So, after a week’s break (which I might well tell you about some time, but definitely not now) I’m back posting again.
It’s time for me to tell you what happened once Daphne had seemingly been neutralised and returned to her original body.
With Duane’s “de-super-iser” proving 100% effective on its first use, we were ready to try it out on the 495 other supergirls that Ultragirl and I had left out in space, floating near the orbit of Mars. Of course, Ultra didn’t want it done the easy way (by taking Duane’s device into space and zapping the girls there) because when they lost their powers and returned to their normal, weak, vulnerable states, the unearthly environment would be instantly fatal.
So it was left to me to bring the girls down to Earth in batches, so that they could be de-powered in the rubble-strewn dump that, thanks to Daphne, my flat had become. Can you imagine such a thing? Me, the most powerful, strong, invulnerable, gorgeous, sexy, perfect being in the solar system, performing such a menial task?
I only agreed to do it because it was the quickest way to get the whole affair over with. I wanted Daphne and Zara out of my flat. Having decided to let the magician have Duane, I was keen to get rid of him, too. Not to mention the anonymous naked girl sleeping in the corner. In fact, of all the people in my apartment, only Ultra was of any further interest to me. Although, to tell the truth, now that she was almost (but not quite) as strong as me, I was finding that her appeal was fading slightly…
Anyway, I zoomed out to space faster, more gracefully, more efficiently and more accurately than any rocket ever built could manage the journey. And that’s without mentioning the fact that, as the most attractive female in existence, I am a billion times better to look at than any rocket. In no time at all, my glorious body was millions of miles from my flat, the amazing trip not having tired me in the slightest.
The girls were invulnerable, so I did not see the need to take any special care as I swooped down, grabbing them one-by-one by their arms or wrists or ankles. They seemed confused by my actions, so I pointed to Earth to indicate where I was intending to take them. They seemed happy enough to co-operate after that. I got them to hold on to each other in two chains, grabbing the hand of the lead girl in each chain and flying off home with sixteen supergirls hanging off each of my slender arms.
The journey back was uneventful until I reached home. I realised there was no way I could fly through the hole in the roof with thirty-two passengers in tow. I decided the best way to get my cargo inside without wasting any more time was to drop each of the lines of sixteen girls from above and let them fall through the gap in my living room ceiling to land in a big pile on the floor.
As plans go, it worked perfectly. The girls landed on top of each other in a big pile. Naturally, none of them were hurt as they quickly rolled off one another and sprung to their feet. I lowered myself gracefully until I was hovering just inside the flat, surrounded by supergirls. “Zara!” I called into the room, addressing the black-clad ultra-buxom magician, “Activate the device now before they make any more mess!”
“Just a moment, dear!” she called back. “Now, where did I put that thing? Oh yes, I gave it to whatshisname to look after… “ She turned to face Duane who was on the other side of the room, staring lustily at one member after another of the crowd of beautiful young women who had just dropped through the ceiling. “You!” Zara commanded his attention. “Activate your device, boy,” she ordered.
“Yes, of course, Zara,” said Duane, fiddling with the little black object in his hand. “Your will is my instruction…”
“Get on with it, Duane,” muttered Ultragirl, impatiently.
“Duane?” asked one of the new arrivals from space. “Duane?” inquired another of the girls I had just brought down. “Duane? Duane?” all the others began to wonder. I had not given enough thought to the first ray that Duane had made (the one that had freed the girls from Daphne’s original mind-control, but had left them all obsessed with the jerk himself).
It was too late. As one, the thirty-two girls turned to face the inventor of the “de-super-iser” and shouted, in simultaneous triumph, “DUANE!”
He should have pressed the button on the device. But he was too weak-minded. He stood there, in shock, frozen like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an on-rushing car. His jaw dropped open, but that was the only movement he managed.
The group took a collective step in his direction. Many of them opened their arms wide, as if in welcome. Duane just stared at the array of generous firm chests revealed by the gesture. Some of the girls were biting their lower lips, suggestively. Others, far less subtly, were licking their lips. “Duane!” they moaned. “Duane… Duane!”
Finally, the subject of all this sudden attention snapped to life. But instead of thinking and acting with a clear mind and activating the device in his hand, Duane started to back off, uneasily, towards the living room window.
“Fire the device, Duane!” shouted Ultragirl. But her advice was too late.
“Eh?” Duane said, in utter confusion, just as the whole group of supergirls surged forwards towards him. In less than a second, they had surrounded him. “Help!” he screamed as they made very quick work of tearing his clothes from his body. There was a collective gasp as his Zara-enhanced, over-sized sexual organ was revealed.
“Duane!” the girls squealed in delight as they began to jostle one another to get closer to him. Those nearest began to rub themselves against him. “No! Aaagh! Ooooh! No! Ooof! Please! I… Oooooh! Ooooh! Ouch! Ow! Please! No! I… I… Aaaaaaagh!” he yelled as they pressed their beautiful, superhumanly firm bodies into his own soft, weak flesh. I could see they were hurting him, just by caressing him with their chests and groins. At the same time, all the sexual attention was driving him to a massive orgasm. “MMmmmff!” he tried to scream as he was smothered by a girl with long dark-blonde hair and large breasts, one of which was covering his mouth.
”Mmmmmnn mmmm mmmmmmm!!” The muffled shouting grew in intensity. I heard a crunch and deduced that it had been caused by another girl who had straddled his left leg and was rubbing her crotch up and down his thigh. Evidently, she’d rubbed a little too hard for him, breaking a bone or two. It didn’t seem to slow her down, though. If anything, she increased the rhythm of her movements. All Duane could do was try and scream in pain. “Mmmmm MMMMMM mmmmm Mmmm!!”
The girls were obviously still under the influence of whatever it was he had put into that anti-brainwave mind-control device. It seemed unlikely that a girl as good-looking as any of the 32 undeniably were would find Duane attractive. Even less likely that all thirty-two of them would. And nigh-on impossible that they would be so sexually aroused by him as to throw their bodies at him with such abandon. Yet that is just what they were doing.
He was clearly in quite a lot of trouble. Just one of those girls, on her own, would have been hundreds of times too strong for him. But, with thirty-two of them, all determined to touch him, he stood no chance whatsoever. They were going to squeeze and press and push and smother and crush him, slowly, until there was nothing left. It was so funny! I used my flight powers to hover overhead, moving around through the air to get the best possible views of his agony.
Of course, he couldn’t make much noise. Not with that blonde girl’s big breast forced into the lower portion of his face. Otherwise, he would have screamed himself hoarse. I saw another girl, on her knees, sensuously running the tip of her long pink tongue up the length of his inside leg. A deep purple bruise was forming immediately, marking the route her tongue had taken. Even soft licking was more than his body could tolerate!
Duane started to shake violently, and it did not take a genius to work out what was about to happen. Two cute girls dived towards his waist, opening their mouths to reveal their perfect, sexy white teeth. They jostled with each other as he spasmed and the first weak jet of his ejaculation left his quivering penis. One of the two caught the bulk of the stream in her waiting mouth, just as the other pushed her to the side so that she could swallow the next wave.
After that, another girl forced her way between both of them and actually closed her lips over the end of Duane’s still-erupting organ. When she let him slide out, several seconds later, there was a dark ring of damaged flesh around his shaft where the girl’s rich lips had painfully crushed it. She licked a drop of cum from her lower lip and smiled before she, too, was shoved aside by another supergirl who immediately began blowing gently on his groin, not giving his overworked penis a chance to deflate.
Meanwhile, a girl with beautiful oriental features and straight, jet black hair wormed her way through the others to squeeze herself in front of him. She took his wrist between her thumb and forefinger and drew it towards her. I don’t know if he tried to resist her pull (I couldn’t tell by looking) but he would have been wasting his precious breath if he had. She pulled his hand to her body and then released her grip on his wrist, transferring her hold so that she was covering the back of his hand with her own. Slowly, she placed his palm on her sexy, full left breast, her own hand covering his, trying to press him against her.
C-r-u-n-c-h!! the long series of sounds, drawing fresh “Mmmm MM MMM MMmmm”s from Duane, as the girl inexorably crushed his hand between her own delicate-looking palm and her lovely mound. The look on her face of mild frustration as she looked down and the bleeding mess of flesh she was pressing against herself was fascinating. She let him go gently, immediately reaching for his other hand. Moments later, she was pushing it, with similar noisy and messy results, against her other breast.
At the same time, the girl who had been blowing on Duane’s testes began running her tongue along the length of his sore erection, creating fresh bruises to add to the ones already there. I saw tears rolling down the cheeks of his face. Still, his attempted yells for help were being stifled by the blonde girl who continued to rest one of her big mounds over the lower half of his face.
He began to shake again. Girls jostled at his feet for the best position as he orgasmed for a second time, much less productively than the first. His legs buckled, and he would have collapsed to the floor were it not for the sea of supergirls trying to get at him. The blonde girl was finally pushed to the side, and Duane took the opportunity to gulp down a lungful of air before screaming “Help! Help! They’re killing me! I can’t take any more! I… Ooohh! Aaarrgghhhh!”
The girl licking his penis had obviously increased the force of her caresses. “Please! I… Aaaggh! I… can’t… Aaaaghhhh… take anymore! Aaaagghhh! Help! I can’t ta-mmmm MMMM mmm MMMMM!” This time he was partly silenced by a tall dark-skinned girl who had placed her palms on his cheeks and pulled his whole face into her deep, firm cleavage, holding him there with a finger resting on the back of his head. “Mmmm mmm! MMM! Mmmmm!”
I chuckled as I watched from above.
“He’s going to die!” observed Ultragirl. “Aren’t you going to do something?”
“Why should I?” I asked. “He’s not hurting any of them.”
Ultragirl sighed. Zara cleared her throat. “I think I should intervene,” she said. After all, it is my property now.
“Aww,” I complained. “I was beginning to enjoy the show. Can’t you let them have their fun a bit longer, Zara?”
“I’m afraid that whatshisname might become damaged beyond the repair of even my magic,” admitted Zara. She raised her hand and announced to the room “Those who think they really love-“ Pausing, she turned to Ultragirl. “What’s his name again?” she asked,
“Duane.” said Ultra.
“Duane?” confirmed Zara. Ultra nodded. “How convenient!” the magician commented. She addressed the entire room once more. “Those who think they really love Duane, Wake up, it is but a trick of your brain!”
Instantly, the hands reaching out for Duane fell away. The tongues licking him disappeared into their owner’s mouths. The chests being pushed into him were pulled back. A sound, like a mass expression of repulsion briefly filled the room. The girls began to back away from Duane. He fell onto the floor, covered in wounds and bruises, bleeding from his ruined hands, silent and barely moving. He was breathing, but in a not exactly convincing manner.
I went over to him, and bent down. Carefully, I extracted the “de-super-iser” from his bloody, deformed hand, breaking off an already damaged finger in the process. I dropped what was left of his hand without looking as I stood up and pointed the tiny antenna sticking out of the little black box at the confused crowd of beautiful girls.
“Time to get back to your day jobs, girls,” I said, pressing the button. It was as if I had released a cloud of sleeping gas. Within the space of four seconds, each of the thirty-two girls had collapsed to the floor where they were all now (apparently) sleeping soundly. There was hardly any space free on the ground in my living room.
“Zara,” I asked, “you wouldn’t happen to know a spell that would send them all home, would you?”
“Not now,” the magician replied. “I have to fix this poor little fellow or he’ll be past helping.” She was bent over Duane, stroking him like he was a sick puppy. “I think I’d better take him away somewhere quieter. See you around, ladies!” And with that, she and Duane vanished in a brief cloud of green smoke.
“Show off.” I commented. Then I turned to Ultra. “Well are you going to help me bring the others down?” I asked.
“You know I can’t leave Daphne alone.” Ultra said. “What if she tried to run away?”
I looked at the pathetic figure slumped next to Ultra’s contrastingly magnificent, fully-energised body. “She’d get ten yards before collapsing in exhaustion!” I said.
“Perhaps. But I won’t take that chance,” said Ultra. “She has to stand trial for what she has done, and I intend to make sure that she does.”
I rolled my eyes. “Just make sure you’re ready with the zapper when I get back with the next batch.” I told her, slightly annoyed, as I took off for space once again.
To be continued.
Wednesday 10 May 2006 18:02 BST (GMT+1)
Two hours after Zara and Duane’s disappearance, my flat was full to bursting with beautiful (but utterly pathetic, vulnerable and weak) naked, sleeping girls.
There was barely a square foot of floor-space that hadn’t been taken up by long sleek feminine limbs or curvaceous nubile bodies. It looked more like an adolescent boy’s most ambitious fantasy than my home. (And that’s without taking into consideration the holes in the walls and the ceiling…)
The problem was that there were still nearly a hundred more girls floating about in space, waiting to have their powers removed. I was quite happy to bring them down and zap them, leaving them to sleep on top of the ones we had already dealt with, but Ultragirl objected. Apparently, “normal” people are not comfortable with the weight of another “normal” on top of them for more than a few minutes. Ultra also said that by stacking them up, some of the ones on the bottom might get hurt.
“If they’re so pathetic,” I pointed out, “then they deserve to get hurt. The entire population of Earth could stand on top of me, and I’d barely even notice.”
“You can’t bring any more here,” repeated Ultragirl, ignoring my remarks.
“Fine,” I said, anxious to get the whole affair done with, “we’ll stash them next door.” So saying, I used my right fist (small and pretty to look at but unimaginably powerful) to smash a large hole in the thick brick-and-steel wall that separated my apartment from my neighbours’. There was no-one in, but I would have been quite happy to deal with any complaints…
The damage to my flat was so bad that I’d already decided I was going to need someone new to live. So, I might as well leave my neighbour a leaving present. The gap I’d punched in the wall was big enough to climb through, but only by ducking. I enlarged it by standing straight, thrusting out my unparalleled chest and walking forwards, letting my big, round indestructible breasts smash their way through the undamaged portion of the brickwork.
A steel reinforcement bar tried to halt my progress. It lasted all of half-a-second as my mounds pressed against it, stretching the metal beyond its tolerance. The steel tore, unable to resist the forces exerted by my feminine curves. Then, to complete their inevitable victory, my breasts knocked the dislodged portion of metal contemptuously aside as I strode through.
Rather than returning to my own apartment to fly out through the hole in the ceiling, I punctured a new pair of holes in the floor above and the roof by taking off vertically from where I stood, letting a shower of debris fall into my neighbour’s living room.
Barely an hour after that, there were 98 naked girls sleeping off the effects of Duane’s “de-super-iser” on top of that debris. Added to the 398 next door, they made up the whole of Daphne’s mini-army of “auditionees”.
I strolled over to Ultragirl once the last of them had been zapped and had fallen to the floor unconscious. “So much for brainwave power.” I commented.
“Yes,” agreed Ultra, “the only experimenting Daphne is going to be doing from now on will be from her prison cell. Time for me to take her in.”
“We should celebrate our victory first.” I suggested.
“I won’t feel like I’ve completed my duty until I hand her over to the authorities.” Ultra said. “And I don’t think the occasion calls for celebrations. Innocent people have been hurt in all this. And besides, saving the world is just my job.”
“Save it for the feeble folks who are impressed with all that crap,” I told her, “I’m going to celebrate.” I arched my back, emphasising my wonderful figure even more than usual. Sensuously, I ran my finger tips up my thighs, over my pelvis and up the sides of my perfect flat stomach before very deliberately tracing the outlines of my magnificent breasts. “You’re welcome to join me,” I said.
“I… I have to take care of Daphne first, it’s my responsibility to en-“ I cut her off mid-sentence by planting a deep, passionate kiss on her lovely lips. My tongue probed at her teeth. She resisted for a moment although I probably could have forced the issue if I’d had to. (These days, my tongue is strong enough to lift a forty foot solid marble statue with utter ease. Some time, I might tell you how I came to know that.)
I didn’t have to use such awesome force with Ultragirl however. Her resistance soon faded, her sexy teeth parted and our tongues wrestled playfully as our lips interlocked.
We tied Daphne to a chair so that she could see how much fun can be had with a superhuman, gorgeous body like the one she lost. And then we made love, floating in the air over the sleeping girls. I teased Ultragirl and held her with more force than anyone else could, and she did the same for me. It was the closest I have ever been to having sex with a physical equal. Ultra could do things to me that no thermonuclear warhead could match. I did not need to worry about her crumbling to paste in my arms. Her caresses were so powerful, her stunning body so firm.
And so we went on, for hours on end without pausing, until we had both satisfied each other. Many times. The physical pleasure was as great as any I’ve ever known.
Something was not quite right for me. The fact that she was capable of such physical intensity. The fact that she not only survived, but actually enjoyed my own physical intensity. The fact that I never felt, at any time, completely, totally in control. The fact that she could do things to me without me first making a conscious decision to let her do those things…
Inferior beings are not capable of pleasing me physically on anything like the same level as Ultragirl. But I realised, as I came down from my twelfth or thirteenth orgasm with the blonde bombshell, that inferior beings can be a lot more fun.
Ultra seemed to sense it too. Maybe she was having her own doubts about me. I don’t know. She finally put her uniform back on and untied Daphne, stashing the failed brainwave-pioneer under her arm.
“What are you going to do with all these girls?” she asked, indicating the sleeping masses on the floor with a sweep of her hand.
“Oh, I’d thought I’d leave them here.” I said. “They can sort themselves out when they wake up.”
“As caring and thoughtful as ever!” said Ultra, sarcastically.
“Fuck that.” I replied.
She rolled her eyes. “So, ah, I guess I’ll see you around,” she said, preparing to take off to deliver her cargo to the police.
“Yeah,” I said, “So long, Blondie.” Ultragirl flew slowly away, careful as ever not to harm her prisoner.
Suddenly, I was on my own once again (not counting the 496 sleepers). The brainwave menace had been neutralised. The world had been saved from the schemes of Daphne Perkins. My apartment (and my playroom upstairs too) had been wrecked. But, most importantly, I had come out of it as magnificently powerful and awesomely gorgeous as ever. A perfect, unopposable supergirl on a planet full of weak, vulnerable creatures.
It was time to go and have some fun.
Thursday 11 May 2006 16:48 BST (GMT+1)
I wonder what happened when those 496 girls finally woke up and realised they were all tightly crammed into two crudely-joined apartments in a strange country? Who would have given them clothes and food and repatriated them?
Not me, that’s for sure. When I left them asleep, flying up through the hole in the ceiling, I took one last look down. The damage to the building looked like it would take months to repair and that wouldn’t even start until all the girls were taken care of. I decided there and then that I wouldn’t be going back. Ever.
It’s not like I haven’t had to move at short notice before. I’ve changed my “official” identity dozens of times in the past. Usually I do it after an indiscretionary use of my powers draws too much attention. I like a quiet life. I like it when the “normal” people I encounter are surprised by my abilities. It’s much more fun that way.
Anyway, it was definitely time for me to pick a new name and a new place to live. I know which areas are the ones I like (when you can fly and have a perfect memory like mine, you don’t have to waste time checking districts out. Name me a place; chances are I’ve flown over it and can picture an aerial view of it in minute detail) so I didn’t have to waste time researching localities.
Also, the price of properties isn’t an issue for me, either. Naturally, I have accrued a considerable personal fortune down the years. It’s so easy getting money when you’ve got superpowers. (If only the police knew that those holes in the bank vaults weren’t caused by some new kind of blow-torch/dynamite/laser-beam, but rather by my beautiful, sexy body…)
But I wasn’t intending to pay for my new home. That’s the main reason why I have so much cash. I very, very rarely pay for anything. I’m far too perfect to transact with inferior beings. I prefer to just help myself. If the original owners of whatever it is I’m helping myself to don’t like it, so much the better! It’s so enjoyable to brush them aside…
If you’d like to know more about my business methods, I suggest that you check out my next post for a detailed account of a typical Blogger acquisition.
Tuesday 16 May 2006 17:31 BST (GMT+1)
So, I said I'd give you an insight into how I conduct my business affairs. Well, I cannot think of a better transaction to use for this purpose than my acquisition of a new place to live.
What a wonderful double opportunity for you! Firstly, you get a glimpse into the life of this solar system's most beautiful, sexy, powerful being (me). Secondly, you get a lesson in how to do deals (although, if you want to copy my methods you'll need to be devastatingly gorgeous and stronger than any other force in existence.)
I had already chosen the property I wanted to "purchase". It had several good things going for it. Firstly it was far enough away from the chaos of my old place with its extensive damage and (exclusively beautiful, young and female) refugee-filled rooms. The next plus: the new building has a large roof garden, so I wouldn't have to fly out of the window any longer...
Additional benefits included extra space should I decide to have any (probably unwilling) house-guests. The place is set in gardens, well away from other buildings too. And it's well soundproofed, so no-one would be able to hear anything, even if those unwilling houseguests screamed all night long…
I guess its seclusion and the obvious opulence of it is a magnet for would-be intruders. That would just be an extra bonus for me, of course. Other so-called "drawbacks" are irrelevant to me. Who needs public transport links when you can fly around the world in minutes? And, as for the property not being on the market, well, a mere detail like that would never stop me.
So, I had selected my "target". What you want to know now is how I went about making it mine. Let's start with what I was wearing. In business, first impressions are important. You want to make a statement. For most males that statement usually comes across as "I'm a pathetic and ridiculously fragile weakling in a suit. I am an inferior being in every sense. My existence continues for only as long as it pleases Blogger to let me live..."
Anyway, I had set out that morning wearing a sensible white shirt that left little of the glorious flesh of my upper torso visible whilst none-the-less following the fabulous contours of my body closely enough for even the most casual observer to instantly realise that I have the most perfect figure on Earth. Some portion of my magnificent legs was on display between the hems of my tight, just-above-the-knee black denim shorts and my fashionable new running shoes.
That would have been an ideal outfit for the occasion. Unfortunately, things didn’t go exactly according to plan. I decided to stop off on the way to have some spur-of-the-moment fun and, (without going into any details) as a direct result of that, my shirt became rather badly stained with blood and semen. Obviously, not the ideal way to create a good first impression.
Another vital skill in business is the ability to improvise. From the air, I spotted a woman of around the same stature as me as she left a clothes boutique. I used my amazing eyesight to take a peak inside the bag she was carrying and spotted the brand new top she had just bought. Then, it was the easiest thing in the world to swoop down and snatch the bag from her. It goes without saying that I knocked her over in the process, but that was alright as I’d already got hold of the new top by then so she didn’t damage it when she fell.
I flew up to the nearest roof-top and changed. The top was less conservative than the white shirt I had been wearing. The neckline was quite low. It would have been more than a little revealing on the woman who had paid for it. But on me, with my remarkable, magnificent, generous and superhumanly firm curves… well, it presented me at my unbeatable best. I realised that it would draw attention to my assets in a most unbusiness-like manner. Heterosexual men and gay women would be helplessly transfixed by my glorious cleavage. Even straight women would find it hard not to stare at my feminine perfection in sheer jealousy. Nonetheless, I decided not to bother to look for something more appropriate.
The property I had set my heart on is surrounded by high metal gates. Normally, I would have found an amusing way to show how pointless these are. Something like walking right through them, letting my fabulous body bend and tear the steel aside. Or blasting a big hole complete with candle-like molten metal streaks with my heat-vision. Or gripping the base of the gates and tearing them in their multi-ton entirety from their concrete foundations using just one hand and the most casual of tugs before tossing them over my shoulder.
But this was no normal set of high metal gates. They were, I planned, shortly to become my high metal gates. So I left them untouched and simply flew over them to land on the other side. A sign on the gates had warned about “guard dogs”. There were two of them, ferocious brutes by canine standards. I let them run at me and wound themselves trying to clamp their supposedly razor-sharp, powerful jaws on my ankles. Two effortless kicks was all it took to send first one than the other attack dog sailing high into the sky. The force of my gentle punts was more than enough to kill them long before they (eventually) made it messily back down to the ground.
Now inside the grounds, I strolled happily up to the front door and banged on the heavy door with almost enough force to shake the front of the house. I used just a fingertip to do the knocking, as I didn’t want to break the six-inch-thick oak door (unless I had to). Almost immediately, I heard footsteps inside. The door opened. A middle-aged man in a T-shirt answered, his eyes nearly falling out of his skull in their attempt to get closer to me. Once his gaze reached the plunging neckline of my top, it did not move. “Who are you, how did you get in and what do you want?” he demanded in a cold tone that was probably supposed to be intimidating but was lost on me (mostly because he was talking directly to my cleavage).
“My name is not important, I flew in and I want to see the owner.” I replied.
“He’s not in,” the man told my breasts.
“Yes he is.” I corrected him. “He’s upstairs.” Given the choice between believing what this guy was claiming and what I had seen for myself with my own X-ray vision, I knew I was on safe ground.
Ten seconds later, I was pinning the uncooperative doorman by his neck to the wall of the lavish entrance hall, my arm stretched above my head, his feet suspended some distance off the floor, kicking out uselessly at my knees. He was bleeding from the half-crushed remains of his right fist. He’d tried to punch me, but he was so slow I lazily grabbed his fist and just gave it a tiny squeeze…
I held him there for a while, letting him struggle more and more pathetically while I waited patiently, my free hand dominantly stationed on my hip. Despite everything (his obvious pain and discomfort, not to mention his understandable terror) he was still staring at the exposed part of my chest. There was no point punishing him any further for that. The top I was wearing and my stunning figure meant he couldn’t help himself.
“Now,” I said slowly, enjoying myself, “are you going to get the owner down here for me? Or do I have to go to him myself once I’ve killed you?”
“How…are…you…doing…that?” he puffed, asking the question not of me, but of my lovely breasts.
I answered on behalf of my mounds: “So, that’s a ‘no’, is it? I have to go to the owner myself and you have to die?”
“No…Please….Don’t…..I’ll…get...him…” I realised that my grip on his throat was making it difficult for him to speak or breathe, but I didn’t loosen it. I did pull him away from the wall, however, keeping his feet well off the ground.
“Shame.” I said, genuinely disappointed that I couldn’t properly hurt him for a while yet. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer the other option?” I let him continue to dangle from my hand by his neck, though. After all, his weight was as nothing to me.
“Please…don’t…kill…me…” he pleaded.
“Get the owner down here quick and I’ll consider it,” I told him, opening my fingers so that he dropped like a dead weight from my grasp. He landed more-or-less on his feet, but his legs instantly gave way under him and he collapsed in a heap, gasping for air and rubbing his neck where bruises in the shape of my fingers were already appearing.
Clearly, he needed some recovery time, but I wasn’t in the mood to allow it. “Move!” I ordered. He climbed painfully to his feet and hurried as best as his injuries would allow into the house.
Next time, I’ll tell you about my negotiations with the owner himself.
Monday 22 May 2006 23:24 BST (GMT+1)
Right, so I was half-way through giving you a class in advanced property negotiations, Blogger-style…
Having sent the (badly bleeding and heavily bruised) doorman off to bring the owner down, I waited patiently in the luxurious entrance area for him to return. A couple of minutes passed, during which I amused myself by using short, sharp blasts of my heat-vision to reduce a collection of expensive-looking solid brass statuettes to pools of molten metal.
Still bored, I let my superhearing detect an interesting discussion between the doorman/butler and his employer which was taking place in the far part of the oversized house:
“You let a girl do all that to you?”
“She’s not a normal girl! She’s… she’s… incredible! I couldn’t stop her. She said she’d kill me if I didn’t fetch you, sir.”
“Whoever she is, she’s got a lot of nerve disturbing me like this. Tell her to call the office in the morning and make an appointment.”
“Sir, I really think she will kill me if I tell her that.”
“You’re supposed to be one of the best in the business and you’re scared of a girl?”
“I’m scared of this girl, alright. You have to come, sir. She won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
“I don’t have to do anything. That’s what I pay you for. Now, get rid of her.”
“But, sir, I… I can’t!”
“What do you mean you ‘can’t’?”
“She’s too strong! Much too strong!”
Whilst I was enjoying listening to the two men chatting, I had business to do. My X-ray vision made short work of working out the quickest route from where I was standing to the pair. They were about sixty yards away in total, up stairs, along corridors and through doors. I ran, but without exerting myself. In significantly less time than it took the owner to say…
“What is she, Supergirl or something?”
…I was standing directly in front of him, my hands resting on my hips, my glorious chest thrust out defiantly, my head slightly cocked to one side as if I was, with semi-interest, inspecting an insect I’d noticed crawling up the wall.
The house-owner’s shock at seeing me suddenly appear a couple of strides away from him (normal people’s brains are so slow, they always think I’ve just “materialised” from thin air when I arrive at superspeed) quickly gave way to a different kind of surprise. For a while he didn’t seem to know which bit of me to look at. I suppose that’s understandable seeing as all of me is gorgeous beyond compare.
He scanned me from head to toe and back again several times before finally deciding that, if he had to choose just one single part of my perfection to feast his eyes upon, then it would be my chest. He seemed particularly enamoured of the way my generous, harder-than-diamond nipples stretched out my tight top. His pulse quickened dramatically as he stared at them.
“How… who… what…?” he mumbled.
“That’s a lot of questions,” I mocked. The insult seemed to help him gather his thoughts.
“Get out of my house,now before I call the police!” he barked.
I laughed. “You’d be paste before you got to the phone.” I promised. I illustrated my point by reaching out casually with my right arm, extending my middle finger and calmly pushing it knuckle-deep into the wall beside me. A small trickle of crushed brick and plaster fell onto the thick carpet. Once I was sure I had his attention I began to slowly drag my single finger through the wall, carving out a deep groove. To me, it was effortless. The wall provided as much resistance to my digit as air does. But the feat clearly impressed my audience.
The owner swallowed loudly. “How… how did you do that?” he asked.
“The same way I do everything.” I answered, “Effortlessly.”
More lessons in striking deals when I continue the story next time.
Tuesday 23 May 2006 21:08 BST (GMT+1)
There I was, scared, confused face to gorgeously serene face (guess which was mine) with the owner of the property I’d set my heart on. I had just carved a deep, long channel out of one of the interior walls with a lazily-applied finger and I was waiting to see how he was going to react.
There aren’t many hand-guns around in these parts, as they’re completely illegal of course so it’s always a pleasant surprise when one crosses my path. I hadn’t even bothered to use my X-ray vision to spot the pistol hidden in the owner’s jacket. In truth, he moved so slowly for it that I had all the time in the world to react. I just chose not to.
It’s not that I needed to react to the presence of the gun. I knew it was no threat to me. I waited patiently as the property owner painfully laboriously pulled out the firearm. I continued to show admirable serenity as he then, at a snail’s pace, adjusted his grip and pointed the end of the barrel at my face. Finally he was done. I almost gave him an ironic cheer.
“I’m going to count to five and then I’m going to pull this trigger,” he announced, self-importantly, “It’s up to you if you’re still here when I get to five.”
I glanced at the sky and groaned, both at the corniness of the threat and at the prospect of having to wait around some more as he counted to five with all the speed of a hibernating tortoise.
“Get on with it, jerk.” I urged.
“Whatever. Let’s get it over with.” I half-yawned.
I could have dodged the bullet, jumped over its path or even walked around it several times as it travelled through the air. But I let it hit me instead, once it had eventually floated over to me. It struck right on the bridge of my nose, with a loud Ping!. I resisted the temptation to wrinkle my nose as the bullet squashed up against it until it more closely resembled a coin than a slug.
My expression did not alter from the look of disinterest I had been showing while the shooter had been counting. Not even when the compressed bullet finally bounced away from my unblemished face to land with a soft thud on the carpet beside his left shoe. I didn’t even blink. He, meanwhile stared at the lump of metal, then me, then bullet, then me again, the blood draining from his features. “What the fuck?” he mumbled.
He pulled himself together just sufficiently to squeeze off another shot. Again, I did my best impression of a statue of a beautiful but slightly pissed-off young woman as the bullet smacked into my neck, slightly off-centre. There wasn’t even a tiny mark on my flawless skin as the shot crumpled before rebounding to the side. It buried itself slightly in the wall beside me, the brick far more accommodating than my flesh had proved.
I knew he wasn’t going to stop, so I decided to allow him one more go. This time, he aimed for my heart. The bullet met my T-shirt where it stretched out over the impressive swell of my glorious left breast. The thin cotton fabric immediately burnt away around the red-hot slug, leaving nothing between the speeding shot and my large, round mound. Needless to say, the poor steel never stood a chance. It was squashed almost flat in an instant between the devastating force of its own momentum and the sheer impenetrability of my sexy, desirable, womanly flesh.
The owner’s eyes bulged as they took in the untouched perfection of the newly-exposed portion of my breast. His brain was struggling to cope, both with the extraordinary nature of what he had just seen (three bullets bouncing off a girl) and with my indescribable beauty. It’s a reaction I get a lot.
Anyway, having taken three bullets without blinking, it was my turn to act. At superspeed, I went over to the owner and snatched the gun from his hand. He screamed as I tore a finger from its socket in the process, but he calmed down quickly enough when he saw his weapon in my hand. I made a very calm show of squeezing the pistol in my palm until it bent out of shape. Then I continued to close my fingers on it, until molten metal began to trickle out of the gaps in my fist.
Seductively, I parted my lips and stuck out my tongue and then brought the hand containing the molten gun up in front of my face. Opening my fingers slightly, I let the now liquid steel pour off my palm onto the tip of my tongue where it sizzled wildly. I merely lifted the end of my tongue so that all the molten metal flowed down into my throat. Then, to complete the display, I swallowed loudly and licked my lips.
“Oh fuck…” the owner said softly, almost sobbing. And then, his eyes oscillating between my face to the new hole in the front of my T-shirt, he asked “Are you real or some kind of robot?”
I laughed, which made him even more nervous, much to my delight. “Oh, I’m completely real.” I said, putting my hands on my hips and pushing my fabulous chest out towards him.
“Are… are those real?” he wondered, quietly, his pupils now locked onto the outlines of my nipples.
“Of course!” I chuckled, grabbing hold of the bottom of my T-shirt, as if preparing to take it off. “Would you like to see?” He nodded, as though in a trance.
I began to remove my top.
And I think that’s a great place to leave the story until next time, don’t you?
Wednesday 24 May 2006 21:20 BST (GMT+1)
Having taken all that the owner’s pathetic gun could offer, I’d disarmed him by swallowing his weapon.
Even though he’d violently lost a finger in the process and blood was flowing pretty freely from the stump, he seemed remarkably disinterested in his wound. True, he kept grimacing in pain, but he wasn’t looking at the mess at the end of his hand. He was staring, transfixed, at me.
As I slowly pulled my T-shirt over my head, revealing more and more of the erotic female perfection that is my upper body, my superhearing picked up the sound of the owner’s heart pounding furiously. I finally removed my top and let it fall to the ground behind me. Just to be sure I had his complete attention, I shook my shoulders a little, making my big round breasts bounce so much more dramatically than the owner’s bullet had managed.
Transfixed, he glared at my chest in awe. His breath came in rasping pants, almost loud enough to completely obscure the sound of blood dripping from his hand onto the carpet. I took a slow step towards him, letting the movement of my body cause my mounds to jiggle seductively. I could see the muscles around his eyes adjusting to maintain their uninterrupted focus on my bobbing breasts. Maybe my invulnerability to his bullets had shocked him. Maybe my display of strength with his gun had stunned him. I don’t know. What I do know is that the sight of my breasts utterly captivated him.
I ran the middle finger of my right hand sensuously around the curve of the underside of first my left bosom and then my right, all the while noting the myriad changes in the owner’s body-chemistry that my display was provoking. “You want to touch them so badly!” I observed, half-grinning. He said nothing.
“You want to touch my breasts more than you’ve ever wanted anything before.” I stated, confident in the belief that I was right. The owner made no attempt to correct what I had said. He didn’t need to talk, however. With my supersenses tuned to the hormonal turmoil inside his fragile skin, I knew a great deal about what was going on in his mind.
“You desperately want to ask my permission to touch them, don’t you?” I provoked. “You burn to beg me to let you. But you don’t dare! Because you’re scared! Scared for your life! You are, aren’t you?” Still, he remained silent. “Answer me!” I ordered.
“Y… Yes,” he stammered.
“Yes that you are scared? Or yes that you want to touch?” I pressed the issue, enjoying his humiliation.
“Both,” he confessed.
I laughed for a moment. “You’re right to be scared,” I chuckled, “I could kill you with a look!” So saying I played my heat vision over his chest until his previously brilliant-white shirt began to turn brown and he yelped in pain and jumped back a step, splashing blood from his damaged hand onto the wall. I kept the distance between us short by taking a step to match his backwards leap.
His eyes remained locked on me the whole time; the expression displayed in them the wonderful mix of terror and lust that I love to inspire. Having increased the “terror” element, it was time to boost the lust. “You’re also right,” I said, softly, “to want to touch.” I brought my arms to my sides, clasping my hands in front of my navel. Then I bent forwards a little at the waist, thrusting my glorious chest towards him and using my forearms to push my breasts together so that my normally-spectacular cleavage became magnificent beyond reason. “They are incomparable to touch.” I purred.
He suddenly looked a little unsteady, as if his legs had become even weaker than before. I realised that he was about to orgasm. I hadn’t even had to get within two yards of his body!
Of course, that was about to change as I moved the negotiations on to the next level. But I’ll leave that for the next post.
Thursday 25 May 2006 20:08 BST (GMT+1)
I'd pulled off his finger, melted and then drank his gun.
Now, just by flaunting my glorious body, I'd reduced him to a quivering mess, well past the point-of-no-return on his way to a spontaneous orgasm. I hadn't touched him and he hadn't touched himself but the mere sight of me had pushed his brain into a sexual frenzy.
This was my cue to take an advanced negotiating stance, and I seized it. Quite literally. Two ultra-fast steps got me within reach of the owner. I was already stretching my right arm out towards his groin. Before he knew what was about to happen, it had already happened. I stretched out and grabbed his ready-to-spurt penis, as far down his unimpressive shaft as I could clutch through the fabric of his trousers.
I did not take hold of him at all hard. I made sure I only used the barest minimum of force (just enough to make him scream like a lunatic, continuously, at the top of his voice.) Of course it wasn't just the pain of my effortless grip (agonising though it would have been) that was causing him to yell so crazily. By holding him so tightly, I was denying his groin the release it expected.
I could feel his internal muscles spasm and spasm as they desperately worked to shoot the contents of his testes through his penis. But I kept my grip, making sure that instead of coming, all he experienced was an ever-increasing, ever-more painful build-up of pressure within.
"Please!" he screamed between cries of agony. "Let go!"
I smiled at him, despite his still on-going yells, his face now only a few inches from mine. "Now, why would I want to let go?" I asked, happily.
"I... Can't... Take... (Yell of extreme agony) It...."
I raised an eyebrow, as if I was surprised. "Really? Am I hurting you?"
"Please!!! Let g-aaaaggghhh-o!" That latest scream was the direct result of me tightening my fingers ever so slightly around him. I gave him a few moments to make some more noise as I enjoyed the sight of the blind panic in his eyes.
"I still don't see why I should let go," I said, cheerfully. (Well, I was cheerful at that moment. After all, I was enjoying myself enormously.)
"I'm... Begging... (Yeow!) Plea-Aaaarrggghhh!-se!" he half-said, half-screamed. I guess it wasn't a coincidence that he started to scream just as I tightened my hold on him another notch. I estimated there were about three notches to go before the damage was permanent and maybe three more after that before amputation. But that was only a rough guess. I've learnt over the years that some males turn out to be even more fragile than others...
"So," I smiled, "you'd like me to stop..." I tightened another notch and waited for the inevitable response ("Aggggiiiiieeeeee!") "...squeezing you?"
"I see," I said, taking my time, not relaxing my grip in the slightest, "and what are you going to do for me in return?"
There were tears in his eyes. "ANY-Yeouch!-THING! Aaiiieeee! ANYTHING YOU WANT!!! Aaaaggggghhhhh! PLEASE!" he implored me.
"I want this house." I stated, flatly. And then grabbed him just a tiny bit more firmly. I could feel I was close to, if not already across, the line of disfigurement.
"Nnnnnnggggghhhhhhh! Aaaaggghhhhh! TAKE IT!! Eeeeeeeiiiiii! JUST LET ME GO!!!! Oowwww!"
I let my smile grow into a broad grin. Clinching a major deal is always a thrill when you reduce the other party to a crying, pleading, pathetic wreck.
Of course, I made the broken owner send his doorman to fetch paper and pen so that he could formally sign the entire property over to me before I finally released him. I just opened my fingers, let my hands drop and watched as he fell forwards onto his knees, the crotch of his trousers already soaked with his long-overdue ejaculation before he'd hit the ground.
He knelt in front of me, shaking violently as he continued to release his seed, groaning, wincing and sobbing all the while. He didn't stop painfully orgasming for a full minute. Immediately he was done, he fell forwards onto his face, out cold.
I turned to the shocked and terrified doorman. "Pick him up and go." I instructed. "Now!"
After a moment's hesitation, he bent over the sleeping form of his employer, huffing and gasping as he made a meal of lifting the former owner.
"Faster!" I commanded. The doorman broke into his laughable excuse for a "run". Realising that such a useless creature was simply incapable of moving any quicker, I resisted the temptation to vaporise him and his cargo with a blast of heat-vision and let him make his ponderous way to the front door.
I followed at my leisure behind, checking out my beautiful new residence as I passed through it. It's quite some place. I might tell you about it sometime. I think I'm going to enjoy living in it.
As the doorman carried the previous owner towards the gate at the edge of the grounds, I couldn't resist flying over his head and landing right in his path, hands on my hips. As a display of my dominance, it worked a treat. The man nearly fainted when he saw me!
"One more thing before you leave for the last time:" I said, "If either of you ever comes back here I will kill you. Slowly. And if either of you sends anyone else back here on your behalf, I will track you down and kill you. Slowly." I let my words sink in as I rose into the air until I was hovering with my soles about ten feet above the ground. "Now get off my property!" I ordered.
He wasn't quick, but I know he ran as fast as he could carrying his unconscious boss. I didn't watch for long. I was already walking through the front door of my lovely new home.
And that, people, is how to strike a deal!
Friday 26 May 2006 17:34 BST (GMT+1)
There’s a process, after moving into a new place, in which you gradually change the décor to suit your tastes.
Everybody does it, even an all-powerful, beautiful goddess such as myself , as well as ordinary weaklings. There is a slight difference in the way we go about doing things, however…
I’ll give you an example: My new home is set in quite a lot of land, so there are grounds all around the building. These are large enough to incorporate several gardens and, up until last week, a small fruit orchard. As it happens, I’m just not a fan of trees. I decided (as I strolled around for the first time as the new owner) that I didn’t want the orchard.
Now, if I was an everyday feeble person (what a horrid thought!) I’d have had to hire a team of lumberjacks to cut them all down. As there were 288 trees, it would have taken a group of “strong” Ha ha ha! men days to cut them all down, dig out the stumps and carry everything away.
I had no big males to help out. Just me, on my own. A slender, very, very feminine female.
Of course, I completed the task in under a minute. Without even taking my hands out of my pockets!
I just stood about thirty yards from the nearest of the group of trees and, bending at the waist, leant a little towards the orchard. Anyone watching would have been treated to the heart-stopping sight of my large chest straining against my thin low-cut tank-top. Hypothetical observers would then have been thrilled by my lovely thick lips as I pushed them out, parting them very slightly.
If there really had been anyone else watching, they’d then have been instantly deafened by the roar of rushing wind as I, with effortless ease, began to blow, using my puckered mouth to control my all-conquering exhalation. Of course, at that point, if the watcher was correctly positioned, he would have been hit by a wall of my lovely warm breath. A wall which would have moved at several thousand miles an hour. Imagining for a second that he could survive that, he would then have been lifted up and tossed backwards, spinning through the air like a small scrap of paper in a typhoon. Maybe he would have crashed down to ground a mile or two away. Maybe further than that.
Actually, the more I think about it, the more I regret not making sure there were a few males there to see me in action. It would have been fun!
Anyway, you already knew that a strong hurricane can tear a large tree completely out of the ground, roots and all. Did you also know that the most casual puff of my superbreath when well-directed (easy when you have perfect control and judgement as I do) is many times more devastating? Well now you do!
Just twenty seconds of easy blowing (about as much effort as an ordinary person would need to cool a spoonful of soup) was enough to clear that entire orchard away. One by one, the trunks bent away from me as my exhalation overpowered them. Roots burst up out of the ground as the force of my breath lifted whole trees from the earth. As each tree lost its anchor, it was lifted and carried away at great speed by the rushing winds from my lungs.
The trees spun as they soared away, sometimes entangling in one another, but remaining airborne all the while. The power of my breath was too great and the speed of it too fast to let the uprooted trees fall. Instead they flew away, high over the wall around my property, carried away by my casual puff. I had to use my superhuman visual abilities to see them eventually crashing down to the ground, nearly a mile away from where they had been standing.
I couldn’t see anybody in the cottage which was hit by a dozen or so falling trunks. If there was anyone in there, they won’t be complaining. The little brick bungalow crumbled away to an unrecognisable heap of rubble under the assault. A few more trees landed in an adjacent swimming pool, displacing most of the water, and cracking the floor so that the rest seeped quickly away. Scores of other displaced trunks rained down on the grass all around, tearing up craters where they fell.
In well under half a minute, I succeeded in ripping up nearly three hundred trees and throwing them right off my land. With my breath alone, I had moved a whole orchard!
One area of the grounds of my new home was dotted with the holes caused by the roots of each trunk being ripped out of the earth. But there was no other indication that there had been an orchard there seconds before. The neighbouring plot of land, however, looked like a war zone. I’d estimate the cost of the damage to be in the millions. I’m just glad I won’t be paying for it.
With satisfaction, I surveyed the collapsed cottage, the ruined pool, the huge chunks of ground displaced by falling trees… All done by me just blowing!
Now, imagine if I’d actually exhaled hard…
Tuesday 30 May 2006 17:25 BST (GMT+1)
So, I’ve been making my new place feel truly mine.
After making the necessary immediate changes to the gardens, I turned my attention to the inside of the property. The previous owner, as well as being ridiculously easy to break, had really poor taste. He doesn’t deserve to live in a lovely building like this. Then again, he doesn’t live in a building like this anymore. I do!
One of the first things I did was collect up all the hideous metal statues he’d dotted around the place (a few of them up to five foot tall). Some of them I melted into pools of liquid metal with my heat vision. It’s fun seeing a solid lump of brass or even steel glowing red, wobbling and then collapsing into a puddle just because you look at it in a certain way.
The smaller statues, I remoulded with my hands, the metal groaning but yielding to my smooth feminine palms and fingers like children’s modelling clay might yield to yours (but more easily in my case). I compressed them all into small blobs, squeezing a few so tightly in my grip that they melted and then began to boil. Then I decided to add all the squashed statues together into one big ball of metal. It was effortless to do of course, but the result, a fairly spherical ball of solid metal with streaks of different colours showing the original ingredients (steel, bronze, brass, lead…) was very pretty.
My creation was around two yards in diameter and must have weighed over 15 tons. When I was happy with its roundness, I rolled it out of the wide patio doors into the garden (not by pushing it, but by blowing gently at it, being careful not to exhale too hard and launch it like a giant cannon ball). Then I did what any fun-loving person would have done under the circumstances. I played ball.
OK, my ball weighs as much as a bus, but since when did such small details bother me? I tossed the huge thing into the air, the gentle movement of my slim arms enough to propel “the world’s heaviest beach-ball TM” about half-a-mile straight up into the air. Then I caught it on one outstretched palm, absorbing the enormous momentum so easily, I barely noticed it (other than the loud Clang! each time the ball came down). I threw it up and caught it several times with my right hand and then my left.
Next, I tried some heading practise, knocking the “W.H.B-B.” about a hundred feet up by bouncing it off the top off my skull. Of course, without my flight powers, the descending 15-ton sphere would have knocked me into the ground like a tent-peg. And without my invulnerability it would have crushed me like a particularly soft bug. But, neither of those issues is relevant to me. In fact, I had to stop after the seventh bounce as the ball was getting badly dented each time it encountered my head…
I used my hands to re-smooth out the craters caused by my skull, and then, with just my little finger, flicked the thing. It took off like a missile, soaring fifty yards into the sky, over the roof of my new house to crash down over one hundred yards from me on the other end of my gardens, making a deep crater where it hit. I’ve left it where it landed as it makes for a fascinating sculpture. And it’s there for me anytime I fancy playing with it some more…
Wednesday 31 May 2006 17:26 BST (GMT+1)
Ordinary people are forever moaning.
You know the kind of thing. Some examples that I have heard in the past day alone: “I’m tired”, “I’m hungry”, “Please stop you’re hurting me!” and my personal favourite: Aaaagh! My hand! My hand!
I’ve also noticed that a lot of normal people complain about their cars. I guess it’s because they’re so weak and slow that they can’t really move about properly without their vehicles. It’s almost enough to make me pity them. Actually, who am I kidding? It’s nowhere near enough to make me pity them.
Anyway, as you might imagine, cars mean nothing to me. I can walk faster than the fastest race car, and run as fast as a rocket. Without ever tiring. Or getting short of breath. Who needs to breathe? Not me!
Even the ability to walk at 300 miles per hour for as long as I fancy pales into insignificance compared to what I can do with my flight powers. Thousands of times faster than any rocket, millions of times more manoeuvrable, inexhaustible, utterly indestructible and of course, absolutely stunningly gorgeous, beautiful and sexy-beyond-comprehension, I make for an awesome airborne vehicle.
So I really don’t need to keep a car. Let alone five of them. But that’s what I found in the huge garage underneath my new place. One vintage automobile and four of the very latest sports cars. What am I supposed to do with them? I mean, what possible need does a goddess such as myself have for such crude, weak machinery?
So far, I’ve only managed to get rid of the vintage car. I’d guess it was worth quite a bit of money, but I couldn’t be bothered with all the hassle of selling it. So I found an amusing new home for it. Of course, lifting a car (or a bus or, for that matter, fifty buses) is no test of my strength. Picking the old vehicle up and flying through the air with it was about as easy for me as blinking is for you. Probably even easier.
I had to fly very, very slowly (boringly slowly to be honest) to protect my cargo as I soared upwards. But, I had nothing better to do so I took my time and managed to get the car to its new location with only light damage to its paintwork.
Someone will get a surprise when they discover a 1920s automobile parked at the top of a mountain. On Mars.
Now, I need to figure out what to do with the 4 new vehicles.