7 comments/ 72447 views/ 44 favorites Third Time's the Charm By: Mild Mannered Author 1) The following is a work of erotic fiction. Those under 18 (or whatever is the age of majority in your jurisdiction) should stop reading now. 2) This story contains characters and settings copyrighted by DC Comics. This story should be considered a parody of those characters and settings. It is also distributed free of charge and is a non-commercial enterprise; the author derives no profit from its distribution. No copyright infringement is intended. 3) This story contains depictions of sex as a healthy, non-degrading activity that consenting adults engage in for fun and pleasure. Those who prefer their depictions of sex to be debased should go find something else to read-this being the Internet, you shouldn't have to look hard. 4) I'm no continuity buff, so for simplicity's sake this story uses the TV show "Justice League" as its model, with bits and pieces picked up from the comics as I'm familiar with them. Please accept it as the best knowledge I had when the story was written. 5) Stories like this take time and effort to write. The chief reward an author receives for this labour is the knowledge that other people have found them good. If you enjoyed this story, or if you have constructive criticism, please drop the author a line at the link below and let him know. The more feedback he receives, the more likely it is he'll keep writing new stories. Most people think 'Epicureanism' means devotion to fine food. They're wrong. Those with a slightly better education think it means devotion to pleasure of all sorts. They're wrong too. Epicurus, the philosopher whom this school of thought is named after, taught that the pursuit of pleasure was the only appropriate goal of life; but he thought that there were higher and lower pleasures, and we should devote ourselves to the former. Dissolute, intemperate use of lower pleasures, like food, would dull us to higher ones, like philosophy. Even then, the higher pleasures should be taken sparingly, lest they-and we-become jaded, and spoiled. I only met Wonder Woman three times. But because I'm an Epicurean, in this original sense of the term, the fact that I may never meet her again doesn't trouble me. To expect more than what she's given me already would spoil me indeed. The first time was in Boston. I remember that whole period vividly, because it was an exciting time, in sharp contrast to everything that had gone before. Two years earlier I had been a grad student, living in a beat-up apartment next to a second-rate university in a third-rate town, slaving away at a dissertation I knew in my heart I would never finish. (It was an attempt to do a post-modern analysis of Euripides' Aeschylean parodies. I don't think the world is any poorer for its never being completed.) Bored and frustrated, I started a book about Greek drama and Greek philosophy, which discussed them both generally and tried to relate them to the problems of the contemporary world. It started as a hobby, but it quickly invaded time I should have been spending on my work. No surprise there; it was a lot more interesting, if I do say so myself. By the time it was finished, so was my funding and the patience of my advisor. I found myself kicked out of college, with nothing to show for my time there except my manuscript. That was rock bottom for me. Without school and without a job, I sat in my apartment, trying to figure out what to do with my life. What saved me was that manuscript: I had sent it to one of the bigger American publishers of general-reader non-fiction, and to my surprise they picked it up. I got a sizeable check-sizeable enough to pay off all my outstanding loans-and what was even more exciting, a book tour. The publishers wanted me to travel around the country, the east coast mostly, promoting my book at different bookstores. My travel, my accommodation, my meals, would all be paid for, and all I had to do was talk about my book to interested audiences. So I found myself bouncing from city to city, in a whirlwind of lectures, interviews, and appointments. I was being treated like an important intellectual, a celebrity. Small wonder I remember that time so well. Why was I, a first-time author of what should have been a niche book, being given such treatment? My timing was good. As the fates had it, my manuscript had crossed the publisher's desk right after Wonder Woman made her public debut. The Justice League had just defeated the Martian invasion, and world attention was on them all, but particularly on her. She had never been seen before; she hailed from a secret island of Amazons, where men were not allowed; she seemed to have powers in the Superman class; and most importantly of all, she was drop-dead gorgeous. All of these things meant the public eye was on her, and she kept it there. Apparently, she had left her home of Themascyra -'Paradise Island' - to be an ambassador for her people and a promoter of her way of life. So she was happy to talk to the media, and they were happy to talk to her. The result of all this was a sudden interest in all things having to do with Ancient Greece. My book arrived at just the right moment to catch that wave. Boston was one of the earliest stops on my book tour, I think because it has so many colleges; the publishers wanted to reach as many potential readers as they could, and these days college students are one of the few groups with the time, money, and inclination to read non-fiction. I was only there for one day, regardless. It was a full one: radio interview in the morning, lunch meeting with a publisher's rep, public lecture at Boston College in the afternoon, and then a book-signing at the LexBooks superstore in Cambridge. It was at the LexBooks that I met her for the first time. I was sitting at a desk in the back of the store, a line of people snaking out away from me through the aisles. One at a time they approached, I signed a book for them, and made brief small talk-"nice to meet you, thanks for coming out," and so forth. It had been a long day, and I was tired. I had only fifteen minutes more until the event ended and I could go back to the hotel, and I was counting the seconds. Then there was a commotion near the front of the store. I looked up with a frown; the line was parting, and there was a buzz of voices, everyone talking at once. Before I put together what was happening, the people in front of my table moved aside, and I saw her. She was in her costume, with the star-spangled tights, the metal belt, the golden corset, the unbreakable bracelets, the tiara, the works. I'm sure you've seen images of her, but seeing her in the flesh has an impact that no reproduction can match. Believe it or not, it's the eyes you notice first. Her gaze is firm, direct, intelligent; you look into those eyes and you know you're in the presence of someone more than mortal. Only then do you take in the rest of her-that dark hair, falling down around her in waves; that perfect face, heart-shaped; that clear, tanned, skin; that stern expression. It gives you a shock, like stepping into a blizzard without a coat on. At least, that's what it did for me. She stood before me, and put out her hand. "I am Diana of Themascyra. I am pleased to meet you." Her voice was a full, rich contralto. Glassily, I shook her hand. "The pleasure is all mine." Her grip was firm, but not painful. Later I remembered that this woman could tear steel with her bare hands; if I'd thought of that at the time, I might not have risked the handshake. "I read your book with great interest. It pleases me to see that the wisdom of my ancestors still has friends. The more people learn about their ways, the more people will understand, I hope, the value those ways have for them today." "Certainly, certainly. That's one of the points I wanted to make." She asked me something else, and I replied with a stock answer. I'd already had a great deal of practice at talking about the book, and was able to speak at length about my intentions without concentrating on it. At the moment, I was concentrating on her. The shock of her presence was fading, and with it my attention was being drawn to parts other than her face. Her figure was stunning: her waist was so small I almost thought I could encircle it in my hands, but her shoulders were broad, her arms and legs long and muscular, and her chest... her chest was spectacular. Her corset had to be at least a 38DD, but it seemed tight, ready to burst, her breasts straining to escape. As I took her in, I felt my crotch tightening and my voice become rougher. I resisted the urge to stare at her cleavage, but it was hard. As we spoke, her eyes crinkled slightly, and the faintest of smiles tugged at her lips. Damn, I thought. She knows exactly what effect she's having on me, and she doesn't mind a bit. I guess that's no surprise-why would she dress like that if she didn't want to show off what she has? We talked for a few minutes more, about what I can no longer recall, so entranced was I by her. The crowd had initially drawn back in awe; but slowly they began to press forward again. Diana saw it happening, and swiftly drew matters to a close. "Thank you again." She drew back slightly, and raised her voice. "I hope your book finds many readers." With a dazzling smile, she turned and strode forward. The crowd drew back in spite of itself, and she was gone. That was the first time. I never expected to see her again: she'd given her imprimatur, after a fashion, to my book, which was all she had wanted to achieve; I couldn't tell her anything she didn't already know; and she certainly wasn't interested in me as a person. I was just a means to the end of spreading her message to 'Patriarch's World', as she calls it. That didn't bother me; I approved of the Amazon code, being a Hellenist as I am. What little help I could give her, I had given. Or so I thought. The following day was a day off. My publishers had been pushing me pretty hard, doing New York, New Haven, Providence, and then Boston in four days straight, and each one full of events. They didn't want me to burn out, and I didn't want to either, so we had agreed that I'd take one day to be a tourist before catching a flight to Philadelphia and beginning the round of the mid-Atlantic states. Boston, of course, is a great place to be a tourist, what with its old buildings, universities, and museums. I planned to spend the day walking about and taking in the sights. My plan was cut short. Just before one in the afternoon I was ambling through Stoddard Green. (The Green, if you've never been to Boston, is a nice big patch of park, with some trees for shade.) I had just finished a tour of the Fourth Congregational Church, and I was crossing the lawn, thinking about lunch, when my thoughts were interrupted by a loud, piercing noise. I turned around just in time to see the church burst asunder in a massive fireball. The shock wave from the blast knocked me off my feet, and I lay on the ground, dazed. If I had dawdled even a little, I would be dead now, blown apart. I tried not to think about it as I staggered to my feet. I felt queerly doubled, or tripled. Part of me wondered why terrorists would choose this place to attack, for I naturally assumed that terrorists were behind it. I mean, it was a nice period piece, and Emerson had a pew there, but destroying that hardly seems worth the effort, I thought. Another part of me was checking to see if I was hurt at all, but I didn't seem to be. Most of me was fighting off the urge to run away, to where it might be safe. If anyone had survived, they would need to be found and sustained until professional help might arrive; I had to stick around and give whatever assistance I could. I had just turned toward the burning ruins of the church when another shockwave dashed me to the ground again. Rolling over, I saw that the statue in the center of the Green (I never found out of whom) had been reduced to a smoldering hunk of metal. What was going on here? I tried to stand, but couldn't manage it. The wind had been knocked out of me. From my new vantage point, I saw something I hadn't seen before. On the other side of the path I had been walking on, about thirty feet away on a small rise, stood a man. He wasn't running away, like all the other people I could see; but he would have been noteworthy anyway. He was wearing a long, purple robe with a pointed hat. He had a neat white beard, and was clutching a wooden staff. He looked like nothing so much as a wizard from a Hollywood movie. He could have stepped breathing from a commercial for one of those theme 'medieval-times' restaurants. As I watched he raised his free hand and muttered something, then pointed at a stand of trees in the distance. From nowhere a bolt of fire sizzled out of his fingers and smashed into it; the trees exploded. The sap, I thought, as I stared, paralyzed. The sap superheated, became gaseous, and dramatically increased in volume, and the tree couldn't contain it all. It's funny how detached you can become at moments of crisis. I had gotten my breath back, but I didn't get up. He was too close to me. He hadn't noticed me yet, but if I tried to run, he would. Then, if he wanted to hit me with one of his firebolts, he'd be able to. There was no way I could outrun magic spells. But you don't believe in magic, I thought. My opinions on the subject seemed due for revision. I kept still and waited for help to arrive. Right on cue, there was a flash in the sky. Wonder Woman sped into view, her costume glowing in the noonday sun. She was flying right towards the man in purple. She was incredibly fast; within moments she had arrived, hovering a few stories up. As fate had it, she was on the far side of the wizard from me; he turned to face her. She stared down at him, fixing him with a deadly stare. She was a terrifying sight. The previous day she had been relaxed, but now she held a warrior's stance; her legs and arms slightly bent, ready to strike. And this in mid-air! If I had been her enemy, I would have quailed. She spoke, her voice firm. "You! Vandal! I don't know why you have chosen to damage this park, and I don't care. Drop your staff and surrender yourself to me!" The wizard's voice was thin and reedy. He didn't seem to raise his voice, but I could hear him plainly-another spell, I suppose. "Wonder Woman. You have come." He cackled. "As I planned." He pointed at her and spoke. I could hear what he said, but it seemed just a bunch of nonsensical gibberish. Another bolt of fire sprang from his hand at Wonder Woman. With feline quickness she raised her arm and the bolt collided with the bracelet she wore on her left arm, ricocheting off into space. He tried again, but she deflected that bolt with her right. Now it was her turn; with blinding speed she grabbed the rope hanging at her side-her famous golden lasso-and in one quick motion cast the loop of it at him. She found her target; it seized him about his chest, pulling his arms in tight to his sides. He cursed, and struggled, but it was no use; he couldn't get free. Silently, Wonder Woman descended and walked toward him, keeping both hands on the lariat. I scrambled to my feet, as I thought the fight was over. I had only taken two steps toward them when I realized I was wrong. I heard the wizard speak again, a different spell this time, and his body seemed to bulge; he had turned himself into some sort of vapour. The lasso suddenly sagged and fell through his body to the ground. Wonder Woman was just as surprised as I was, which was bad; she wasn't ready for his next move. Solidifying again, he pointed at her and spat out some guttural words. I didn't see what he hit her with. It wasn't a firebolt, because there was no explosion, but it did the trick; with a cry, she was knocked backwards, falling to the ground. The wizard followed his last spell up with a string of them in whatever nasty language his magic used. Thanks to whatever charm was on his voice, I could hear them all. At his command, the earth twisted, and giant hands, made of the soil itself, sprang up, grabbing her arms and legs and pinning them to the ground. She was caught, spread-eagled, against the earth. With grunts and cries she tried to break free, but she couldn't seem to do it; she had no leverage and the soil-hands appeared to be too strong. The old man cackled as he shuffled toward her. "Wonder Woman. I knew you would come, if I provided the right bait." His voice was high-pitched and fragile, like rustling paper. "I had expected more fight from you. You provided little sport." All this destruction, I realized, had just been a trap to draw her out. She had realized the same thing. "You would destroy all this, menace so many people, just for sport?" Her voice was thick with contempt. "So much power used to so little purpose. You demean yourself." He sneered. "Don't flatter yourself, woman. This was not a mere lark. You have something I need." With a groan-clearly audible because of the charm on his voice-he bent down and picked up her lasso where it had fallen. "I wanted this." He groaned again and leaned on his staff as he straightened up. "I am in need of certain artifacts. This was the easiest to acquire." I couldn't see his face, but his voice dripped satisfaction. "It will be much more useful in my hands than in yours." "Take it and be gone, magician. But beware; that lasso is mine, and I shall come for it." "No.... No, I don't think so." Hanging the lasso from his own belt, he pointed a finger at her. She struggled, but the soil-hands held her fast. He began to mutter something, but broke off in mid-phrase. "You... I... hurmmm. Perhaps there is something else you can give me." His tone was lascivious. He chanted another charm, and more soil-hands sprang up. They grabbed at her corset and began to pull; the armour, already under tension, burst asunder. Her breasts bounced free. "You are an animal." Her voice was cold, but did not tremble. The soil-hands now pulled at her tights, tearing them off. I was too far off to get a good look, and wouldn't have wanted to in any case. Seeing Wonder Woman humiliated was embarrassing, not exciting. The wizard was enjoying himself, though. "Oh, my dear... you're truly a sight. I haven't had someone as fine as you in some time." Dropping his staff, he began to fumble with his robes. "I'm going to enjoy this..." All this time I had stood where I was, paralyzed with fear. All he had to do was turn his head and he would see me, and what would he do then? Strike me dead with some spell, in all likelihood, and perhaps the best I could hope for. His magic might be capable of all sorts of tortures or pains. At the moment, he was distracted by Wonder Woman's nakedness; naturally, the thought occurred to me that now I could run and he'd never see me go. Another thought followed immediately after, namely how unworthy such flight would be. I had written a book extolling the Greeks for their belief in virtue, their insistence that how one lived was more important than how long or how pleasantly. Wonder Woman had put her life on the line to stop this villain; was I going to let her be raped, and probably killed, just to eke out another few decades of life? A life where I would have to live with my own cowardice and shame? I didn't think so. Slowly I began to walk toward the wizard. I walked, rather than ran; swift movement, I reckoned, might attract his attention. I didn't know what I could do against a man who could throw fireballs, turn into smoke, or command the earth; probably nothing. Probably I would die here. But better an honorable death than a dishonorable life. The wizard couldn't see me, but Wonder Woman could. She spoke to the wizard, but I knew she was addressing me too. "Don't do this. You don't know what dangers you are provoking. Whatever happens to me, I'll survive, and in the end I'll find victory. Stop now, and leave this place." Third Time's the Charm Sitting in the truck, driving around, my nipples harden as sex glitters on my mind. Him. Doggie style. Hands on my ass. Moving freely, pounding in my tight, wet pussy. Pulls my hips closer to him and squirts in me while moaning loudly. One blow, releasing it. Second pound, still oozing in me. Third shove, and he's done, folds. Sits still with his hands clutching my hips as he waits for the sensitivity of his cock to settle down in my cunt, moving a little more in me in tune with hi slackening orgasm. Shit. So hot. Man, I wonder if my cock would like that image as much as his pussy does. She's throbbing right now, practically screaming. Wetness is dampening my jeans. I grab the palm of his that isn't on the wheel and kiss it, wishing he could just yank his pants off and pop into my sopping little number or that I could mount him and cum again, this time squirt all over his dick and fondling finger. Crap. If I don't stop thinking, I'm going to slip my hand in his jeans and fondle him. Quickly, I close my brain (how helpful...not) while still holding his hand. Once my hormones have calmed down, I smile at him and kiss the back of his hand quickly, admiringly, rubbing it, thinking how big and masculine his hands are in comparison to my diminutive female ones (that's actually a bit of a hyperbole, but his hands make mine look small). My eyes snake to his wrists and up his arms to the biceps his dark blue shirt is concealing. Holding his right hand against my thigh with my left, I reach with my free hand, the one nearest the window, and impulsively lift his sleeve so I can gaze at his bulging muscles. The look so thick...I have never gotten so much pleasure from looking at a guy's arms. Without thinking, I kiss his sexy arm while shoving his fingers in my jeans, where my dripping girl waits in her lair. A finger slides up as I start sucking on his arm. "Baby, you're so wet," he whispers as I clutch his prodding fingers. "I know," I breathe unconsciously, my mind unable to focus on anything but the finger pushing in me even though it is not as good as the big thing in his pants. Despite the sweet fucking my pussy is getting, I somehow manage to unzip his jeans and slip my mouth around his cock, his girl screaming louder at the sight of his naked maleness poking out of the hole in his boxers. Man. He has no idea how sexy HE is. Oh shit...my tongue dips down and licks his balls into my mouth. Mm. I've never tried to grab his balls in my mouth while I sucked on him before. And I'm so aroused now that I want to yank my jeans off, get between his legs, and suck for the life of me. Unfortunately, he is driving, so as he unbuckles my seatbelt, I just roll on my belly, hump his hand, and suck from a lying position, moving my mouth up and down faster than he is driving, my mouth trying to hold his thick cock and huge balls in at once. He stops the car. I wriggle off my jeans and, wet as I am, slip right on him. My teeth nibble on his neck. "That's one sweet pussy," he moans before pressing his lips against my cheek, his slight stubble pricking my feminine flesh. I lift my lips to meet his, pushing my hungry body against his and ri-I-iding him as I flick my tongue in his mouth and rub his rugged cheek with my fingers. My left nipple pokes at his chest from beneath my shirt, nuzzling his, and as he gets his tongue sucked by my vacuum of a mouth, he lifts up my pink tube top and rubs my nipples and the soft mountains of flesh bordering them. "Oh, yes!" he groans as his caressing fingers make my speed increase slightly. "Fuck that cock!" So sexy he is. Man, I love this! Leaning forward, I wrap my arms around his neck as I press my belly against his, continuing to lift and lower. Kissing his forehead and convulsing from the hands harassing my sensitive nipples (making me wetter), I murmur, "I love your face; I love your chest..." Gazing into his eyes with yearning in mine, I add, parting my lips slightly, "I love your eyes; I love your big, hard cock; I love your wet pussy..." Grinning from the way I placed my pussy in his possession, I blurt out, "I love you," without thinking. Kissing his ear, I whisper, "Fuck me, baby. Fuck me." He pushes me down against the seat and starts pounding me roughly, my moistness drowning his cock. I moan. "Oh, god! Fuck that little pussy! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!" I groan, holding on tightly to his shoulders. The way he looks at me makes my lips press against him. God. I want him to feel so good all over until he has lost his mind and cums so completely...I suck his lip into my mouth and moan as his chest brushes against my stimulated nipples. In and out. Sopping wetness clutching him. "You are too hot, damn it!" I breathe, staring at his face, watching him gaze at the girl between my legs getting pounded by the boy between both of our legs. Lowering my eyes a bit, I look too and release a strangled moan from the pleasure that sight with this feeling of rapture brings me. I've never been so wet or felt so...oh god, aching for it as I have since he reopened my rust. Then I have to ruin it (at other times) by getting sore...but I figure going through the pain will strengthen me for later times. I just hope I'm right...I don't want to have to stop quickly every time we do it. For now, I don't want to think about anything but how hard and fast he is thrusting into my river. "Oh, god!" he moans, grabbing my hips and pushing faster. I try to think about how good it feels for him and find myself kissing his cheeks, his chin, his nose, his lips... "I love it when your cock penetrates me like that!" I moan, kissing his neck with fervor. "It's so sexy any way because it's your penis, but with it poking out of your boxers like that...I'm losing my mind! Damn, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!" I whimper. Ooh. Faster. Harder. Skyrocketing me into a heavy orgasm...I squirt on his cock from the soft feel of his boxers teasing my poor little clit andgasp for breath as he loses himself in my overdose of wetness... When he finally stops, his face freezes. "Uh-oh." "What?" I wonder, kissing his hand, curious as to what is the matter. Glancing around, I don't see a single cop car bordering us. Pulling out of me, he sighs. That's when I notice it. Sticking my finger in my hole, I get a bit of goop and bring it to my mouth. Pleasantly surprised (but more shocked), I whisper, "You came in me?" He sighs. "I just...lost it. Forgot everything." Grinning like the cat who swallowed the canary, all I can utter is, "Oh." Inside, a bird is chirping its bliss. He cups my face in his hands and kisses me quickly but still looks worried, and words return (though I am smiling inside at his sweet gesture, I want to ease him). "We can't take it back, but don't worry, honey. Most likely, I won't get pregnant. Only two days a month," I babble, "though sperm can live about three days at most, so if we have it on one of five days, it's possible...but, yeah, just try not to worry, okay, sweetie?" "Okay." He almost smiles. Wish I knew how to get a big grin on his face...or how to make absolute sure he won't worry about it, but I know once I get on my period again, he will be fine. As he zips up his jeans, I sit up and wrestle my shirt and bra on. Funny how I used to always put my pants on first but swapped when I stopped wearing pants to bed to please my roving hand. Started maybe only three or four months before he hit on me...my uncle...my favorite guy in the world... Shifting my butt up to yank my jeans over my hips, a nice, sticky feeling licks at the tips of my thighs. "Oh my god! I can feel it slipping out of my pussy!" I gasp, aroused. "Damn! Now I want seconds of your cock! Your sperm-maker..." "You'll get more," he promises, sipping his vodka. "I really can't feel it when you cum in me though I wish I could, but, you know, the aftermath...it's so sexy knowing that knot of thickness in my pussy flowing out is from you. Our cum mixed together...I know it's no big deal for you, but for me, it's damn hot." It is all I can do not to shove him back down on the seat of the truck and mount him again, my boobs in his face. And I just came! I just squirted! I shouldn't be craving more at this time...but I can't get enough... Remembering that I just came causes me to realize how winded down I am. Grabbing the box of Marlboro Lights from the dashboard, I pull my lighter out of my pocket at the same time. Opening the box, I pull out the first cigarette my fingers come in contact with. Pressing down on the lighter, I inhale the fumes until it is burning the cigarette. Quietly, I roll the window down and shiver as the lack of heat preys on my bare arms. Damn. Even if I were clad in a skirt, my legs wouldn't bother me much because they're protected down away from the window. My arms stick out like a sore thumb and seem to entice the cold. As I sit, shivering slightly and freezing my butt off, I wish I had his jacket on right now. It is comfy, smells faintly of him, and looks like him (his style of clothing, not his face). And, really, of my own jackets, I always need at least two in order to be warm. His jacket is warm enough solo. Sucking on the cigarette, I grin wickedly. I cannot believe I squirted! The only thing I've squirted on before his ("my") cock was my vibrator, and only once. Flicking my gaze at him, I think to myself that it goes to show how great sex is with him. But man do I wish I were old enough to be in charge of my hormones when he doesn't feel like it...unless this is what I get for loving sex so much and would, therefore, never tire of him no matter how often we do it for how many years, I most likely will still want more because of the way I was born... Well, duh. I've known him forever. Of course it's the best. Honestly, sometimes I think we're like Monica and Chandler on Friends. Kinda mixed up though. I'm like Chandler in that in the back of my mind, I've wanted him for years (me, forever; Chandler would have gone for Monica if she'd wanted him after she lost all that excess weight) but didn't think he'd go for me. Both of us joke around like Chandler, but my uncle is funnier and I do it for the reason Chandler does—insecurity (and, okay, they just come to me). I'd also say I'm as bad at relationships as Chandler...and I guess I'm a little hot like Monica. Truthfully, when I started watching Fiends a couple of years ago, I say some minor similarities between my uncle's and Chandler's faces (not sure exactly what), and let's just say Chandler was my favorite friend. I couldn't get enough of him on the screen because he reminded me of the man I wanted the most...not that I told anyone that my uncle was the reason Chandler was my favorite character. But I guess the reason we're most like Chandler and Monica is how one day we got in bed after knowing each other years and it didn't feel weird. Perfect, more like.... And now we're the best the other had. And I know no one can be better than him because he has loved me longer than any other guy ever could...well, any other guy I'd ever take my clothes off for anyway. And I want him to be my last because I like saving the best for last... "Bad girl," I mumble at the throbbing of his pussy. My uncle's hand moves forward, and he takes another sip of vodka. Smiling at his hand, I wish I were better at body language, wish I could understand him better by merely observing him, but I'm scared I'll guess wrong. Therefore, I just have to make do with asking him question after question to try to figure out how his mind works, not just in bed but everyday situations. It isn't like he bites my head off when I wonder who just called and stuff. I'm just trying to let him know I'm interested and care about his life. I just hope he knows that's why I do it and doesn't think I'm prying, but he seems to...since he never gets mad at me. Smilign, I think hard, I adore you! so loudly that it is strange that it doesn't slip out. Then again, I don't want to say it too much, and right now, it feels like just thinking it and being overwhelmed by tender feelings for him is enough. I smoke one last puff before allowing my cigarette to fly out the window, taking care not to burn myself again. Dredging up how I tend to burn my flesh occasionally when trying to release a cigarette out the window causes me to recall the sore on his finger that occurred when I passed him back a cigarette one time. All of a sudden, I want to kiss his finger. That image makes me remember how he once sucked on one of my fingers for a few minutes. Pure sexual bliss/teasing. Oh man, oh man! Now my thoughts are drifting to what we did afterwards...him carrying me with his cock still in my pussy. Me riding him on the floor. Him forgetting where we were and being kinda loud and thoroughly appealing. Thank god we didn't get caught. That wouldn't be hot. If we get caught, we most likely won't get to do it ever again, which would be awful for me. I just like it when he is loud and sensual, like it when my pussy feels so good to him that he forgets everything. Or maybe it was the vodka. Scowl on my lips. Whatever. I want it to have been me, so I'll just not ask him and assume I was the one who clouded his mind. Works for me. That way, if it wasn't his special girl, I'll still think it was and remain jovial. I know and accept that vodka helps get it up, but I figure it just warms his blood and I do the rest, so I'm still doing my part. If he drank it with a guy, I figure, nothing would arouse him unless thoughts of me slip in. Ah, women and their wish to be the only reason their man owns to get his soldier erect. I find myself wondering for a fleeting moment if his fiancé had wanted that too but hastily push the thought away. He's mine now. Not hers. I don't need to be jealous. Looking at him, I rub his nearest shoulder and realize that I'm not envious of his past relationships. He's with me now. That's all that matters at this moment. And he wants me, not them, so how could I possibly be green-eyed thinking about them? Affectionately, I kiss his sexy cheek and again mumble, "Mm, I love you—" without thinking. Oops! Too much, too much! He gets the freakin' point! "—Hoo," I quickly add to conceal my blemish. "I'm really thirsty and crave a freakin' Yoo-Hoo." Thanks to my hasty clip-on, yeah, actually, I could go for a Yoo-Hoo. The taste and softness can melt my drying mouth. With a sly grin, I add, "I might enjoy dropping a bit on your cock and licking it off. Or slathering your hard-on in god-knows-what and licking it off...I know, shut up, shut up," I add quickly when he says nothing. Root Beer is typically my number one choice, but right now, with the harsh, desert-like amount of dryness settling in my mouth, not to mention, remembering how soft the drink is, I want the chocolate drink. Because he is nice, he stops his truck at a gas station, gets out, and gets me a drink. Handing the Yoo-Hoo to me, he throws a couple of boxes of cigarettes in the middle of the long truck seat, the space between us. "Thanks!" I utter appreciatively before he trots to the other side to get in. I know he cannot get me something every time I'm thirsty, so of course I'm grateful. If he hadn't been so generous, I wouldn't have held it against him. He tries, and that's all I need. I think he will do something for me maybe nine times out of ten that I ask, but still those times that he doesn't make me feel good inside when he manages to do something for me. He lights a cigarette when he pulls out of the parking lot. The car in front of him is going slow. "Stupid bitch," he mutters at her. As he drives me to the house, I drain my bottle of the rich drink. My tongue flicks across my lips for two reasons: 1) it tastes good, and 2) I want to see if the vodka is working. He doesn't notice though, and once we enter his neighborhood, I behave. I don't even glance at the room my grandparents sleep in, and my uncle just waves and says hi (I think...I don't turn back around, but I hear his voice behind me and his footsteps are practically at my heels). We make our way upstairs, to his bedroom. He locks the door, and I start to take off my shirt before remembering the night he said, "Put your shirt back on. Please." Cheeks heating from how stupid I can be, I flop on his bed. Slithering under his cozy blue comforter, I watch him sit his drink down and slide next to me. He kisses my lips. Enthralled, I throw my arms around him and kiss him back with m palms on his manly chest, neck tilting back, eyes closing for a second...but looking at him is so enjoyable that I open my eyes again after only a split second. He holds me tightly and gives me my first real make-out session. "Just enjoy it," he whispers against my mouth. "Relax." I am not used to this. I'm used to having my life raced through. I don't really know how to slow down, but I want to try...though quickies are essential at times.  His tongue slips wetly in my parted mouth, and I suck on it, aching for him to fill me...oh, baby. "Are you okay?" he questions, for tears are building up. "Yeah, sorry," I blink. "Left my eyes opened too long." Closing my eyes to relax them, I push my lips gently against his then lightly caress his bottom lip with the mere tip of my tongue, giving as little pressure as possible, thinking soft like a feather. Truth is, I want to jump his bones. I want to enjoy every moment that I can of him pounding me. I can't get enough. But, again, I've never known what it was to make out until my brain turns to much and instinct takes over... "Want to try some wine? Maybe that will relax you." I snap out of it. Licking my lips and staring at him like I want him badly (and I do), I interrogate, "Um, do you have some you think I'll like?" He reaches under his mattress and supplies me with a bottle. Grinning sheepishly, I take a sip. His fingers lightly caress my belly before reaching up to play with my boobs. "Oh, yeah," I whisper as his special girl aches for him to fuck her roughly. "Do your girls feel good in your hands?" He nods; I want him to strip and let me play with his soldier, but I'm scared to try, afraid he will shove my hands away. I envision yanking his boxers and jeans down his hips and playing with his softie (actually, I think it is up now, but in my fantasy, it is soft), holding it in my mouth, sucking and moaning excitedly on it, licking it until it starts, slowly, to rear back and peer in my mouth for a place to cum. He doesn't shove me away once in my daydream. "Is the wine okay?" he wonders. "Yeah, actually, it's fine." Another sip. "Well, okay, it's pretty good." I smile, kick my jeans off, roll on his blanket, and lift my legs in the air. Licking my thighs, he says, "You just want to get pregnant, huh?" (He told me this joke: What two things can get a girl pregnant? Her legs.) Grinning widely at him, I chirp, "Maybe!" and lift my shirt for him to ogle his girls. He licks closer to his special girl as I take another sip of wine. My heart is beating a little faster from the ache my pussy has for him to just ram his damn tongue in her. Then he starts lapping at me but doesn't connect his tongue with my flesh, and the yearning for him to fill me up with my cock nearly blinds me, especially when he blows a breath right in my throbbing wet hole. I barely stifle the urge to lift my butt off the bed and hump his sexy face. I position my legs on his shoulders, and he starts tracing my pussy lips with his tongue, ignoring my wetness completely, thumbing my thigh. I want him to plunge in me again. Dammit. The memory of his hot cum shooting in my pussy taints my mind, and I grab his head and compress his special girl into his cheek. He lifts onto his knees and starts rubbing his cock against my moist hole, and I nearly groan from the excitement of our most intimate parts touching. Third Time's the Charm "Please!" I whisper loudly in his ear. "Oh, please, baby, fuck me!" He places his cock between us so that the head is on my clit and the staff compressed against my hole. Before I know what is happening, he is pounding me roughly, telling me in deep, sexy whispers how badly he wants inside of me—thrust—and what he wants to do to me. "Oh my god!" I breathe in his ear. "Harder, faster...I'm going to squirt!" He starts kissing my face as I clutch his shoulders, and his cock moves as fast as a hummingbird and hard as a rock. I squirt all over him, and he dives smoothly into my wet hole immediately afterwards and gets off like that, pulling out at the last possible second, cumming on my tits. "Oh, god," I pant wonderingly. "That was...oh god, so good," I murmur, stroking his hair and feeling so happy and grateful. "Thanks for that." I feel like two years' worth of tension has left my shoulders. Lowering my head to his chest, I slide under the covers, wanting to lovingly grab his cock but refraining for fear that he will shoo me away. Exhausted after that mind-blowing endeavor, I murmur, "If you want more, wake me up," and with that, I close my eyes and drift off. It feels like I just shut my eyes when he grabs my finger and starts sucking on it. Due to the fact that the double squirting made me purely exhausted, five minutes, two hours, or anywhere between could have passed. I open my eyes and look at him. He licks my finger and kisses my cheek as he lowers my hand to his crotch. He is looking at me like I'm the only girl on earth, and his crotch is so nice and hard that without telling me, I find myself mounting him. "Oh. Oh, god. Oh, oh, baby!" I groan as I start humping him faster. "Damn! Oh, god! Oh, honey!" He grabs my nipple and starts pinching and twirling it in his fingers, making me hump even quicker and lowering my mouth to his. I squeeze eagerly on his cock, and he mutters, "Oh, yeah, Selena, fuck that cock." "It's so big and hard!" I moan, feeling fully aroused. "Oh, honey, god!" He rolls on top of me and fucks me so hard that I bite back screams of pleasure. And again, he pulls out at the last possible second and releases his thick cum on my belly. I press my shirt against it and kiss his cheek tenderly as he collapses on the bed. "That was so amazing!" I breathe. "God, I love it when you cum for me! Three times!" I purr before settling back on his chest, feeling so aroused as I kiss his sexy chest quickly before drifting back to sleep, feeling so happy to be with the best. Third Time's the Charm The wizard was now fifteen feet away from me. Walking toward him this slowly was terrifying. All I wanted to do was run away, but I kept going forward. The wizard gestured and the soil-legs pulled Wonder Woman's legs farther apart. He stopped fumbling with his robes. Ten feet away. He leaned over her, grunting and gasping. He wasn't doing anything to her that I could see, which meant he was doing something to himself-getting himself warmed up, I guess. I was glad I couldn't see it. Five feet away. Wonder Woman, seeing me approach, spoke again, this time to the old man, making sure his attention was on her. "Justice is coming for you, old man. You cannot escape it." "Something's coming for you, my dear. Or it will be in a moment..." He laughed, a series of reedy snorts, at his own pun. I reached down and picked up his staff. My hand sang with pain, and I screamed; it was like holding an icicle. He turned, startled, but I had found my grip, and I swung the staff at his ankles. The blow wasn't forceful, but he was an old man. He fell over with a yelp. He began to chant, but I struck him again with the staff, over the head this time, and he shut up. I was reeling from the pain in my hand. I tried to drop the staff, but I couldn't, it was stuck to my hand. The pain was shooting up my arm. A blue curtain rose up, covering me. I couldn't see. I couldn't feel anything but my arm. I think I screamed again, but I'm not sure. I don't remember anything after that. So that was the second time I met Wonder Woman, when I saved her from Magnus, Enchanter of the Fifth House. (That was the old man's name, as it turned out.) Most of the time we spent together, I was unconscious. I woke up in a hospital, alone, with my left hand and arm in bandages. I expected to lose them to frostbite, but the doctors told me there was no long-term damage to me. Whatever defensive enchantment was on that old man's staff, it attacked the nerves directly; but it only exercised them, rather than damaging them. I was weak, and it took a few days for sensation to return, but other than that I was fine. No one could tell me much about what had happened. Everybody knew that Wonder Woman had brought me in herself. She had flown right up to the Emergency Room doors, with me under one arm and Magnus under the other. She had entrusted me to the hospital's care, then flew to a police station, where she had had Magnus locked up. Shortly afterwards both of them had disappeared in a burst of light, he from the cells, she from the captain's office where she was explaining what had happened. She turned up again a few days later, patrolling the city as normal; when people asked her about what had happened, she said merely that Magnus and his confederates were now beyond the reach of the courts, but that they would no longer be a threat to the city. She refused to discuss the subject further. The city and state governments declined to pursue the matter; clearly, fireball-wielding wizards were more the Justice League's department than the Massachusetts Attorney General's office. People asked me about what I knew, but I kept mum. To explain what had happened I would need to explain just how I had managed to get so close to Magnus without being noticed, and I didn't want to embarrass Wonder Woman on that score. When she had dropped me off, she had been fully clothed in her uniform, as my roundabout questions of the staff had established. I couldn't guess how she had managed it, but however it was done, it meant that her near-rape was not public knowledge. I thought it best to keep it that way. After a few days of observation, I was released from the hospital. My publishers postponed the rest of my trip, giving me a chance to convalesce, which was fine with me. Even though I wasn't physically hurt, I was shaken by the whole experience, and some time to myself was just what I needed to feel better. My father had left me a cottage in northern Michigan when he passed away a few years before, so I went there to convalesce. The accommodations were Spartan-a kitchenette, small living room, and bedroom-but it had its virtues: it was isolated in the woods, so I had total privacy. There was time to sleep in, read for pleasure, and take solitary hikes. These things were just what I needed to recuperate. My once-a-week trips into town for supplies were all the human contact I needed, or so I thought. The knock at the door came one evening just after dusk. I had been dozing on the couch in the living room, a slim volume of Terence forgotten in my lap. Hearing the knock, I sat up with a start. I certainly hadn't been expecting anyone. I staggered to my feet and opened the door. Not the wisest of moves, perhaps-it could have been someone up to no good-but I was still slightly groggy and wasn't thinking straight. Opening the door, I became even more confused. "May I come in?" asked Wonder Woman. I stood there, jaw dangling slackly, staring at her. Part of my voicelessness was due to surprise: I hadn't expected ever to see her again, much less in my cottage. Most of it, though, was due to her: she had the same aura of power she'd had in the bookstore. It banished one's presence of mind. After a moment, I stammered something and stood aside, and allowed her in. She brushed past me in the doorway, her shoulder pressing alongside mine, and that brief contact was electric. My mouth dried and my crotch stiffened. I've already mentioned how her costume (that's what she was wearing) made an alluring package; and just feeling her, even inadvertently, set my hormones flowing. Get a hold of yourself, man, I thought. You're acting like a teenager on his first date. I tried desperately not to think about her body and how exciting even the brief connection between the two of us had been. She had come here for a reason, and what it might be I couldn't guess; the last thing I wanted to do was come off as unrefined or rude. "Please, sit down. Make yourself comfortable. May I offer you something to drink?" She sat down on the couch-the only place to sit-and looked up at me with a smile. My knees felt like water. "Something to drink would be nice; it was a tricky flight." "There's distilled water, and milk; oh, and some red wine, if you'd like it." "Wine, please." While I opened the bottle, found some glasses, and poured the wine, I asked, "To what do I owe the honour of this visit? And did you say you flew here?" "Yes, I flew. I'm not as fast as the Flash, but Hermes is one of my patrons, so I have some ability to travel quickly when I want to. It took less than an hour to get to here from Boston, and that included tracking down this cottage." "How did you find it?" I put the glasses on a tray and carried it over to the couch. Setting it on the side table, I sat down on the other end of the couch. It was a small one, though; we were only a few feet apart. "I inquired at the hospital, and they told me you'd mentioned you were coming to a family place in Michigan. The League database told me where the property was, and I have some experience tracking down sites from the air." She sipped her wine. "This is nice. Thank you. As to why I came..." She put her wineglass down on the table and looked at me. "I have two reasons. The first is to explain just what sort of incident you fell into during our encounter on the Green. The second was to thank you for saving my life." I was unsure of how to respond. Several clichés came to me-"it was nothing," "you'd have done the same for me," "it was my pleasure," and so on-but I refused to sink to platitudes. While I was thinking, she continued: "That man we fought; his name was Magnus of the Fifth House. He was a member of a band of wizards. It's best, I think, if I don't tell you too much about them. Suffice to say that this coven had decided to... summon... a being to our world from outside, a being of particular malevolence and power. I don't know why; perhaps they expected gratitude or a reward from it once it got here, though I find it hard to believe they could be so naive. Anyway, to do this thing, they needed to harness the power of several magical artifacts, to use as a battery of sorts for their spell. Magnus chose to try and take my golden lasso. He would have succeeded, too, if you hadn't stepped in." Clearly, that was my cue to say something clever, but I still hadn't thought of anything. "I'll tell you", she went on, "what I didn't tell the media or authorities, because you have a right to know. Magnus' compatriots were able to rescue him, and abduct me, but the League and I, after some... difficulties... were able to track him and the rest down and halt their plan. He won't pose a threat to the world, or to you, any more." She looked at me expectantly. "I see," I murmured quietly. "To be honest, I hadn't considered the possibility he might come back for revenge against me." "Oh, he would have. He was a small, petty man, with more power than such a person should hold. Don't worry, though. Although he isn't dead, he is now imprisoned in a place he'll never be able to escape." She gave my knee a comforting squeeze. Comforting, but also exhilarating. The fire her touch had given me before sprang up again. My toes clenched, and my crotch stiffened once more. I tried to meet her gaze without blushing, and hoped she wouldn't notice. "I want you to understand. What you did was very dangerous. If Magnus had seen you coming, he could have blasted you to ash, or frozen your blood, or ripped out your heart with a word. He had powerful spells of protection on him; if you had hit him with your fist, or a rock, or anything put a powerful magical weapon, you would have been struck dead for your pains. You were very lucky you chose to strike him with his own staff, and that he had guarded his staff less well than his person. "What you did was also not strictly necessary. Given a few more moments, I could have escaped the bonds I was in; they were strong, but not, ultimately, stronger than I was. Believe me that when I say this, I speak from experience: Magnus and I fought again, before the end. His attentions, had you not intervened, would have been unpleasant, but he would not have been able to kill me. I suspect I would ultimately have had the victory." Her voice softened. "But think me not ungrateful! You put yourself at considerable risk, because you thought my life and my... my 'honour' were in jeopardy. You must never do something like that again; the next time a superhuman battle erupts around you, you'll serve yourself and your protectors best if you get out of harm's way. But, this time, I thank you for what you did. I am in your debt." She bobbed her head slightly, in acknowledgement. Was it just my imagination, or did her gaze brush across my lap? I struggled to control myself. "There is no debt," I managed, aping her courtly style of speech. "True virtue consists of doing the right thing, regardless of cost. You and your colleagues put yourself at risk every day for the sake of others. I did it only once. You deserve my thanks much more than I deserve yours." I nodded my head as she had done. She looked at me closely for a long moment, and her grave expression slowly gave way to a smile. "As you say." She continued to pierce me with her gaze, as if weighing and measuring me. She seemed to come to a decision. "Nonetheless, I am in your debt, not least for your discretion." She gestured at her chest and hips. Following her gaze, my breath caught. My erection was raging, now. I was certain she knew it was there. I kept still, not wanting to make it more prominent than I was sure it was. "There are enough rape fantasies about me out there already, I imagine; that flame needs no more fuel. So. Is there anything that I can do for you, to settle the balance between us?" My palms were sweaty, my mouth was dry, and my cock was stiff as a board. There was something she could do for me, any number of things. But I would not embarrass us both by naming them. "No," I rasped. "It was my pleasure." I winced internally, but it had been the first thing to pop into my head. "I don't need any reward." She smiled at me again, but this time it was smoky, not bright. She shook her head slightly. "Men," she said. "Why do I always have to make the first move?" She leaned forward and gently gripped my shoulders. Shocked, I didn't move. She pulled herself in toward me until that beautiful face filled my vision. She kissed one cheek, and then the other, and then pressed her lips up against mine. In a moment our tongues met. It was a deep kiss. After a long moment, she broke away. "How was that?" she whispered. "Does that count against what I owe you?" "You don't have to-" I began. "I know I don't have to," she breathed. "I want to." She pressed in against me and we kissed again, harder this time. Before, surprised, my arms had laid limp at my sides, but I wasn't surprised any more, or reluctant either. I reached up and ran my hands through her long silky hair, parting it with my fingers and stroking its length. She broke our kiss and purred. "I like that..." She bent forward and kissed me again. I felt her shift her weight, and suddenly she was no longer sitting next to me on the couch, but was sitting on my lap, her legs spread on either side of me, her thighs pressed up against mine. (Later I thought about how difficult a trick that must have been to pull off, to move like that without breaking liplock with me. For obvious reasons, I couldn't see what she did. I suspect a combination of flight and litheness.) Her hair fell around on me in a wave. It smelled clean, with hints of spice. Her weight bore down on my already-stiff crotch; the pressure was painful and exciting at the same time. She felt me shudder, and deliberately ground herself against me; I gasped in spite of myself. Then the pressure released, and I realized she was flying, her body suspended just above mine. "Let's get more comfortable, shall we?" Her voice was husky. She reached down and pulled at my flannel workshirt. Gripping the sides firmly, she tore it open in one smooth motion. Buttons flew everywhere. Gripping the back of my collar, she pulled again, and my shirt, now tattered and torn, fell away from me. So much for 'why do I always have to make the first move?' I thought. She likes to take charge. And I didn't mind a bit. "Now it's my turn." With sure fingers, she reached behind and undid her belt, which she tossed aside. Then, gripping her corset, she pulled it over her head in one smooth motion. Her breasts, now free, bounced and quivered. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. They were every bit as huge as I had imagined, round, full, and perfectly proportioned. Her nipples were tiny pink buds on her small dark aureoles. Despite their vast size, her breasts still pointed perkily upwards, as if in defiance of gravity. It didn't seem possible. As I stared, gape-mouthed, Diana chuckled. "Aphrodite is one of my patrons, you know. Thanks to her, I am as supernaturally gifted at love as I am at battle. Wouldn't you agree?" She leaned forward. Slowly those titanic breasts engulfed me. I reached up and cupped the sides with my hands. They were so soft, so warm, so pleasant. I lay there, holding them to my face, while she hovered in front of me, quietly humming some tune and gently rubbing my shoulder blades. I don't know how long I stayed there, in her embrace; minutes at least. I felt perfectly relaxed, every part of me loose and at ease. Every part of me except my cock, that is. That was as hard as stone, and screaming to be released from its cloth prison. She gently pulled away from me. "You like that, hmmm?" She pulled back into space, hovering in the lotus position, just within arm's reach. She reached out and gently stroked my cock through my pants, giving it a tiny squeeze. "Yes, I can see that you do." Again, she took matters into her own hands: she grabbed my trousers at the top of my fly and tore: the fabric parted easily in her grip, revealing my tent-like boxer shorts. She repeated this move on them, and my cock sprang to attention, up at a sharp angle. Smiling seductively, she gripped her star-spangled tights and pulled them down, managing somehow to pull them over her boots in a single, graceful maneuver. I wish, now, that I could have a photo of that scene: me, essentially naked, with just fragments of my shirt and pants hanging off of my body, particularly my legs; and her, half-dressed in her Wonder Woman costume-tiara, earrings, bracelets, and boots, but no more. Normally I preferred to make love perfectly nude, and my partner the same way, but in this case, her partial costume was intensely arousing. Don't ask me why. Without warning, Diana reached out and grabbed me, pushing her arms under mine and pulling me close. Pulled up against her, her breasts pressing hard against my chest and her cheek to mine, she lifted me up into the air. The experience was uncanny, although I must admit I was as intoxicated by her closeness as by the flying. Although she'd never been in my cabin before, she had correctly worked out which room was the bedroom; we flew around the couch and through the open doorway, and she gently deposited us on my bed, a solid affair of wood and brass I'd inherited from my parents. I lay on my back, head on the pillows, but she didn't come to rest next to me; instead, she rose up again, a few inches above me, and drifted down the bed, until her head hovered just over my swollen prick. Without a word, she set to work. Her tongue, moist and pink, darted out and began licking me, starting at the tip and working down to the base of my shaft, then back up again. Each brush was firm, more like a stroke than a caress; I suppose her tongue muscles are as potent as the rest. It felt good, but so inadequate, so much less than I needed, and I began to jerk my pelvis upwards. She looked at me with a raised eyebrow. "Naughty..." she murmured. She wasn't cruel, though; she knew what I wanted. Staring directly into my eyes, she took me into her mouth. It was exquisite. At first she just took the head, bobbing up and down on it, her cheeks dimpling as she rolled it around her mouth, her tongue flicking around the sides and brushing against it. I settled back, relaxed, and watched her. Her hair threatened to fall in front of her face, but her tiara held it back, except for a few wisps; I could see what she was doing. Her round eyes watched me as she sucked at the tip of my cock; she made little moans of pleasure as she did so. Suddenly she broke contact, pulling away. "How was that? Was it good?" she asked archly. I groaned in pleasure and desire. She giggled-she giggled!-and went back to her work. This time she was serious. Her hands reached under my body and grabbed my buttocks. Squeezing slightly, she braced herself against me and took all of me in. I'd never been deepthroated before, and I suspect I never will be again, at least like that. Her superhuman powers make her, I think, the most talented fellatrice in the world. She took the whole length of my shaft, and she didn't gag, and she didn't come up for air. Somehow, she tightened her throat muscles, contracting and expanding them, creating rushes of pressure and pleasure along my member. (And all the while, she massaged my ass with her hands.) She held that position for long moments, and then pulled back so she only had the head in her mouth; a few strokes of the tongue, and she deepthroated me again. I was so entranced that I don't know how long she used her mouth on me, but it was a while. When I approached climax, she took it easier; then, when I had relaxed, she sped up again. I know she deepthroated me at least four times before, finally, I couldn't take it anymore. She knew it, too, from my moans, and made the most of it: she pulled back so she had the head in her mouth and furiously bobbed on it, sucking and sucking until, in a final burst of pleasure, I came. She swallowed quickly, but even so small streams of come escaped her lips and trickled down my shaft. She kept going, working me until I had finished, then she conscientiously licked me clean. Third Time's the Charm Spent, I relaxed, my body sinking down into the mattress. With a final brush of my now-shrunken cock, she levitated up the bed. With some abrupt gestures, she removed her boots and bracelets, which clattered to the floor, leaving her naked except for her jewelry. She then descended, slowly coming to rest at my side. She rested her head on my shoulder, one arm across my chest and one leg draped possessively over my lower body. We lay together in what was, for me, a post-coital glow. After a moment, I spoke. "Thank you." My voice was hoarse and soft. The room was half-lit by the lamps in the other room, so we were mostly in darkness, but there was enough light to see her mysterious smile. "You're welcome." She was silent then. "I'm very grateful," I continued, "but I must confess, I'm surprised too." After a moment she answered my unspoken question. "Mmmm. For one thing, I did owe you a debt of gratitude. For another, you please me... I read your book, you know, and it was well done, both in intent and execution. We share a similar interest, which makes us comrades, after a fashion. Most importantly, though, you said nothing about the details of our encounter with Magnus. That proved to me you have discretion." With the same feline grace that characterized all of her movements, she rose up and rolled over, onto me, squatting on my hips. Her legs gently pushed against my torso, and once again her generous breasts presented themselves to me in all their glory. Unable to resist, I reached up and began to fondle them, squeezing them in my hands, rubbing her nipples between my thumbs and forefingers so that they became erect. "People tell lots of stupid stories about me. Some say that I'm a lesbian, as I come from an island of women who have chosen to separate themselves from men. Such separatism, these people reason, invariably means Sapphic tastes. This isn't true; we Amazons aren't parochial. We enjoy sexual congress with each other, but also with men, when the opportunity arises." She tacitly acknowledged my caresses by breathing deeply, so that her breasts strained against my hands. "Others say that my powers come from abstinence, and that if I ever had sex with a man, I'd become no more than any other mortal woman. This is also not true; my powers spring from my nature. The idea that sex could make me powerless is another manifestation of the twisted ideas about gender roles that I have come to Patriarch's World to combat." She raised herself slightly in mid-air, so that her weight no longer rested on me. Reaching down, she pulled me into a sitting position. As she had done before, on the couch, she gently pressed her breasts into my face, enveloping me, and used her hands to compress them. For my part, I reached out and grabbed her buttocks, squeezing and stroking them hard. Of course, she didn't object; I'd have needed the strength of Superman to make her really feel it. She kept speaking while all this was going on, as self-assured as if giving a speech to the United Nations (which I had seen her do, once, on TV.) "My sexual appetites are as strong as any woman's, and perhaps stronger, just as my other attributes are greater than a mortal's. To satisfy them openly, however, would serve to diminish my effectiveness as my people's Ambassador; in Patriarch's World, a woman ceases to be taken seriously when it becomes clear she has taken a lover. In time I hope to change that attitude, but I'm a realist; doing so will take time, and I'm not willing to remain celibate until then. There is also the fact that if the identities of my paramours were known, it would also put them in danger, for a foe might seek to take advantage of me by striking through them." I pulled my head out of her embrace, and began licking and kissing her breasts, bracing myself against her shoulder blades. A small shudder of pleasure escaped her, and she grabbed my shoulder blades in turn, and began to massage them gently. She uncrossed her legs and encircled my chest with them, holding me tight but not uncomfortably so. "So I take my lovers where I can find them, provided they are handsome..." She kissed the top of my head. "Respectful of Amazon ways..." She kissed my head again. "And know how to keep their mouths shut." She lowered herself so she was sitting on the bed again. We still embraced each other, but now we could see directly into each other's eyes. "You fit the bill," she said, and softly pressed her lips against mine. I wanted more; I pressed my tongue against her lips and we kissed deeply. My cock perked up again; though still soft, it had begun to regain something of its previous stature, and it started to push against her thigh. She laughed, like the tinkle of silver bells. "Praise to Aphrodite; another of her gifts to me. My lovers recuperate quickly." She broke free, rose up in the air, and pushed me down onto the bed. With a quick mid-air maneuver she positioned herself above me, so that her crotch rested just above my mouth. Her public hair was dainty, a small patch, but her sex was engorged, the labia and clitoris pink and glistening in the half-light. "Some reciprocity is in order, I think," she laughed. Slowly, she descended until her slit was at my mouth. I didn't need any more encouragement. Grabbing her legs to brace myself, I began licking her with a passion. Her vaginal juices were rich and sweet, but I hardly noticed as I set myself to work. The fact that she was lubed at all told me she really had enjoyed her oral ministrations on me before, which meant I owed her as vigourous a performance as I could give. Her clit expanded in my mouth as I licked and sucked it; I had feared that my mortal strength was insufficient to please her, and I was gratified to see I was wrong. She was vocal in her pleasure. While she had worked on me I had been silent, except for a few grunts and gasps, but she was cut from a different cloth. My initial laps at her cunt immediately elicited moans of joy, but as I found my rhythm, those moans became little cries, then big cries. As my tempo increased, she began shouting scraps of Greek. The dialect was unfamiliar, but even if it hadn't been I doubt I would have been able to muster the concentration to translate, so focused was I on my task. As it was, I was grateful my cabin had no neighbours for miles, for otherwise they'd have had no doubt as to what I was up to. Suddenly, without warning, she rose up, breaking contact with me. She whirled about so she faced the other way, towards the end of the bed instead of the front, then lowered herself again, shifting her angle slightly so I could reach her slit. I only wondered a moment what she was doing, for after a second I felt her hands on my cock, rubbing it urgently. Her hands were lubed, with spit or her own juices I didn't know, but it felt wonderful, and my prick, which had been gaining strength throughout this episode, was quickly a spear of iron again. She varied her approach, alternating between vigourous pumps of my cock with her hands and quick deepthroatings; I could only marvel at how lithe she was and try to reward her effort by taking care of her as well as she was taking care of me. My tongue was getting tired and my cock tense, so I broke away from her and gasped, "I want you..." She responded immediately. With another mid-air whirl, she spun around to face me, our bodies parallel and only inches apart. "I want you this way," she commanded; she rose up, her body suspended above my cock, and gently brought herself down on top of me, penetrating herself with my member. Her pussy was tight, the tightest I've ever had; another gift of Aphrodite, I imagine. She cried a little cry as I entered her, then began squeezing me, tightening her vaginal muscles and then relaxing them, then again, then again, then again. It was a curious lay. I did the best I could, but she did all the work; since her weight wasn't resting on me, I couldn't push up into her like I wanted. It didn't matter, because her efforts paid off for the both of us. Faster, faster, faster she moved, vibrating up and down on my cock; it was only a brief moment before I exploded. She didn't stop, though; even as my orgasm rocked me, come shooting out of me in spasm after spasm, she kept going, pressing herself down against me over and over; then, swiftly, she pulled off of me and hung in midair, her head tossed back, her mouth wide; she shuddered, and cried out, splitting the night with her scream of fulfillment. Then she descended, landing on the bed with a sudden impact, the wood creaking ominously at the sudden blow. Clumsily, her reflexes dulled by her exertions, she crawled up and lay atop me in a sprawling embrace. "Sorry," she said, her voice weak but satiated. "I might have hurt you if I came with you inside me." "Don't worry about it," I managed. She might have said something else, but I don't remember what it was; I was asleep. I woke up once in the night; she wasn't lying on top of me anymore, but beside me. I was in a predicament. My cock was sore from the workout it had received, but lying beside her for hours meant that Aphrodite's charms had done their work; despite my soreness, I was hard again, hard as steel. I rolled on top of her, those magnificent breasts pushing up against me. She knew what I wanted, from experience at this sort of problem, I suppose; she spread her legs and used her hands to guide me in. This time was less frantic than before, and more satisfying for me, too. It lasted longer, for one thing, and it was in the missionary position, my favourite, for another. The dreamlike quality-we were both only half-awake-helped, as well. I was ready, and after a few moments of thrusting, so was she, slick and sweet and tight. We built to a soft crescendo, me grunting, she giving little gasps of joy, both of us pushing in tandem. In a little while I came, my orgasm more a gentle release than the raging explosions of before. I kissed her, softly, when I was done, and lay on top of her for a time, smelling her hair and feeling her heart beat in the dark. Finally, I rolled away from her and fell asleep again, almost instantly. When I woke in the morning, she was gone. I was surprised only briefly. She had made it clear, after all, that she wasn't making or expecting a commitment. Her vocation wouldn't allow her one. Like a priest, she had to remain free of entangling relationships, but unlike a priest, freedom from relationships didn't mean celibacy. It only meant her embraces would be fleeting, given where she could find opportunity. That was all she had offered, and I had taken it. I spent the morning in bed, thinking (and recovering from the night before); by the afternoon, I was packing. The next day I returned home and from there to my book tour. I was back to my real life, and I had left the superhuman world behind me. As I said at the beginning, I don't expect to see her again. We had three brief meetings, the last almost a year ago now. We took what pleasure we could from one another, but the moment has passed. I don't regret this; wanting things we can't have, and things we don't have any right to, is one of the ways we blight our lives, a point I made in my book. One night was enough. And yet... I get little personal mail. My readers don't know my address, and my friends and family simply call me on the phone. So I was taken aback when I got an unexpected letter recently. The envelope was addressed to me, but with no information about who had sent it. It had a Boston postmark. Inside was a page ripped from a desk calendar. There was nothing written on it, just a printed date. It is a date that happens to be coming up in a couple of weeks. It is a date that happens to be (I worked it out) the anniversary of my tryst with Diana. I don't know for certain what it means. I'm trying to restrain my hopes. But on that day, I'll be back in my cabin in Michigan. The door will be unlocked. And a bottle of wine, with two glasses, will be on the table.