaled on his cock. He ducked to dislodge himself, and she floated toward the far end of the room with spunk already oozing down her thigh. Stargirl followed, her slim ass rocking back and forth with every step, and Brandon’s refraction period met a sudden end. He knew where he was heading next.

The Watchtower showers (and, he mused, it was a damn shame they didn’t call them the Watchshowers) kept the same motif as the rest of the station: simple, clean, almost boring except for the minor concession that it was a shower in space for superheroes. It reminded him of a locker room, with a small area with benches, door, mirrors, and of course lockers in front of a separate area with shower cubicles. In fact, it seemed awfully similar to the LexCorp showers he cleaned on occasion. Maybe they had the same designer, or maybe there just wasn’t much to explore in washroom architecture. Still, he was glad to see something straightforward. The walls dividing the shower stalls didn’t go all the way to the ground so he could see who was where just by stooping, the curtains protecting the girls’ modesty were easy to pull to the side, and each stall was big enough for the tallest, widest heroine, which conveniently made them plenty large enough for a heroine and any man who had his way with her.

The girls didn’t have many clothes to remove, and they didn’t notice that their lockers held only four boots and one staff between them. They “undressed” in private and draped towels over their shoulders; Brandon wondered if they would have wrapped the the towels around their bodies were it not for the amulet’s influence, or if superheroes regularly paraded in front of each other wearing nothing but smiles. Maybe he should hide some cameras? They would never suspect they were being filmed in the one of the planet’s most secure rooms. No, best not to risk it. He could get all the fap material he needed just by doing his job.

When the trio entered the room, Brandon paused at the sound of running water. For just a moment, he forgot about the amulet’s effects, and he took a step back to hide until it hid him from their senses. But a tall, busty, and very leggy blonde poked her head out of her stall, looked at the heroines next to him, and asked “Good spar, girls?”

“Eh, she got a couple of hits in,” Supergirl sassed, and Stargirl swatted her on the arm. “Ow.”

“You didn’t go on any missions, did you?”

“Ugh, this again.” A new voice moaned from a different occupied stall. “They’re adults. They can handle themselves.”

“I know they can. I’m just being careful.”

“Right. So careful, none of our younger women can fight crime without a chaperone. Seems a little backward, doesn’t it?”

“It’s just temporary, to prevent any other footage from…oh, sorry.”

Supergirl shook her beet-red face and ducked into a stall. “N-no, it’s nothing.”

“We know it’s not nothing. Trust us. Huntress and I have only had a taste of it, and I know how bad that feels. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

The voice barked again. “Tell me about it! I’ve been chasing uploaders for a week now. You know how many crime syndicates are selling fake ‘spy vids’ now?”

“Huntress!”

“You can use my name, Canary. And it’s better to know about a problem than not.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Brandon noticed Supergirl and Stargirl entering the same shower stall, with Supergirl’s hand already kneading her ally’s ass. He chuckled to himself, wondering how many lesbian trysts there were within the Justice League. If it wasn’t for the amulet, he’d have…oh, the amulet! That was it! The amulet forced women around it to strip and masturbate. Why wouldn’t it also coerce them into helping each other out? Stargirl and Supergirl weren’t lovers, they were just getting frisky because the amulet made them do it without their knowledge. If he hung out long enough on the Watchtower, he could make some very, very interesting flings happen.

But while they soaped each other up, he turned his attention to the older heroines in the room: Huntress and Black Canary. He was glad Huntress had said something, because he doubted he would have recognized Black Canary without her outfit. He’d seen her without her leather jacket only once or twice, in footage from supervillain battles, and even then she was almost unrecognizable. Only the fishnet stockings differentiated her from any other well-developed blonde woman. While she bickered with Huntress about whether or not to use code names in private, he yanked the shower curtain out of her grip and ogled her naked body. Locks of wet hair stuck to her shoulders and her full, perky rack, and a neatly-trimmed patch of blonde on her child-bearing hips pointed the way to his goal rather than obscuring it. He’d only been in the room for a moment, and already she rubbed her thighs together and pinched her nipple, working her way to the same state he had already inflicted on the others.

Revealing Huntress’s body proved slightly less interesting, but only by comparison. Huntress was a lower-key hero and her wheelhouse was handling organized crime, which probably meant more stealthy investigations and fewer laser battles in the street. He hadn’t jacked off to her as much as to other heroes, though he did appreciate her fashion sense and he wouldn’t mind if more women fought crime in leotards with stomach cutouts. He couldn’t wait to watch her belly grow through the hole in her outfit. But outside of costume, she was basically any other attractive woman. Nice chest but not massive, a cute ass but not a bubble butt, and a face a little too angular for his taste now that he saw it without a mask. Like her partner, her best feature was undoubtedly her legs, long and toned and smooth, begging to be pushed back to her shoulders. He had to catch her some time when she had her mask on. Then she would really feel like a superhero.

On second thought, did Huntress even have powers? He guessed it didn’t matter. Luthor had told him to knock up the whole female side of the Justice League, not just the ones with super strength, even if his “women with powers” to “regular humans with lots of training” ratio was a little low to start off.

Huntress sighed and bent over, putting one hand against the shower wall and fingering herself with the other. The shampoo in her hair sat, forgotten. “Look, it’s bad, okay? We know. Every time I shut down a seller, two more pop up. And that’s just the videos. There are pictures, too many to go through. It’s astounding I haven’t found any of me yet.”

Stargirl pushed her chest forward, into Supergirl’s grip. “You? Did—oh, yes, harder—did you get caught by the amulet too?”

“We did,” Canary sighed, “though not as bad as the others. We went on a mission, and halfway through we realized we were basically naked.”

Huntress pushed her long, dark, sudsy hair over one shoulder and looked backward. “A bunch of guys got an eyeful, plus the crooks we busted. I think—I hope—we dodged all the cameras, but there’s always a chance I missed one. The last thing I need is some creep out there jerking himself to my nudes.” Brandon grabbed her hips and pushed himself inside her, sheathing himself in one long thrust while she lowered her head and moaned so loud it echoed off the tiled walls. “After seeing their faces leering at us, I think I’d be happy if no man came within ten feet of me for a month.”

Black Canary squatted on the shower floor and spread her legs wide, softly fingering herself while Brandon raped her teammate six feet away. “They had a hard enough time looking me in the eye before,” she said, effectively pointing at her cunt and rolling her hips toward him. “The last thing we needed was to give them more material.”

“Men are perverts,” Huntress agreed as Brandon pulled one of her legs higher and higher. “Or, a lot of them. Weirdly, civilians seem to be the perviest. When I’m fighting the families, they’ll give me all the normal sexist lines, but if they ever actually have me at a disadvantage the most they do is crack jokes.” He hooked her knee on his shoulder, drawing her into a vertical split and hanging onto her thigh while he pounded her until her tits splattered the walls with stray beads of water. “Criminals are scum, but at least most of them don’t molest you.”

“Mmmmhmmm,” Black Canary melded an agreement with a toe-curling groan. “When they think you’re not looking, villains try to punch you. Civilian men try to snap a picture, or ‘accidentally’ touch your thigh.” She clutched at her thighs, pulling them even wider and humping the air. “Maybe it’s because they know we won’t slap them into next week.”

“I might. See what happens the next time some random guy lays a hand on me. Ooh, fuck!” Huntress bit her lip as Brandon spanked her, leaving a red handprint hidden behind the water flowing along her body. She leaned one elbow against the wall, propping herself up and rubbing her clit while she looked back at her equally naked teammate. Her eyes fluttered shut, and when they opened again they stared at Black Canary’s exposed body, not at the man moments away from impregnating her.

The conversation calmed for a moment, and Brandon used the time to appreciate the view. Huntress’s body might not have been on the level of Wonder Woman or Hawkgirl, but she was still a hot, naked twenty-something in the middle of a shower. Even severe features looked nice when they were contorted into an O-face, and he would much rather watch a decent rack sway in time with his thrusts than none at all. She didn’t moan much, but Black Canary did, and so did the teenage superheroes two stalls over. He recognized Supergirl’s voice moaning “yes, deeper, deeper! Get me nice and clean!” and a little of Stargirl’s response, likely muffled by something neatly shaved and leaking his cum. He almost pulled out so he could watch the show, but he did have a job to do. Instead he clenched his fists and sped up, hurrying through Huntress so he could grab Black Canary before their shower ended.

“Uhn, uhn, uhn, yeah, fuck me fuck me fuck me!” Huntress slapped the tile and gasped for breath in the heavy, hot shower air. Most of the shampoo had rinsed out, but enough remained for Brandon to run his hand through her hair and grope her breast with a slick, soapy hand. “Shit! Fuck, I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna cuuuummmm!” While the other women ignored her, under the impression that she was just going about her day, Huntress thrashed in his grip and let her excitement flow through her body. Her leg shook so hard it nearly flew from his grasp, and her scream in the tiny stall left a mild ringing in his ears. But he held tight, forcing her to take every drop of his seed right up against her cervix. Her pussy milked it out of him, twitching and undulating as they came together and for a few moments afterward. When he knew he was fully spent he pulled out and released her leg, and immediately she stood, stuck a finger back in her pussy, and ran her head under the faucet to finish cleaning her hair. “God, does anything feel better than a hot shower after a long day?”

“Cumming!” Black Canary ground against her fingers, drawing Brandon over to her stall. His erection flagged and his back muscles ached, but he could get off one more shot before he had to take a break. He left Huntress and stood over her partner, watching her tight body quiver with the aftershocks of her most recent magic-aided orgasm. He recalled his encounter with Harley Quinn, and he crouched until his half-hard dick swung at the height of Black Canary’s face. When she moaned again, he placed the head of his cock between her lips and pushed forward, gagging her and forcing her to accidentally suck him off.

Her mouth closed and her head bobbed, going through the motions even if she didn’t know why. While her afterglow still simmered inside her, she picked her loofah off the floor and returned to soaping her body, a totally mundane action except for the naked man softly raping her face. The amulet still twisted her mind, and she spent more energy than normal soaping her breasts, her neck, and the insides of her thighs. Brandon grinned at the view and waited for his energy to come back with one hand on her head to direct her movement.

Then she moaned. Nothing could have prepared him for the fallout, a vibration humming through his muscles and setting every pleasure center alight. Later, when his good sense returned, he would guess she hit him with an erotic version of her signature Canary Cry intended for intimate encounters rather than deadly combat. In the moment he thought nothing at all, consumed by mind-numbing pleasure. Without him to guide her she continued unabated, forced by the amulet to consummate any way she could. His head lolled and his stomach tensed, on the brink of cumming so hard he worried he would pass out, and he barely stumbled backward and freed his cock from her lips with a loud, satisfied pop. She continued stroking herself, ignorant of what felt like to him like a near-death experience, and mused to her hopefully pregnant colleague, “At least it can’t get any more embarrassing, right?”

“Oh God, oh God, oh God, I hope not,” Huntress replied through gritted teeth. “I’m pretty sure the Justice League has reached peak shame.”

Brandon staggered upright and slid behind Black Canary to pull her to her feet. She stood and bent over like it was her idea, bracing her hands on the sides of the stall and sticking her ass out for him. “Not much a villain can do to us that’s worse than public stripping,” she chuckled as he stabbed into her unprotected cunt. “Well, besides killing us, I guess.” Her smile grew into dreamy bliss while he got up to speed, and her cheeks rippled with every loud, wet slap of hip on hip.

He could have watched Huntress, still getting herself off in the opposite stall. He could have listened for Supergirl and Stargirl, now both moaning into each other’s mouths. He didn’t need to. The Canary Cry had him teetering on the edge already, forced to his limits by some weird superhero power. The only reason he hadn’t painted Black Canary with spunk was the illogical but undeniable fear that Luthor would find out he had wasted an opportunity to fertilize an unwilling hero. Fucking her didn’t help him cum—it was going to happen because of the Canary Cry, whether he liked it or not—it just gave him a nice, warm place to bury himself. His fingers dug into her hips and his chest heaved as his soul left his body along with thousands or millions of potential children, and while he leaned against her for support and panted like he’d just finished a half-marathon, Black Canary pinched one nipple and mumbled “I feel like Thai. Do you want Thai?”

Huntress agreed, Supergirl said something about getting food from actual Thailand, and Stargirl screamed as she masturbated with a travel-size shampoo bottle. Brandon didn’t care. He lurched out of the shower and stumbled to the locker room, where he took a short, ignoble rest sprawled on a bench. After a few minutes to recuperate, he dragged himself to his feet and returned to the sparring arena, where he gathered the forgotten costumes and carried them back to the locked room. Hopefully the girls would just think they were messy instead of forcibly stripped. The longer nobody noticed the events taking place on the Watchtower, the better. Gotham was one thing, but if they realized their station wasn’t secure, the Justice League might lock it down even further. Better safe than sorry.

Or unsafe, given was he was doing to them. Brandon laughed at his own pun. Nobody heard it.

He dried himself off with a spare towel, ignoring the voices in the showers. Fucking them would have been great if Black Canary hadn’t inadvertently screamed two days’ worth of sperm out of him with a single magic moan. Just thinking about having sex again made his stomach cramp. He would need a few days to recover, starting with going back to his job and participating in his normal daily grind. If he heard any rumblings that the League thought the station was compromised, he could check in with Miss Graves. If he didn’t, he could get a leg up on his job and plan another incursion once he had recovered.

Brandon thought about the tabs open on his computer, the ones advertising weird pills and tricks and home remedies purported to boost his sexual stamina and sperm count. Though they’d been fun to browse, he hadn’t really thought about using them. Now he knew what super-powered fucking was really like, and he might need to try them all. At once.

Chapter Text

Brandon didn’t rape a superhero every day, but he was pacing himself. This was a marathon, not a sprint. Though it would be quite an accomplishment to knock up every female member of the Justice League in a single stealth reverse gangbang, several practical concerns got in his way. First, there was no point at which all of the world’s greatest heroines were all on the Watchtower at once. Time zones, random crises, and simple good old-fashioned proper staffing prevented that fantasy. Second, he only had so much time in any given day. He put in an abundance of effort at work, miles beyond the bare minimum he had committed to the drudgery he performed at LexCorp. If he made himself out to be a model worker, hopefully he could shirk his duties now and again and his manager would cut him a little slack. But disappearing for hours on end was a little much, especially since he could only steal away under circumstances in which no male—or security camera monitored by a male—observed him. He had to pick and choose his forays into the women’s section.

Third, and most importantly, he was himself. He simply a man with no powers, no genius, no riches, no scientific formula coursing through his veins to let him survive an earth-shattering punch from Doomsday or Bane or…honestly, he kind of blanked on Wonder Woman’s strongest villains. Ares? Whatever! The point was, he didn’t have powers. The closest thing he had to a power was, in fact, exactly the opposite: a genetic tendency to block any of his children from inheriting the powers of their mother. It was an anti-power.

And, more than that, it wasn’t superhuman stamina. On his first night out, he had inseminated four women with a long break in between Batgirl and Batwoman. On his second, he had managed to cum inside Supergirl and the Huntress before Black Canary’s blowjob nearly killed him, leaving him a shambling wreck even before he put a load into her pussy. There was no way he could make it through the entire Justice League. He doubted he could even cum four times without a significant rest somewhere in the middle, and he wasn’t likely to go any longer. His boring, weak human physiology meant he had a hard cap no matter what opportunities presented themselves. Even if the entire League did gather into one room and mysterious fall asleep for several hours, he would never be able to get past this wall.

Not without help.

People could say whatever they wanted about the Justice League, but they had money. And not just regular money, but MONEY, in all capital letters, and probably a dollar sign in there if it would fit. Or, he guessed, the euro sign would work. MON€Y. Even accounting for their weird alien tech and actual, honest-to-God magic, it still took some significant funds to have a space station larger than most buildings, a fleet of vehicles, vast recreational facilities, and probably many things he couldn’t even know about. He and his co-workers talked about how they thought the League’s finances worked; most assumed the heroes were paid something if they worked full-time, and the merchandising rights to their likenesses probably helped the balance sheet. The exact mechanics of it didn’t matter to Brandon, not after he saw his first paycheck and nearly burst into tears. He would never become wealthy doing custodial work on the Watchtower, but after years of minimum-wage, heavily-taxed work at LexCorp, a few extra dollars per hour suddenly made luxuries like working appliances and fresh food seem like a reality.

(His paycheck was still taxed, of course, in accordance with the laws and statutes of his residence Gotham City. The Justice League followed the rules. But with the little bit of extra income, suddenly the taxes felt more like “an acceptable cost to pay to keep society running” and less like a direct attack on him for daring to exist. Funny, that.)

Brandon considered slowing his mission so he could stretch out the time he spent earning a half-decent wage, but Luthor’s promise of a seven-digit payday convinced him to put his new earnings to a more immediate use. He spent several nights scouring the Internet for exercises, diets, pills, creams, meditations, and anything else he could do to increase his sexual stamina. Ironically, most of the advice he found pertained to lasting longer in bed, which was exactly the opposite of his goal; he needed to cum ten times a day, not make love for ten hours before cumming once. In fact, if he suddenly became a quick-shot it might be even better, allowing him to spread his seed faster and easier. Alas, this limited his options drastically, and he climbed further and further into the online rabbit hole searching for an answer.

Then he gave up and called Miss Graves. He skimmed his instructions to find her business contact information and explained the situation to her, and she handled the rest. LexCorp’s reach proved far greater than his, and by the next evening he had an appointment at a “clinic” with a “doctor” who only took cash (graciously provided by Miss Graves in an unmarked envelope), administered a shot, and “prescribed” some “medicine” for the burgeoning anti-supervillain. His libido soared, and while it did mean he had to spend more time masturbating at night than he might have liked, it proved the effectiveness of his treatment almost immediately.

It did make him a little more desperate to forward his plans, not because of his stronger desires but because he knew Luthor would be expecting a quick return on his increased investment. He forayed into the women’s half of the Watchtower with more frequency, making up for the lost working time by cleaning at a feverish pace when he was back where he was supposed to be. His co-workers lauded his efforts and wondered aloud whether he was angling for a promotion or a bonus. Luckily they interpreted his stammering excuses as a coy attempt at modesty, then largely left him to his own devices, a happy accident that gave him even more leeway.

But no matter what he might have learned from low-budget pornographic videos, sexy misadventures did not spontaneously occur whenever women interacted without male supervision. The Watchtower was not small, nor was it laid out with ease of exploration in mind, and most of his trips to the forbidden zone proved fruitless. The gym didn’t always have two barely-legal women getting sweaty, and the showers didn’t always have naked models soaping each other. After some effort he did find the living quarters, but every door was locked, a barrier that really should have occurred to him during his fantasies about raping a woman in her own bed. Still he searched, waiting for an opportunity to literally fall into his lap.

The empty halls, at least, did carry sound nicely, and after about a week his desperate ears caught a small moan bouncing down the metal walls. With a strange mixture of relief and anxiousness he followed the voice, then a second, to a sterile white lab he had passed several times but never investigated. The first thing to strike him was his amulet sitting on a table—no, wait, his was still around his neck. The spike of panic faded; he hadn’t accidentally dropped it somewhere. This was a second amulet, one with the same powers, as evidenced by the two half-naked women studying it.

One was obvious: Zatanna, one of the stars of the original public masturbation video. Brandon would recognize her anywhere, even with most of her costume scattered in her immediate vicinity. The wild, obsessed look in her eyes and her frantic humping gave away her identity as much as the nylons bunched around her knees, the only clothing she wore beyond her black heels and a slightly askew top hat. Somehow even her moans sounded backward, starting as whispers and ending as breathy shouts, and the squick-squick-squick from two fingers savaging her pussy rang almost louder still.

The other took a little more effort. Doctor Light was not one of the League’s more public or outspoken figures, and even he hadn’t known about her until a dedicated fansite began posting still images of her in large group fights. Her only identifying trait was the white tiara framing a face drawn tight in intense concentration. Her cape lay on the table next to the amulet, and her black bodysuit sat around her close-set ankles. A pair of black panties and a beige bra protected her warm fawn skin, and even those were already losing ground, halfway down her thighs and tugged above her breasts. Despite having her legs together she rubbed around her clit, apparently trying her very best to not acknowledge any of her own pants or grunts.

He shed his clothes as he approached them, sizing up Zatanna’s pert bare ass while she gasped through a sentence. “Ugh, what I wouldn’t give for a psychometry expert right about now. Yrotsih laever!” She waited a moment and frowned, more because of her spell than because of Brandon bending her farther forward and sliding his cock between the cheeks of her ass. “No good. This amulet has some pretty serious protections against divination. It’s—ah!” He slid home, pushing into her pussy without bothering to remove her fingers first. It was a tight fit, but she continued trying to masturbate, and he stood back and let her involuntarily jack him off inside her. “S-so-big! The wards! They’re impressive, and deep, and…hard, and…oh, fuck!”

“The scanners haven’t found anything meaningful either.” Doctor Light glanced at the nearest monitor, the bare minimum of attention she could give. “No radiographic signature, no DNA we don’t already know about, nothing to indicate its point of origin. If I didn’t know better, I’d say—I’m cumming!” Her body trembled like the victim of an electric shock, and her nearly-monotone voice became a high-pitched mewl for the duration of her spasm. She tilted when it finished but still did not relax, standing upright and turning to a keyboard she operated with the hand not busy with self-pleasure. “I’d say it just appeared out of thin air.”

Zatanna grabbed the edge of the table, barely holding herself up while she fingered herself and Brandon. “Yeah, but that should be my wheelhouse. I’m not getting any psychic signatures, not getting any magical emanations, not getting a thick, hard cock inside my fucking cunt!” Her back arched, just as it had when she was right on the edge in the streets of Gotham. Inspiration struck Brandon, and he slid her a few feet to the side so he could grab a pen and paper. While her fingers moved so fast they nearly gave him friction burns, he put the pen in her other hand and guided it to write “tnangerp teg” in careful, shaky letters. Nothing glowed or exploded so he wasn’t sure the spell would work, but he thought it was a nice touch. With his shot in the dark exhausted, he reached forward and groped Zatanna’s swinging tits, a little nudge to finish himself off. She threw her head back so far she almost headbutted him, and her top hat flew off as she screamed. “Yes! I’m cumming again! Yes, yes, yes!” He pinched her nipples for good measure and unloaded inside her, and when he pulled out, her fingers continued pushing his creampie deeper into her hips.

No post-coital fatigue urged him to slow down, so he left Zatanna to her aided insemination and examined Doctor Light. On closer examination he could see why her fans were few but devoted. She was an attractive woman by any standards except those of the world of superheroes, easily able to turn heads at the subway or the mall but clearly not on the same goddes-like levels of Wonder Woman, Hawkgirl, Black Canary, and so on. She was built more like Supergirl, slender in all places, with a relatively modest bust and hips the exact opposite of child-bearing. Her body showed a little more human wear and tear, with a mole or small scar here and there, and her below-the-belt personal grooming habits were not as rigorous as the heroes who gathered a little more attention because they basically fought in bathing suits. Next to her colleagues (an incredibly unfair comparison, he admitted) she was almost plain. But compared to most women on Earth, she was still beautiful, and he would have happily traded his left pinky to have a relationship with a woman who looked like her.

When he had finishing sizing her up, he took his place behind her and got to work. Spreading her legs proved difficult, and he did have to finish undressing her before he could access anything he really wanted. She moved according to his wishes, keeping up commentary about the tests she ran on the amulet while he slipped her bra down her arms and lifted her feet out of her bodysuit and panties. He pushed her onto the table, and on the way she grabbed some mechanical instrument and used it to inspect the amulet in closer detail. “Maybe if we consider it on a molecular level, we’ll find something the wide scans aren’t seeing. What I wouldn’t give to have the Atom here right now.”

“You know why we can’t.” Zatanna sighed, then moaned, then sighed again. “The moment we get out of here, it’ll hit us.”

“I am fully aware of what the amulet does,” Doctor Light argued, and Brandon chose that moment to place his cock at her entrance and force it inside. And “force” was the correct word; Doctor Light was tight, even more than Batgirl, almost at the level of Supergirl. It made some sense in retrospect; she was a smaller woman, and from the little her knew about her, she seemed like a serious, intentional woman who wouldn’t have a lot of opportunities to stretch herself out. He was almost surprised he wasn’t her first, but then again he didn’t have any way of knowing for sure. He grabbed her narrow waist and pulled her back against him, using the leverage to embed himself until he hit a barrier at her deepest point. She fought for breath almost as much as he did, and she when spoke her voice carried a tinge of excitement. “I’m not saying I want a man to see us naked, I’m saying I wish it wasn’t a problem.”

“Oooooooh, yeah. Yeah, I agree. Maybe we should focus on those signal barriers you were talking about to block the effects short-term. How’s that—cumming!”

“I may be near a breakthrough. I have some notes here.” She reached for a keyboard, and Brandon shuffled to let her move while he stayed inside her. With a few clicks of a mouse she brought up a document full of words and charts that made his vision swim, and the few bits he could understand suggested she might be onto a way to insulate certain women from the amulet’s powers. Well, Brandon couldn’t have that. With his hand over hers, he highlighted the whole file, deleted it, saved his changes, and closed the program. Doctor Light hummed in frustration just as he returned to fucking her. “The file’s empty? Strange...”

“Maybe you dreamed it or something? I know I’ve been focusing on this thing so hard I see it whenever I close my eyes.”

“Maybe so,” Doctor Light sighed, and with one crisis averted Brandon returned to causing another. He grabbed the woman’s hips and sped up, beating her narrow ass until it rippled. Her decorum slipped more the longer he went, and after a few minutes her eyes started to roll back in her head and her hands nearly crunched the table trying to hang on. She even pushed against him, ignorant of how her quivering body encouraged Brandon to spray inside her hopefully-unprepared womb. His new libido was no match for her vice grip, and he barely managed to prolong his orgasm until she had one of her own. She said something unintelligible, slightly louder than speaking volume, but he understood what she meant when her walls clamped down and convinced his dick to paint her insides as white as her costume.

He pulled out and watched her hips, trying to decided if he preferred seeing his spunk dripping from the hole or knowing it was locked in tight. He licked his lips and eyed Zatanna again, ready to give another shot at a magically-induced pregnancy, when a shrill chime sounded from her rumpled vest. She fell to her knees and grabbed a small device, her Justice League communicator, with her free hand. “Zatanna.”

“Wonder Woman,” the communicator replied loud enough for all three to hear. “Blackgate is under attack.”

“Luthor?”

“It’s the women’s wing, but he’s likely behind it somehow. I’m taking the jet, could use some backup.”

“I’m studying the amulet now, so…”

A pause. “I understand. I’m meeting Batwoman and Batgirl there. Catch up if you can.”

“I’m trying my best to cum!”

“Ugh.” The communicator quieted, and Brandon grabbed his clothes. It was simple math. Three superheroines were better than two, and he hadn’t seen Wonder Woman yet. It was time for them to get acquainted.

It would probably have been efficient to fuck Wonder Woman during the ride on her invisible jet. He could have milled about near her, waiting for the amulet to take effect. She would writhe in her seat, struggling to shimmy off her skintight uniform while keeping control of the plane, then spread her legs and start masturbating with one hand on the controls. Brandon could push her to her feet, sit in her chair, and settle her back down on his lap, where she would ride his dick for the entire trip, milking out two or three creampies before they landed. He would lean back and grope her tits, or maybe sit in the chair backward and suck on them, while she did all the work, leaving him nice and energized for whatever opportunities presented themselves at Blackgate. “Cockpit” indeed.

But he didn’t, for very good reasons. The amulet’s reach was limited, something he knew from experience. He’d never seen it affect somebody who wasn’t in the same room. If Wonder Woman hopped out of her jet naked and sweaty with hickeys on her tits and cum seeping from her pussy, other heroes might notice something amiss before he could bring them under the amulet’s spell. Batwoman especially worried him, and he wanted to take every precaution when it came to the Dark Knight. Also, there was no guarantee that men weren’t milling about the area. If even a single male noticed him, the entire plan could come crashing down. It was more tactically sound to smuggle himself onto the invisible jet, hide in some place from which he wouldn’t affect Wonder Woman too much, and carefully assess the situation at Blackgate before he took action.

Yes, he made his decision because it was a good strategy, not because he’d never been on a plane before and he was terrified he’d get airsick or the plane would have turbulence or bank or something and he’d fall and hit his head and suddenly the Justice League would find a janitor with an artifact and a concussion within melee range of a heroine whose weapon was literally named the “Lasso of Truth”. It was totally that first thing.

Hiding from Wonder Woman was a little easier said than done, and he ended up crouched in an cargo bay or similar space, clinging to the first solid handhold he could find and hoping the invisible walls insulated the pilot from the magical distraction around his neck. Another version of him, one a little more wise and a little less horny, might have considered that his first time in the air should not have been in a plane where he could see straight through the floor. Even if Wonder Woman had stripped naked and begged for dick, he probably wouldn’t have opened his eyes long enough to notice, and he stayed in his tight little ball until the flight ended, she jumped out, and he lingered another minute to regain his footing.

When he finally dragged himself free, he found a prison, understandably, in chaos. One entire wall had collapsed, solving the problem of entering the prison in the first place. Just beyond the rubble he found a three-story cell block with a half-dozen women flying, punching, and generally making a mess of the place. Of course he recognized Wonder Woman, who had joined Batwoman and Batgirl to fight the invaders: Livewire, the blue-skinned Superman villainess with electricity powers and cleavage down to her navel; Poison Ivy, the pale redhead whose green outfit revealed even more skin than Wonder Woman’s, and Giganta, already thirty feet tall in a minidress that somehow magically covered anything interesting under it. Not a male superhero, or guard, or inmate in sight, and Brandon counted his lucky stars until he ran out of numbers.

Still, he approached carefully. Anybody capable of breaking into Blackgate was powerful enough to kill him with sheer collateral damage. This wasn’t a handcuffed, powerless sidekick in an interrogation room or a strong but noble Kryptonian. This was a titan, living lightning, and arguably Batwoman’s most powerful villain in a knock-down, drag-out fight. He had to take it slow, give the amulet a chance to work its magic, and stay out of sight until the clothes started flying more than the fists.

He did briefly wonder how he was going to have sex with the heroes while leaving the villains unscathed, but he quickly decided he didn’t care. Luthor said he had to knock up the Justice League. Luthor didn’t say he couldn’t have fun with any other woman along the way, whether they were supervillains or just the cute girl at the coffee shop. All six people in the fight—Hell, every woman in the cell block—was a potential target. If Luthor had a problem with it, Brandon would just say he was handling the competition. While he was taking his boss’s enemies out of the equation, might as well take out some rivals, right? He needn’t worry about what to do when the bad guys reacted to the amulet. He was hoping they would.

As he got into position, Livewire zapped into a power outlet, zooming around the room and and popping every security camera she passed. She reappeared behind Batwoman in a bright, loud burst of energy, zapping the hero with so much electricity she likely only survived due to an insulated suit. “Aw, you’re no fun. Superman at least would have screamed.”

Batgirl leapt behind her and floored the villain with a swift kick to the back of the head. “Taking out the cameras, Willis? I thought you lived for the limelight.”

Livewire flashed again, forcing the human heroes back into Poison Ivy’s grasping vines. Plants hung the Dynamic Duo upside-down by the ankles, just out of range of Ivy’s face. “She’s just taking notes from a local expert. No footage, nothing to analyze, nothing to trace, nothing left for the Batwoman to use against us. Make it snappy, Livewire.”

“On it!” Livewire saluted and zipped into the wires again. A few well-placed Batarangs freed Gotham’s heroes, and Giganta briefly interrupted their standoff by throwing Wonder Woman across their side of the room, stalling the fight until Livewire returned carrying a familiar pink mask. “You would not believe what they have in the evidence locker here.”

“Excellent. Giganta, if you would be so kind?”

“With pleasure,” Giganta replied in a surprisingly high, melodic voice. She turned and punched a wall between two second-story cell doors, opening both to the room. The heroes gathered while the dust cleared, dangerously close to Brandon’s hiding spot, and he shuffled forward slightly to make his move.

Out of the cells strolled one woman Brandon had never seen before and one he did—in fact, he might have knocked her up a few weeks ago. Harley Quinn, almost unrecognizable with blonde pigtails and an orange jumpsuit, leaned on the railing and waved. “Hiya, Bats! Miss me?”

A vine carried the purple mask to the other woman, and when she put it in Brandon finally recognized her. Her jumpsuit faded into the high-cut, long-sleeved uniform of one Star Sapphire, who floated to the ground in a field of pink energy. “Five on three. I like those numbers.”

“Almost,” Ivy countered, and plants throughout the room vented a thick mist of yellow spores. When they faded and the coughing ended, she sat on the other side of the room next to the gaping hole in the wall, reclining on a vine as thick as a tree trunk with Harley draped over her shoulders. “I’ve got what I came here for.”

“Aww, Ives, you do care!” Harley pulled Ivy into a tight hug, and Ivy rolled her eyes but did not resist. “See you later, Bats! And Little Bats! And Star-Spangled Lifeguard! And Shockmaster! And Tall Lady! And new bestie Sappho Stars, second-greatest next-door prison neighbor ever, we should hook up sometime byeeeee!” She blew kisses all around as Ivy fled, taking her partner and the plants with her.

In the ensuing lull, Star Sapphire looked at the hole, then turned to Livewire. “I think I hate her.”

“They’re getting away!” Batgirl raced after the fleeing villains until Batwoman put a hand on her shoulder. “You two can handle this. I’ll get them!”

Batwoman tapped her utility belt. “I put a tracker on Harley. We can find her any time.”

“How? Also: when?”

“It’s in her hair tie, graciously supplied by Blackgate. Quinzel can’t resist the pigtail look, so she’ll have it on her no matter how much she lays low.”

“One day I’ll stop being surprised at how prepared you are.”

“Not likely.” Batwoman put her fingers to her ear. “I’m on the guards’ radio band. They’ve locked down the rest of the prison and evacuated every non-powered individual from the block. It’s just the six of us here.”

Wonder Woman balled her fists and locked eyes with Giganta. “Every non-powered person besides Harley, apparently.”

Batgirl sighed. “After ten nights of interrogation, I think her superpower is some sort of aura of annoyance. Okay, fine, three-on-three. You take the big one.”

“Naturally.” The heroes flew forward, the villains ran to meet them halfway, and the battle began except for one small wrinkle: Batgirl’s glove laying on the ground. Brandon smirked. The amulet was taking effect, and now he just had to wait somewhere within range.

The fighters immediately paired off; Wonder Woman flew up to handle Giganta, Livewire zapped toward Batgirl and tried to pay back the attack she had suffered from a mere sidekick, and Batwoman grappled to an upper level to chase the floating Star Sapphire. Brandon slipped onto the battlefield, trying to remain somewhat equidistant from all three melees. The heroes, at least, would try to limit collateral damage, so as long as he knew roughly what they were doing he could stay out of their way, and Giganta’s attacks were obvious to say the least. Star Sapphire was farther away (for now), which meant he only had to pay close attention to Livewire’s indiscriminate lightning blasts. But as he inched forward, a heavy piece of vinyl smacked him on the arm. He glanced down at the mysterious pink mass crumpled on the ground, then up to find its source, where Star Sapphire fought sans one of her hip-high boots. As she flew around Batwoman with a single bare leg, he realized following six moving, stripping women was going to be harder than he had expected.

Livewire clapped her hands together, summoning a bolt of electricity that filled the room with light, and when it faded there was nothing left of Batgirl but a charred mark on the ground. “I did it? I did it!” She pumped her arms in the air. “That’s a dead hero! Score one for Livewire!”

Batgirl, very much alive, appeared behind Livewire and pulled her into a full nelson hold. “You know, sneaking around is actually much easier when the bad guys willingly blind themselves.”

“Let…go!” Livewire twisted, trying to throw Batgirl away. Sparks flew now and again, but nothing powerful enough to actually hurt her enemy. In the fracas, Brandon thought he saw why: instead of fighting back, Livewire seemed like she was doing her best to shimmy out of her leotard, leaving Batgirl with two fistfuls of clothing. She succeeded in freeing her torso, baring her breasts through her waist-deep neckline, but her sleeves proved a harder task. With a cry of exertion, she changed into energy for an instant and jumped a few feet away, down to her gloves and thigh-high boots. Her pose left as little to the imagination as her lack of dress, and she thrust her chest out and spread her legs enough to show off her naked pussy, complete with blue hair trimmed into the shape of a lightning bolt. “Gotta grab me tighter than that, sidekick.”

Batgirl unzipped her suit and pulled it open in defiance, meeting Livewire’s nudity with something a little smaller but a lot perkier. “If you insist.”

Giganta fell back against the wall, the victim of Wonder Woman’s powerful punch. The magic in her dress seemed to fade, and it no longer perfectly hid the delicate pink panties underneath as she climbed back to her feet. She put up her fists again, watching closely as Wonder Woman came in for another strike. This time she blocked, sliding back a few yards, and retaliated with a slap that sent her opponent into a wall. Giganta used her moment of respite to slide down the one strap on her dress, exposing breasts as large as the average entire person. “Um, do we have an exit strategy? I was really hoping to have a numbers advantage.”

Wonder Woman hefted a piece of stone the size of a compact car and hurled it at Giganta, scoring a direct hit on her titanic stomach. While Giganta reeled, Wonder Women pulled her suit down to her waist, presenting her own chest as part of her taunt. “It’s not about your numbers, it’s about how you use them.”

A dozen translucent pink hands coiled through the air, all connected by long tendrils to Star Sapphire’s mask. They clawed for Batwoman, occasionally snagging her uniform but dealing no appreciable damage. Effectively they aided the superhero’s attempt to disrobe, grabbing her boot and tugging it the rest of the way off or providing some leverage for Batwoman to slide out of her sleeve. The harder she focused, the more Star Sapphire’s own clothing faded away, developing holes as if it had been splattered by acid. Even the boot on the ground started to disintegrate, and large patches of skin popped through the failing purple outfit. But nobody seemed to notice except Brandon, and by the time she had reduced herself to essentially a crop top and panties, Star Sapphire had only succeeded in getting Batwoman down to underwear. “This would be easier if you just stood still!”

Batwoman rarely bantered, and today was no exception. She focused first on dodging, mostly by using the railing to intercept oncoming hands, and second on stripping, leaving pieces of grey and black all over the second story. She pulled a device from her utility belt and fired it at Star Sapphire, who dodged with an easy twist of the shoulder. The villain watched the projectile go by, realizing a moment late that it wasn’t an attack at all. The grappling hook wrapped around a railing on the other side of the block, and when Star Sapphire turned back she met a foot propelled by Batwoman zooming toward her. Both women fell to the ground with Batwoman on top, but instead of removing the mask or pinning Star Sapphire’s hands to the ground, Batwoman laid her hands squarely on her opponent’s naked breasts. They acted as though this was an effective pin, jockeying for position while Batwoman got several handfuls of Star Sapphire’s naked body and Star Sapphire fought back by tearing off the last of Batwoman’s clothing.

While they struggled, Brandon saw his opportunity. Going for Batwoman first was risky, but the amulet hadn’t failed him yet, and the copious amounts of flesh on display had him aching for action. He left his uniform someplace safe and jogged into the combat zone, a naked, powerless man approaching two women in a life-or death struggle. He stroked his cock, mulling over whether a second attempt at seeding Batwoman was worth the risk of her attention, then Star Sapphire regained the lead with a swipe of pink energy. Glowing handcuffs secured Batwoman to the ground, and Star Sapphire crawled on top of her with her knee against the heroine’s naked crotch. “You have no idea how big the bounty is on you, Bat. Making you scream is going to net me a bigger windfall than you can imagine.”

He almost laughed out loud, suppressing it because he honestly didn’t know if it would break the spell. The amulet was amazing! A villain had a hero in a perfect position, one strike away from killing her, but the magic had convinced her that sexual torture was just as good. She masturbated Batwoman with her knee and tweaked her nipples, trying to force a single grunt or moan from the Dark Knight’s lips as though it would be the eternal victory she craved. He almost wanted to sit back and watch, and only the enticing sway of Star Sapphire’s unclad ass reminded him of his duties. Since Batwoman’s pussy was indisposed he decided to start with her attacker, and he knelt behind Star Sapphire and began his raping spree.

“Oh, God, yes, fuck me!” Star Sapphire, he learned, was not a quiet lover. Nor was she passive, and she slammed her hips against his so hard she nearly bowled her over. He grabbed her ass to control her speed as much as to get his hands on her bubbly, squeezable cheeks, parting them so he could watch her greedy mouth swallow him whole. “Harder, harder! I can’t cum like this! Make me feel it!” Nobody reacted to her screams, not even Batwoman, who had a front-row seat to the event. Star Sapphire squeezed the hero’s tits, using them as handholds while she practically raped Brandon right back. She didn’t attempt to look at him, oblivious to his presence even as she transferred her intentions to her victim. “This is for all the times the Justice League got in my way! I’ll make all of you regret ever laying hands on me!” Brandon’s balls grew tight and he dug his nails into Star Sapphire to slow her down, shoving himself as far as he could get before he unloaded inside her. She jerked in his grip, still trying to take control, and he only let her go when he had seeded her nice and deep. An evil thought crossed his mind, and he pushed Star Sapphire forward until she straddled Batwoman’s face. When he let so, she grinned and lowered her hips, grinding against Batwoman’s mouth. “Maybe if you beg for mercy, I’ll finish you off quickly.”

The slick sounds didn’t tell him whether Batwoman was eating his creampie out of Star Sapphire’s pussy or just fighting for air, and he didn’t much care. Now Batwoman herself lay before him, spread-eagle with her wrists and ankles latched to the concrete and her lips already slick from her forced masturbation. Even after cumming three times already his dick still stood tall thanks to LexCorp technology, and it showed no signs of flagging. He remembered the night in Officer Montoya’s apartment, the painfully cute sight of Batwoman making out with her girlfriend, and this time he had the energy to appreciate her properly. He had to twist a little to get into a proper position, but moments later he stabbed into the Batwoman again, ready to make his second attempt to knock her up.

Around him the fights continued, and under the amulet’s influence they exuded sexuality instead of danger. Giganta wore a gold necklace and earrings now, nothing else, and the rest of her body was femininity incarnate even at forty feet tall. Her massive breasts jiggled as she threw her last ankle boot at Wonder Woman, who smacked it out of the air with her fists clasps together. The hero had just removed one article of clothing, but she’d really only had one piece to start, and flying around in red and white knee-high boots, silver bracers, and a gold tiara was even sexier than if she had gone totally naked. Her Amazonian body was tight in all the right places, jiggling pleasantly as she dodged punches and landed a few of her own. Livewire had shed her own boots, and just gloves kept her pale blue skin from being totally revealed. Ironically, he noted, she would probably fight more easily if she didn’t have anything blocking her hands, but seeing as one of those hands was busily stroking Batgirl’s pussy, he understood a little caution. Even if she did have the sidekick as a disadvantage, pinned against a wall and halfway to rolling her eyes back in her head, there was no need to kill Batgirl before Livewire had finished with her. Batgirl herself was down to her mask, cape, belt, and boots, and she—

The belt! Brandon remembered Batwoman’s earlier declaration about tracking Harley, and he wouldn’t say no to another attempt at the peppy blonde’s womb, nor to her plant-based partner’s. He fumbled around Batwoman’s utility belt until he found the pocket she had indicated, and he pulled out a small device displaying two numbers. While he rocked his hips into the hero, he watched the numbers change as he moved the device around, and after some testing he guessed they were distance and direction. He smiled and humped Batwoman harder, already making plans. Fucking superheroes on the clock was a great way to make a living, but he could dedicate far more time (and sperm) to the cause if he could spend his weekends with a few sexy villains in his own hometown.

With his imagination running wild, it didn’t take long for Batwoman’s pussy to set him off. The final straw was Star Sapphire screaming to the ceiling, finally cumming all over Batwoman’s face and triggering something he could only describe as an understated orgasm. Her walls pulled him close and sucked him in, helping him deposit every drop and ensuring the best chance of overwhelming whatever protection she had. Idly, he wondered if LexCorp had an answer for that too, something he could sneak into the Watchtower’s water supply to counteract any sort of birth control. He would have to ask Miss Graves.

In the meantime, he had a few more stops to make before the battle ended and not a lot of time to work. He left Batwoman with a stream of white dripping from her hips and made his way to Batgirl, still helpless in the afterglow of at least one finger-induced orgasm. He pushed Livewire aside, and she unwittingly made room for him. Batgirl panted, leaning back against the wall, though she had the energy to moan when he stopped and pushed his cock up her cunt, aided by Livewire’s fingers still working her bud. Brandon grabbed her ass and hefted her up a few inches, enough for him to fuck her without crouching, and fucked her with a slow, easy rhythm so he didn’t topple over or sprain anything.

Livewire flicked Batgirl’s nipple and received a grunt in response. “Tired already? I thought you were running with the grown-ups now. Not much of a hero if you can’t even last through a whole fight.”

Batgirl shook her head and looked right at Brandon for a single terrifying moment, then to Livewire. “Just…biding my time.”

“Sure you are. And I’m Hawkgirl in disguise.” She fingered herself as she grabbed Batgirl around the neck, getting off to the sight of the superhero being raped even if the magic prevented her from recognizing it. “You don’t belong here, kid. You’re not good enough for the major leagues.”

“M’not…a kid…oh, God, you’re making me so wet!” Batgirl wrapped an arm around Brandon’s shoulders, taking some of the pressure off his hands. Her other hand grabbed Livewire’s wrist, trying to force it off and clear her airway.

“Damn, girl, you have no idea how much I’m enjoying this,” Two fingers pounded Livewire’s pussy, occasionally giving off a spark amd making Brandon jump. “Finally having one of you just where I want you. I don’t even care if you’re a sidekick. I’m gonna abuse you until you beg me to stop.”

“Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop!” Brandon pumped his hips one last time, filling Batgirl with another chemically-enhanced sperm deposit. She shook against him, holding him close and burying her face in his neck for a long moment before she slumped, panting.

Livewire laughed and groaned as a spasm wracked her shapely blue hips, grinding her clit against her own hand. “You’re enjoying this? Kinky. None of my usual masked heroes beg to be tortured.”

He pulled Batgirl off his dick and placed her feet back on the ground, and he stepped away when he saw the fire in her eyes. “Because…because if you keep going…you’ll eventually make a mistake!” She grabbed her cape and pulled it free from her cowl, spreading it wide as she whirled on Livewire. The villain, engrossed in her own orgasm, barely gasped before the cape wrapped around her, covering her from the waist up. Batgirl grabbed the other side of the cape and pulled it tight, and no amount of lightning from Livewire’s legs did a thing to it. “We have insulated capes too, Sparky. More than enough for an electricity villain.”

The screams coming from under cape were muffled, but he could guess at what they meant. Still, Batgirl had presented him with a chance of his own. On his fourth try he grabbed one of Livewire’s flailing ankles, and the fight left it in an instant. He worked his way up to her hips, lifting them while Batgirl carried the weight of the villain’s upper body. Livewire’s legs wrapped around his waist and her fists stopped pounding the inside of the cape, and when he speared her with his endlessly erect cock, only her dulled screams suggested she was anything but fully thrilled with her situation.

Another burst of pink energy illuminated the flat grey walls, and Brandon spared a moment’s focus to check on the women behind him. Batwoman had managed to escape from her bonds, somehow, and had a death grip on Star Sapphire’s thighs. Both women ate each other out with a loud, insistent fury, rolling on the floor as they jockeyed for dominance. Wonder Woman and Giganta had a different battle going on, face-to-face with their breasts mashed together and their hands jilling themselves off. Giganta had returned to human height, but her chest was still a match for her opponent, and they struggled against each other as though comparing the performance of their assets was a proxy for actual combat. It probably was, he mused. The amulet’s effects were greater than he had thought, and he wished he could be in the room when everybody discovered what had happened.

For now, he turned his attention to Livewire, whose upper and lower bodies told very different stories. She screamed and punched at the cape cinched around her, occasionally crackling with electricity and demanding to be set free. But her ankles stayed locked behind Brandon’s back, and her hips rolled along with his thrusts, matching his speed even when he got distracted and ogled Batgirl’s tight, straining muscles for a moment. No lightning came anywhere near him, and if he could make out anything Livewire was saying, he would have bet there was some begging and moaning mixed in with the threats and curses. He squeezed her lively ass as he held her up, working his fingers into her backside and spreading her cheeks with each strong thrust. His cock twitched, and only the call of two empty women encouraged him to finish with this one instead of enjoying her more. He spurted his sixth load of the day, just as intense as the first, and he hoped her electric body let his sperm survive until they found a new home.

Extricating himself from her legs took some effort, and the struggle threw off Batgirl’s control enough to let the fight last a little longer. He made his way to Wonder Woman and Giganta and their warring tits, where their rare display of double cleavage gave him an idea. Technically, any sperm he didn’t put in a fertile womb was a waste, but his dick still throbbed with need and none of his normal fatigue slowed him down. He could afford one personal act, couldn’t he? The women sank to their knees, unaware of the hands on their shoulders, and continued their reverse tug-of-war, each trying to push the other over with the strength of their chests alone. It took a little more positioning, but Brandon managed to wedge his cock in the center of the battle, enveloping it in four perfect breasts.

Giganta grabbed her tits and slid them up and down his shaft, filled with a burst of confidence. Wonder Woman followed suit, glaring at her opponent instead of the man who had forced her into a threesome. Brandon laid his hands on the tops of their heads, holding onto fistfuls of hair while he humped the dual valleys of flesh. He watched their expressions, as Wonder Woman swapped between worry and resolve while Giganta remained almost smug. The villain’s titjob easily took the lead, squishing and rubbing Brandon’s dick and forcing Wonder Woman to keep up. She even leaned forward, perhaps with a slight change in height, pushing Wonder Woman back; this made Brandon stand at an uncomfortable angle, so he pressed down on Giganta’s head until she returned to her original size. Her pace and force increased to make up for the loss, stroking him off like she’d done it a hundred times, and all it took for him to blow was for Wonder Woman to grunt and match her for a few short seconds.

He bucked his hips, letting his head poke from the cleavage for a moment as he exploded. Even he couldn’t believe the amount he produced, and he had been responsible for cleaning up his own masturbation for the last week. He practically covered their tits with thick splatters, and some of his cum landed on Giganta’s lips, where it was dutifully removed by a nimble tongue. Pulling out of their grasp almost cost him some skin, but he managed to back up with his important parts intact. The sticky layer he left didn’t deter the women for a second, though without a cock to guide them they returned to rubbing themselves toward two loud orgasms. While they got back to normal, Brandon found Giganta’s dress and wiped them clean. As fun as it was to see them masturbating while half-covered in spunk, evidence was evidence. The longer the Justice League didn’t realize they were getting a wave of involuntary babies, the better.

With that settled, he tossed the soon-to-be-suspiciously crusty dress near his uniform. He could dispose of it in the Watchtower’s incinerator, or somewhere else that wouldn’t leave DNA evidence in a prison locker or the League’s trophy room. In the meantime he turned his attention to the woman herself. He laid down and slid himself between Giganta’s legs until she straddled him, and he had a lovely view of her tight, muscular ass as he pushed her hips onto his cock. Her fingers stopped for a moment to spread her lips for him, an unconscious welcome he gladly accepted. Her pussy hugged him close while he slid inside, wet and hot, and he tucked his arms under his head and leaned back to watch the show.

“Oh my gosh, it’s so much bigger than Grodd!” Giganta panted, less than a foot from Wonder Woman’s face. Brandon winced a little at the thought of sharing a hole with a hyper-intelligent gorilla, but he found the bright side quickly—a woman who had sex with an ape probably didn’t need to use protection, which means she was perfect for insemination. And another silver lining: a woman who could change her size, understandably, had a very strong opinion about her partner’s endowment. “So! Big! So! Big! More, more, more! Make me walk funny for a week! Yes, I’m so glad I’m a human! Pick me up and pound me until I cum!” He did his best, but given how hard she bounced on him, he didn’t pound her as much as he let her pound herself. He mostly lay there, humping her on occasion, staring at her butt shaking with every thrust and listening to her effusive praise. “I’m cumming again! Your big, fat, giant, pulsing penis is going to make me cum!” Words failed her, and a series of loud, high-pitched screams filled the cell block, drowning out the dirty talk from every other woman. Brandon slapped her ass once for good measure before he gave her the prize she deserved, a huge creampie that left her giddy and shuddering.

He checked the other fights, and he saw Batwoman and Batgirl both getting the upper hand and starting to lock their villains down. Not much time remained, especially not with Giganta woozy from her latest orgasm. He shimmied himself free from Giganta’s thighs and pulled her down, laying on the floor face-up. Wonder Woman pounced on her, pinning her arms to the ground and mashing her breasts against the villain’s face. “It’s over, Giganta. More of the League is on its way. Give up now and we’ll—great Hera!” She arched her back as Brandon took her from behind, fucking her doggystyle with an eye toward cumming quickly instead of belaboring her rape. She gave up immediately, reduced to lusty moaning and shaking while he took complete control.

He spied her lasso at her belt, and on a whim he tossed it around her shoulders. It glowed, and he grabbed her hair and pulled her head back. “You like it rough, Wonder Bitch?”

She didn’t respond, and he sighed. Of course she wouldn’t. She couldn’t perceive him, so she didn’t even know he’d asked a question. But it still glowed, so if he got her to cum, anything she said would be the absolute truth. He yanked her hair harder and fucked her deeper, waiting for the inevitable screams. “Gods, yes! Tighter! Hold me down! I want to be tied up and fucked into oblivion! Yes, yes, yes, ooooh, I want this! I want a man to take control! Make me yours! Make me your slave! T-tell me! Tell me I can cum! Let me cum! Let me…oh, Hera! Hera, fuck, yes!” He didn’t give her permission, not that she would have heard it anyway. Her scream made the smaller pieces of rubble shake, and he braced himself in case he heard the concrete under her crack. But the floor held, and while she came down from her high he fertilized her Amazonian pussy with his ninth, and potentially strongest, load of the day.

As he withdrew, he noticed Livewire passed out in a cell, lying in a puddle created by a broken sink. Star Sapphire knelt with her hands behind her back and her mask lying in front of her. Batgirl and Batwoman stood over the forms of their fallen enemies, both still masturbating, though Batgirl was much more obvious about it. He checked on Giganta, who had apparently passed out during Wonder Woman’s screaming fit. With the fight well and clearly over, he strolled to his uniform and put it on. The heroes would gather themselves without his presence, and he wanted to be in the invisible jet before amulet’s effects wore off. He could catch a ride back to the Watchtower, get rid of Giganta’s dress, and finish out his working day. Nobody would be the wiser until he was long gone.

He chuckled to himself. It was a risk accompanying the Justice League on a superhero battle, but it had been worth it. Four new women had become his victims, he had taken another shot at two, and three more waited at the end of Batwoman’s tracking device. At this rate he’d make Luthor very happy, to say nothing of his own needs. He’d have to pay close attention to the news from now on, and also eavesdrop on Justice League communications whenever he could. He couldn’t wait to see which victim realized she was pregnant first.

Chapter Text

He knew there would be consequences. After his field trip to Blackgate prison and a reverse gangbang not even the other participants knew about, he expected some fallout from his place of business. Shortly after Brandon returned to the Watchtower and resumed his job, his manager pulled him aside and asked, politely, where on Earth he had been for the last several hours. Obviously, answering honestly would get him fired, jailed, interrogated by people with superpowers, and possibly killed by a vengeful hero or a LexCorp assassin who wanted to close loose ends, in no particular order. Luckily, he had spent the entire flight back clinging to anything more stable than his own trembling knees and thinking of how he would handle this exact situation.

At his last job, Brandon would say he had been cleaning something in an obscure corner of the facility. He didn’t see any reason the same excuse wouldn’t work in space. But the Justice League had a slightly higher standard of “clean” than LexCorp, who kept their public areas spic and span while their main facilities were scrubbed just enough to avoid a lawsuit or government investigation. His manager would no doubt ask to see the fruits of his labors, and that was a charade Brandon couldn’t keep up for long. He needed a better idea.

In trying times like these, Brandon had an old, reliable escape hatch he saved for dire circumstances: tell a lie that seems too embarrassing to be false. With what he felt was exactly the correct amount of regret, he told his manager he hadn’t slept well the night before and simply wasn’t able to work. He had noticed a gap in the Watchtower’s security and used the space to catch a quick catnap, but since he didn’t have any electronic devices he couldn’t set an alarm and thus slept far longer than intended. He was sorry, it wouldn’t happen again, he understood if he’d have his pay docked, and so on, all while intentionally failing to look his manager in the eye. At LexCorp, admitting to something like that would have him out on the street within an hour. Here, he hoped the honestly—or a reasonable imitation of it—would earn him some leeway.

As expected, his manager wasn’t happy. He also demanded to see the place Brandon had taken his nap, and Brandon took him to one of the hallways with a low camera presence, sacrificing one of his routes into the women-only section of the Watchtower to support his lie. What followed was a perfectly understandable lecture about work ethic and discipline, and an admonition in the form of sacrificing his earnings for the day…and then a reminder that the Justice League’s sick leave policy did not require justification except in the case of unusually frequent absences or a single absence longer than five consecutive days. That was to say, if Brandon couldn’t work one day because of a lack of sleep, he only had to call in and say he was taking a sick day. And just he took it, no questions asked. He could even take a half-day without warning if he started his shift and found he couldn’t finish it. There was no need to put himself at physical risk in the future.

Brandon did not have to fake utter shock. Was this what work was like for the good guys? Decent pay, sick leave, a modicum of job security, and managers who wanted to aid his well-being instead of bosses who only cared about how they looked to their own bosses? No wonder the villains lost all the time. He would gladly stick around if this was how they treated their employees (except he was pretty sure his current gig had much better benefits in the form of lusty super-powered women and not being killed in his bed for daring to defy Luthor himself).

And while he was still reeling, his manager leaned in close and said “Look, Brandon, you do good work. I know it’s mind-numbing and tedious and not great on your knees, but I see you giving it your all. It really feels like you’re here to support the League, not just collect a paycheck. If you want to take a long lunch now and again, I think you’ve earned it. Just don’t disappear for a whole afternoon. That’s the sort of thing that puts a black mark on your career track, you know?”

“Career” was a strange word to Brandon. Custodial work was a dead-end job, right? People did it because they had no other meaningful skills and nowhere else to go. That was his impression and the mood around LexCorp, and he would leave it in a second if he could. Sure, it required a lot of effort, and skill in time management and task prioritization, and knowledge of chemicals and the ability to use them safely, and the willingness to respond quickly to emergency situations, and awareness of the health and well-being of people around him, and a thorough understanding of mechanical and electronic facilities such that cleaning materials caused no breakdown in holy shit he realized he was skilled labor and had been this whole time.

His entire worldview changed in a single conversation, his sense of self rose to the ceiling, he’d gotten tacit approval from his own manager to disappear for short bursts of time to perform extracurricular activities, and there was a pretty good chance he had put somewhere between one and five kids into some of the planet’s sexiest women. It was the best day of his life.

He did watch the actual news for once, just in case. As expected, the top story was the escape at Blackgate. But despite four stations covering the event, none mentioned the naked, creampied women who fought each other in the cell block. The nudity and sex were being kept nicely under wraps, known only to the people present and the people they were willing to tell. No doubt the whole League knew of it by this point, but if they were keeping it secret from the world at large, he certainly wasn’t going to advertise his own involvement.

Understandably, by the beginning of the next day’s shift there was a camera guarding the blind spot he had revealed to his manager. The Justice League worked fast when it came to security breaches. But he had others, and he didn’t even need them at the moment. He had other plans for his sperm, all based around a little device he had stolen from Batwoman. Getting it out took some doing, a careful balancing act that involved passing it around the security scanners while wearing the amulet so the girl at the front desk didn’t notice him, but sitting on his thrift-store coffee table at home was a tracking device capable of leading him straight to Harley Quinn. The Justice League could have a day without his attentions. Tonight he was taking some of the villains out of the game.

Work dragged less than normal, perhaps because he had started to see it as an actual occupation instead of a means to an end (two ends, really: satisfying his obligations to Luthor and earning enough money to keep a water-stained roof over his head). Lunch came quickly enough to surprise him, and then he was done for the day, and after a change of clothes he set out on the streets of Gotham. After his harrowing encounters with female drivers incapable of seeing him in a crosswalk, he opted not to wear the amulet around, and he tried to keep his tracker-checking to a minimum so no passerby wondered why this random dude carried a piece of Batwoman’s tech. Crossing the city did require a subway stop (then doubling back on a bus, because he overshot where he was going) and several blocks of walking, and the sun had started to set before he found the nondescript, middle-class apartment building he wanted. He entered, rode the elevator until the tracker put him at the correct elevation, and followed the numbers on the screen until they put him outside apartment 1126. With a wicked smile he donned the amulet, knocked hard, and waited.

Then he realized the women inside couldn’t hear his knocking, so he removed the amulet, knocked again, put it back on, and waited. The power to go completely unnoticed was a hassle. He didn’t know how ghosts did it.

He heard some shuffling behind the door, and a moment later it opened and a slim blonde with pigtails poked her head into the hallway. At this point he had almost forgotten what Harley looked like in her uniform, more accustomed to seeing her in an orange jumpsuit. Her current clothing suited her better: a tee shirt with “Gotham Earth Day Fun Run” over a stylized tree, pulled tight enough over her torso to reveal a healthy amount of midriff and perky nipples poking through the fabric, and loose pajama pants in a garish red and blue plaid pattern. She peered up and down the hall with one eyebrow raised, not sparing a glance when Brandon pushed her aside and moved into the apartment, and she shrugged and closed the door behind her.

“Who was it?” Poison Ivy didn’t look up as she spoke, sitting on the couch in a knee-length dress—dark green, naturally—with a magazine in her hands. She didn’t notice Brandon either, and he scanned the room with impunity. She lived better than he did, for sure; her furniture matched, her floor was clean, and the frames on the walls held tasteful nature paintings or newspaper clippings about the most memorable exploits of the Gotham City Sirens. He blinked at the papers for a moment, then counted the number of jackets hanging from the hooks by the door. Three coats. This wasn’t just Ivy’s apartment, this was the hideout for the Sirens themselves.

“Dunno. Left before I could see ‘em.” Harley vaulted over the sofa and landed with her back against the arm and one foot in Ivy’s lap. “Probably got the wrong place.”

“Definitely not a cop scoping the place out before they raid us.”

“Nah, no way. Cops aren’t exactly subtle. They’re all ‘GCPD, open up!’ and ‘put down the boxing-glove gun!’. Yelly types.”

“Mm.”

“Heck, if the cops did show, I bet we could buy thirty good seconds of escape time by flashin’ the goods.” Harley cupped her breasts and bounced them a moment, ending with a quick squeeze and a soft hum as the amulet started to take effect.

“Please don’t stretch out my shirt any more than you already are. And why are you in my clothes, anyway? You have plenty here.”

Harley licked her lips and grabbed the bottom of the shirt, whipping it off her head in a single motion. “But yours are so comfy! All-natural fabrics feel so nice on my skin.”

Ivy glanced over and her eyes settled on Harley’s bare tits for a fraction of a second, not long enough to register what they were seeing. Then they were back to her magazine, like there was nothing wrong with a topless woman a couple feet away…though, as far as Brandon knew, that might have just been how Harley was. “I would think you’d prefer a nun’s habit after all the showing off you’ve been doing lately.”

“Uuuuugh, don’t remind me.” Harley slumped over the arm of the couch, and Brandon took the opportunity to molest her soft, springy tits. She sighed as his thumb passed over her nipple, nice and hard in the air-conditioned apartment. “How bad is it, Red?”

“Which part? The one where half of the female heroes and villains in America are afraid to come out in public for fear of becoming the star of a impromptu exhibitionist porno, the one where they’re working on passing laws specifically to punish us for daring to flaunt our femininity where a bunch of doddering old men might suffer the indignity of acknowledging it, or the one that pertains to you specifically while ignoring the greater implications of the event in which you participated?”

“Uh…A and C.”

Ivy sighed and put down her magazine, then stood and hiked up her dress. “It’s not as bad as I’m making it sound. It’s more that we still don’t know what’s going on. All we know is that the amulets are involved, and only the Justice League even knows where those are any more.”

“No they don’t.”

She stopped with her dress bunched around her chest and red underwear like a beacon against her pale skin. “Yes, they do.”

“They did a buncha askin’ me what happened to the amulets after we got nabbed, so I’m preeeeetty sure they don’t.”

“There are several pieces of jewelry somewhere in the world that do strange, perverted things to women, and the Justice League, despite being their primary victims, managed to lose them?”

“Hey! I’m a victim here too, ya know!” Harley kicked off the last of her pajama pants, reclining in her panties. Brandon peered at the red and black fabric, imagining the hole waiting underneath the diamonds where…wait, was she wearing Harley Quinn-branded panties? He wondered whether she got a cut of the profits. “Not like I enjoyed showin’ off Mistah J’s favorite ride to every Tom, Dick, and Other Dick in town.”

“Can we please not talk about sex with the Joker? Ever?”

“Fine,” Harley pouted, staring at the wall instead of the hourglass-shaped villain daintily placing her bra and panties on the coffee table. Ivy tossed her copper hair and sat back on the edge of the couch with one foot propped on the table, spreading her thighs and running a finger up the length of her pale pussy. As fun as it was to play with Harley’s rack, Brandon had something better within sight, and he stripped out of his own clothes while Harley sighed. “I think Batwoman’s keepin’ one of ‘em on her.”

“An amulet?” Ivy rested her hand on the couch, right where Brandon put it, and ignored him as he knelt and rubbed his cock along her lower lips to get everything nice and wet. “I suppose it’s the only way to know where it is at all times.”

“Yeah, you know Bats. Why let somebody else do somethin’ if you can do it yourself and glower the whole time?”

“But out of the whole League, I would think she’d be the least inclined to carry around something that does…what it does. Put it on Superman, or Flash, or, heck, even Robin. A male, at least.”

“Dunno. Who knows what goes through the mind of a crazy person.”

“Said the renowned doctor who dresses like a clown to date a psychotic madman.”

Harley stuck out her tongue. “At least it gets me laid.”

“Once again, the last thing I need right now is to hear about somebody’s exploits with penis. Wow, that’s a big penis!” Ivy panted as Brandon finally pushed inside, digging her nails into the sofa and tensing her hips to grind against him. Her pale white body took to the act immediately, rolling with whatever speed he picked and arching her back until he had no choice but to admire her small, round breasts. He’d expected a cool and smooth texture, like the stem of a flower, but her walls felt like like a human’s: warm, wet, and perfect for taking cock. “How does she resist its effects?”

“Hnn?” Harley didn’t answer for a minute, too busy trying to peel off her panties without removing her finger from her pussy. “I dunno, some Bat-magic-ignoring pouch or somethin’. Whatever it is, it’s not workin’ so great. Probably runnin’ around the Belfry with her sad grey tits out.”

“The Belfry?”

“Yeah, that’s the name of Batwoman’s lair. Or, it probably is. It should be.”

“Still, I doubt she’d do anything that wasn’t fooooolproof” Ivy moaned, taken aback by Brandon’s hands squeezing her chest, enveloping each breast with just his palm. “If it really is magic, the League has people to make sure it’s safe.”

“Well they need to do a better job. I’m tellin’ ya, Ives, there was this one time Bats and Little Bats interviewed me at the GCPD, and it was a totally normal, non-punchy interrogation until Bats left, and a few minutes later Little Bats and I noticed we were nearly naked and we’d jilled ourselves so wet it felt like we’d gotten spunk lodged a foot deep.”

“That is terrifying for at least six reasons, not the least of which is your understanding of anatomy.”

“It’s hyperbole! I’m a doctor, I know my way around a vag.” She hooked one leg over the back of the couch and put the other on the floor, using her gymnastic flexibility to spread her thighs and get three fingers into her pussy.

“Don’t I know it,” Ivy mused with a coy look that made Brandon’s toes curl. That wasn’t the amulet, right? It made women strip and masturbate and sometimes fuck each other, but it didn’t put flirting into casual conversation. Which meant Ivy had done that herself, consciously. Which implied… “Still, that’s troubling. Who’s to say the magic protection won’t fail in the middle of a fight?”

“Ives, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were worried about Batwoman.”

“I want her to recognize that I’m working for the greater good of the planet and stop getting on my case just because I get rid of a few fossil fuel execs or steal some supplies for experiments that will make the world better. I don’t want her to get raped by Bane or something.”

“Ooooh, yeah, that’s the spot. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get what you’re sayin’. Not like I get off to thinking about the heroes gettin’ railed.” Harley’s body contorted as pleasure washed over her. “Still, might be a good time to have the pill close by. Just sayin’.”

Ivy rolled her eyes, and they stayed up when Brandon wrapped his hands around the narrowest part of her waist and slammed her so hard the couch shifted under them. “Birth control pills are developed and manufactured by pharmaceutical companies who release massive chemical pollution into rivers and oceans. I’d—oh, fuck—I’d rather burn them down than give them—give it, give it to me!—a single dollar. My birth control method is not letting that big, hard cock fuck me more, more! Until it sprays all that thick white seed inside my fertile core! Yes, yes, yes!” Her hips bucked one last time, and her mouth hung open as she hyperventilated through her orgasm. Brandon’s cum drove her higher, and she clamped down on him with what felt like a second peak triggered by her secret insemination.

He pulled out and watched for his creampie, wondering if he would be able to see it against her white skin. While Ivy lay sprawled on the couch, Harley came down from her own high and chuckled. “Yeah, I know, I know. Boys are just playthings for the great Poison Ivy.” She slid to the floor and crawled between Ivy’s legs (and unknowingly between Brandon’s once he stood to let her in). “Girls, however…”

Ivy smiled back and brushed red hair away from her face. “Now, Harley, what would the Joker say if he found out how much fun we had together?”

“I thought we weren’t talkin’ about him.” Harley extended her tongue and flicked the tip against Ivy’s clitoris. “But if you need an amulet to have a little fun, I understand.”

Ivy laid her hand on Harley’s head, between the yellow pigtails. “We’ve never needed one before, have we?”

“Not even a little,” Harley clicked her tongue and buried her face in Ivy’s sperm-soaked pussy.

Brandon moved the coffee table out of the way and took his place behind Harley, where the acrobat’s slender ass wagged heedless of the man staring at it. He, like many single men in Gotham with access to the Internet, had assumed Harley and Ivy were an item ever since they’d first appeared together in public, the same way they assumed Supergirl and Batgirl were a thing, or Batwoman and Wonder Woman, or really any two or more moderately attractive female superheroes or villains who stood next to each other for more than ten seconds. The amulet had done a great job in making some of those fantasies into temporary reality, but this? This was actual reality. Harley and Ivy were lovers, and suddenly all those costumed porn videos became worthless compared to the real thing he knew was taking place—and had been for a while—a few bus rides away.

The only thing that could make their sapphic arrangement better was the inclusion of a man to give them what they needed, and luckily they had one even if they didn’t know it. He spread Harley’s cheeks, taking a gander at the tight pussy he’d once filled while its owner stood handcuffed to a table. It was possible he’d already left his mark, and the Joker was one pregnancy test away from gaining a stepson. But it never hurt to be sure, and he pushed his cock into Harley’s cunt and began his second attempt at knocking her up.

Harley screamed into Ivy’s pussy, and a bubble of air escaped from the tight seal her mouth made, splatting droplets of jizz all across one cheek. He shoved her forward, fucking Ivy by proxy through Harley’s tongue, and smacked Harley’s ass until it turned redder than the panties she’d left on the sofa. Her insides clung to him, already slick from masturbation and ready to fulfill their biological purpose. With a shapely ass rippling after every thrust, a pale redhead practically shaking with delight, and the delicious sounds of lesbian pussy eating to accompany him, he had to dig his nails into his palm to keep from finishing early and ending the impossible scene.

“Geez, Red, you’re super-wet today!” Harley pulled herself free for a moment, speaking through lips covered in the same semen her womb was about to taste. “Maybe you do get off thinking about Bats.”

“N-no! No, it must be something else. Keep going.” Ivy rubbed her bud with her fingertip while Harley returned to her task. “You’re just that good at it. What have you been learning in prison?”

“Well, I’m only sayin’, my cell neighbor was Sappho Stars.”

“Sapphire.”

“Look, she can make her stripper name whatever she wants, as long as she lets me borrow those boots once in a mmph!” Her eyes went wide when Brandon grabbed her head and mashed her face back into Ivy’s cunt, but her screams of surprise excited Ivy more and soon changed into screams of pleasure. He grabbed her hands and pulled them back, forcing her to arch her back at an angle that dragged her harder against his dick. She stared up at Ivy with the same lust Ivy used to stare back, and their loving gaze was the final straw. He shouted and filled Harley’s pussy, impregnating her within minutes of her girlfriend and partner, and all three of them trembled as a mild shared orgasm passed over the group.

Harley climbed up Ivy’s body, draping herself on her pale lover. Her hips rested on Ivy’s thigh as they kissed, and the cum dripping out mixed with the load she had spread with her mouth. “Thank’s for breakin’ me out of jail.”

“Any time.” Ivy patted Harley’s head, though her other hand had already drifted to Harley’s chest, where it gave her neglected nipples some attention. Harley cooed and ran her fingers down Ivy’s arm, and they continued to fondle and please each other while Brandon watched until his dick caught its breath and rose for a third round.

The lock on the door clicked, and he barely dove out of sight before it swung open. Hard heels took two steps into the room before they stopped, and a voice purred “Honestly, can you two at least take it to the bedroom?”

Harley perked up. “I thought we weren’t allowed to bang on your bed any more.”

“That—never mind.” A sigh followed, and Brandon risked peeking at the newcomer, an impressively-endowed woman in a jet-black outfit so tight it put even other superhero costumes to shame. He recognized Catwoman’s mask, but he also recognized the way she strutted across the room like her very presence had every man standing at attention, and she oozed sexuality the way a three-o-clock drunk oozed desperation. She looked directly at him, sighed, walked to within a foot of his body, and plucked Harley’s panties from the sofa. “At least keep your unmentionables unmentionable.”

“Geez, what did you get your tail caught in?”

“Harley,” Ivy chided, and the blonde pouted but returned to nuzzling Ivy’s neck. “Not a great night on the prowl, I take it?”

“Same as every night these days.” Catwoman’s zipper slipped down her chest with the sultry hum of a satisfied lover. “Catcalls, wolf whistles, and propositions galore. Suddenly everyone in Gotham thinks I’m going to strip for them. I swear, if one more mugger or security guard tells me to call him ‘Daddy’ I’ll do something to get me back on Batwoman’s naughty list.”

“Uhhh,” Harley moaned, two knuckles deep in her own pussy, “pretty sure if you’re meetin’ security guards, you’re already there.”

“Private security, guarding stolen art. Gotham’s heroes have better things to do than lecture me for getting the job done efficiently.” Her mask came off, and Brandon saw the woman under the cat ears for the first time. Honestly, now that he knew this was Catwoman, the resemblance was obvious: wide hips swinging as she walked, a subtle huskiness in every word, always posing as though men were watching, even facial features he might refer to as ‘feline’. She would turn heads without a costume, especially in the black lace lingerie she wore underneath. “Not that the salaried goons are any more civil than the freelancers. If anything, they act like wearing a suit gives them carte blanche to act more lecherous.”

“Tell me about it. Anytime the cops moved me for my interviews, I always caught ‘em lookin’ so hard it was like they could see through my jumpsuit. Really makes a girl miss the women guards at Blackgate, where at least most of them gave me the stinkeye instead of the regular eye.”

Catwoman swayed her whole body as she rolled her panties down her legs, leaving them on the floor while she walked out of them and bent over the back of the couch, a few feet from where Poison Ivy suckled on Harley’s fingers. Leaning forward aided her incredible curves, accentuating her heart-shaped ass and letting her breasts almost spill out of her push-up bra. “I hear that. Nothing’s worse than a beat cop who thinks you’ll trade him a handy for some favor.”

“You get that too? But you’re all respectable and crap.”

Her laugh filled the room with air and pulled her body even tighter, and Brandon had to wait until she stopped to bump her legs open and lower her hips into position for a standing (and ironic) doggystyle reaming. “Nobody’s respectable, Harley. Some people just put on better airs than others. I’m telling you, if you dropped the jester outfit and the clown, your stock would skyrocket.”

“Pfft, Mistah J gives me cock. I mean, stock.” Harley ground her crotch against Ivy’s thigh and fingered her bud, and Ivy bit her lips as her eyes rolled back in her head. “Besides, that ship sailed when I got caught cams out with my gams out. Nobody’s gonna respect someone who humped Batgirl’s face on live TV as much as they respect a sexy, refined cat burglar who kept all her clothes on.”

Catwoman shed the last of her clothes, holding her bra between two fingers and dropping it on top of Harley’s discarded panties. “That’s right, you’ve been in jail. I haven’t told you yet.”

“Told me?”

“I didn’t escape as unscathed as I seem. Ooooooooh, baby…” she moaned, sucking Brandon’s dick inside the moment he pressed it into her pussy. She arched her back and swiveled her ass, putting on a show for her rapist without knowing it. “I had a run-in with one of the amulets myself. Batwoman brought it to me to ask some questions.”

“What?! No way! Spill! Was she naked? She stuffs her bra, right? Did you—“ Harley withdrew despite Ivy’s protests, put her thumb and forefinger together on each hand, and slapped the rings against each other.

“I don’t recall the finer details. I remember—mmm, yeah, baby. Give this pussy what she needs.” Catwoman tilted her head back and moaned to the ceiling while she fucked against Brandon’s thrusts. “I know she came with Supergirl, and they wanted my expertise regarding the amulet’s worth. I gave them my honest opinion, said it wasn’t shiny enough to fence. Didn’t know it was magic at the time.”

“Mmmm mmm,” Poison Ivy offered, though her mouth was already full of Harley’s breast.

“Come again?”

“I’m cumming again!” Harley’s tongue hung out and a spasm wracked her body, pulling her chest free of Ivy’s teeth.

Ivy licked her lips and ran her fingers over Harley’s stomach. “I said, it might not be magic. It could be scientific brainwashing, or pheromone manipulation, or the psychic thing Grodd or the Manhunter do. We don’t know yet.”

Catwoman spread her wrists apart and bent over further, and Brandon upped his pace until he saw her tits swinging on either side of her chest and heard them slapping together during each thrust. “It’s magic enough, Ivy. Enough to make me strip naked in front of Batwoman and her super friend.”

“Nope!” Harley shook her head. “Mm-mm, don’t buy it. There’s no way Bats could have seen you naked and not jumped you. We all know she’s got a thing for you. Heck, any time you walk around the apartment in that tank-top-and-booty-shorts combo you sleep in, I wanna pounce you, and I don’t even go for the dark-and-mysterious type. If the world’s greatest detective can’t detect that bod, she’s as blind as a bat.”

“Preaching to the choir, Harley,” Catwoman smirked, a moment of casual expression before she returned to wrinkling her brow and pursing her lips in a dead-on impersonation of a porn starlet. “But fact is, I didn’t realize I was naked until several minutes later. Which means Batwoman not only knows what I have under the hood, so does some teenage sidekick who got a bird’s-eye view.”

“But it’s Supergirl, right? Doesn’t her dad have x-ray vision or somethin’?”

“I don’t think Superman is her dad.”

“Little sister?”

“They don’t really look alike. They’re probably not related at all.”

“Are you sure? Because I totally ship them and the whole family-love thing is really important to my headcanon.”

Catwoman didn’t answer, too preoccupied with the orgasm brewing courtesy of Brandon’s frantic humping. Harley filled the void by making out with Ivy, leaving Catwoman to enjoy herself in loud, sweaty peace. Brandon squeezed his fingers into her ass, almost pulling her back into him, and she froze while he gave both of them the last push. “Fuck, yes. Deeper. Give kitty her cream.” She spoke at a half-shout, loud enough to hear every syllable but not enough to rattle the walls, an intimate volume in a husky pant he couldn’t resist. He pushed her forward until her hips hit the couch and pinned her there, leaving no room to escape when he fertilized her within plain view of his last two victims. He felt her milk him dry, sucking everything into her body, and she slumped onto the sofa in blissful ignorance.

Harley shimmied back down between Ivy’s legs, and Ivy ran her fingers through Harley’s hair as she looked at Catwoman. “Selina, you look exhausted. Take the night off. We’ll order Chinese and relax.”

“Ha, vegging out with a veg.”

“Quiet, Harley,” Ivy chided. “How about it? Girl’s night in?”

Catwoman stretched like an actual cat, a full-body extension that nearly convinced Brandon to take her again for good measure. “Sounds fantastic.” She crawled over the couch and cuddled up to Ivy, and Brandon decided his work was done. He knew where they lived now, and he could stop by any time he wanted. There was no need to exhaust himself in one evening. He gathered his clothes, wiped up the stray cum with Harley’s/Ivy’s shirt (which he planned on tossing in a dumpster halfway home), and pulled Catwoman’s head over to suck his cock for a few minutes, just because he could. Then he was gone, long before their dinner delivery could arrive.

Sneaking around under the watchful eye of the entire Justice League had really honed Brandon’s sense of perception. A month ago he wouldn’t have noticed the pristine, expensive-looking car with tinted windows parked on the street outside his apartment building. Now he did, and it only took him a few steps to puzzle out the cause. He passed it without staring too much, entered his apartment like normal, and waited by the door. A few minutes later he heard the knock, and he opened the door for Miss Graves and invited her in without being asked.

She still wrinkled her nose at his living room and gripped the box in her hands a little tighter, but she didn’t insult him. Progress! “I hope you’ve been busy the last two weeks.”

“I have.” He knew she wasn’t there to ask about his cleaning job, so he shut the door and lowered his voice. “I’m getting the amulet into the Watchtower fine every day, and I’ve had a few days that were very productive.”

“Any positives?”

“Positives? Oh! Well, no, but it hasn’t been all that long, and I haven’t been looking for medical records or anything…should I be?”

She sighed with the weight of a weary remedial teacher. “Maybe your quantity makes up for your quality. Who have you actually had sex with?”

He rattled off a list of women, in chronological order so he could keep them straight. Honestly he hadn’t expected to run out of fingers, but as of that night he’d bedded fourteen—fourteen!—heroes and villains (and one GCPD officer). Miss Graves nodded along with her normal stoic disappointment, though he thought he caught a brief chuckle when he talked about raping Harley twice. She didn’t say a word about him targeting non-powered people, or fucking villains along the way, and a small bit of worry unfurled in his gut. If she didn’t tell him to stop, she was fine with it, which meant Luthor was fine with it, and that’s what mattered.

“Okay,” she nodded, “an acceptable performance. You got lucky with the jailbreak, but going along with it shows initiative. Just don’t show too much. One wrong move and it’s all over, understood?”

“Yeah. Um, yes. Ma’am?” He winced and she rolled her eyes. “So keep doing what I’ve been doing?”

“Yes and no. We’re adding to your job. Keep doing whatever you can to spread your…influence among the League. Just be careful what you touch. The amulet can’t solve fingerprints on an access card.”

Stealing an access card! That would have been a brilliant idea for getting into high-security places and bedrooms. Or, actually, it wouldn’t, because of the fingerprints. He supposed he’d dodged a bullet. But if he could force another woman to access places for him… “Hm? Right, sorry. Sure, I’ll keep it up.”

Her eyes flicked lower. “After the treatment we gave you I doubt you have a choice. But we also want you to sow some chaos. Use these.”

Brandon took the box from her and opened it. Inside, piled together with as much care as a recently-fired man cleaning out his desk, sat five more amulets. “Great, yeah. Hey, I have a question: what?”

“These are the amulets worn by the Legion of Doom during the inciting event in Gotham.”

“The Clash of the Gashes?”

“God, I hate the names the Internet comes up with.”

“So you want me to find five more men to—“

“Absolutely not. You are going to use these amulets to publicly expose and humiliate the Justice League in much the same way as during the inciting event. Put them around a heroine’s neck before a highly-televised fight. Sneak it into their gear when they go on patrol. Whatever it takes to put as many naked Leaguers in front of as many eyes as possible.”

With a sudden awareness of his fingerprints, Brandon lay the box on his couch without touching anything inside. “Won’t that make it real obvious that there’s another amulet around?”

“That’s the point. The world is under the impression that Luthor was involved in distributing these amulets.”

“Because he was?”

Miss Graves removed her hat, letting long golden-brown hair fall past her shoulders. “Semantics and perception. If the amulets suddenly start appearing around the League’s necks while he’s in jail, obviously he can’t be behind it, and that will sway public opinion. The event at Blackgate was a good start, but there aren’t any witnesses to the actual humiliation, just a few guards who saw the fallout. We need something bigger.”

“Pretty sure the League won’t buy it.”

“The League doesn’t run the courts or the TV stations. Normal idiots do, and this will convince those normal idiots that Luthor was in the wrong place at the wrong time, arrested merely because the League has a documented grudge against him and marched him off without due process.”

He nodded. It could work, and anything that got him in Luthor’s good graces was worth doing. “How did you even get these? Didn’t the League confiscate them?”

“No, the GCPD did,” Miss Graves smirked, “and they are also made up of normal idiots, susceptible to threats and bribes.”

“Classic Gotham,” Brandon sighed. “So keep doing what I’m doing, but also strategically place these so five superheroes strips and masturbate with an audience.”

“At least five. You’re clever. You’ll figure it out. And since you’re helping Luthor, he’ll look the other way if you want to use the amulet for other purposes.”

“So it’s fine if I fuck supervillains?”

She pulled off her gloves and tucked them in the pocket of her coat. “Supervillains, cops, retail workers, random women on the street. Or use it to rob a bank, or collect blackmail material. As long as you keep knocking up and humiliating heroes, you can do anything you want to any woman and Luthor won’t say a word. But if you aren’t getting the job done…”

“Death and misery, gotcha.” He took a quick, deep breath. “Alright. I guess I have some planning to do.”

“Good. We’ll be in touch.”

“Wait.” A light went off in Brandon’s head. “No, never mind. I know what to do.” He watched Miss Graves leave, then immediately put on his amulet. He’d gotten permission to do anything he wanted to any woman. Time to put that to the test.

Following Miss Graves to her car was still nerve-wracking. She was his direct conduit to Luthor, the closest he’d ever been to a (male) supervillain. If anybody would have some safeguard against the amulet, it would be her. But she had started stripping in his apartment. She wasn’t immune to it, and she had to know the implications of her own orders. This was fine, right? He sure hoped so.

She took a look up and down the street before she walked to her car, and he gave chase, sticking within arm’s reach of her. When she opened the driver’s door he climbed in first, shifting the seat back and reclining it to give him a little room. She tried to enter, and he grabbed her hips and turned her around so she faced him, pointing toward the back of the car. The door shut and she scanned the street further, and he wondered what was going on in her mind. Did she think she was looking for observers, or waiting until she got further orders, or just taking a rest? Honestly, he didn’t really care once she began unbuttoning her coat, and he leaned back to watch the show.

Miss Graves needed an impressive amount of agility to strip inside the confines of a luxury sedan, and she showed off every bit of it as she draped her coat on the passenger seat. Her hips slid against his cock, grinding through his pants and her panties without any awareness of why. He helped her by unzipping her miniskirt, and she didn’t say a word, preoccupied with getting her dress shirt off. Piece by piece she laid her clothing neatly next to her, all the way down to her grey bra and panties, with her heels on the floor in front of them. The difficult part was the stockings, and Brandon almost tore a hole in them to give himself access, but he didn’t see any need to antagonize Luthor’s aide any more than he’d already intended. He waited as she stretched herself out, licking her nipples whenever he got the urge, and when she at last sat naked in his lap he unzipped his fly, pulled out his dick, and settled her on top of it.

She rested her hands on the back of the driver’s seat and spread her thighs around his midsection, riding him while watching every passing car and walker. The tinted windows and dark night probably protected them from any voyeurs, and even then he only had to care about the men. One woman spotted the car, peered inside the window, and checked her teeth in her reflection, in plain sight of the naked woman fucking behind the glass. Her hand groped her breast once before she left, and Brandon suddenly found a reason to hurry up. He did not need a random person to linger by the car and start stripping, gathering an audience that would definitely lead to his building. But he also wasn’t about to leave Miss Graves unsatisfied, so he grabbed her ass and pumped his hips faster.

She was not a loud lover, which was probably for the best. She moved deliberately, shifting her whole body along his with barely enough room for her tits to swing in between. He groped and spread her cheeks, getting large handfuls of the ass he had admired in her miniskirt and guiding her on the best way to ride his cock. Small utterances escaped her mouth in a cute whine, vague “ohs” and “yesses” he almost couldn’t hear over the sighs. Her head tossed now and again whenever her hair fell too out of place, and her blood-red lips pursed as though she expected a kiss. So he gave her what she wanted, forcing his tongue in her mouth and trying to pin her, making out with her in her boss’s car. The extra contact was all she needed, and less than a minute later she pressed her body against his and shook, clinging to him and the seat while he filled her with the sperm she didn’t know she needed.

They lay for a moment, breathing together, until Miss Graves pushed herself up and tried to fuck him again. With a little extra fumbling he got her out of the way and stumbled onto the road, securing himself in his pants a moment later. He shut the door and she righted herself, adjusting the seat and starting the car with one hand between her legs. He didn’t know how far she’d get before she realized what had happened, and he hoped it would be far enough that she would cool down before she came back and knocked down his door for revenge. Brandon had done what she’d told him to do, what Luthor had told him to do. He was allowed to enjoy any woman he wanted as long as he paid for it with the Justice League’s total humiliation.

He grinned and returned to his apartment. He had a lot of planning to do.

Chapter Text

After coming down the the contact high of fucking Lex Luthor’s personal aide in the front seat of her car on a public street, Brandon began to consider whether he had found himself in a bit of trouble. Not with Miss Graves herself; Luthor had given him carte blanche to use the amulet’s power on any woman he wanted, a permission delivered through his aide’s own two lips. She probably wouldn’t be thrilled to find a thick load of sperm seeping from her pussy and staining the driver’s seat, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it without going against her boss. Brandon wasn’t too worried about her kicking in his door and strangling him on his couch. Worst-case scenario, she’d go after him for child support because she alone knew who the father of all these superhero and superhero-adjacent babies was, and even then he trusted Luthor to handle it. A protracted alimony battle might expose his involvement with LexCorp, and nobody wanted that, especially not the chessmaster with everything to lose.

No, Brandon’s trouble was with the mission itself. When it started, it had seemed simple. He supposed it was still “simple” in that it consisted of only three orders:

• Use his amulet to knock up every female superhero he could
• Humiliate the female members of the Justice League by using other amulets to make them engage in public sexual activity
• Keep his involvement secret and do not get caught

He could easily satisfy any two of these orders at a time. He’d stayed hidden and raped more than a dozen heroes and villains. He could covertly sneak an amulet onto a woman while she was on her way to some public event, then sit back and watch the chaos. He could fuck any woman he wanted, and even a superhero would be shamed by becoming the star of a sex show in public. All of these would advance Luthor’s goals and get Brandon closer to his ill-gained retirement.

But satisfying all three at once seemed borderline impossible. Get a heroine naked in public and have sex with her without anybody knowing who he was? The more public it was, the harder it was to keep secret. That’s what those words meant. Only women were subject to his amulet’s effects. If a single man witnessed him groping Wonder Woman, he was exposed. If his face was caught on camera a single time, he was exposed. If he approached a woman before the amulet’s power had taken hold of her inhibitions, he was exposed. The risk was too great. It couldn’t be done. He’d have to somehow fall into a situation where only women were present, with no cameras, while the heroines were out and about, and there was no way to engineer such an event without somehow magically knowing where they were going to be beforehand.

…though, if he did know where they going to be, he could pick his spots for minimum risk and maximum impact. And he knew the Justice League contained members who performed non-hero activities, like Superman’s public speeches or the Flash’s short-lived product-endorsement phase. Logically those members would inform the League about their obligations in advance so they knew other heroes could handle problems and respond to villain emergencies, because not everybody could teleport around the world at a moment’s notice. Thus it stood to reason that the League, somewhere, had a schedule with information about its members’ expected whereabouts.

Any such schedule would be far out of his reach. What, like Batwoman would leave her Bat-Phone on the table during lunch so he could check her itinerary? Batwoman didn’t eat. She was sustained by vengeance. And, also, her phone was almost certainly password-protected, if not biometric. He did steal Batgirl’s keycard (and get a few good gropes of sidekick butt in the process) and check one of the computer terminals he could find, but the calendar apparently wasn’t on the network. It, like several other systems, had to be accessed from a specific room with fingerprint and retinal scanners, a ludicrous amount of security for what amounted to a to-do list. It was almost like the Justice League had a recent series of events that made them want to safeguard their privacy more than normal. Weird.

Brandon was not about to sit by the door all day waiting for somebody to enter. It would be boring, true, but moreso it kept him away from his cover job for longer than he could afford and there was no guarantee it would actually work. Luthor likely would not be willing to give him an extra few weeks to occasionally pass by the room and hope he caught somebody passing through. No, he had to create his own opportunity. He turned it over and over in his head for two days, trying and failing, unable to think of a way to force a heroine into the room to check or update the schedule, but the remote—

It hit him lying in bed one night. He didn’t care why a woman entered the room, only that she did. As long as he could get in with her, her intentions didn’t matter. With that, he had a plan built in a matter of minutes.

During his ventures in and out of the women’s section of the Watchtower over the last few weeks, Brandon had developed a sense for his victims’ shifts. For example, Batwoman tended to show up in the evening, as though she had a regular nine-to-five job or other daily obligation, while Hawkgirl was an early riser he rarely saw after lunch. If he wanted to target a specific woman he could time his trips accordingly. He also knew women tried to normalize anything he did to them; when he pushed Huntress out of his way, she casually leaned against a wall as though moving to the side had always been her intention. By combining the amulet’s features with his own knowledge, he could confidently skip out on his custodial job, visit the women’s commissary, and get the biggest cup of soda he could find, confident he’d put it to use. As expected, he only had to wait a few minutes before Gypsy, one of the League’s newer members, walked down the hall next to the secure computer room as she always did after her shower and before lunch. He placed the cup in her hand and her fingers closed around it, and she even took a small sip. The rim of the cup touched her lips, and Brandon smacked the bottom of it, dousing his target with nearly thirty-two ounces of ice-cold cola.

Gypsy jumped and backed away, holding out her arms and staring at her dress in abject shock. He didn’t blame her. She had no idea how she’d gotten a drink in the first place, much less how she’d carelessly spilled by drinking while walking. She flicked her arms, sending droplets of sugar water in every direction. Brown liquid seeped into her white top, turning it transparent enough to show the small strapless bra behind it, and the front of her green dress clung to her shapely legs. She looked around for witnesses and spun on her barefoot heel, probably intending to head back to the locker room for a change of clothes. Rather than leave her to her own devices, Brandon gently pushed her against the wall. Gypsy’s brow lowered as she processed her situation, but she must have decided to follow along with “her” action. The wall shimmered with a pale purple light and she phased through it, using her powers to pass through solid matter, and Brandon held on to her arm and followed. When the opening faded, he was alone with her on the other side of the wall, in the secure room.

He tapped at the nearest keyboard, putting in a token effort toward his ultimate goal. Most of his attention stayed with Gypsy, who wandered about for a moment before she decided she must have entered the room for a little privacy. She peeled the sticky dress off her body, shimmying it down her slender waist and hips, and after a brief bout of consternation she started on her white bra and panties as well. Her dark nipples, encouraged by the cold drink, stood as proud and hard as Brandon had ever seen, and trimmed black hair hugged the pussy she tried to wipe clean with the hem of her dress. Her long yellow headband had survived the attack, as did the array of gold jewelry she wore around her neck, arms, and ankles, all practically glowing against brown skin with undertones of silver. She toweled herself off, removing any trace of cola before it became a tacky mess, and once she was naked and dry she dropped her clothing and let her hands do the work directly. The amulet hit her hard, and she bent forward and leaned one arm against the wall as she rubbed her clit, pleasuring herself and giving Brandon a powerful distraction.

But he had a job, and he did it. The whole plan would be worthless if he didn’t at least see the schedule. So he ignored the young, nubile woman moaning a few feet away and focused on the computer, giving it the majority (or, a plurality) of his attention until he summoned a calendar to the screen. He reviewed it quickly: out of the country, visiting family, emergency on-call, perfect! It was everything he’d hoped with all the times, dates, places, and potential victims he could ask for. He took the paper and pen out of his pocket and laid them next to the keyboard, and then the rest of his uniform went too. Now he knew he could get what he needed, and he had time to take what he wanted.

He stood behind Gypsy and pulled her ass against his cock—or, his upper thighs, really. She stood shorter than he did, and bent as she was she’d have to get on tip-toe to line herself up. But his dick did nestle nicely atop her slim cheeks, and she bounced her rear to massage him while he explored her further. A wealth of black hair blocked most of his view, leaving his hands to appreciate her sides with wiggling fingers and hard gropes. Her front still held some of the cold from her earlier spill, and he helped warm her by cupping her breasts and kneading them until she trembled with pleasure. Her hard nipples resisted his pinches but she panted all the same, sliding her body against his grip without acknowledging his presence. Between a mild case of the shivers and her own near-hyperventilation she didn’t have much air for speaking, but she did her best, letting out a stray “oh!” or “yeah!” when her body jerked.

She bit her lip and pushed against the wall, and the purple light appeared again. Brandon almost noticed it too late, when she was halfway through the wall, and he grabbed her elbow and pulled her back before a naked, masturbating superhero tumbled into the hallway. Her body fell against his, with a layer of long hair between them, and he peered over her shoulder as she reached the last stages of her self-pleasure session. She bounced on her toes, rubbing her ass against his dick and sending her apple-sized breasts quivering in his hands, and her head leaned back while her fingers took her the rest of the way. With her mouth inches from his ear he plainly heard a breathy “so good so good so gooooood!”, and her body went rigid for several seconds before she relaxed with a dreamy smile.

It was a nice show, but Brandon had his own needs to consider. Pushing her against the wall clearly wasn’t smart, so he turned Gypsy around and propped her against a low computer terminal. She jumped when her ass hit the cold metal, trying and failing to get away from the temperature shock. After a moment she realized she wasn’t able to get away and the amulet did its magic, convincing her to hop up on the terminal as though it was her idea. Losing sight of her svelte ass was a shame, but now her entire front was laid out for him, and more importantly he could reach the spot he wanted most. He shoved her hand away from her crotch and spread her legs, trying to position her so she didn’t accidentally sit on an alarm button or something. She supported herself with similarly careful hand placement, and her hands stopped reaching for her pussy when Brandon rubbed the underside of his shaft against it. In a few strokes he’d gotten himself slick from her honey, and he dipped low and stood upright as he pushed inside.

“Big!” was her perfunctory vocal response, though her wide eyes and arched back stoked his ego further. She stared at the ceiling and clung to the computer, letting her body move on its own until he had fully embedded himself. Unlike her skin her pussy was as hot as he’d come to expect, already wet and sensitive from the amulet’s effects, and with just a few strokes he had it squeezing him in an iron grip. He didn’t touch her otherwise, letting his dick do all the work, taking her to the brink with the minimum possible effort. As he fucked the oblivious superhero, her eyes stayed on the ceiling, never passing in his general direction. He wondered what she thought, if she even thought at all, about how she was in the midst of sex with no partner, or masturbation with no fingers. He got an answer when she lifted her legs, linked her ankles behind his back, and rolled her hips with his thrusts: she didn’t care, not with a second orgasm well on its way.

He clapped his hands around the sides of her ass, kneading what little fat she had and steering her in the direction he wanted. Her arms spread over the backs of the computer screens, exposing her perky tits and the brown nipples atop them. Brandon fucked her with hard, quick thrusts, lifting her small body off the table with every movement and waiting until her breasts came to a stop before giving her the next. Her pants rose, louder than the sound of fluorescent lights or buzzing fans, though few words came out clear enough to hear: “Yes!” as he dug his nails into her rear; “More!” as he slammed his cock as deep as she could take it; “Almost!” as her eyes shut and her stomach twitched. He bit his lip, holding off his own release until she perched on the edge of hers, and when her body tightened he shoved deep and gave the hero her first—and, if he was lucky, only—secret insemination.

Brandon pulled out and wiped his dick clean on the insides of Gypsy’s thighs. While she recovered, he returned to the terminal and skimmed through the upcoming events. Holiday out of state? No good. Public speaking? Useless, unless he found an engagement where men were barred from entering. Talk show appearance? Not if it was going to be broadcast nationwide. But a few options stood out to him, scattered across a week or two, with varying levels of public impact. If he did it right, it would certainly be enough to show the Justice League was still under attack without Luthor’s involvement, all while giving him several fun ways to spread his seed through the world’s greatest heroes. It even gave him some downtime between bouts so he could enjoy his powers on his own terms. He jotted down dozens of names, times, locations, everything he needed to create his own itinerary.

He closed the calendar and returned the terminal to the state he had found it, and as he dressed he wondered what else he could do with such sensitive information. Could he create events, putting the League right where he wanted them? Could he make himself a keycard so he didn’t have to steal anybody else’s? Could he access camera feeds and get naughty pictures or videos of his favorite heroes, either while they were blithely masturbating or after he’d fucked them and they went about their business heedless of their nudity and ticking biological clock? Or if he could see their medical records, he might have some measure of his success. If he knew a heroine was already pregnant he could focus his time elsewhere, Luthor would know he’d been effective, and they would have a bit of secret information to damage the League’s reputation further. Food for thought.

Gypsy stuck two fingers in her pussy, plugging his leaking cum and shoving it deeper, and Brandon opted to hedge his bets. Now was not the time for a risky second creampie, not with his job waiting. He was playing it smart now, and he had took much to look forward to. He tapped the control panel next to the door, opening it from the unlocked inside, and left the naked hero to slowly realize she’d been jilling herself crazy after spilling a soda. Maybe her brain would normalize it as a new fetish for temperature play. He’d have to check on her later, after he’d finished the evil plan now shoved into his uniform pocket.

Obviously, not every member of the Justice League was a quick teleport away at every convenient time. Brandon’s work schedule conflicted with most of his opportunities to stalk a heroine—or, rather, his non-work schedule did. Limited as he was to the Gotham subways and buses, he had to rely on his victims to graciously provide transportation to their rapist.

For example, Zatanna was planning on a magic show at a woman’s club in Star City. It seemed perfect: public, yet no men were allowed, and he could do whatever he wanted to her live on stage. Except Star City was three thousand miles from Gotham, so he needed a ride. He couldn’t use the Justice League teleporters, because it would be too easy for a man to check the records and find an unauthorized use. Thus he had to get a ride with Zatanna herself, either through her magic—he assumed—or her personal teleporter. But the event ended after his shift at work ended, and if he missed check-in, people would come looking for him. The magic show was out due to a simple procedural hurdle.

Most of the events on his list fell away to similar restrictions. Batgirl’s sorority trip? Went overnight. Wonder Woman promoting a women’s health charity? Happened on a Tuesday, a day Brandon had off due to his rotating shifts. Supergirl guarding Cheetah’s prison transfer? Took most of the day, and he couldn’t be gone so long. If Luthor had provided some transportation, he’d be jetting all over the world, probably laying women in their own beds. But he was just some guy with a bus pass and a few magical amulets, and he had to make do with what he had.

After a few hours of bargaining with himself and accepting his own constraints, he found five events he could use, one for each amulet. Scattering all the amulets would take the better part of two weeks, and he prayed Luthor would understand the delay. As long as he didn’t jump the gun or overstep his bounds, they would both become very happy men.

And then he was almost late to his first appointment, because the Watchtower was large and the layout was confusing and he’d never actually been to the hastily-built women-only teleporter room and it took longer than expected to buff the floors in the male dorms. Even the best-laid plans can fall apart when faced with the logistics of maintenance work.

He made it there with moments to spare, panting and half-jogging into the converted storage room. Doctor Light tapped away at the control terminal, and he let his eyes roam her body. He remembered how the brilliant scientist looked under her uniform, at least from behind, when her flat ass slapped against his hips and her back arched with unknown pleasure. Now the black bodysuit mocked him, especially the white star on her chest pointing toward her nipples and her crotch, areas he intended to savor in more detail once he had a chance. He could simply stand there and let the amulet around his neck do all the work, forcing her to find whatever hidden catches her uniform had and unfasten them, bearing her body for his thorough inspection. But Luthor didn’t want him to maintain the course. He wanted an escalation, and the second amulet in Brandon’s hand was the method. He set aside his dreams of Doctor Light’s thin body and refocused his attention on the woman of the day.

In a way, Vixen reminded him of Catwoman. It was something about the way she moved, the confidence she exuded with every twitch. But while Catwoman seemed to encourage the male gaze, Vixen simply ignored it, or perhaps she acknowledged it and treated it as an occupational hazard. She didn’t bend at the waist or purr when she spoke. She just always stood like she knew a camera was on her, ready and willing for an adoring public.

This was, he realized, partially due to her civilian career. Vixen was a model, if her schedule was any indication. Most of her times off were simply labeled “[Name of Company] Photoshoot”, and he doubted a woman who looked and acted like her would be behind the camera. Even ogling her with this knowledge, Brandon couldn’t recognize her, so he assumed she did work in some field he didn’t follow. Admittedly, this really only excluded porn stars and porn-adjacent fields like swimsuit modeling. Vixen could have been a glamour model, or a model for the stock photos businesses used in training pamphlets, or heck, even a hand model. He didn’t care too much. He had no desire to explore the secret lives of the Justice League. For him, there wasn’t any value in knowing Vixen was really Janice Smith of Las Vegas, or whatever. He wanted to fuck her because she was a superhero. Following her to her day job wasn’t a way to mine personal information; it was a way to rape her in the public forum Luthor requested.

The second amulet dug into his gloved palm until he noticed he was clenching his fist. This was the moment of truth. Today, Vixen was going to a shoot for Pink Collar, a fashion and style magazine targeted at and staffed entirely by women (if his online searching was correct, because he’d certainly never heard of it). He could follow her there, hide somewhere on set, sneak the amulet into the shoot somewhere, and escape back with her once she finished with work. With women around he’d be completely undetected, free to do anything he wanted to Vixen and anybody else who caught his eye. The issue was appearing on camera; he wasn’t sure if he’d have to destroy physical film, or delete video, or steal a digital camera’s memory card, but he’d definitely need to perform some subterfuge when it was all said and done. He did intend to leave some pictures of Vixen wearing the amulet, though, as he planned to leave the jewelry itself on the set. Luthor’s freedom relied on public awareness of the amulets’ return, and Brandon would do him proud.

Commuting to work every day had helped Brandon develop a tolerance for the teleporter’s stomach-churning methods, but he still staggered after he followed Vixen to some unknown hallway in an office building. While he rested against the wall and regathered his thoughts and breakfast, Vixen clasped her had around her own, non-mind-controlling amulet. Her shiny orange uniform shimmered into nothingness, and he squinted to catch any glimpse of the dark skin underneath, but a boring cream-colored suit quickly made her decent. She adjusted her jacket around her shoulder and sauntered off, ignorant of her stowaway. Brandon followed her well-rounded ass around the corner and through a solid wooden door into a textbook photo studio. Though boring concrete floors and plain walls formed the space, the studio itself contained myriad fabric backdrops handing from metal supports, dozens of plastic cubes and balls and other objects in bold colors, and a handful of lights brighter than the Gotham sun on the brightest day in spring. It felt like stepping into a fantasy land, or six of them all fighting for dominance, and if any man had been there to see him, his stunned gawking would have given away his presence in an instant.

But there wasn’t a man in sight. Seven or eight woman ran around, working with cameras or setting up wires or tending to piles of brushes. One in particular, a middle-aged woman who’d clearly been through several rounds of plastic surgery and survived most of them, greeted Vixen with wide arms and the faux double-cheek kiss Brandon thought they only did in movies. “Mari, darling, and not a second to spare! Don’t make me worry like that!”

Vixen smiled, and he believed it. “Sorry. You know New York traffic.”

“Enough friendly chit-chat! Revson wants prelim shots posted online within an hour.”

“An hour?! That’s barely enough time for makeup.”

“Then we’d better get you moving!” She ushered Vixen away, and Brandon shrank into a corner. They were distributing photos so quickly? That was a problem for his secrecy…and, he realized with a grin, a golden opportunity he’d be an idiot to waste.

While Vixen prepared for her shoot, Brandon moved about the studio setting up everything he needed. Memory cards emptied, cameras went missing, and computers unplugged themselves, all at his hands. The women scurried around him, jostling him back and forth as they tried to mitigate the effects of their unseen poltergeist and return the shoot to some semblance of order. Despite their numbers advantage, he could start more fires than they could put out, and he quickly whittled them down to a situation he could manage.

For most of his sabotage he kept his clothes on, in case doing so limited the effects of the amulet. Either it helped or the women were too busy to act on it, and he made it through most of his prep work without anybody doing so much as adjusting their sleeves. He made his move when he saw Vixen in makeup, getting what he assumed were the final touches of her gold, glittery look. He shed his uniform except for his gloves, a necessary precaution against the fingerprints he planned to put on every electronic device within his reach. The other women became more sexual in an instant, discarding shoes and blouses as though they had been waiting for permission. For the finishing touch he brought the spare amulet over to Vixen and laid it on her shoulders, locking her into place as his intended target, then stood back to watch the festivities.

Honestly, she didn’t need much help to get mostly naked, and if her outfit was any indication he would have been happy with the shoot even without magical intervention. It was equal parts sexy and ridiculous, a ratio he expected of any fashion. A baggy, knee-length jacket in neon yellow was the sole piece she wore up top, and it hung open to bare even more chest than her heroine clothing. Her breasts jiggled underneath with every step, held in place by tape for the time being. The waist of her jeans barely covered her navel, and dark blue denim wrapped her hips like a glove, almost too tight for him to get a finger in. He did regret not being able to fuck her in her trademark orange catsuit, but given how quickly women tended to disrobe around him, it almost didn’t matter. Vixen already unfastened her jeans and lowered the zipper enough to show the edges of a tiny thong, and behind her the makeup artist wriggled out of her own dress, so it was time to start whether or not he was ready.

He warmed up by roaming the room and copping feels of the camerawoman, the computer lady, anybody he wanted. Ignorant of the weapon against her sternum, Vixen took direction and leaned against a series of plastic shapes, casually flirting with the camera in a variety of poses. While Brandon rubbed his cock against the makeup girl’s bare ass, Vixen opened her jeans wider and wider, and the director said nothing when her jacket slipped over her shoulders and down her arms. The tape gave way and she stood topless, allowing picture after picture of her half-naked with the amulet prominently in the center of the frame. Flecks of gold sparkled around her eyes, cheeks, lips, and chest, a bit of glitter makeup in the light unimpeded by clothing. The camera clicked as her pants dropped, and she modeled a black thong for several moments until she pulled it off and flung it to the side.

Brandon moaned and pushed the makeup girl to her knees, forcing her to lick his cock while he watched the show. Vixen’s clothing normally left nothing secret, but seeing her truly naked was something else. He’d put her in the top tier of Justice League women, an hourglass aslightly heavier on the bottom than on top. Small nipples in dark areolae pointed upward from teardrop-shaped breasts, and her slender torso let them command attention whenever they rose with a breath or shook from a change in position. Her ass cheeks looked perfectly squeezable, thick enough to grab hold of and tight enough to keep their form no matter how she stretched her fit, hairless legs. She showed off every bit of them, following the increasingly-sexual commands from the director who groped her own breasts with each order, and nobody in the room seemed to notice or mind that the fashion shoot had changed into a softcore nude spread in a matter of minutes.

Vixen turned every order into a part of her sexually-charged performance. When she leaned over a prop, she stretched one arm out of the way so the camera could see her breasts quivering with every breath. When she sat on the floor, she spread her legs and opened her pussy with one hand. When she turned around, she curved her spine and pushed her ass farther out. She touched herself when she wasn’t in the middle of a pose and maintained her debonair, standoffish expression, ever the professional despite the strings of stickiness between her fingers or the tongue constantly rolling around her lips. It took a few minutes for her to break, longer than most of his victims, and when she finally threw back her head, screamed “I’m gonna cum!”, and fell to her knees, the camera never stopped clicking.

The makeup girl trembled with her own self-induced orgasm, and Brandon shoved her away before he wasted his seed on her face. She’d gotten him ready, seconds from blowing his load, and the ever-advancing clock warned him about his first deadline approaching in a few short minutes. He strolled in front of the photo backdrop and lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the burning lights. Nobody said a word about the naked man interrupting what should have been a portfolio of modern streetwear, nor about him grabbing the star model’s hips and pulling her into position. He stood her up and bent her at the waist, putting her face right in front of the camera, and everybody assumed it was part of the shoot, even the director. The photographer put Vixen into focus, conveniently blurring Brandon’s face and body, and snapped away as he jacked himself to the point of no return. Just before he finished he nuzzled his head into Vixen’s cunt, and he came on the first thrust, inseminating the oblivious superheroine while a collection of nameless women documented every second of her new orgasm.

“Wonderful, darling!” the director yelled, and Brandon didn’t know if she meant the compliment for Vixen or for the lighting technician with her mouth attached to the older woman’s pussy. “I’m so close! …to the deadline. Come on, sell the outfit! Seduce the camera! Show them how goddamned fucking sexy you are in the newest Revlon line!”

Vixen stood upright and rested one hand on her waist, revealing every bit of her naked body except a small area of her chest covered by the amulet. She pulled away from Brandon’s cock, letting it slip out of her wet, sperm-soaked hole, and posed with an erection still wedged between her thighs. He stood back and simply waited, letting the magic do its thing, and Vixen didn’t last fifteen seconds before she rolled her hips and ground her pussy lips against the top of his dick. “God, that’s good,” she half-muttered, half-proclaimed, writhing in a lap dance already gone too far. She ran a finger over her face and tugged at her lips, she lifted her breasts with the back of her arm, and she laid her hands on either side of her waist in positions that happened to point toward her recently-used slit. Each pose exhibited her nudity whether she knew it or not, and still the camera snapped, documenting dozens if not hundreds of scandalous photos.

Brandon checked the clock once more and saw the seconds ticking away, leaving time for one more diversion before he had to stop and secure Vixen’s humiliation. He stooped just enough to get his dick lined up at her pussy again, standing upright and burrowing back inside. Vixen lifted herself onto her toes and reached over her shoulders, grabbing his head and neck for stability. While she moaned, joining the din of arousal throughout the studio, he pumped away from behind. His crotch slapped against her bubbly ass, but he refrained from giving it a squeeze or fondling her bouncing, upturned breasts or lifting one of her legs into an athletic split. He had to avoid being on camera, which meant hiding as much of his body as possible behind hers, revealing only a fat cock slamming into her tight pussy from a mysterious source.

She took all the attention he avoided; even if he hadn’t used an amulet to become invisible, her sheer presence would have put all eyes on her, an erotic one-woman spectacle for the voyeuristic pleasure of millions. Her face stretched into expression after expression, each betraying the lust coursing through her veins: brow furrowed and lips clasped between teeth; mouth wide in a breathy scream; eyes rolled back and tongue out in mind-breaking bliss. Her body moved little and she let him fuck her with total abandon, controlling her every jiggle and gasp. With less than two minutes to go she went into overdrive, squeezing his dick between the walls of her pussy and spinning one fingertip around her clit. “Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God!” she panted, and when their orgasms took over, Brandon shoved deep and loosed his first shot right against her womb. He pulled out for the second, spraying on her ass, and barely forced her to her knees so the third and all subsequent ropes could land on her lust-torn face. The camerawoman zoomed forward, taking closeups of the bright white cum against her brown skin, including a few pictures of her tongue licking her lips clean that he wished he could frame and hang on his bedroom wall.

“Time’s up!” the director shouted, pulling her hips away from the honey-drenched jaw of her lighting technician. “Upload, now, go go go!”

Every woman in the room (except the makeup girl and another woman Brandon didn’t recognize, who were lying behind the backdrop with their faces in each other’s crotches) rushed to the computer, and by the time Brandon pushed his way through the crowd the screen already showed hundreds of pictures of Vixen’s civilian identity throughout every stage of her semi-public rape. The director pointed at a few and the camerawoman dragged them to another folder, likely for upload. After the first four or five pictures he took over, putting his hand on the camerawoman’s and moving the shots he liked best regardless of the director’s instructions. Nobody said a word as he uploaded pictures of Vixen getting naked with the amulet prominently displayed between her breasts, and masturbating as she draped herself over props, and posing like a porn star, and getting fucked from behind by a strange man, and cumming as he covered her face with an impossibly thick load of sperm. He dutifully avoided photos with any part of his face, hands (still wearing with Watchtower-approved gloves), or anything besides his dick, and he submitted most of the pictures when he entered her for the first time. He hoped he could be there when she did the math and realized the moment she got knocked up was likely about to be saved on tens of millions of hard drives around the world. Because she was still in her civilian identity it might not embarrass the Justice League as a whole, but the tangible effects of the reappearing amulet would be good enough.

Once the pictures were sent, flying off to some fashion website where they would cause an international stir in a matter of minutes, he surveyed the studio. Vixen still wore his semen all over her face and the insides of her thighs, and a half-dozen other naked women longed for his cock even if they didn’t yet know it. He checked the clock again and did some math. He really should get back…but he could probably leave any time he wanted by shoving Vixen out of the room, and the amulet would make her think leaving was her decision. Technically he didn’t have to be at work right away, and Miss Graves did say he could use any woman he wanted, and he wouldn’t mind watching Vixen smear his cum all over the inside of another woman’s cunt while he fertilized a few more directly…

Yeah, he could linger a few minutes more. At least until the director’s phone started ringing and people asked her what the hell she’d posted online.

The media had an absolute fit trying to understand the pictures. Talking heads debated whether they were accidental leaks of a private joke gone too far, or a satirical reclamation of feminine power in light of recent events, or a valid reappearance of the world’s best-known magic jewelry. Brandon watched as much of the news as he could, awarding points in his head to anybody who came the closest to the truth. None associated the costumed heroine Vixen with the fashion mode Mari McCabe (who became a household name overnight, like other gorgeous women with public proof of sexual escapades), but the general damage mattered more than the personal. The Justice League said they had ended the threat of the amulets and had all the perpetrators in custody, and then a new amulet appeared out of nowhere, except maybe it wasn’t new and maybe they’d gone missing from the GCPD’s evidence locker, or maybe there were dozens of others in the wild. Only a select few knew for sure. But the League was on their back foot, doing public relations damage control while privately dealing with another violation of one of their own.

The Watchtower was tense the next day, but Brandon didn’t intend to hang around and experience it. He had another event to attend, halfway around the world. He’d spied an opportunity, a two-hour break between shifts for one of the League’s newer members coinciding with the end of shift for another, and he was happy to tag along. A little sneaking away here, a little stomach-churning teleportation there, and he stepped out onto the gorgeous seaside vista of Riccione.

“Lovely!” Fire threw out her arms and embraced the chilly Italian night. “Such a wonderful change from the dark space. If I could have all my rest time in a place like this, I would be truthfully happy.”

“Says the woman who lives in a tropical paradise,” deadpanned Ice in an equally thick accent from the other side of the world.

“Rio is no paradise. It is nice! But to be in a place where the sun does not hit so hard, without so many…” she waved her hand in the air, groping for a word.

“Tourists?”

“No. Pigs in the bodies of men.”

“Chauvinists.”

“Yes! Chauvinists,” she repeated with a Portuguese-tinged pronunciation. “To not worry, it is fun sometimes.”

“Unless you worry about female attention.”

The green flame around Fire’s body disappeared in a flash, leaving a buxom woman with long olive-colored hair and an outfit designed for a casual day at the beach. “I never worry about female attention if it comes from the right place.” She brushed the back of her hand against Ice’s and winked, then set off down the streets of the city. Ice’s eyes passed over Fire’s retreating backside, then a layer of ice covered her body and shattered into a fine, cold mist, revealing flimsy clothing in a blue color scheme.

Brandon tried not to be surprised. Every pair of female superheroes (and pair of female villains, and some pairs involving one of each) had rumors about potential lesbian trysts, but some were more popular than others. Supergirl and Batgirl, as the perky teenage sidekicks to top-tier heroes. Batwoman and Catwoman, as a yin-yang relationship between Gotham’s hottest heroes in black spandex. Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy, which he’d recently learned was actually canon. But even higher than those, way at the top of the list, were Fire and Ice. They joined the League around the same time, they went on missions together, their powers and personalities formed an obvious balance, and according to their schedules they aligned their free time as much as possible. He had strong suspicions even before Ice smacked Fire’s sarong-clad ass in retaliation. But then, he thought, he was standing two feet from them wearing a magical sex-inducing trinket. They might not realize what they were doing, and they probably wouldn’t until it was too late.

He followed the duo, sneaking along the quiet streets until they passed a well-equipped female bouncer and entered a building. Even if he hadn’t done some online sleuthing regarding the name of their location, he’d have recognized it as a women-only club on first glance. The large red “no” sign over a male silhouette helped, as did the bouncer who glared at any male-presenting person who approached too closely. But with the power of the amulet he strolled right by her, and on a whim he undid a few more buttons on her shirt. Might as well give everybody else something to look at for a bit.

Though the club’s website boasted all sorts of all-female activities he wouldn’t mind invading—yoga, book clubs, a gym, anything one might find at a Gotham community center—he had two people in mind, and he’d follow wherever they went. He trailed Fire and Ice up far too many stairs to the rooftop, where a small pool waited six stories above the street. They weren’t alone; a few women already swam and lounged, taking advantage of the relative peace and relaxing under the early-evening sky. None piqued his interest more than the Brazilian and Norwegian heroes stripping down to bikinis and slipping into the water. He doffed his uniform, including the gloves, and waded after them with both amulets around his neck. Fingerprints wouldn’t be an issue in the pool, and he wanted to touch every inch of the bodies he was about to ruin.

The heroines did not immediately get into sexy shenanigans like splashing each other while giggling and making out, a staggering disappointment given all the lesbians Brandon had seen in pornography. They drifted and swam, relaxing and interacting with each other incidentally, enjoying a simple break from the hassles of hero duty. Fire’s long hair followed her like a tail, weaving through the water as she maneuvered from one end of the pool to the other, and whenever she burst from the water with a sprinkling of droplets, her assets bounced in a sleek black bikini made more of strings than actual fabric. Ice kept her head above water most of the time—not that dipping beneath significantly changed the broad patch of bright white hair atop it—and lingered near the edge in a white two-piece more suitable for competition swimming than getting a tan. If any men had been allowed on the rooftop, both women would undoubtedly be swarmed by hopefuls looking for a chance to flirt with the heroes in disguise. As it was, Brandon was around to take advantage of their situation, so it fell to him to do the work of six horny men.

He started with Fire, approaching her head-on in plain sight. She didn’t spare him a glance, nor did she twitch when he pushed his hands underneath her bikini top and groped her melon-sized tits. She did stop swimming, unaware that his grip on her chest was the reason she opted to stay still for a moment. They paddled to the edge of the pool together, and when she pulled her upper body over the side, he released her tits and yanked down her bottoms. Her wide ass shook once before it settled into its normal shape, and he felt for her pussy while she leaned half out of the pool, mooning everybody on the rooftop. The chlorinated water hadn’t given her the sort of wetness he liked, so he jammed a finger inside, relishing her soft pants as he worked her over.

The water shifted near him, and Ice leaned out of the pool next to her partner, bent over and presenting her ass in the same fashion. In fact, it was exactly the same fashion; the amulet had started to work, and Ice’s bikini bottoms drifted by while Brandon got an eyeful of two heroic backsides right next to each other. He released the edge and grabbed Ice’s rear for stability, comparing her hard, tight muscles with Fire’s squishy cheeks. But her pussy was just as hot, just as soft, and just as desperate for something deep inside, and in moments he had both heroes gasping with lust, ignorant of the fingers getting them ready.

Ice wriggled her ass at him, already stretching her legs to relieve sexual tension. “Mmmm, that’s nice.”

“Yes, the water here is very good.” Fire’s lips wet each other as she stared at the clear, dark sky. “One nice thing about our occupation, is it? The ability to travel quickly to exotic locations.”

“Far from the stresses, the danger, the—yes, right there—the whole amulet thing.”

“Very much. Though it is nice a little, having our own place in the station? I would not want such a bad reason to have a place for women, but the benefits...”

Ice didn’t answer for a moment while she shimmied, grinding against Brandon’s fingers. “I guess it is fun having a girls’ gym and cafeteria and all. It’s a little more…even, like we’re not always outnumbered by the boys. They’re all good people, but they sure can’t stop themselves from looking.”

“I would not mind if one or two looked a little harder.” Fire giggled, and the laugh changed from a ha-ha-ha to an ah-ah-ah! as Brandon found her clit. “Or perhaps he could do more than look.”

“Beatriz! You don’t want one of our colleagues to take advantage of you, do you?”

“I would like him to speak up and maybe ask me for a date. If he tried to touch me first, I would take care of him, even if he is a hero. Ooooh, yes, touch me, darling!” She clung to the edge with white knuckles, barely keeping her mouth closed through her loud breaths.

“Careful. You’re going to make a girl cum!” Ice bit her lip and smiled. “To conclusions about what kind of people you like.”

“There will always be a place in my heart for my gelo.” Fire clamped her thighs around Brandon’s hand, trapping it against her pussy. “But the place in my hips aches for more.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ice gave Fire a love tap on her rump, and they both shook from their hips to their necks. Before they could finish Brandon yanked himself away, and he watched the bottomless heroes climb out of the pool, dripping with water and arousal. “Just try to find one with a partner or a sidekick so we can go on double-dates. Good luck finding two men who don’t already think we’re lovers.”

Fire shrugged as she took off her skimpy bikini top and dropped it next to a lounge chair. “I will explain our friendship, and if they do not believe me, they are not the correct men. Not all girl friends are girl-friends.”

“Exactly. If your future beau thinks he’s in for a lesbian threesome, he has another thing coming.”

“Very much.” Fire sat down and hung her legs over the sides of the chair, baring her perfectly smooth slit to the open air, and as soon as she had her top off Ice lay in front of her and started eating her pussy.

Brandon rose from the water and shivered in the night air, bouncing to warm himself and relieve some tension. Around him the other pool-goers had fallen under the amulet’s spell, and they had either removing their bathing suits or pulled them aside so they wouldn’t be a problem. One rubbed an ice-cold travel mug against her pussy, two made out in the shallow end while grinding against each other’s thighs, one bit down on the bikini top in her mouth as she moaned through what seemed like her second orgasm, and another twisted her body to fuck herself with the end of the arm of her lounge chair. So far it all seemed quiet enough that nobody on the street below could hear them, but it was only a matter of time before the loud sounds of screaming orgasms traveled a block in every direction. Hopefully it wouldn’t happen until Fire headed back to the Watchtower, leaving Ice behind. If they got held up by press or police, he would definitely be gone too long to stay undetected.

But, he reasoned, he should probably get started in case they decided to head back early. He straddled Fire’s chair, right behind Ice’s upraised ass, and directed his cock into the heroine’s pussy. Ice’s volume increased to match Fire’s, and her warm, wet insides squeezed the strange dick until he caught his breath and started fucking. Her frosty demeanor broke in an instant, and she submitted entirely to the man she didn’t know was raping her. By craning his neck to the side he could see part of her face, so he caught every eye roll and silly grin as he pounded the stoicism right out of her tight, pale body. Unlike most of his victims, she didn’t unconsciously buck back or grind against him. She crouched patiently while he did whatever he wanted, waiting like a good little doll for her inevitable fertilization.

Fire said something. Brandon didn’t know Portuguese, so it could have been filthy sex talk or a poetic sonnet. The way she said it certainly leaned toward the former, especially when she tossed her head so hard it flung her long, wet hair over the side of the chair. The arms of the chair buckled under her strong hands, and her thrusting hips knocked Ice away time and time again. But Ice kept coming back for more, sometimes after a shout in her own language, slathering Fire’s lips with spittle and moans. For a fraction of a second Fire lost control, and her eyes shone with green energy as an orgasm crashed over her. Watching her voluptuous body quake gave Brandon all he needed, and he held Ice’s waist still and filled her womb with her first load of the night.

Ice either came in silence or tired herself out, and when Brandon shoved her aside she collapsed in another chair without complaint. He settled atop Fire and fucked her bare, shoving his semen-covered cock into her smooth pussy. She winced for the first few thrusts as he scraped against her overly-sensitive insides, but in a minute or two he had her sliding her whole body in time with his movements. Her tits, the magnificent pair he had ogled behind her green tube top, bounced freely in wide circles. She reached for her nipples and Brandon pushed her hands away, too intent on the spectacle of her swinging breasts to let her block the view. Instead she sucked on her fingers and ran her nails through her hair, almost pulling herself apart in an attempt to vent her lust. Her pussy hugged him close, daring him to fill her to the brim, and he grabbed the back of the chair to rape her harder.

“God, yes.” Ice sighed, back to fingering herself in the adjacent seat. “You know what we need?”

“I need—“ Fire swallowed and inhaled deep. “I need a dick in my breasts!”

“Yeah, we need a quick rest. Maybe we can take a whole weekend off, you and me. No hero work, no disasters. Just relaxing and eating something good and pounding our fucking pussies until we cum and cum and cum—“ Ice’s body curled in on itself, lifting her knees almost to her chin while her hand flew between her legs. Her screams came in short bursts, almost like cries of pain, though when she fell back her delirious expression was anything but.

“Yes, this sounds good. A place we can be regular people instead of two busy heroes who need more penis, all the way up my kitten, yes, yes, YES!” Fire made enough noise for the both of them, screaming profanities into the night and rolling her hips so hard the chair scraped against the ground under them. Brandon gritted his teeth and stared at her tits, wishing he could feel them on his cock, and a flash of inspiration struck. He pulled out, stood over Fire’s chest, and moved her hands to her breasts. She mashed them together immediately, wrapping them around his dick, and while she lazily bounced them he fucked the fleshy valley until he felt his orgasm start. He came all over her chin and her cleavage, leaving a puddle of spunk on her throat and white streaks everywhere else. Before she could recover he took her hand again, scooped up his semen with her fingers, and lowered it to her pussy. She did the rest, shoving his sperm deep inside her as she masturbated, unknowingly pushing his sperm deeper and deeper toward her defenseless eggs.

While Fire knocked herself up, Brandon lay on Ice’s lounge chair and pulled her on top of him. As far as she knew she was finding a comfortable place to sit, and the most comfortable position happened to settle her cunt cleanly onto his erect dick. She rode him cowgirl-style, braced on the chair arms and sliding her crotch back and forth along his. Though she didn’t boast Fire’s massive rack, she had more than enough to draw his attention, and he seized her tits and rolled her nipples between his fingers while she did most of the work. He could feel his cum already inside her, and with every thrust he imagined more of it squirting past her cervix. Ice tried to keep a straight face, but she kept slipping into expressions of empty-headed pleasure ripped straight from his filthiest porn videos, and within a few minutes he’d given her a new dose of jizz to fill the void below her belly.

Then he switched to Fire again, rolling her onto her side and taking her from behind. She pressed her back against his front, kneading her own breasts and laying her head on the chair amid a wave of olive hair. Her plump rear provided an amazing cushion for his hips and hands, and she didn’t make a sound when he smacked her ass so hard he hoped she found a mark there the next day. Aside from that, she wasn’t quiet. She groaned in both English and Portuguese, screaming “Yes, give me more sex! I want to feel your sex in my center!” and “I will cum! I will cum again!” as much as things he couldn’t understand. Her back arched and her mouth opened wide, and for a moment he pondered locking her into a kiss as he impregnated her. But she grabbed the chair and shrieked, and the rush of power overwhelmed him until he left another potential child inside her hips.

From there he mostly traded back and forth, fucking the duo one after the other. Giving them equal attention was important; he wanted to see both of them pregnant at once, partners united in motherhood as they were in their hero duties. Though he wouldn’t have minded putting some kids in a few of the buxom Italian beauties around the pool, he spent this short time with his primary targets, helping them cum over and over until they were sweaty, exhausted wrecks. Pulling Fire to her feet took much of his remaining energy, and he barely got her out of the women’s club before it was time for her next shift. Ice stayed behind, in keeping with the League’s schedule, and he left her with an amulet around her neck to keep the party going. He had to hurry Fire along so she would make it back to the Watchtower before she noticed anything amiss, like how the only thing she wore as she strutted through the streets of Riccione was a healthy coating of his spunk. Women and men gaped alike at the model’s cumwalk, and Brandon stuck to the shadows, enjoying their shock while staying out of the spotlight.

It was almost a shame when they made it back to the alley and Fire changed into her green, flaming form, as it burned away all the jizz on the outside of her body. But, he thought, it was better this way. If she walked into the League’s headquarters literally wearing his genetic signature, they’d have him dead to rights in a second. They could puzzle it over for a little while longer. By the time they realized they had an invisible, intangible man in their midst, there would be more pregnant women in the Justice League than childless victims, and he salivated at the chance to get his number to one hundred percent.

Chapter Text

Miss Graves stopped by Brandon’s apartment a few days later, and thankfully she did not kill him. She refused to look him in the eye, and she kept her arms folded with a death grip on her sleeves, and she opted to have an entire conversation with him through his apartment doorway while she stood in the hall. He only somewhat understood her reluctance to meet him face-to-face. If they were alone together, he might use the amulet to have sex with her again, forcing her to strip and masturbate and lay herself bare for any number of degrading acts on the way to taking another shot or two at making her a mother. But he could do that no matter where she was, and in fact last week he’d followed her to her car and let her ride him in the driver’s seat. Raping her in the hallway was possible, as was donning the amulet and pushing her into his apartment so she’d think it was her idea. A little distance wouldn’t deter him if he really wanted her, and they both knew it. For her sake he decided to leave her be; he didn’t know how long they’d be working together, and he didn’t want her to think every meeting with him would end in a creampie. Only some of them.

As expected, the topic she wanted to discuss was the same every news channel did: the reappearance of a second amulet, which had turned an Italian women’s club into an hours-long lesbian orgy that others only noticed when it finally spilled out onto the street. Via Miss Graves, Luthor expressed his concern that Brandon was embarrassing the Justice League generally, by showing off other amulets and “proving” Luthor wasn’t involved in their distribution, but not specifically bringing the heroines themselves low in the court of public opinion. That is, he was effective, but not effective enough, and he had to step up his game or face consequences.

Miss Graves’s smug expression faltered when Brandon informed her that the League had been involved, and that both the Revson porn shoot and the orgy in Riccione had occurred because he’d followed a heroine (or two) and had his way with her. Further, he showed her the other ideas he had on his schedule (through a door open the slightest amount), and her slumped shoulders admitted defeat. The first two amulets had been warmups to put the world on guard. The next step was to put the League in the crosshairs, and once he felt Miss Graves’s begrudging, silent acknowledgment, he knew his plan was perfect.

She didn’t say a word about the women he had chosen for the other three amulets, and if she had he probably would have ignored it anyway. He’d had a few options, but he’d chosen these three events specifically because of who they involved: one heroine he regarded as a missed opportunity, one against whom he wanted revenge for a slight she didn’t realize she’d committed, and one who fit into both categories. Miss Graves scowled at the piece of paper and handed it back, still staring at the wall next to him. “These will work. Just don’t screw any of them up. Or do, but—whatever.”

“I won’t,” he assured her through a wide grin. “I’m excited to know you approve. I’m excited about the whole thing, really. Is this what being a supervillain feels like?”

The corner of her lips twitched in a one-frame smile. “I wouldn’t know.”

If Brandon had to pick one problem with traveling via teleportation, it would be the nausea. But if he had to pick a second problem, it would be not knowing where he would end up until he had landed. When he stalked superheroes throughout Gotham or on the Watchtower, he could use his eyes and ears to assess a situation before he joined it. If he spotted something that might blow his cover, like a pizza delivery guy in an apartment hallway or a security camera, he could wait a moment and continue when the coast was clear. With teleportation, not so much. He only saw weird glowing circles, then down was up and up was left and left was something he didn’t have a word for, then he was fully committed to his new location. If that location had a man, whoops! Game over.

Tailing Black Canary for her appearance on Good Morning, Central City! was a calculated risk. Yes, there could have been a male producer backstage who would take issue with the sudden debut of her newest sidekick, Invisible Rapist Janitor. It was a perfectly valid fear, one that had deterred him from several other public appearances. But today was special. According to the schedule, GMCC was having one of its special female-led episodes, where everybody in the studio—from the cast to the audience—was a woman, including “a special guest appearance by one of our greatest female superheros”. Unless this was all just marketing lies, nobody would be around who could catch him. Brandon’s entire plan hinged on the honesty of a local morning show, and it made the difference between another flawless display of public debauchery and being body-checked into nothingness by an absurd amount of burly security goons.

To his great pleasure, he exited the teleportation tunnel to a room with no men in sight. It didn’t hurt that he also bumped crotch-first into Black Canary’s plush backside, but most importantly nobody had seen him do it. Plenty of potential witnesses existed, and had he been amulet-free, a couple dozen women would have had some very strong opinions about him. As it was, they all shared a moment of confusion, then casually went about the intensive process of preparing for a superhero’s appearance on a show with national syndication opportunities.

“Miss Canary?” A twenty-something woman with a clipboard and a messy bun brushed herself off and extended her hand. “Thank you for coming today.”

“My pleasure,” Black Canary accepted a perfunctory handshake. “Always happy to visit our sister city for a reason other than a full-scale alien invasion.”

“Haha, yeah.” The woman fingered her pen for a moment too long. “Um, anyway, we’re already on air, so we’ll be ready for your interview, which is…oh God, ten minutes. Okay, quick, dressing room this way.”

Black Canary took off her jacket and tossed it over her shoulder. “I don’t think I need a dressing room.”

“You’re the surprise guest. The audience can’t see you yet.” The woman—a producer, Brandon guessed—unbuttoned her blouse. “We don’t want anybody outside the crew to see anything until the big reveal.”

“Alright. Lead the way.” She tugged the zipper down the back of her body suit, trying to disrobe while Brandon trailed behind. The process of walking made it difficult to strip fully, and by the time she reached the dressing room she was merely topless, with her bodysuit rolled down to her waist and her strapless bra in Brandon’s hand. Funny, he’d always assumed she was braless underneath her outfit. Wonder Woman had been. Maybe it was an Amazon thing. The producer ushered her in and tried to run off, leaving Brandon barely enough time to hurriedly re-button the woman’s shirt and pants. He liked the view, but he couldn’t have a half-naked woman racing around the studio without him and the amulet to ward off any dismay. Alas, he had to let her go, fully clothed, and focus himself only on one woman lusted after by men the world over. Truly his was a morbid lot.

…he had to stop watching Shakespeare on Gotham Public Television.

Stuck in a room with an amulet and only a television with a camera feed of the morning show for company, Black Canary wasted little time shimmying out of her bodysuit and boots. She bent at the waist, regarding the few magazines on the coffee table while she tucked her thumbs into her fishnet stockings and wriggled them down her toned legs along with her panties. While she swung her shapely hips at nothing in particular, Brandon shed his own clothes and stroked himself to his fullest, hardest state. Watching her grind her thighs together reminded him of their first encounter, in the showers of the Watchtower’s gym, where she gave him the shuddering experience that (probably) almost killed him, courtesy of her superpowered voice. With her taut butt ripe and defenseless within his reach, he couldn’t help but try for a little payback. Before he took his rightful place deep inside her, he extended his arm and delivered a loud, sharp slap across her cheeks.

Her hair flew in a cascade of blonde as her head snapped back, but the erotic gasp she gave him was anything but angry. He chuckled, groping her ass while she leaned into his grip. He hadn’t figured her for a masochist, and maybe she wasn’t. Maybe it was just the amulet doing its thing, transforming every woman in sight into a perfect plaything for his darkest fantasies. Brandon preferred the former. In his mind, Black Canary loved being spanked, magical jewelry or not, and he would have loved to give her everything she deserved for involuntarily using her Canary Cry on his cock.

But he was on a schedule, and that schedule meant she had to be inseminated before she was called out to the studio. Unlike last time, he took some precautions. He sat on the half-couch in the dressing room and tugged Black Canary with him, sitting her down in his lap with her face pointed away from his body. His dick pressed between her thighs, nestled against her trimmed pussy in a hug that made them both sigh with pleasure. Unaware as she was of his presence, she didn’t even realize her rolling hips threated to envelop him entirely, and rather than wait for her to settle onto his cock he took the initiative to push his head between her lips. One little flick against her bud was all it took to drive her mad with lust, and when he grabbed her waist and pushed into her unprotected pussy, she sucked him in without a moment’s hesitation.

He checked the clock on the wall. Seven minutes left, according to the producer’s timetable. Not enough time to relax and savor his latest conquest, but plenty of leeway to have a little bit of fun. He pushed her hair out of his face and grabbed her tits from behind, squeezing them like overripe fruit. There was no need to be gentle or delicate with her; she was a superhero, far tougher than the average woman, and the amulet translated every hint of pain or discomfort into mindless pleasure. Black Canary didn’t realize she was moaning like an escort or grinding in a strange man’s lap. Thanks to inscrutable magic, she simply thought she was alone in a dressing room, and riding the nearest dick was just a natural consequence.

And riding she could do! Brandon guessed she liked being on top, because she rolled her hips like she was born to do it, milking his cock for every drop of baby batter. Without his prompting she tucked her legs under her, the better to bounce along his full length in a delectable reverse-cowgirl. She rose and fell with a musician’s perfect rhythm, climbing until only his head remained inside her then dropping so fast her ass rippled from the impact. To his relief, she was a quieter lover, still moaning and cooing like the others but all under her breath. Her soft whispers and the subtle motions of her shoulders spoke to a sultry, personal lover, not the sort of woman who wanted all the neighbors to know she was getting fucked into next week. As a change, he kind of liked it, not least because he didn’t want an orgasmic yell to blow his cover when he blew his load.

He checked again. Three minutes and change. He had to pick up the pace. He pumped his hips and squeezed her breasts so hard he could feel her warmth through his gloves, and she replied by picking up the pace on his dick. The first load of the day brewed inside him, waiting for any reason to surge into a fertile woman, and with every movement she unknowingly brought herself closer to being his latest vessel. She felt every bit of it along with him, whispering tiny little “oh, fuck”s and “harder, baby”s and “I’m so close”s barely louder than the insipid talk-show feed whenever she wasn’t licking her lips or panting aloud. Her pussy spasmed around him, and he gritted his teeth, trying to hold himself back until he felt her orgasm start. When she bent forward and began to shake from head to knee, he finally let go, pumping his sperm far enough for it to get sucked into her thirsty womb. She milked him for all he was worth, taking every drop of spunk, and when he pushed her back to her shaky feet, not even a trickle of evidence leaked from her soaked pussy lips.

A knock sounded. “Miss Canary? You’re on.”

Brandon yanked Black Canary back onto the couch next to him, and she responded with a confused “Just a minute, I…stood up too fast?” While she gathered her thoughts, he rifled through his discarded clothes, finding his second amulet just as the cute producer entered. This time there wasn’t even an instant of adjustment; the producer simply regarded a nude, slightly-disheveled superhero like it was an everyday occurrence. Or, he guessed, a nude, slightly-disheveled generic woman. As he’d observed, without her outfit Black Canary was just some random blonde—leggy, well-toned, perky, but not obviously hero material. He draped the amulet over Black Canary’s shoulders, and after a moment’s thought he guided her into her trademark jacket. Now she looked a little more like herself, and the one piece of clothing only highlighted the rest of her nudity. With grace belying her flagrant exhibitionism, she smiled at the producer and strode away, toward the set where she would be broadcast live to a national audience.

But, Brandon mused, it would be some time before the fallout started. If everybody backstage and in the studio was female—and he had no reason to doubt they would be—absolutely nobody who noticed Black Canary’s lack of dress was in a position to do anything about it. It wouldn’t be until the external media realized what was happening, or the viewers at home started calling in, that a male would arrive to break the amulet’s spell. Until that time, Black Canary would be part of a perfectly normal morning talk show segment, helping the amulet work its spell over dozens—if not hundreds—of helpless women. Further, she was his ride home. He couldn’t get back to the Watchtower until either somebody took the amulet off her and she fled in humiliation or she finished the interview and took the teleporter per her schedule. For the time being, he was stuck backstage, too wary to go onto the set proper in case a stray man still hung around. And as long as he was here, he might as well enjoy it.

He closed the door before the producer could leave, and she stared at it quizzically before turning to the television set as though watching from the dressing room had always been her plan. She resumed the stripping he had rudely, if pragmatically, interrupted before, and he got a chance to appreciate her body while they waited for the morning show hostess to introduce their special guest. She wasn’t spectacular, not compared to his usual fare, but it wasn’t proper to compare a normal civilian with the superheroes and superhero-adjacent women he targeted. (Heck, his previous three conquests were superhero models.) The producer was still plenty attractive: cute face with round glasses, silky chestnut hair in a messy bun, smallish breasts with a hint of cleavage courtesy of a simple nude bra, just a hint of flare to her hips, and…an engagement ring? Interesting. She watched the screen with rapt attention while her clothing fell piece by piece to the carpet, revealing everything she had to offer. Her death grip remained on her clipboard until Brandon tugged it out of her hands, and her eyes turned to television even as he pushed her to her knees and nudged his cock into her mouth for a cleanup blowjob.

Her moan almost drowned out the camera feed, and Brandon felt a swell of domineering pride until he noticed her hand against her crotch. He shrugged and let her work, licking and suckling him with tender care, while the talk show hostess stood in the front of the studio. “Our next guest is who you’d all been waiting for. What can I say about her? Superhero, icon, role model, and a first-ballot member of the expanded Justice League, put your hands together for Black Canary!”

The applause faltered for an instant when Black Canary walked out, clad only in a denim jacket and a black choker with a bronze amulet atop her bare breasts. A few gasps sounded, and the hostess took a step back, and then the cheering began again to accompany her walk of shame. The hostess took Black Canary’s hand and pumped it once with a heartfelt smile, then each woman took her respective place behind her desk and in the plush armchair next to it. Black Canary crossed her legs and put her hands in her lap, then immediately uncrossed them so she could rub two fingers against her clit.

“It. Is. Wonderful to have you here.” The hostess reached behind her back, fumbling for the zipper on her conservative, sleeveless dress.

“It’s wonderful to be here,” Black Canary replied, licking her lips.

“Canary—can I call you Canary?”

“Only if I can call you Susan.”

“Amazing! We’re best friends already.” The hostess—Susan, he guessed; he didn’t know Central City television personalities—shuffled the top of her dress down her arms and torso, revealing an overworked push-up bra. “Thank you for coming. You know, you were our first choice?”

“Oh, stop. Oh God don’t stop.”

“It’s true! No shade to Wonder Woman—“ she turned to the camera, “Seriously, don’t toss my car or something.” The audience laughed, and Susan took the time to lift her hips and finish removing her dress. “But Central City doesn’t have a female superhero, so—“

“Yet.”

The audience cheered, and Brandon thought he heard a moan or two. “Yet! That’s right! But Star City, our sister city, well that’s just as good right? Sister city, superheroine, Wake With Women episode, it all clicked, you know?”

“Fine, fine, I believe you.” Canary spread her knees a little wider, and Brandon knew the amulet was working on the crew because the camera didn’t zoom in for a tight closeup on her recently-inseminated pussy.

“So I understand you and some of your fellow Leaguers have been working on a little…” Susan half-stood and pulled her pantyhose along her legs until they were just a soft black mass between two maroon pumps. “Initiative. Why don’t you tell us about it?”

Canary’s toes curled for a moment. “Mmmm, yes. It’s called the Be Your Own Hero program. It’s a way to help kids—and adults—recognize needs in their community and find ways to make a difference. Accessing resources, petitioning local figures, getting businesses involved, and assisting with all those steps that turn an impossible problem into something approachable.”

“That’s incredible.” Susan tossed her bottle-blonde hair over one shoulder and propped up her legs on her desk, spread wide as she leaned back in her chair. For a civilian, she didn’t look bad either, though she had a totally different form of beauty than the slender producer currently licking Brandon’s balls (which, he noted, she did without any prompting from him). Susan was definitely the product of intentional, dedicated effort: her breasts were a little too firm to be natural, her makeup focused a little too hard on hiding wrinkles, her dress—when she had one—slimmed her profile a little more than necessary. Still, for an older woman, she was a stunner, and he’d gladly have used her as a side attraction if he hadn’t been understandably terrified of appearing on live television. As it was, she’d have to take care of herself, which she did with enough gusto to make up for Canary’s relatively low-key performance. All she had to do was slide a single finger along her lips, and her voice dropped into a husky “yeah, baby, that’s where I want it.”

“Exactly. The most effective change always comes from home. People know what’s going on around them.” Canary cupped her own breast and ran a thumb over her nipple, ignoring Susan practically humping the air four feet away. “Why not enable them to fight injustice where they see it?”

Susan jammed two fingers into her snatch, and in moments the microphones filled with the sounds of her wet, sloppy masturbation. “Fuck, yes, that’s so good! Harder, harder!”

“It can be hard, yes. Which is why we’re working with programs and charities in cities all around the country to get the right information to the right people.”

“God, I want go to deeper! Deeper! Into how this program works—yeah, work that clit. Can you tell our viewers where to go to get a thick cock up my hungry pussy?!”

Canary trembled and sank into the couch, and after a second’s rest she readjusted and started on a new orgasm. “We’ve set up a hotline you can call for more information.”

Brandon withdrew from the producer’s mouth and guided her to her hands and knees, still facing the television. She got a few seconds to review her clipboard while he lined himself up, but when he thrust into her she forgot to read and put her energy into rocking back against him. He grinned—this was a woman who knew how to treat a man, and he pumped against her while he watched the scene in the studio unfold. Black Canary and Susan were a stellar dichotomy; one casually pleasured herself with grace and poise, rarely faltering in the conversation, while the other brutalized herself like a porn star, performing the interview as an afterthought to masturbation so loud and filthy Brandon would have assumed she was faking it if he didn’t know that was literally impossible. It was like a fine, vintage wine next to a tower of tequila shots: neither was bad, but they did totally different things. And the producer was…a margarita? The analogy broke down.

He forgot to watch the screen for a moment, too busy enjoying the producer’s tightness and her adorable moans of admiration. He assumed the interview and glad-handing continued while he raped a nameless woman he’d just met and would never see again, and he only remembered the show at all when a different voice came from the television. He looked up, and his heart nearly stopped—they were taking questions from the audience. Specifically, a naked woman masturbating with a microphone stood next to an equally naked woman who asked a boring question about Black Canary’s hobbies through breathless moans, while all around them other women of all shapes, colors, and (adult) ages touched themselves and each other through and around half-discarded clothing. Several knelt on the ground and ate out their neighbors, while others used whatever objects they had on hand as marital aids (one woman had an actual dildo, which Brandon assumed she must have had in her purse, and he mentally praised her accidental foresight). The entire studio was a women-only orgy thanks to the amulet and, he assumed, other factors he didn’t fully understand, like the enclosed space or the focus on Black Canary or whatever. The mechanics didn’t matter as much as the result, and the result exceeded his expectations.

While the probably-lusty camerawomen broadcast debauchery on public television, Brandon redoubled his efforts to breed the producer. It wouldn’t be long now before somebody shut the show down, and he wanted to be ready to leave when it happened. He grabbed her hair, pulling apart her messy bun so he had a handhold to fuck her even harder. Her eyes stared at the ceiling, lost in obvious pleasure, and she braced herself for his escalating thrusts. In the studio, Susan knelt on her desk and bucked her hips toward Black Canary as she shrieked ever-louder exhortations filthy enough to shame any hardcore porn star, and Canary calmly humped the arm of her chair while both hands kept her tits warm and her nipples alert. With mikes on the audience and studio crew too busy fucking themselves to turn them off, moans and screams drowned out what little of the actual interview remained, the perfect backdrop to his second load of the day. He grunted and yanked back on the producer’s hair while he filled her with his chemically-enhanced sperm, and if she realized she was getting knocked up by a supervillain’s minion, she probably wouldn’t have thanked him as she came around his pulsating dick.

Susan loudly transitioned into commercial by stating in no uncertain terms what she’d like to do with her sponsor’s shampoo bottle, and Brandon stood up to prepare for the trip back to the Watchtower. One way or another, this foray was about to end, and he wasn’t going to get caught with his pants down when it did. He sent the naked, wobbly producer on her way and tossed her clothes into the hallway, just in case somebody (Batwoman, definitely Batwoman) was smart enough to trace discarded outfits to the source of the amulet, and relaxed in the dressing room to wait for Black Canary’s return. Then he’d hop a ride back to the Watchtower via teleportation, finish out his work day, and wait to see how much of today’s adventure they would replay on the news for weeks.

The news did not show footage of Black Canary naked. A shame, but expected. They did show a few heavily-pixelated frames from the episode in question, and the anchors talked breathlessly about it and how terrible this dastardly plot was progressing, in between lambasting the Justice League for letting the amulets get out again, effectively blaming Black Canary (among others) for her own situation. Now finally, Brandon’s dalliances were having the effect he thought Luthor wanted. This wasn’t some random civilians who secretly moonlighted as superheroes unbeknown to the general public. This was a definite member of the Justice League, fully in her superhero persona—if not most of her outfit—embarrassed on a worldwide stage. Already, editorials were clamoring for the release of Lex Luthor and an apology from the Justice League, since he most certainly couldn’t be behind this attack on the League from prison. At the very least, public sentiment was tilting toward letting him post bail and acting as free man pending the scheduling of a speedy trial as was his Constitutional right, rather than locking him up indefinitely as the world’s least-likely-to-succeed flight risk on the charge of “was a supervillain once and happened to be nearby”.

But Brandon’s work wasn’t done, not while he had two amulets left. And it probably would have been awfully suspicious if the amulets stopped appearing just as Luthor got out. Brandon didn’t know how that would be suspicious, exactly, but as a criminal who lived in Gotham he had to assume Batwoman was only one clue away from showing up tomorrow night in his linen closet. So a few days later, while reporters camped in front of the Gotham courthouse to get the latest on Luthor’s emergency parole hearing, Brandon set out to cause Wonder Woman’s next fall from grace.

And by the hand of God, she was going to Metropolis, just a quick train ride across the bay. If Brandon had to ride in the hold of the invisible jet again, he probably would have peed himself. It did mean he had to pay his own way, but with a Watchtower wage he could afford a little outlay (though he did save his receipts for Miss Graves).

Thus he reached the lobby of a four-star hotel in the heart of the city, where the Metropolis Women’s Society was holding their annual charity review and back-patting session, complete with a special keynote speaker. Getting into the building was easy; anybody could saunter through the front door. Getting in without being caught on camera was trickier, and the method he chose was donning the amulet, waiting for a female member of the staff to take a smoke break, and following her back through an employee entrance. He had a few close calls with male staff, forcing him into a hallway not far from the women’s bathroom until it was time to make his move, and he resisted the urge to take advantage of the workers who unzipped their skirts as they passed by. As he’d hoped, being in a liminal space like a hall limited the amulet’s impact to only a few seconds, barely enough time for anybody to fall to their knees and finger themselves to oblivion. He only copped a feel or two while waiting, and when he heard the staff return to the kitchen after serving lunch, he snuck into the conference room.

The women in the Society (with a capital S, of course) were decidedly less heterogeneous than the women in the audience of a morning talk show. These were well-to-do ladies of society, of business, of upbringing, wearing power suits and tasteful office-appropriate dresses, with salon-quality hair and roughly seven cosmetic surgeries for every ten people. There were still some beauties among them, definitely worth five minutes and a healthy dose of semen, but not enough to pull Brandon from his intended target. While the woman at the podium droned in a too-chipper soprano, rattling off stories about the poor, disadvantaged citizens of Metropolis who benefited from the gracious attentions of the ladies present, he scanned the room for lingering waiters. Finding only two waitresses near the door, both of whom tugged at their neckties with intention, he strode purposefully toward the long table where his quarry waited.

He’d barely gotten started when the chipper woman finished her speech and sat down to polite applause. Forks and glasses clinked as an older woman took her place and gave the same fake smile he saw on red carpets and in school photos. “Thank you, Brenda. What a lovely update, all due to the generosity of the fine ladies here. And I know we have somebody here today who has some extra-special words of thanks. Please allow me to introduce our guest speaker: Wonder Woman.”

It took Brandon a moment to recognize her outside of her uniform, which was ironic considering he’d already seen her effectively naked. But she had a different presence without her bracers or tiara, a slight adjustment in her natural dignity that made her seem at home among women of high society. Her black dress nodded at traditional Amazonian clothing, with gold trim around her cleavage and a gold belt atop her wide hips. The lower half draped over itself like a layered toga, with a tasteful gap exposing one leg up to mid-thigh. Two thin straps held the dress in place on her shoulders, effortlessly sexy without being risqué, and gold accent pieces decorated her upper arms, wrists, and ankles. She didn’t need the heels to accentuate her backside, but Brandon appreciated it nonetheless as he sauntered behind the podium to get a better look. Only a few seconds in and already she leaned forward, panting into the microphone and rolling back her shoulders to thrust her chest forward. “Good afternoon. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m a superhero.”

A smattering of polite laughter came from the back of the room, and Wonder Woman grumbled something about advice from the Flash. “I’ve fought countless villains during my career: gods, sorceresses, aliens, robots, and even ordinary, garden-variety muggers. But as anybody in the Justice League will tell you, no superhero can handle everything alone. There are some problems too big, too intricate, too insurmountable for even us to tackle. And that’s where you come in. With your tireless efforts, you are doing good in ways we cannot. So let me begin with a message from all of us on the Watchtower: thank you.”

This received a better reception; Brandon wasn’t surprised the fancy business folk would rather applaud themselves than an almost-literal goddess in their midst. During the brief pause she gained by appealing to her audience’s narcissism, Wonder Woman pulled the straps of her dress down her shoulders, and already she looked more like herself. A few of the ladies near the podium followed her lead, letting shoes fall from their feet or slipping off their blazers. Brandon tried his best to ignore them—and also the stage fright from having all their attention only a few feet away. He unzipped his pants and began stroking himself, bringing his dick to its full size while she continued.

“Truly, it’s amazing to see how big your hearts are.” She pulled down the front of her dress and bra—sure, now she wore one—flashing her round, impressively large breasts at the room. Her hands left the podium and cupped her tits, caressing their undersides and playing her fingertips over her nipples. “When we of the Justice League have our hands full, you’re dealing with heavy problems of your own. Problems everybody knows about, but few have the courage to expose for the world to see. Problems like housing, access to medicine, hunger…” she bit her lip and sighed into the microphone, “thirst. Problems you can’t solve by throwing a super-powered punch. Rather, they need deft, experienced hands to give them what they need, hands you are more than capable of providing. Truly, I wish women the world over were as handsy as you are.”

While the audience chuckled—and several of them took her advice—Wonder Woman unclasped her belt and shimmied her dress past her hips. It fell around her feet, leaving her in just shoes, panties, and a few pieces of gold jewelry. “In a way, I like to think of us as allies, dealing with society’s ills with a two-handed approach. While we deal with the villains right in everybody’s faces—” One hand returned to her breast, while the other rubbed her crotch. “—you deal with things at a lower level. And by ‘lower’, I don’t mean less important. Exactly the opposite. What you touch is critical, and you need to touch it as often as possible.”

Brandon grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand from her chest to his dick. She began pumping it immediately, if awkwardly, but he could only expect so much from somebody who’d spent most of her life on an island without men. “B-big…er, sometimes our problems seem too big to handle. You’re not even sure they’ll fit…in your limited time, or with your limited resources. But the women I see before me aren’t intimidated by that. They see something they can barely get their hands around and interpret it as a challenge.” The pace of her fingering increased, focused right above the damp stain forming on her panties. “They want to take it on. They want to get on top of it. They want to be filled…” her voice trailed off and her grip tightened, involuntary reactions to the equally-involuntary orgasm making her knees quake and her eyes flutter. The Society waited patiently for her to come down, and many in the front rows joined her in sweaty, trembling bliss. “…filled with the knowledge that the world is a better place for their efforts.”

Even the waitresses by the door unfastened a few blouse buttons, the result of being in the amulet’s thrall or a sign of the heat rising in the closed room. Rather than let their arousal fester until an orgy spilled into the hallway, Brandon took the initiative in yanking Wonder Woman’s last bit of clothing down to her ankles. He pulled her to the long table next to the podium, where other speakers and guests of honor pleasured themselves with fingers, spoons, ice cubes, or anything else at hand. She carried the microphone with her, and her speech continued while he laid her on her back and took his place standing between her upraised legs. "And yet we know our work isn’t done. There’s still more to do, more opportunities to take on the world’s thickest, hardest issues. But I’m confident nobody in this room will rest until we’ve plunged into these challenges and come—“ She likely meant to finish her sentence, but at that moment Brandon thrust into her balls-deep, and her throat spasmed with a guttural cry of approval.

By the time she recovered, he was already at full speed, using the memory of his trip on the invisible jet to stoke his own lust for vengeance on her unprotected pussy. “Because what most impresses me is your initiative. You aren’t content to simply lie back and take the world as it is.” She linked her ankles behind Brandon’s neck, preventing him from retreating. “You know what you want, who—what needs to be done, how to put in the work to get it.” Her hips shifted against his, inadvertently fucking him back as hard as she could from her awkward position. “You’re not afraid to open your hearts or your wallets—mmm, or your legs—to those in need. You see a void, and you’re happy to get it filled to capacity. So I don’t have to tell you how good it feels to be full. You already know. Instead, I want to encourage you to stay the course. When you’ve gone as far as you have into these tight, wet problems, there’s no reason to pull out until you’re satisfied.”

He grabbed her knees for stability, holding her reasonably steady while he fucked her. Each time his hips smacked against her upper thighs, it forced a ripple throughout her body, moving the table underneath her and sending her bare breasts swaying. Her spare hand gathered a handful of tablecloth, holding it tight, her only anchor to the physical word besides Brandon’s bare dick. Aside from that, she didn’t act much like a woman on the brink of sexual nirvana. She seemed more like the restrained, quiet woman masturbating on the streets of Gotham post-brawl rather than the enthusiastic slut at Blackgate begging to be owned by her rapist. The difference struck Brandon as—

Her lasso! Under the influence of her Lasso of Truth, her inner submissive came out, no longer shackled by the demands of being a warrior princess ambassador superhero. He spied it in the pile of clothes forgotten by the podium, and with great difficulty he nudged it closer with the toe of his shoe. He did have to pull out to bend over, and Wonder Woman had a few seconds to deliver a typical, boring charity speech while he tied her wrists together, microphone and all. She continued with vague platitudes of appreciation after the lasso glowed—to her credit, she did truly seem to believe in the Metropolis Women’s Society and their work, and her thanks were as heartfelt as they seemed—until he sheathed himself inside her again.

Her demeanor changed in an instant, matching the emotional cries from other naked women throughout the room and escalating into outright melodrama. “Great Hera! All your work, it’s…passionate! Powerful! I’m shaking just thinking about hard and fast you…y-you’ve met your charity goals! The work you do is so…so…good!” Her legs encircled his waist, clutching him tight and removing any barrier between his eyes and her lusty expression. Around him, nude woman masturbated themselves and each other, but he stared only at Wonder Woman, watching for the exact moment she lost control. “Keep going! Keep pounding away at the core of injustice! Break through and ruin it with…with that giant cock! Pump it full of your warmth! Let it surge into your deepest parts and plant a seed of charity! Let that seed grow in your womb, let it make you—yes, yes!—make you a mother of this city! Don’t let this chance to—to rape so good—to make a difference pass by! When opportunity knocks…knocks…knock me up! Gods, yes, give it to meeeee!”

Just as she clenched around him (to be honest, very slightly beforehand), he gave in to her demands and his own needs. His spunk fired inside her with the force of a cannon, breaching any final resistance she may have had. With her vaginal walls squeezing him dry, sealing his dick tight, his seed had nowhere to go but farther up her pussy where it would make her unconscious, magic-induced dreams come true. She practically threw herself off the table writhing in ecstasy, moaning into the microphone so every woman in the room (and probably a few in the hallway) could hear her cumming throughout every step of her fertilization. Brandon wished he had a camera to capture her expression, the giddy, insultingly honest proof of getting her mind blown with sex, and if he hadn’t extricated himself from her leglock he no doubt without have risen to the occasion again before he even pulled out.

But screaming over loudspeakers was a great way to attract too much attention, and he had to make himself scarce before dozens of people burst into the room and either called the police or joined in. He dropped under the front table, hiding under the long tablecloth just as a curious onlooker opened the door, and he crawled from the scene of the crime past the bottom halves of four or five naked women he would gladly have inseminated on any other occasion. He reached the far end, where—damn it, the amulet! He had to leave the amulet behind! He peeked out from under the table, saw only a single woman by the door ripping open her blouse, and hurried back to lay the amulet around Wonder Woman’s shoulders. She reached for her crotch, clumsily trying to finger herself despite having her wrists bound and her hands full, and he fled the scene without looking back.

Once he was safely out of sight, he did linger a moment longer in the empty hallway, listening for the arrival of any spoilsports who would break up the proceedings. No screams of shock or dismay rose over the cacophony of bliss, and rather than overstay his welcome he rushed back down the path he had taken to enter the building. Along the way he passed only a single female member of staff, and he treated himself to a handful of her tits before leaving her with her shirt and bra pulled up to her neck. One he reached the street he stowed his own amulet back under his shirt, and he nonchalantly whistled to himself as he started back toward the train station for the trip home.

The news didn’t have much direct coverage from the event at the Metropolis Women’s Society. Compared to Brandon’s previous antics, this one had a low opportunity for photographs and videos to be hoarded and distributed across the world; almost all of the witnesses were also victims, and they were too busy exploring themselves and each other to preserve the moment on camera. There was plenty of after-the-fact evidence, though, more than enough to confirm the existence of a fourth (Fifth? Ninth? Commentators were still debating it.) amulet in the wild. With scant new footage to parade in front of thirsty viewers, the pundits mostly replayed their talking points: the Justice League is irresponsible this, Luthor is clearly innocent that, women around the globe blah blah blah. The surreptitious glee Brandon got from knowing he was the non-supervillain terrorizing the world didn’t benefit from hearing the same things over and over, so he focused on his final amulet-planting mission.

By his count, only three members of the League remained unsullied by his efforts. One was Stargirl, whose time on the Watchtower rarely overlapped with his. Something seemed to be occupying her during normal working hours, and there hadn’t been any opportunities for him to apply for an after-hours shift, not with his co-workers equally interested in overtime pay. The second was Hawkgirl—who really should have been Hawkwoman, but that was an editorial for another time—and she had escaped his attention mostly because pinning her down was borderline impossible. She didn’t have set hours on the Watchtower, she lived with at least one man who also had superpowers (whether Solomon Grundy counted as a man was an interesting theory, and Brandon didn’t intend to test it out), and her visible role in the Thanagarian invasion strongly restricted the public’s interest in treating her as an ambassador. There simply weren’t any times he knew for sure he could get her alone and definitely no times he could get her in public surrounded by women. In both cases, he’d have to take opportunities as they came and hope women fell into his lap.

He’d noticed a lot more sex puns in his thoughts these days. Maybe supervillains came about them naturally.

His other target was a missed opportunity in more ways than one. Crimson Fox was one of the League’s most overlooked members, a background heroine who only showed up when the entire roster was out in force. He thought that a crying shame, because it demonstrated the Justice League’s narrow focus on the United States and relative ignorance of the wide world of capable heroes. (He’d done the math one time, and the U.S.A. was the most popular home country of Justice League members. Second was space.) But also, she was an acrobat built like a goddess in an outfit so tight she probably didn’t need to take it off to see her dermatologist. One would think there were some candid photos of her in compromising positions with her assets in beautiful focus, but nope! Anything he could find about her was written in a language he had not learned from Chinese take-out menus. She was, in the eyes of the media, a non-entity. Today Brandon would fix that.

Her calendar had only said, ominously, “office”. That was fine with him. If she was some important person with her own office, he’d have privacy. If she was some random paper-pusher, first, how did she keep her job with all that time off for saving lives because Brandon could use some tips about skipping work, and second, a random company would be a great way to make some waves, either by shaming the women in a male-dominated office where plenty of people would happily record the events for posterity or by turning a female-dominated office into an accidental phone sex hub. He would ride after Crimson Fox when she left the Watchtower via teleporter, show up in whatever secret location she had, scope out the situation, and plan his attack.

And then she popped into a room that already had somebody else in it becauseof course she did this was exactly what he was afraid of.

Brandon did not panic per se. In getting his bearings, he saw a person besides him and Crimson Fox, and before he hopped backward into the magic science tunnel he thankfully realized it was a woman. She sat behind a desk far too big and far too clean, casually tippy-tappying away on her computer while a superhero fell out of space not five feet away. Straight red hair fell to her shoulders around an eerily-familiar face gorgeous enough to compete with any of the models he had recently “met”. A just-tight-enough blouse, unbuttoned to show just-too-much-enough cleavage, and an a-line skirt failed wildly to hide a build the envy of any heroine, and her hose-clad legs ended in white-soled heels probably more expensive than his rent. She didn’t pay a glance to Crimson Fox, only continued her work while her visitor sank into a low, plush chair on the other side of the office. “Aueoe oaia ieueoeo, eiauaue ieoua?”

Ah, Hell, of course she spoke French.

While Crimson Fox and Office Lady exchanged what he assumed were snooty pleasantries, Brandon took in the rest of the room. This wasn’t an “office”, this was an Office, capital O, in bold, perhaps with sparkles. It might have been bigger than his apartment, with a U-shaped desk area, a table-and-chairs area, and a fancy-chairs-and-sofa area, all with enough space between them to park a compact car. With natural wood tones and black fabric throughout, the majority of the color came from a bevy of framed posters, magazine covers, and newspaper articles scattered tastefully around the walls and other flat surfaces. Two walls were glass: one, frosted, facing a hallway flanked by cubicles dimly outlined in the sparse light of after-hours fluorescents; and one, clear, looking over the streets and buildings of a city he didn’t recognize…probably because it was in France. One door led out, one led elsewhere—a private bathroom, he discovered—and he checked both to make sure he wasn’t expecting any immediate questionable guests.

During his exploration, the women kept up a lively conversation he largely ignored. Only after he’d finished securing the area and locking the office did he consider them again, and by then they were each halfway out of their clothes. Office Lady—Constance D'Aramis, according to her nameplate—had neatly folded her blouse and skirt and laid them on an unused portion of her desk, and Brandon had the opportunity to admire how little the shape of her breasts changed when they were freed from the grip of black lace. Halfway across the room, Crimson Fox had laid her helmet/mask/tail-thing on a glass table and was just finishing with the rest of her collarbone-to-toe costume, giving him ample time to admire straight red hair down to her shoulders around a face gorgeous enough to…

Brandon did a double-take. They were the same woman! Aside from very minor differences like slightly mussed snake-helmet-hair, they were completely identical, down to their shade of lipstick. The erection he had lost going through the portal returned with a vengeance. He followed Crimson Fox expecting to lay one superhero and maybe, if he was lucky, an accountant or two as he snuck around. Instead, he was locked in an office with a set of ravishing French redhead twins (or clones, or alternate-universe counterparts, but he found twin sisters the hottest so it was the explanation he chose to believe) and nowhere to be for at least an hour, maybe two. He tore off his uniform at a record pace and dropped his final spare amulet on Constance’s neat clothing tower so he wouldn’t forget to leave it behind. For once, nothing was getting between him and as much satisfaction as he could handle.

He didn’t wait for Crimson Fox to finish undressing. The moment her costume fell off her toes he pounced, dragging her hips to the edge of her seat and pushing her knees as far apart as her muscles would allow. She stuck her legs straight out for him, perhaps thinking she was simply getting in a good stretch rather than giving him space to tug her panties away from her manicured pussy. Her fingers dug into the arms of her chair, securing her while his cock jabbed at her entrance. When he found the hole and jammed the top half of his dick into her mildly-lubricated sheath, the hitch in her voice rose to an ethereal moan and her chest heaved so hard it nearly burst her bra. Bit by bit he worked himself farther, until his tight balls rested against her lips, and by then her body had surrendered more than enough fluids to allow him to fuck her at speed.

Constance finished with her clothes and propped her bare feet on her desk, not quite as far apart as her twin’s but far enough to air out her glistening core. She leaned back in her giant chair, an island of tanned redhead against a sea of opulent black, and rubbed her pussy while she stared out the window at late-evening streets. Brandon only knew a few words in French, mostly swears and food, and he heard a few of the former interspersed through her side of the inscrutable conversation with her sister. Crimson Fox probably responded appropriately, or appropriately enough for sentences teeming with innuendo and smoky sighs. Her every breath drew him closer, every twitch compounded her beauty, every little bit of her reactions fostered the craving he had for her faultless body. Something about her commanded his attention, setting his nerves alight and keeping his eyes locked on her with rapt fascination. She tilted her head forward, glaring in his general direction as concentration strained her perfect face, and a sudden compulsion overwhelmed him. He leaned forward before he knew he wanted to, pressing his lips against her and swallowing her moans.

He couldn’t describe her taste, her texture, her warmth, her pressure. He didn’t try. It was simply right, everything he wanted and nothing he would change. She kissed back, just as hungry for him, and their tongues danced as he grabbed her hair and pounded her so hard the chair slid along the carpet. She broke away first, murmuring something inscrutable into his ear while he licked along her jawline toward the delicate flesh below her ear. The amulet separated them, a hard barrier of cold metal between their chests, and he longed to tear it away so she could hold him tight and trace her long nails across his back. One hand wrenched itself from her skin, creeping toward the amulet, the source of his power and his frustration. Fingers closed around its chain, ready to tug it free, and as he began to apply pressure she loosed a guttural scream of unbridled pleasure. Her body stiffened and her pussy clamped even tighter, an intimate grip pleading for his seed, and he could never refuse such a perfect woman. With a roar of his own he let loose, filling her with his seed, envisioning his sperm and her egg joining in a perfect, permanent symbol of their union.

A glimmer of awareness broke free from the mist of adoration, and mere moments before he doffed the amulet a background thought surged to the forefront of his mind: “Crimson Fox has pheromone powers, you idiot.” He gasped like a man breaching the surface of the ocean and threw himself back, literally popping free of her suction and tripping over the low table behind him. Sprawled on the floor, cock still upright and twitching, he gulped down air and relived his near-miss a dozen times in his head. He’d almost lost it all. If Crimson Fox had cum a few seconds later, or if he’d been able to hold out through her orgasm, he would have taken the amulet off, and he had no idea what would have happened. Nothing good, for sure. Even if Crimson Fox and her sister didn’t immediately knock him out, they would definitely remember his face, and there was no reality where that didn’t lead to Batwoman showing up in his kitchen within the hour. After Brandon caught his breath, he laughed out loud. The first supervillian scheme in the world saved at the last second by post-nut clarity…probably.

Knowing about the pheromones didn’t make them go away. He still longed for Crimson Fox—and Constance—more than he’d thought possible, and his chemically-accelerated refractory period already allowed him to do something about it. If the powers were genetic, or if Constance shared them with her sister, he had two women with lust-inducing powers masturbating in an enclosed space. His desires would only get stronger. He passed Crimson Fox, groping her tits along the way, and rummaged through Constance’s desk until he found some adhesive tape to secure every bit of the amulet’s chain to his naked torso. The only way he trusted himself to keep it on was specifically to not trust himself, and creating a few extra layers of sticky, painful protection would hopefully dissuade him from trying again. Once he exhausted the roll, an impressive feat through gloves, he stopped biting his lip and squeezing his toes and doing a dozen other little things to keep his focus. He took a large breath, let the pheromones in, and returned to his mission, fueled by the wonderful irony in Crimson Fox’s powers almost guaranteeing her and her sister’s imminent pregnancies.

Constance squirmed in her chair, on the brink of an orgasm herself, perhaps not her first. The power he held over her, combined with the overwhelming need to experience her with every sense, prevented him from giving her the dignity of a few more moments to herself. He dragged her to her feet and bent her over the desk, angling her plush ass and dripping pussy toward his aching crotch. She said something to her sister, starting at a normal if breathy volume and rising to a howl when he pushed inside. He’d barely slipped in the head before she jerked backward, taking his dick in a single thrust, and her orgasm began while he was still getting up to speed. He leaned forward, pressing his plastic-covered chest against her back and burying his face near her nape. She trembled in his grip, moaning with every little kiss he laid on her neck and shoulder blades, gripping the edge of her desk until her knuckles turned white. And when she’d finished, when she collapsed face-first on the mirror wood veneer, then he got started.

She came back to her senses in short order, consumed by the amulet’s influence. She propped herself up on her elbows, enough height for her breasts to swing under her until Brandon took one in each hand. His fingers played with her nipples and his grip switched from one side to the other, weighing and ravishing each mound at random. He filled her with shallow thrusts, too enamored to remove himself from her searing grip. Instead of the clap of skin-on-skin, the thud of her thighs on the desk accompanied the rhythm of their lovemaking. She writhed against him, tensing her ass and throwing her head from side to side, engrossed in a man she didn’t know existed. Yet what set him off wasn’t her luscious curves or the visions of his sperm swimming inside her, but the sight of Crimson Fox across the room perfectly mirroring her sister’s position, naked and bent over the back of a chair and jilling herself with fingers already coated in his cum. While Constance begged in French, he gave her what he’d decided she wanted, emptying his balls and leaving his mark on yet another innocent bystander.

Even if he’d wanted to stop, if he had to flee from the office before he was caught, he couldn’t. The twins had a hold on him to rival the amulet’s hold on them, and finally he had the time to exploit it. He pushed Constance back into her desk chair, crossed the room, pulled Crimson Fox’s arms behind her back, and rubbed his dick against her slit between her thighs until she found the right position to let him in. He watched her reflection in the office window, how her eyes rolled and her tits quivered when he fucked her with short, rapid strokes. She put up only a token struggle, enough to make him feel like he really had her trapped, but she didn’t actually try. All her energy went into swirling her hips, pleading for a little push to send her over the edge again. He graciously freed one arm and her hand went immediately to her clit, tickling his balls with her fingernails as she pleasured herself. They came together, fueled by each other’s desire, and she happily smiled as she took his seed into her womb for a second time.

While Crimson Fox slumped over a chair to catch her breath, Brandon returned to Constance. He tried to lift her, failed, and settled for nudging her until she sat on the edge of the desk. A slight adjustment was all he needed to slide back home, face-to-face and balls-deep with a woman he’d never met. He laid her arms over his shoulders, and in moments she was holding him tight; wrapping her legs around him was an added bonus for which he hadn’t dared to hope. The desk groaned under her shifting weight, a warning ignored by both. Her sporadic attempts at normal speech faltered under an onslaught of gasps and moans, her eyes so tight with concentration he briefly considered slowing down so he could gaze into them. In lieu of a romantic connection he doubled down on the carnal, digging his fingers into her slender waist and hammering into her unprotected sheath. She whispered one of the few terms he knew—“s'il vous plaît”—and the delicate touch of breath on his ear was too much for his chemically-induced obsession. He filled her with semen again, and she clung to him with every limb, pinning him to her naked body while she shuddered through her own orgasm.

Crimson Fox’s needy moans came to him again, and he saw an opportunity to fulfill a fantasy he (and, he thought, probably most straight men) had always held. He helped Constance to her feet and walked her over to the office sofa, laying her across it while she groped herself. Then he retrieved Crimson Fox, nibbling her neck to lead her over to her twin. Halfway there she strode ahead of him, muttering something in French as she laid one knee on the couch and straddled her sister’s face. Constance asked a question, and while Crimson Fox answered she lowered her body, pressing her pussy against Constance’s mouth and her extended tongue. She gasped her way through the rest of her response, and when she’d finished she dropped between Constance’s legs and ate her out. The conversation traded back and forth for a moment, one woman speaking while the other suckled on her clit and lapped at her nectar and fingered Brandon’s spunk ever deeper.

He didn’t expect to observe for long, not with the targets they painted for him. He began with Crimson Fox, kneeling behind her on the sofa and fucking her with his hands on her sumptuous backside. His testicles rubbed Constance’s forehead, and she dutifully licked them during pauses in her speech. Brandon almost regretted the privacy of his mission; she would never know she’d gone down on her own sister in her office, sucking a stranger’s ballsack as he gave them a new generation of twins. But it meant he was in a very exclusive club, one of only three people who would know what had transpired (two if Miss Graves didn’t keep Luthor fully updated), no matter how many would suspect in a few months’ time. The vision of two Crimson Foxes, side-by-side with swollen bellies and no clue about the father, redoubled his pace. His nuts slapped Constance’s face while he raped her sister, moving too fast for her to bathe them with her tongue. Instead she went for her sister’s button, which set off another orgasm, and her spasming insides drew out a batch of cum to overwhelm the last of her egg’s defenses.

While his third creampie oozed from Crimson Fox’s pussy onto Constance’s face, Brandon rounded the sofa to even the score. Crimson Fox didn’t question it when Brandon tilted her head to the side so he could bed Constance, only bite her lip and grind against her sister’s nose. He drank in her silhouette from her neck to her round, peach-shaped ass, and he grabbed a fistful of her hair as a handhold just because he could. She rose unsteadily to her hands, tits swinging wantonly underneath her as she rocked her body with enough force to slide the sofa a few inches to the side, and she wasn’t even the one getting fucked. That pleasure was Constance’s, and she expressed it through trembling moans whenever her mouth was free and a variety of screams into her sister’s pussy when it wasn’t. Crimson Fox adjusted her position, laying a hand on Constance just below her belly button, and Brandon took it as a sign. He clapped his hand atop it and held it there as he came yet again, forcing her to feel Constance’s womb convulse the moment she became a mother.

As the sun finished setting and darkness filled the room, Brandon continued playing with the women, dragging them here and there to give him every experience he could imagine. He pinned Crimson Fox against the wall and passionately kissed her while her impossible hips milked him for every drop. He sat in Constance’s office chair while she rode him like a stallion, nearly bouncing off his dick with every movement. He had them kneel face-to-face, trying to hold a conversation while unconsciously giving him a double blowjob. He lay on the ground, letting Crimson Fox ride him cowgirl-style while Constance groped her heavy tits and occasionally entwined their tongues together. He forced Constance to the window, fucking her from behind with her breasts mashed against the glass and Crimson Fox rubbing her clit from the side. He had them both go prone, one face-up and one face-down, and raped them one after the other, back and forth, losing track of which was which or how many times he fertilized each. The long minutes sailed by, nearly forgotten in a miasma of lust so thick he almost couldn’t see through it, and the sisters kept with him every step of the way while trying in vain to continue a chaste, familial visit.

Something chirped from the pile that was Crimson Fox’s costume. Brandon checked the clock again. Her break was over, and it was time for her—and thus him—to return to the Watchtower. He stood and took one last look at his victims, exhausted duplicates covered in sweat, thighs and fingers and lips practically drenched with the sexual fluids of three people. He could almost swear their stomachs distended already, as though he’d filled them with so much semen they’d be leaking for days, and he preferred that explanation to any other. The marathon session had calmed his libido enough to do what he had to do, get the amulet on Constance and push her out the office door. Whether she headed home on the subway or masturbated in the back seat of a taxi or exposed herself to an extremely lucky limo driver or just flopped on the scratchy carpet between two cubicles and fucked herself until her subordinates found her in the morning, he didn’t care. The last amulet—besides his—was in the wild again, around the neck of some rich, powerful woman who was about to become very famous. With his actual mission accomplished, he squeezed Crimson Fox’s tits until she put on her headgear and started up the teleportation tunnel, and he stepped back onto the Watchtower right next to a nude, flustered, likely-pregnant superhero.

The teleporter room wasn’t empty, but this time he was too exhausted to worry about it. Zatanna stood waiting, and she almost uttered half a syllable before the amulet took hold and convinced her there was nothing wrong with Crimson Fox’s attire or rapt attention to her own creamy pussy. Before she could strip, Brandon rushed out of the room and back to his post. Tempting as the sorceress was, he’d cum more times then he could count, and he didn’t need to start an orgy in the Watchtower. If he’d done it right, everybody would assume the amulet was delivered to Constance D'Aramis and Crimson Fox had just gotten caught in the crossfire. He didn’t need to make a big play on the Watchtower, not until Luthor told him to. Until then he was going to sit back, wait, and watch the fireworks…and do a whole lot of re-hydrating.

Chapter Text

Luthor got released from prison. Brandon knew this because he had a pheromone-powered marathon threesome with gorgeous French redhead twins, which meant the next day he was absolutely exhausted and spent most of it on his couch blearily acknowledging daytime television. Luthor leaving the courthouse a free man just happened to occur during the news at noon, which meant every station reported on it live, and Brandon got to watch his former boss and current…well, boss address the throng of microphones along with the rest of Gotham. He remained the picture of poise, clearly no worse for spending the better part of a month in a cell, and he spoke with the same smooth, vaguely-threatening tone he’d used the last time he’d appeared on Brandon’s screen.

“I’m just glad the court system succeeded where the Justice League has not, recognizing that this senseless, persistent attack on women around the world extends far beyond their grudge with me. As much as I would like at least the dignity of a public apology, progress does not come from dwelling on past mistakes. I would like to offer LexCorp’s services to the League, should they need any assistance in researching these troublesome amulets or in keeping them out of the hands of those who would use them for harm. And if any LexCorp employees have been affected by an amulet, I’ve asked Mercy Graves to head up a task force with our Human Resources department, who have been instructed to provide any and all resources necessary to set things right.”

What a guy.

Miss Graves shadowed him, noticeable only because Luthor indicated her directly. She didn’t blink at the mention of “setting things right”, but given her proximity to Luthor, maybe her paycheck was enough to forgive a lot of collateral supervillainy. Either way, she was clearly still involved with Luthor, and she was still his liaison with Brandon, even after their “interaction” a few weeks ago. Did that mean Luthor approved of Brandon’s extracurricular activities with his personal assistant? Would he mind if Brandon used the amulet to breed women outside his immediate mission? Food for thought!

A day’s rest and a second night’s sleep failed to rouse his passions, and Brandon attended his next day of work without a single thought of sneaking into the women’s section of the Watchtower and replanting his seed into any previous victims. It was somewhat alarming how much he could get done when he wasn’t actively shirking his duties for one reason or a mother (ha!). He made his normal rounds in record time, straightened up one of the supply closets like he’d been threatening to do for weeks, and helped a few of his co-workers with a deep clean by filling in for one who’d called in sick. And he didn’t mind! Work felt like a thing he did willingly, not a chore thrust upon him by a faceless, malevolent entity on high. Though it didn’t hurt that he had something to look forward to in life beyond infinite drudgery. Soon, Luthor would come calling with further instructions, even if those instructions were “keeping screwing around in the Watchtower”.

As such, it wasn’t terribly surprising when Brandon got home to find Miss Graves waiting for him. It was surprising, however, to find her in his living room.

The sight of an unexpected woman in his apartment was enough to force his heart into his throat, and he froze for several ignominious seconds before he regained the ability to breathe. “Geez, it’s you. I didn’t recognize you without—“

“Shh,” she hissed, and she shoved him aside to shut and lock his door. While he leaned against the wall and tried to bring his pulse back down, she stepped close—abnormally close, enough that her chest pressed against his and he had plenty of time to stare at her uncharacteristically casual, cleavage-baring top. She followed his gaze, and rage flickered over her face. “You’re late.”

“The bus was slow! Sorry! I didn’t realize we had a meeting!” Despite the power he held over her, that power was secreted in his wallet, and hers was probably capable of throwing him across the room before he could get it. She wasn’t Luthor’s bodyguard for nothing. “How did you get in here?”

She scoffed, and to be fair that was a sufficient answer. “Clean your apartment. I’m not waiting around in…” she gestured at a pair of forgotten socks over the back of the couch, next to a cardboard box that no longer held garlic sticks, “your wake.”

“Couldn’t we have met somewhere else?”

“Not with Batwoman and her friends watching out.” Miss Graves smirked. “Well, not friends. But allies who might be tracking my movements, looking for leads on the amulets.”

“But the judge says Luthor wasn’t involved.”

“You think the Justice League cares what some random judge says? We both know they’re not giving up. Ironically, if superheroes actually obeyed the law, my life would be a lot easier.”

The fear he’d felt a moment ago returned. “So Batwoman might be watching us right now?”

“Don’t be thick. The sun’s up.”

“Valid. But Superman, or—“

“Out punching tornadoes or something. And relax,” She tapped her hip, and he tried very hard not to stare at the slim waist atop her capris. “I’ve swept for bugs. Which means I’ve been through your whole apartment, and,” she retched a little, which was hurtful. “Even you’re clean, in a manner of speaking.”

“So…we’re safe?”

“For the moment. Which is why your marching orders for now are to tone it down. Do your normal job, keep your normal hours, shop at your normal weird takeout places. We need the League to think the Watchtower is safe so they spread out their attentions.”

Brandon nodded. Nobody wanted Batwoman crashing through their bedroom window feet-first. Well, almost nobody. Hostages. Certain kinds of perverts. The Joker. “So no amulet for a while?”

“I didn’t say that. We just have to be judicious about its use.” She shifted her weight to the other leg, and this time Brandon’s eyes did stray. When he glanced back up she was scowling, but she didn’t change her pose. “You’re going to be handling the competition. Specifically, villains who could have been useful but botched their opportunities and need to be put back in their place. You’re familiar with Tsukuri?”

He certainly was, but he wasn’t about to say how often he’d jacked off at the pictures of her petite naked body on the streets of Gotham. “Yeah, she was at the Clash…uh, the inciting incident.”

“And in her infinite wisdom, she decided to pick a fight with Wonder Woman and dropped after a single punch. Not the best showing. She snuck out of Blackgate during that whole prison break debacle with Poison Ivy, and we have reason to believe she’s laying low with an ally in Blüdhaven.”

“Blüdhaven? Why there?”

“Why indeed. Here’s the address of her safehouse, as far as our surveillance shows.” Miss Graves produced a piece of paper, unfortunately from the purse on his thrift-store coffee table instead of any place more salacious. “We expect you to handle this on your next day off. Tsukuri’s most likely to be there in the early afternoon.”

He took the paper and did some quick math. “Okay, I can do that. Will the surveillance, um…”

“Don’t worry. Nobody wants to see that.” She pulled a black wig from the purse and slid it over her head. “Any more questions, or am I free to walk four blocks in this itchy thing because some idiot lives in an apartment building with traffic cameras on every side?”

He stopped himself before asking this time. Batwoman. The answer for “why so careful?” was usually “Batwoman”. “So are you and I…you know…are we cool?”

She snorted. “No, we are not ‘cool’, but I can only be so mad at you for doing the exact thing we told you to. And, as I’ve been informed, the ends justify the means. Keep following orders and we won’t have a problem.”

A weight floated off his shoulders and out the window. “Great! Great, that’s…yeah, no problem. Oh!” He caught her right before she closed the apartment door behind her. “Can I expense the train ride?”

She slammed the door instead.

Gotham had been called “the national leader in corrupt legal systems”. It was true, but with a bit of an asterisk: to get that ignoble distinction a city had to have a semi-functioning legal system in the first place, so Blüdhaven technically did not qualify for contention. The corrupt cops likely outnumbered the straight cops ten to one, organized crime was so rampant they basically had mob-branded bookstores, and it wasn’t clear whether the news avoided reporting on any of it because it was such public knowledge or because all the journalists worth their salt had moved out (or moved on, forcibly, via murder) long ago. It wasn’t anarchy per se, but Gothamites like Brendan liked to think of Blüdhaven the same way everybody else thought of Gotham, as “we’re bad, but at least we aren’t rock-bottom”.

Regardless, he wasn’t moving there. He just had to get in, get it, and get out without attracting too much attention. After a few days of—in retrospect, paranoid—planning, he bought his ticket, rode the train, and walked through Blüdhaven as nonchalantly as possible, head down and hands in pockets but not in a creepy way, until he arrived at the address Miss Graves had given him. With a totally-not-suspicious glance around, he donned the amulet, hid it under his shirt, and went through the door.

Except the door was locked, so he scaled a few boxes and scurried through an open second-story window and plopped onto a metal catwalk with a loud clang and a pain in his back, just like the pros.

He grunted in pain and loudly grasped for a handhold, using the railing to pull himself to his knees. By the time he saw the armed guard it was too late to hide. He froze with fear, only remembering his effective invisibility when her eyes passed right by, landed on the open window immediately behind him, and traveled onward. A sigh of relief escaped as a guttural choke. He hadn’t expected a guard. Why would he? He was looking for Tsukuri and an unnamed, presumably female, ally, not a bustling hive of secret activity. But no second guard arrived, and he allowed himself to relax and descend to ground level.

While she investigated the open window, Brandon searched for his real target. In any other city with a supervillain scene, an empty warehouse didn’t have an armed guard unless it also had some secret underground lair. And as expected, he wasn’t in the office long before a wall slid open and a newcomer crept into view, a slender Asian woman with close-cropped black hair and a sweatshirt-and-jeans combo that screamed “nondescript fugitive”. He hadn’t seen a lot of Tsukuri without her mask or with clothes, but he also wasn’t about to second-guess Luthor’s intelligence or surveillance network. He’d found his target.

She poked her head out the office door, into the main warehouse space. “Something wrong?” A flash of irritation passed over her face when the guard shrugged, but only a flash. Without another word she spun, nimbly stepped around Brandon without acknowledging his presence, and stalked back to her secret door. He followed her down a metal spiral staircase to the inevitable basement hideout, passing a smattering of other guards—all female, he noticed with both joy and befuddlement. She emerged in a smallish-large room maybe the size of a fast-food restaurant, with a poorly-stocked bar against one wall and a makeshift arena constructed of a boxing ring and chain-link fence. The whole place cried out for a deep clean, new lighting, and perhaps maybe a single patron.

Brandon had heard rumors about the Glamour Slam. Everybody had. From what he could remember, it had been operated by a villain who used mind control on women for weeks, forcing them into battles without their knowledge or consent, until it collapsed around them as evil plans tend to do. For a moment he struggled to remember the mastermind behind the plan until he saw her in the flesh.

She was hard to miss. Slender and lissome, she strolled through the room like—no, because she owned the place. Her blood-red dress would have stood out among the uniformed guards even without the strategic cuts above her breasts and back and all the way up one leg. The amount of skin on display revealed much of an intricate dragon tattoo from one bare shoulder to the far thigh, accentuated by knee-high heeled boots and gloves over three quarters of her arms. He ogled her so much he almost forgot to look at her face, sharp and composed, with a cunning glare between flawless eyeliner and a classy pince-nez. Even if her unique personal style hadn’t given her away, he probably would have guessed in an instant that Tsukuri host and ally was none other than Roulette.

“False alarm,” Tsukuri droned, “no heroes around.”

“And what was your plan if they were?” Roulette snapped in a tone Brandon knew well: an irate authority future who already knew the answer to a question. “Try to talk them into submission? Sneak away in the chaos of an empty room?”

“I was just check—“

“You were just going upstairs when you’re supposed to be laying low. Letting you hide out here is a big enough risk even when you’re not popping your head out every fifteen minutes. Until you and your teammate”—she put enough stress on that word to give it a heart attack—“get either a solid plan or a steady income, you stay out of sight. Otherwise you’re out on your ass.”

Tsukuri scoffed, her hands balled into fists. “You couldn’t kick us out if you wanted to.”

Roulette leaned into Tsukuri’s personal space. “Try me.”

For a moment the universe revolved around the inch between their noses. Even the plumbing went quiet, poised to flee, until Tsukuri sneered and backed away. Without drawing the attention of the onlookers, she tugged at her sweatshirt as though she wanted to remove it, then fled through another door before she could finish.

Roulette rubbed her temples. “The next guard who lets her go upstairs gets to be her sparring partner for a week. Are we clear?” A vague murmur of assent came from the guards, a farewell applause to Roulette returning to what Brandon assumed was her office. He glanced at Tsukuri, then Roulette, then back again, and made his choice. Luthor’s mission could wait. When fate drops a gorgeous, dangerous woman like Roulette at your feet, it would be terribly rude to not give her something to do while she was there.

Her room was an “office” strictly by definition—thrift-store table, simple area rug, computer, a lone filing cabinet. Clearly losing two sports brands to Justice League interference had been rough on her budget. Her lone bit of luxury was a high-backed rolling chair, and even it squeaked when she sank into it. He approached her carefully, wary of the exact point where the amulet’s power would override her thoughts, and he needn’t have worried. Before he reached the desk she was back on her feet, sashaying past him to close the door and give herself a little privacy. As she reached behind her neck to unfasten her dress, Brandon had a unique opportunity to answer three questions that had plagued the superhero fandom from the moment they first laid eyes on the proprietor of the defunct Meta-Brawl.

First: yes, she did wear panties. This didn’t surprise him. With a dress slit as high as hers, going without would simply be irresponsible. He’d held out hope for a skimpy thong, but the black lace item she wore wasn’t any worse, with sides cut high to hide them under the dress and a hint of cheek in back. She didn’t wear them long enough for him to admire them in too much detail, but he could rest satisfied knowing he’d seen something very few men ever would.

Second: yes, she did wear a bra…sort of. In Brandon’s experience, very, very few superpowered individuals went without a bra no matter how much their uniforms hinted at it (only one, in fact: Wonder Woman). But against all the strapless, athletic, and lace bras he’s seen, Roulette’s stood out for sheer ingenuity. Specifically, it was backless, two cups over her tits with nothing holding them in place. From the sound it made when she peeled it off, it stayed attached via tape or suction or whatever glue made stickers work. And it wasn’t vanity alone; her breasts were perky and somewhat alarmingly round—he wondered if she’d had some work done—but couldn’t defy gravity all on their own, so clearly the barely-there undergarment served some purpose besides limiting wardrobe malfunctions. He almost pocketed it as a souvenir.

Third: yes, her tattoo did go all the way. Some very lucky artist had spent a great deal of time inking a dragon from her shoulder down her back, over one ass cheek, and onto her thigh. Though on second thought, Brandon did not envy him and/or her. As fun as it must have been to work on a sexy naked woman, he suspected they had to focus entirely on the job and weren’t allowed to get in any recreational squeezes or slaps. He would have to work extra-hard to make up for the lost opportunities.

Besides her underwear and dress, everything else stayed on, leaving her naked except for a quarter of her legs and most of her arms. She crept around the room like she knew she was being watched, swinging her hips and rolling her shoulders; he wondered whether the amulet’s power made her move like a seductress or if she just walked like that. Before she could return to her chair and take care of her own needs, he grabbed her shoulders and bent her over her desk. For once, he didn’t sense any confusion or reassessment. Roulette simply spread her high-heeled boots and waggled her peach-shaped ass, sneaking a hand under herself to run a finger along her slit. A seductive hum greeted his erect cock as it sprung from his pants, and while she settled into the glow of well-earned masturbation, he slipped into her tight, immaculately-trimmed pussy.

“Oh, baby,” she whispered, her voice raspy with need. Immediately she responded, waving her hips in a slow circle to stroke him from every angle. Her muscles squeezed him now and again, joined by regular pants of pleasure and admiration. Brandon marveled at her technique, and not just because it was phenomenal. Again, she didn’t know he was there, and she was still acting like a high-priced escort about to earn every penny of her fee, putting on an erotic show for an audience of zero. He didn’t have to move, not with her body rocking into his and her manicured nails teasing his dick while she rubbed herself. He stood still with his pants around his thighs and his shirt held up, watching her dragon undulate with the seductive rhythm of her writhing body. His cock disappeared as a criminally-unspanked backside slid toward his hips and nestled against them, then reappeared from her insides a little warmer and a little wetter, again and again with the diligence of a metronome, all the while cheered on by the gentle pressure of a few fingertips and husky sighs spaced at exactly the right frequency to keep him engaged.

He toyed with the idea of letting her continue seducing him while remaining ignorant of his presence. Depending on how long he held out, would she continue to masturbate, cumming for hours in her office, until she finally pushed him over the edge and forced her own insemination? Would her body give out before her mind did, leaving her desperate for more interaction despite aching legs and an overly-sensitive pussy? How long would it be until one of her henchwomen popped in and accidentally started a threesome? One day, Brandon hoped to find out the extent of the amulet’s power, probably without a superhero involved given the difficulty in monopolizing their attention for hours at a time and the unfathomably high consequences of the amulet’s power wearing off while he was balls-deep in a woman with a surprise pregnancy and the strength to bench-press a two-door sedan. Until then, he had a job to do and at least one other villain awaiting his attentions. As good at Roulette was at taking the lead, he preferred his own style.

He pulled at her thigh, and she lifted one knee into her desk like it was her idea. The change in angle barely pulled her fingernails slightly away from his shaft, but it drastically changed how she felt inside, especially how she clenched around him whenever she moaned aloud. With one hand on her waist and the other squeezing her ass, he dictated the pace, and she adjusted with only a moment’s hesitation. "M-mmh...oh, yes...right there..." She panted, ever the performer, like she couldn’t fathom a method of having sex without a man (or woman, or several) to judge it approvingly. Her free hand gripped the edge of the desk and her breasts hung underneath, inches away from smacking against the cool wood with each violent thrust. Brandon couldn’t tell if he was driving her mad with pleasure or if she was very good at making him think so, and after a moment of self-consciousness he opted not to care. Whether or not it was the best she’d ever had, he would be sure it was one she’d remember for the rest of her life…or wouldn’t remember, as it were.

He grabbed the pins from her bun, pulling them free and learning a moment later how sharp they were. They clattered to the desk and her dark, silken hair fell free, long enough for him to wrap around his hand and pull. Roulette cried out to the ceiling, eyes wide and teeth gritted, but her jilling only grew in ferocity. "Oh, yes, yes, yes! Just like that!” The magic rationalized the pain as both intentional and desirable, and she contorted her body to accommodate the position he wanted. Desire overtook her once-pristine expression, her face flush with arousal with a hint of mascara starting to run down one cheek. He relinquished his grip on her waist so he could squeeze her tits, hoping to confirm once and for all whether they were natural, but when her eyes rolled back he abandoned that quest and flicked his thumb repeatedly over her nipple. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stooop—!” Her breath hitched and her whole body shook with atypical clumsiness, dropping the facade so a real, mind-shattering orgasm could run through her. The sight of a once-proud woman brought so low was all he needed, and he pinned her to the desk and blew his load directly into her seizing womb. She took every drop willingly, still rubbing her own clit, only stopping when he released her and she collapsed on the desk with a bead of white goop trickling between her legs.

Brandon wiped off his dick with her lace panties and decided against taking them; no need to carry any incriminating evidence into his apartment. He secured his clothes and left Roulette alone in her office, chuckling about how she would reconcile her state when the amulet’s magic left her. Now he was free to chase Tsukuri, and he followed her path into a simple hallway. He grimaced; searching the whole place would be a problem if Roulette hadn’t inexplicably hired only female minions. He settled for quick looks in each room—storage here, bunks there, more storage, a surprising amount of storage—until he reached an area he could only describe as a prison. Heavy metal doors with barred windows lined both sides of the central corridor, though most of them sat open with no prisoners—or competitors—to occupy them.

He turned to leave as he heard a voice that called him back, an alto as clear as a bell and just as hard: “Our quarters become less and less ironic by the day.”

“It’s only temporary.”

“And then what? On to another lightless den, where we can hide in a different barren room? How long can your Justice League keep their eyes trained for us specifically in light of the horrors facing this world?”

“Well, you did try to kill three and a half billion people, so.”

A scoff. “Men are hardly people.”

The pieces clicked together a moment before Brandon peeked in the cell door. Staring into a small wall mirror, bedecked in white and gold and wearing an expression he could only describe as an imperious pout, was the Amazon Aresia. A follower of all things superheroic, he knew of her and her misandrist plot to rid the world of men via a deadly pathogen, and along with—literally—half of Gotham he could thank her for a few hours of debilitating illness and a few days of fatigue as his body recovered. He’d not actually seen her before, what with her entire villain career only lasting a day or so and occurring mostly out of the public eye. She lived up to the hype, built like a professional wrestler (the old-school wrestlers, not the skinny swimsuit models they had on TV these days) with the presence of a queen, bristling with the untapped potential to smash the mirror and the three walls behind it. He could see why even Wonder Woman had trouble throwing down with her.

…allegedly. A lot of super-powered plots and fights took place in relative obscurity, only widely known thanks to dedicated information dealers and the Justice League’s own public relations arm. There was some debate among fans and pundits regarding the severity of any given threat, whether the League intentionally exaggerated the danger to make themselves seem relevant and necessary or downplayed it to prevent daily panic in the streets. Having witnessed the heroes in their downtime and mid-battle, Brandon was of the opinion that the press releases had it nearly perfect.

“Still,” Tsukuri continued, either ignorant of the incredibly scary angry woman a few feet away or totally used to it, “you did come within a hair of killing most of the Justice League all at once without even meeting them. You know why they have your number. It’s hard enough even finding another villain to host us.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Tsukuri pulled off her shapeless clothing, and Brandon was pleased to see her black catsuit underneath. Besides the normal joys of watching a slender woman cavort in skintight clothes, it was easier to recognize her when she dressed like a villain. “She’s hearing us out, though. Let all of her male employees go. That’s more than ninety-nine percent of women would do for us.”

Aresia pulled her tiara from her head and stared at it, muttering. “It’s ludicrous how many women willingly accept the yoke of their masters.”

“’Master’ is a strong word.”

“Is it? Men rule your nations, your economies, your culture, your very interpretation of history. Even now, we struggle to gather allies because women the world over are running in fear at the prospect of a scant few pieces of jewelry, each designed and wielded by a man retaliating against the limited achievements women have been permitted.”

Tsukuri paused after unzipping her catsuit. “How do you know it’s a man?”

“Tsukuri, my muse. It is always a man. What women would use magic to betray her own kind like this?”

“Circe?”

“…be that as it may, I find it unlikely that your former employer had no hand in our current state of affairs.” Aresia pulled the straps of her outfit down her arms, taking the top half of it with them, and yep, going braless was an Amazon thing. Though it was clear that her uniform afforded her some support, because without it holding her back, her bust size easily ranked among the top three women Brandon had met on the job. Her tits shuddered as she tugged her clothing down her waist, easily returning to peak roundness in an overtly unfair example of supervillain biology, and either she went without underwear too or she was efficiently exposing her blonde bush as long as she was disrobing anyway.

Tsukuri folded her catsuit and laid it on the cot, already rubbing her thighs together. He took a minute to feel her up through her panties and (unnecessary, if you asked him, but it wasn’t like he was an expert in how comfortable it was doing crimes without breast support) sports bra, comparing her skinny body to Roulette’s pronounced curves and Aresia’s buxom musculature. He was used to hourglass figures, but there was something about a smaller woman that brought out his biological need to dominate. Not that he could—she would break him into pieces if she knew he was taking liberties with her—but it gave him reason enough to grab her bra and yank it upward, watching her small tits bounce at the sudden motion. “Luthor’s harmless…ish. Near as I can tell, the League’s keeping tabs on his every movement since the last botched job. I doubt they even noticed that I’m out of Blackgate, assuming they care at all.”

“Let it be known that I care,” Aresia took Tsukuri’s chin in her hand and gently lifted her gaze upward. “And I treasure your gift for stealth. It is largely responsible for my rescue after the League disrupted our plan, and for my days since then away from their clutches. I may gripe about our situation, but I would rather a year in a cell with you than a day without.” She pulled Tsukuri closer with barely an ounce of effort, and their lips joined in a tender kiss.

He couldn’t believe it! Aresia was a lesbian! And in retrospect he could absolutely believe it and it would have been blisteringly obvious if he’d given it a moment’s thought. Misandry aside, of course the woman from the island of only women who built a team of only women to create a world of only women was perhaps maybe into only women. If anything, he should have found it weird that Wonder Woman wasn’t a lesbian. Or that, according to her own Lasso of Truth, she was really, really into being raped and enslaved by a dominant man. Which was…an equally problematic interpretation of Amazon sexuality. Hm. He saw the folly in making assumptions about the whole culture based on one or two examples. He might have to do some research.

But for now, his focus was on the women pressing their bodies together within his reach. He shed his clothes in a hurry while Aresia stripped Tsukuri, leaving just an amulet and some gold armbands among them. A tap on the shoulder was all it took to put Tsukuri on her knees, gazing up at her accomplice/girlfriend/cellmate with—dare he say—naked admiration. She licked her lips and leaned into Aresia’s crotch, and from the ensuing appreciative sigh he could guess what her tongue was doing. Brandon looked her over, trying to pick his angle of attack, but after a moment’s thought he decided Aresia would be a more satisfying conquest. Roulette was a fine appetizer, and Tsukiri would be a good dessert, which meant he could have an Amazon as his main course.

He slipped between Aresia and the wall, pushing his dick between her buttcheeks to test her compliance. Her hips tensed under the pincer attack, and it didn’t matter to him whether the stimulus was her (probably) first real cock or the nimble lips working their way past her clit. He only cared that she was nice and wet when he made contact, and with a bit of wriggling he was able to part her thighs enough to rub his head against her pussy. Immediately Tsukuri integrated him into her oral routine, licking at the crown of his cock and lubricating it further for the next stage. If he hadn’t been training under such intense circumstances he might have blown all over her face then and there, but impregnating superheroes had definitely upped his endurance. And also, he guessed, the drugs. Either way, he kept his wits, and he was still rock-hard when he forced his way into Aresia’s virgin cunt.

And “forced” was the correct term. Said virginity was only an assumption on his part, but her insides were so tight and her grunt so pained he couldn’t imagine she had any experience with an intrusion like him. He supposed it was possible she had used some sort of penetrative toy on herself, but as he fought for the second, then the third, then the fourth inch, those possibilities faded away. Surely she’d never taken anything more than a finger, maybe two, and he was certainly bigger than that. He gritted his teeth and rocked his hips with shallow motions, letting her acclimate to his dick until her unconscious resistance waned and her pussy accepted its fate. Tsukuri helped, still licking away with blissful ignorance, keeping Aresia’s juices flowing and Brandon’s shaft bathed in a mixture of saliva and Amazon honey. Thrust by labored thrust he worked his way farther up her canal, and when he finally felt her crushing heat around his entire length and a thirsty tongue against his balls, he let out a shuddering sigh.

Aresia recovered more quickly, naturally. Her body undulated against Tsukuri’s face, a motion that happened to help Brandon slide in and out of her without any action on his part. He propped his shoulders against the wall and bent backward, setting himself at a better angle to benefit from her movement. From his vantage point he could barely see Tsukiri, a bit of knee or foot around one side of Aresia’s narrow waist, and the Amazon herself was mostly a pile of golden hair, a swaying ass carved out of marble, and a small patch of smooth skin in between. He smirked to himself at the thought of autographing his latest unwitting seedbed, a lewd tramp stamp scrawled in dry-erase marker, but he had neither the means to write an insult nor the death wish it would require to leave evidence on his victims. He preferred leaving the evidence inside them, where they wouldn’t know it existed for weeks or months, far too long to trace it back to the specific day Tsukuri had poked her head out of her basement hideaway. He mulled over the other women in the facility, the all-female guard crew likely hired to satisfy Aresia’s misandry, and his mouth watered at the number of mothers he could make. As nice as it would be to have another marathon threesome, there were plenty of ways to spread his seed today.

He tried actively fucking Aresia for a moment, but the position didn’t lend itself to much action on his part. She knew what she wanted and the mere humans in the room were along for the ride, whether it was the man literally bending over backward to stay inside her pussy or the woman kneeling low and craning her neck vertical to lap at her clit. Brandon’s role was to enjoy it, focusing entirely on how she squeezed him when Tsukuri licked just the right way and the low, satisfied moans coming through her back. He grabbed her ass, kneading until his fingers ached, while shallow lurches brought him closer and closer to his next peak. As his balls tightened, he took a risk and pushed Aresia’s shoulders with all his might, and she finally tilted enough for him to bury his full length inside her. The moment he bottomed out, his orgasm began, filling her Amazonian womb with millions of his chemically-enhanced sperm while her walls massaged his cock in an understated orgasm. She didn’t stay down for long, but it was long enough to sow his seed, and when she straightened her spine and his dick popped out of her, the rest of his semen landed in and around the mouth of a thirsty, engaged Tsukuri.

“Wonderful,” she purred, gently pulling Tsukuri’s face free and stroking a thumb above a dollop of semen. A gentle finger under her lover’s chin was all it took to make Tsukuri rise, and they shared a long, soft kiss heedless of the cum it smeared around their lips and cheeks. “Shall I return your affections?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Tsukuri deadpanned, though her hand on Aresia’s chest told another story. Aresia chuckled and glided to the cot, pulling Tsukuri along with her. While Brandon stroked himself back to full power they shifted and nuzzled each other, eventually landing on a position where Aresia leaned back against the wall with Tsukuri on top of her back-to-breasts, leaving her body wide open to a pair of exploratory hands. Insistent fingertips feathered around her small, firm tits, increasingly returning to dark nipples and the sharp gasps they summoned. Lips and tongue pecked at her neck, leaving trails of saliva shimmering in the harsh artificial light of their cell. While Aresia’s hands traced textbook abs and reached the patch of hair below, Brandon crouched and examined the tower of delicious pussies bared to him, one still dripping with his seed and the other begging to join it in motherhood. Spread wide with her lover an inch from the most sensitive place on her body, Tsukuri offered no resistance when Brandon placed his dick at her entrance and leaned forward.

He expected her to be tight, and he was correct, though after deflowering a Kryptonian and an Amazon he was more inclined to consider her “pleasantly snug”. What he hadn’t anticipated was how wet she was, practically dripping after merely a few moments of light petting. He could only conclude that most of her arousal predated the change in position, which meant she had almost gotten herself off solely from eating out another woman’s pussy. He grinned as he got up to speed. It was nice fucking a true submissive who didn’t need a magic lasso to express her inner desires, a girl who instinctively spread her legs and expressed her thanks in a sultry alto with only a little push from a malicious amulet. Sure, Aresia’s seductive teasing certainly helped, but when Brandon placed his thumb near Tsukuri’s mouth, she sucked it down so hard it seemed like she might deepthroat his whole hand. This woman was made to serve, and serve she would.

Sandwiched between the lover she chose and the lover she deserved, Tsukuri writhed with barely-contained ebullience. He could feel what she wanted in every twitch of her muscles and flutter of her eyes: she longed to grab Aresia’s hands and direct them to her aching tits, to wrap her legs around Brandon’s waist and never let him go, to rub her own clit until she squirted halfway across the room. But she didn’t. She lay as still as she could atop her girlfriend, an obedient canvas for two lovers who only wanted to make her squirm. She took fistfuls of blanket and rolled back her shoulders and curled her toes until they turned white, and he was sure she would have begged for release if she hadn’t been busy fellating his thumb. Still Aresia took her time and Brandon slowed his pace to match, more interested in the tease than a quick fuck.

Minutes passed in the austere cell, with Tsukuri simmering on the brink of orgasm while Aresia carefully manipulated her flame. Again and again she walked her fingers toward Tsukuri’s pussy, then pulled back to the sound of a frustrated whimper. The exchange proved too much for Brandon, and rather than pound Tsukuri until he back gave out and his cock chafed, he opted to move things along. The next time she got close, he grabbed Aresia’s wrist and pulled it home, finally making contact with Tsukuri’s clit. If Aresia was surprised, Tsukuri’s cut-off yelp dispelled it instantly. With a wicked grin she nibbled on Tsukuri’s ear and let her hand get to work, blithely surrounding Brandon’s dick as she played with her lover’s lips. A pseudo-handjob didn’t hurt, but it was Tsukuri’s convulsing pussy that did Brandon in. As the sensations overwhelmed her resolve and took her into a shuddering orgasm of her own, Brandon leaned into her and shot his third load of the day, hopefully ensuring she and her girlfriend would be able to raise his babies together.

He caught his breath and let his cock soften inside Tsukuri while she and Aresia exchanged coos of affection and settled into their afterglow. When he did pull out, most of his sperm stayed deep inside, with only a small trickle falling free and dropping onto Aresia’s cunt. The lovers settled into a casual cuddle while he watched, eager to take them each for another spin. “And imagine,” Aresia murmured, her lips still against Tsukuri’s earlobe, “once we bring in our new partners, we will be unstoppable.”

“Right, right. As long as I’m still the head of your harem.”

“It’s not about a harem,” Aresia nibbled. “Not just a harem, that is. It’s about finally making this world a decent place. Have you been making any headway with our host?”

“I think I’m winning her over. As long as there’s money to be made, I don’t think she’d care if all the men died off. As long as we can present it as a business opportunity.”

Wait, until the who did what?

“And her outreach? How is it going with this Tala?”

“Awful. I’m telling you, Tala won’t accept any plan where she can’t ride Luthor’s dick, literally and figuratively. Circe would be a better fit.”

Aresia didn’t hide her disgust. “Ugh, the witch. Surely there are more palatable magicians aligned with our cause. How about this Ivy?”

“Hard to find. She’s laying low too after the breakout. But if we can get hold of her, she’d probably go along with it. And maybe her girlfriend, for the fun of it.”

“The Harlequin? I thought she was the Joker’s girlfriend. A woman happily enslaved to a man would never see our vision.”

“There’s a lot to unpack here. First off…”

Brandon hurried into his clothes as the conversation drifted into superhero gossip and modern dating parlance. Aresia was still working on her kill-all-the-men plan? And Tsukuri was involved? And maybe Roulette, and potentially even more supervillains? This was a big deal! It explained everything: why they were hiding out, why all the guards were female, why they were cozying up to another supervillain who on her face had nothing to do with them. He had uncovered an actual Justice League-level threat, one whose ramifications he knew all too well. He had to tell the League! No, wait, that was impossibly stupid. He had to tell Miss Graves, who would tell Luthor, who would make sure the information got to the League in a way that didn’t dirty his own hands or reveal his source. Yeah, that was better. He’d get home fast, report in, and by tomorrow the warehouse alarms would be blaring with a warning about invading superheroes.

The alarms blared.

Ah, for crap’s sake.