Freeport. It's a big city. Ten million people, different classes, cultures, and lifestyles stuffed together side by side just trying to make it in the world. All sorts of inequality, the poorest of the poor living right near the richest of the rich. Slums and mansions, tenements and luxury highrises, and everything in between. And when you get that many people together, well, some of them are going to break bad. Criminals, psychopaths, regular old assholes, all trying to make a buck or just cause a little chaos.
And that's where I come in.
My name's Thrasher, and I'm a superhero. OK, my real name is Brynn Hamilton. But what hero would use their real name? And technically, according to the letter of the law, I'm an associate hero, apprenticed to a more experienced crimefighter.
Do not call me a sidekick. Sidekicks are teenagers. I'm twenty-four.
But I am apprenticed to one of the most respected, all-time badasses this city has ever seen. My mentor is the Darkstar herself, Calla Bowen. Of course, most people have no idea that the billionaire socialite is one of Freeport's premier masked crime fighters, but that's the whole idea. Darkstar doesn't have any superpowers, just money and intellect. The frivolous, hard partying heir to the Bowen fortune is the mask that Calla wears to keep herself, and by extension me, safe when we're not out on patrol. And there are plenty of threats out there. Supervillains with a score to settle, regular old gangsters. Hell, the government can be a problem sometimes.
But I wouldn't trade this life for anything.
Especially not when I can be out patrolling on my own. It's a pretty recent development, this solo action. And I'm authorized to take down any unpowered threat, as well as any supervillain of class two or below. And so that's why I ended up standing on the roof of a five story office building in GreekTown, letting my earpiece cycle through the police frequencies. It was a quiet day so far. But then the call came through. A bank robbery in progress a few blocks away.
I smiled, big and hungry. "Time to get to work." I stepped off the edge of the roof, plummeting to the street below.
I can't fly. It would be super fucking cool if I could, but no. That power is pretty uncommon, though it is awesome when you see someone like The Supreme zipping through the sky against all laws of physics. I can jump with the best of them through, easily hurdling tall buildings. So going a few blocks only took a minute. I arrived to find a cordon of police cars, and a bunch of cops hunkered down behind them. Occasional bursts of gunfire flew from the front door of the bank and sprayed into the bulletproof sides of the cars. One cop looked like they were in charge, so I walked over to her.
"What's the situation officer?" I asked. I squatted down to get on her level, not because I had any reason to fear the bullets, but because it made non-supers more comfortable.
"Thrasher, I'm glad you're here," the cop said a little breathlessly. "There are four suspects, armed, barricaded in the bank lobby. We have a tactical team on the way, but, well, you know."
"Why get one of your guys shot when I can take care of it?" I finished knowingly. I didn't mind, that was the job I'd signed up for. "Any heavy weapons?"
"No, just submachine guns. But one of them has some sort of exo-skeleton. It looks military."
"Oh, fun," I said brightly. That could be a neat challenge. "Civilians?"
She shook her head. "They're all out."
"Cool." I stood, stretching my back and cracking my knuckles. "You guys hang back while I take care of this."
The bank was your standard neoclassical faux-Greek temple situation, some marble steps leading up to a collonaded entrance. The bad guys had dragged a couple of desks out to set up a makeshift barrier, and they were hunkered down between the columns. I took my time, walking up the steps at a normal pace. "If you guys want to give up now you'll save me some sweat," I called out.
Their response was a spray of bullets. "Fuck! You! Supe!"
The officer was right. Submachine guns. Nine millimeter if I had to guess. Which had about as much impact on me as a handful of glitter, splattering away in a hail of ricochets. I just shrugged. "If that's how you want to play it."
I picked the name Thrasher partly because I'd been something of a skate punk tomboy in my youth, and I thought the name of the magazine was cool. But it was really more about my fighting style. I don't have lightning bolts, or fire breath, or laser eyes. I put fists on faces. And that's what I did now. I took a big leap and landed right in front of their little desk barricade. I grasped a desk in one hand and tossed it down the stairs. Three wide eyed criminals in ski masks gawked up at me. The fourth, however, stood and charged. He was wrapped in some sort of olive green hydraulic contraption, arms and legs clearly enhanced in speed as well as strength.
"Take this, bitch!" he shouted, swinging one arm in a big right cross. The servos of his exo-skeleton whined as they powered up the punch.
I reached out with one hand and stopped it dead. His eyes went enormous, the whine from whatever powered his suit increasing in pitch as it tried to push against me. But I didn't shift an inch. Instead, I kicked out with a foot, aiming for something that looked structural on his leg. It bent and cracked in a spray of hydraulic fluid. That threw him off balance, enough that it was easy to reach in and rip the front of the exo-skeleton off. That was clearly a critical component, and he slumped like a marionette with its strings cut.
"Are we done?" I asked, looking down at the three hoods still crouching in front of me. They just threw down their guns and put their hands on their heads. I turned my attention back to the guy in the exo-skeleton. He looked like he might cry. "That was a little disappointing. I was hoping for more of a fight."
*
Later, after I turned those guys over to the cops and then spent a few more uneventful hours on patrol, I returned home to Bowen Manor. The entrance to all the superhero stuff is through an old quarry on the edge of the property, which of course makes sense. Darkstar couldn't be seen walking through the front door. Plus, this side went right to the locker room, which was essential. My costume was pretty simple, just a black coverall, accented with gray. But it was still made of bulletproof fabric, studded with sensors and recorders. It really sealed things in. So taking it off always felt awesome. At least I didn't have to wear full headgear of any kind, just a little eye mask.
Befitting the secret base of a billionaire superhero, the showers were amazing. I had my own preset, the perfect temperature and pressure, various nozzles and jets spraying just how I wanted. I took my time washing up, cleaning my hair and getting all the sweat from my body. I was still feeling the adrenaline from my short fight with the bank robbers and, as usual, it was making me horny. So I reached between my legs and started stroking myself.
Now, you may be asking 'Why, Brynn, do you, a two X chromosome genetic female with great tits, have a thick cock hanging down to your knees?' And I'll give you the same answer I give when someone asks 'Why are you bulletproof?' or 'Why can you punch through reinforced concrete?' Who fucking knows. I just do, and I just can. I'm not even the only girl in town sporting a little something extra between their legs. Moon Mistress sits on the Council of Ten and she's famously a hermaphrodite. She has a penis AND a vagina, which is more than I can claim. Of course, she's some sort of space alien, so maybe not the best example. There's the supervillain Mad Mags, who has TWO dicks. But she's from an alternate dimension, or a different plane of reality or something.
Whatever.
I am what I am. And what I am is a girl with a good fifteen inches of meat begging for some attention. A happy sigh escaped my lips as I stroked myself. The hot water pouring down on me felt great, but I need some more direct love. One of the shower heads was detachable, and I pulled it down, flipping through the settings until I had the center spraying at the highest pressure. A touch on one last button set it to pulse rhythmically. I squatted down, one hand still stroking up and down my shaft. I flipped the shower head around and reached behind me, pressing the water jet right to my asshole. My mouth dropped open, and a deep groan that came straight from my diaphragm erupted out of me. The pulses of water were blasting right into my prostate and my cock began to pulse in kind. Thick ropes of milky fluid arced out of me, splashing against the shower wall. And that was just precum. The real event would take just. A second. More.
"Oh, fuuuuck," I moaned, my balls contracting. The first rope of cum that launched out of me made what came before look like a trickle. I don't know if it was the superpowers, or just my genetics, but I cum like a fountain. Once, on a dare, I'd filled up three boxes of condoms. Now I was launching thick ropes of seed all over the shower, painting the wall white. I dropped the shower head, wrapping both hands around myself and pumping like crazy, until I'd coated the shower wall in cum. As my orgasm subsided to a trickle I bore down a little, and a torrent of water poured out of my ass.
I like to be clean inside and out.
I eventually stood, a little lightheaded, and used the shower head to wash probably a quart of semen down the drain. Reluctantly, I left the warm embrace of the shower, dried myself off, and wrapped up in a big fluffy robe. The elevator up to the main house was just down the hall.
