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June 2006

Thursday 1 June 2006 17:54 BST (GMT+1)

I don’t really know (or care) much about the previous owner of my new home, other than the fact that he was just another typical weak, fragile male unable to resist my devastating sexual charm.

But he must’ve had a lot of time on his hands. The basement of this place contains a two-lane bowling alley, a full-sized snooker table and a large indoor pool. These things are probably a lot of fun for normal people who lack my perfect aim and judgement. Not to mention my incalculable strength. For me, of course, it’s all boring.

I mean, what fun is a bowling lane for me? If I wanted, I could bowl a million perfect games in succession without even feeling the slightest tiredness in my arm. I’ll have to think of something I can do with those lanes. Something that doesn’t involve the actual bowling balls, because I’ve lost the two that were there.

Actually “lost” is an inaccurate word. I know exactly where one of them is, and I’m sure I could find the other without too much trouble. But I’ve got better things to do. Like working out what to do with the lanes, the snooker table and the pool.

OK, OK. You want to know what happened to the two bowling balls.

Well, I was just strolling through the house when I noticed them. I picked them up, letting one hang from the index finger of each hand and carried on walking around. They’re so weightless I almost forgot about them as I wandered out into the garden. The starry night sky brought to mind the escapades I had with Daphne and the bogus alien invasion. Absent-mindedly, I began scanning the blackness with my super-vision, perhaps searching for any interesting debris that was left over from the ship Daphne had joined with.

Something up there caught my eye. I zoomed in, my eyes piercing the thin clouds, making the object seem as large and clear as if it was right in front of me in broad daylight. Disappointingly it turned out to be nothing more than a very much “man-made” communications satellite. I looked down and noticed the bowling ball in my hand. And grinned.

I couldn’t resist.

I didn’t bother to put the other ball down, or to draw my arm back. I just casually tossed one of the two balls, underarm, aiming it more-or-less straight up. I didn’t even make an effort to re-focus on the satellite. I didn’t need to. I remembered where it was, and like I said before, I have perfect judgement.

My ball shot into the sky faster than any rocket or missile has ever travelled. Much faster in fact. It was only a matter of seconds before it struck the unfortunate satellite, smashing it instantly into a million useless pieces, most of which probably ended up burning up in the atmosphere.

The ball did not stop there, however. I’d thrown it far too hard to run out of momentum after only a few miles. I watched, using all the power of my wonderful eyes, as the little solid sphere streaked further and further away from the Earth. It kept travelling for quite a few minutes, heading out into the solar system. I stopped watching out of boredom when it was somewhere near the orbit of Jupiter, only just beginning to show signs of slowing down.

Turning my attention back to planet Earth, I lifted the other bowling ball up in front of my face, letting it rest on my palm. Puckering up, I blew the tiniest, shortest little puff of superbreath at the ball. Just enough to push the thing off my hand and force it through the air at a speed of around three hundred miles an hour. As I said, just the tiniest of puffs.

The sphere flew, parallel with the ground, for about fifty yards until it hit the trunk of a big old oak tree. A split- second later, it emerged from the other side of the trunk, leaving a perfect, smooth round hole clean through the tree. The carving job didn’t seem to have slowed it down much as it shot for a further thirty yards without losing height until it encountered another tree.

This one was much smaller than the oak, its diameter less than that of the bowling ball, so the entire tree was felled as its truck was cut in half. The ball still showed no signs of running out of momentum. It slammed into, and through, the brick wall of my garage, leaving another circular aperture, before emerging in a shower of stone from the other side of the building. Now, finally, it was beginning to lose altitude.

It didn’t hit the ground, however, for another hundred yards. By then it had made yet another hole (this time in the fence at the edge of my property). The eventual impact took place in one of my neighbours’ gardens. But the ball did not stop once it was on the ground. It continued to roll, smashing noisily through a greenhouse before crashing into the wall of a house, dislodging a dozen or so bricks and bursting a water pipe. Only then did it, at last, come to rest.

“Strike!” I laughed to myself, before turning around and going back inside, just as I heard confused, panicking voices emerging from the house I’d hit.





Friday 2 June 2006 16:35 BST (GMT+1)

Swimming is fun!

True, I haven’t done much of it since I found out I could fly. That’s because flying through water at hundreds of miles an hour, barely even noticing the supposedly much greater resistance compared with soaring through the air, is even more fun.

But I’ve always enjoyed a swim. Before I could fly I would often take a little dip. I have swam across each of the world’s oceans countless times under my own (quite possibly unlimited) power, streaking through the water twenty times as fast as the fastest speedboat, going from one continent to another and arriving as fresh and un- tired as when I started out.

Diving deep in the sea is fun too. Especially when you are invulnerable to intense pressure, can hold your breath for decades and have no trouble seeing in the almost pitch dark…

Visiting the bottom of the deepest trench under the Pacific. Crossing the Atlantic remaining only a few inches above the sea bed all the way. Wrestling with sharks and effortlessly defeating them. Tossing giant whales clear out of the water with a single hand. Teasing submarine crews by overpowering the engines of their craft merely by holding on to their tailfins. Capsizing mighty warships just by blowing at them. Like I said: fun.

So just what is a girl like me, mistress of the worlds mightiest oceans, supposed to do with a tiny (quarter Olympic-size) indoor swimming pool? If I dived off the edge, pushing off with my toes without using my flying skills, I’d easily clear five times the length of the water. If I carefully lowered myself in and took a single stroke, I’d smash head-first through the far side of the pool and end up embedded in concrete. I’d be unhurt, of course, but the pool would be ruined.

I could drink all the water in my new pool in less than a minute. I could get underneath it and rip it out of the ground - water, container and all - and balance it over my head on the tip of a single finger without feeling any strain. I could fill the thing with concentrated sulphuric acid, sit at the bottom for a month and suffer no ill-effect other than boredom.

So, what’s the point of a pool for me? That’s what I was thinking last night as I was amusing myself, standing on the edge, alternatively making all the water boil furiously by firing little bursts of my heat-vision at it and then freeze completely solid by gently blowing cold superbreath over it….

There has to be a better use for it. Something more entertaining.

Maybe if I made sure there was a man or two in the water before I boiled or froze it…





Monday 5 June 2006 17:26 BST (GMT+1)

So I mentioned that there are extensive “leisure” facilities in my new home.

And I said I was thinking about ways to make them entertaining for someone with my unique abilities (try finding games of skill fun when you’re physically perfect). Well, I finally hit on the answer. I needed someone else to play with. Someone less perfect. And what could possibly be less perfect than a man?

Now, before you start accusing me of snatching some poor little male off the street and subjecting him to a hard time, you should know that I did no such thing. On this particular occasion. In fact, I snatched him off my own doorstep before subjecting him to a hard time.

He rang the bell on the entrance gates on Friday evening, giving an unrequested speech over the intercom that he was collecting for some charity or other. Something about dedicating his life to raising money for whatever cause it was, and asking if I could spare some change to help those less fortunate. So he completely deserved everything he got from me. How dare he disturb a being as vastly superior as me with his trivial nonsense!

Bored of him by the time he’d said three sentences into the entry phone, I pressed the button to activate the electric gate and told the unwelcome guest to walk up the path to the house. Being an ordinary creature, it took him an age to reach the front door. By the time he finally made it, I was angry and impatient.

I opened the door, and looked him once over briefly. He was fairly attractive by the standards of his ilk, but I quickly decided that he was not up to my standards for use as a sex-toy. Fortunately, I had other diversions lined up. I reached out, grabbed him by his collar, and yanked him into the house, pulling his feet off the floor in the process.

He yelled in surprise. I told him to shut up as I carried him, one-handed, by the lapel of his shirt, through my new home and down into the basement, the soles of his shoes never making contact with my floor. As I was descending the stairs, he began to scream. I pinned him to the wall with his feet six inches from the carpet, holding him in place with two fingers in the centre of his chest, driving all the air from his lungs and silencing him instantly.

I leant my face right into his and told him “That’s better.” He said nothing in return, probably because I didn’t let him. But he was quieter when I removed my fingers, letting him slide down the wall and gulp down some air. I took a new one-handed hold of him, this time by the back of his trousers, hooking my hand inside the waistband so that I could carry him like a suitcase. A suitcase that felt absolutely weightless to me.

At the foot of the stairs, I switched on the light with my free hand, not for my benefit (I can see just fine in the dark, thanks) but for his, so he wouldn’t miss any of the fun I planned. “What… what’s happening?” he shouted as the games room was lit up.

I hoisted him roughly up in front of my face for a moment. “What do you think is happening? We’re going to play some games. Fun, hey?”

“Please, you’re hur-“ he began, in typical, moaning male fashion.

“Oh, do shut up.” I told him, dropping my arm again so he was hanging by my side once more. The jolt had the desired effect of stopping him speaking. “I think we’ll start with some bowling.” I announced, strolling over to the two lanes the previous owner had installed. “I’m glad you’re here, because I haven’t got the two balls that came with these lanes anymore,” I told my guest. “I seem to be forever breaking balls. Not to worry. I’ve got you now.”

Standing at the top of the lane, I drew my arm back and casually flung the charity man towards the ten pins waiting at the far end. As unaerodynamic as he was, he flew through the air in a pretty clean arc, never more than a yard above the lane. He landed, screaming, with his face leading the way, plunging into the neatly arranged pins.

In less than a second, I was standing over him as he lay, still yelling, on his stomach. I dug my bare toes under his ribs and flicked my foot to flip him like a pancake. He was a picture. His nose had been broken and was gushing blood. Another cut oozed on his cheek. Bruises were forming around one eye. “Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” I asked, not expecting any response. At least the screaming faded to a scared whimper.

”You really spoiled the moment,” I told him. “Now I have to do it all over again.” I picked him up without care, jerking his body around as if he were a stuffed toy and walked back to the top of the second lane. I ignored the blood he dripped all over my alley as I pulled my arm back and launched him at the second set of pins, this time throwing him in a much higher arc, purely of course for my own amusement.

He didn’t scream. He just gave a kind of muffled yelp as the front of his head slammed down, scattering pins in all direction. He was breathing slow and hard when I went over to him and lifted him from the floor by grabbing the back of his neck with my left hand. The second strike had almost flattened what was left of his nose. One of his lips appeared to have split open as well. “You look awful,” I told him. “I expect my guests to make more of an effort. I’m not sure I even want to play with you anymore.”

The guy was having trouble looking at me. One eye was beginning to swell shut. He seemed to be trembling in my grasp. He started to sob. “Oh, don’t be sad.” I said with mock pity. “I was only joking. Of course I want to keep playing with you.”

I carried him by his neck over to the full-sized snooker table while he quietly bled and cried. “Fancy a frame of snooker?” I asked. “Great!” I said before he could even register the question fully.

I’ll let you know how the snooker went next time.





Tuesday 6 June 2006 19:20 BST (GMT+1)

If my guest had any objections to my offer of a game of snooker, he didn't voice them loud enough or with enough insistence. Then again, if he had protested forcibly, I would have ignored him anyway...

I carried him without care for his comfort over to the billiard table. "I really don't like the cues here." I said, glancing over the rack of top-quality hardly-used sticks. "I'll just have to use... You!"

With one hand under his shoulder and the other grabbing him by the inside of his thigh (tight enough to make him yell out, of course) I turned him until his body was parallel with the floor, moving him around as easily as if he'd weighed, say, a tenth of what an actual cue weighs.

After that I lifted him over the table and, mimicking a snooker player's movements, I pulled the man back before thrusting him forwards so that the top of skull hit the white ball with a satisfying Clack!. "Ow!" he shouted.

"You'll get used to it." I told him, walking round the table with his body tucked under my arm. Raising him on to the table once more, I lined up my next shot. Clack!

"Ow!"

"You forgot to compliment me on the shot," I chastised, giving him a little squeeze until he screamed.

"Aaaaagggghhh! (pant, pant) Good shot!"

"Thank you," I replied.

Of course, he was a lousy cue. I couldn't put any spin on the white ball. Only my perfect judgement saved me from an embarrassingly short break.

"Well, that was fun, wasn't it?" I asked as I sunk the final black.

"Hrrr awwm good shosh," he mumbled. His speech had been becoming more and more slurred since about a third of the way through the game. Surely all those pathetically light taps on his head couldn't have had an effect? Then again, nothing should surprise me anymore when it comes to the fragility of males.

"Are you getting a bit tired?" I asked him.

"Preesh lesh me go..." he wailed.

"You are tired, aren't you?" I stated-more-than-asked. "Never mind. A quick dip in the pool will sort you out." I couldn't help adding, rather menacingly "One way, or the other."

Tune in next time for my guest's water frolics!





Wednesday 7 June 2006 16:35 BST (GMT+1)

The swimming pool in my new home is located in the basement, right next door to the Games Room where the bowling lanes and snooker table are.

There’s a little interconnecting doorway from the pool to the carpeted Games Room (or “Rec Room” if you’re American. Or “Wreck Room” if you were my ‘guest’ the other evening. Then again, you wouldn’t be reading this blog, or anything else for that matter, if you were him…)

On the evening in question, the door between swimming pool and Games Room was already open. When I’d finished playing snooker, I didn’t even have to carry my “guest” the short distance to the side of the pool (not that carrying a large male is any effort for me). Instead, I merely flung him, through the doorway from where I stood, by the side of the snooker table, so that he landed, about fifteen yards away, with a big splash, in the water.

With my superspeed, I could have been at the side of the pool, or even hovering an inch above it, in less time than it took the guy to arc through the air and come down. But, although I could have been there in a flash, I decided to stroll very slowly instead. My “guest” seemed to be having so much fun splashing about in the pool that I thought I’d leave him to it for a while.

It turned out that he wasn’t having fun, he was panicking because he couldn’t swim. I found out just before I’d wandered over to the side of the water. He sank beneath the surface and didn’t come back up. Now, I can (and frequently) do stay underwater for days on end without any discomfort. I know that “ordinary” people are vastly inferior, but this one’s vital signs were slipping into oblivion after less than a minute!

I walked over to him. I had to cheat a little, of course, and activate my flying abilities so that I could keep on striding over the water, but soon enough I was “standing” on the surface of the pool, directly over the drowning man. I reached down with one hand, and pulled him out of the water, holding him with my fingers hooked around his armpit.

For a while, he just coughed up liquid. Like any good host, I waited patiently for him to finish before speaking to him. “Look at my T-shirt!” I said, with (I think) justifiable anger. “It’s a bit wet because of you!”

He just stared at me, looking only half-conscious.

“What are you looking at?” I asked, still annoyed. “The wet bit is the sleeve not the front! Were you checking out my breasts?”

“Uh…. Er….”

“Haven’t you got anything to say for yourself?” I demanded.

“Sh… Shorry?” He slurred, timidly, obviously terrified of saying the wrong thing.

“Frankly, that’s not good enough.” I told him. “I think you should stay here for a while and think about your behaviour.”

“Preesh. I needsh to go! Feel bad…” he mumbled.

“Well, how do you think I feel, with my wet sleeve and all?” I asked. He said nothing.

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “No understanding of other people’s situations. All you can do is moan about feeling a bit poorly because you’ve got a couple of bruises and here I am, with a wet sleeve because I had to rescue you.” Carefully, I lowered my arm and the man hanging from the end of it until his ankles were in the pool again. I continued to pretend to be standing on the water, so my feet were now level with his shins.

“So, you want to leave.” I noted.

I bent my head and, pushing out my lips, I blew a very gentle stream of cold superbreath over the swimming pool. The top ten inches of water froze instantly solid wherever my breath touched. By moving my head from side to side, I was able to cover the entire surface of the pool in an almost foot-thick slab of ice. That includes the area all around my guest’s feet. He was left encased from the ankle-down in a massive block of deep-frozen water.

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” I said. “Leave if you want to.” I released the fingers under his arm. For a moment he struggled with his balance before he tipped over, face first. With his feet locked unmovably in thick ice, he ended up bending at the waist, his head touching the frozen surface whilst I laughed at the ridiculous sight.

Trying to right himself, he placed his palms on the ice to push himself up. It might have worked, but his skin immediately stuck to the extremely cold surface and he soon realised that he couldn’t pull his hands away without tearing off his skin. He was trapped with his body in an inverted “V” shape, prompting more hysterical laughter from me.

Casually, shaking my rear seductively (because I could) I walked on the ice, away from him, my superhuman bare feet untouched by the problem affecting my guest’s palms.

“Help me!” he cried out as I strolled out of the room.

“I can’t,” I responded over my shoulder, “I’ve got a wet sleeve, remember?”

Perhaps I should have gone back to let him know that a split-second’s warm exhalation had dried my sleeve as good as new as soon as I was out of his sight, but to be honest, by then I was too bored with him to bother.

By the following morning, only a small portion of the ice had melted, so thoroughly had my superbreath frozen it. I had to use my heat-vision to defrost the top layer of the pool just to free up the body and another blast from my eyes to dispose of it. But the important thing is I’ve found a fun use for my Games Room.

I love a happy ending.





Thursday 8 June 2006 17:52 BST (GMT+1)

There are so many things I know that you don’t.

Chief amongst those, I suppose, is: how it feels to be the most beautiful, desirable, powerful and perfect being in existence. See if you can guess what it’s like….

Wrong! I told you. You’re not even close.

Let me illustrate the point further with an example: A few days ago, while I was clearing out the previous owner’s stuff from my new home (mostly by vaporising his possessions with my heat vision) I came across a huge collection of DVDs.

For an ordinary person like you, that’s probably the height of excitement. Loads of free films to watch at your leisure. But not for me. You see, films bore me. They go so slowly. If I could watch them at 128 times normal speed with the audio in sync, I could just about bear it. And all the “fantasies” and “special effects” that people rave about just seem poor imitations of what I can have in reality any time I want.

This guy had loads of sci-fi. So what! I can go into space whenever I fancy and experience it for real. In three dimensions. And as for war films…. Let me tell you, I’ve yet to see anything that comes even close to showing how much fun it is to be in the centre of an explosion.

Drama? Who cares about the struggles and adventures of some ordinary guy who’s too weak to just swat aside the obstacles in his path? Thriller? If the lead character is so hopelessly fragile that he might get killed any moment by a single bullet, why am I supposed to care if he lives or dies?

Romance? Oh come on! Like a goddess such as me can relate to the “feelings” one weakling has for the other. I’m far too superior to every other living creature to ever have to bother with all that nonsense.

Fortunately, I’ve found a good use for all those discs. I start by holding one in my hand and then I flick my wrist, much as you would throw a Frisbee (but with much less effort on my part). The discs fly so fast thanks to my amazing strength that they can slice right through a brick wall, loads of furniture, some more walls, more furniture and yet another brick wall. Not to mention anything else they encounter.

You should see the slit-shaped holes I put all the way through some of the neighbouring houses tossing DVDs out of the window! My X-ray vision comes into its own, of course, allowing me to follow the discs on their paths of destruction. Without it, I’d have missed the hysterical sight of a middle-aged man being woken up by having the tip of his nose sliced off as he slept…

So much more fun than watching a film!





Friday 9 June 2006 17:30 BST (GMT+1)

So, the big tournament has started. People have been gathering all over the world to watch.

What a shame, then, that 400 people, crammed into a big bar near my new home, missed the first game. How frustrating for them. First, their TV reception went. Then, when the landlord went to check on the roof antenna, he found he couldn’t open the access hatch.

The next step was to get onto the roof from outside the building. But, strangely, they found the main doors completely jammed. No matter how hard the people inside tried, they couldn’t get them open. Then, things began to go downhill. The electricity failed, meaning they had no air-conditioning, stuck in a crowded room, on the hottest day of the year so far.

Imagine how happy everyone in there was, when, not long after the power went down, the water was cut. No toilets. No drinking water.

It took the rescue services five hours to re-open the doors and let everyone out. No-one could understand what had happened. The steel doors appeared to have been melted closed, as though by some staggeringly-high- powered laser. The solid metal catch on the roof hatch had been twisted up as though it was made of paper. The police thought a specially-built machine had been used.

Some thought a pile-driver had caused the small, but deep hole in the road outside. Something had punched through the surface of the tarmac, and sheered right through a water pipe, making a miniature fountain that spilt water all over the street, but left none available inside the building. The electricity failure was traced to a nearby substation that had shorted out so badly, much of the equipment in there had melted. As for the TV-aerial up on the roof, flattened into a curved plate the thickness of a birthday card, well, there were no explanations.

Anyway, here’s how I did it:

1) I squeezed the antenna against my body, using my palms to smear the metal over my superhuman curves.

2) I pinched the catch on the roof-hatch closed with my thumb and forefinger, then twisted it together with a couple of easy turns of my fingers.

3) Flying down at superspeed, I played my heat vision quickly over the divide in the centre of the steel double doors. The two sheets of metal softened and expanded just enough to fuse together before I cooled them to normal, making my alterations permanent with a gentle puff of cool superbreath.

4) A quick flight over to the substation. I opened the locked door with a kick of my bare foot, strolled in and with one hand grabbed a 12,000 volt live terminal. I placed my other hand on a metal cabinet and enjoyed the mild sensation of the current flowing through my invulnerable body. The shock would have killed fifty “ordinary” people, but it barely tickled me. I just hung on till things started to explode in showers of sparks.

5) Racing back to the bar, I used my X-ray vision to quickly locate the water-pipe entering the building about half -a-yard beneath the street. I knelt down on the road outside the bar, right above the pipe, curled my fingers into a fist and drove it down, through the tarmac and concrete, the material crumbling to dust without slowing my hand before I breached the metal pipe itself. Of course, when I pulled my arm out of the deep hole I’d made, there wasn’t a scratch to be seen on it.

6) Far too fast to be seen, I shot up into the clouds and hovered overhead. My remarkable eyesight allowed me to see the confusion, discomfort and annoyance of all the patrons in the bar. For a while, I laughed at their helplessness. Then I got bored of that and went to find some other source of fun.





Monday 12 June 2006 16:47 BST (GMT+1)

Today readers, you are privileged indeed. I’m going to give you a rare insight into my day-to-day pain.

Not pain in the “physical discomfort” sense, obviously. I don’t ever have to deal with that. Nothing “hurts” me in that sense. Fists, knives, acid, bullets, fire and bombs don’t even bruise my flawless skin. What I’m talking about is the never-ending struggle between having fun and keeping a low profile.

It’s enough to make me sigh. (Of course, if I did properly sigh, exhaling without holding back to truly reflect my feelings, it would be easily enough to badly disrupt the planetary atmospheric air-currents.)

I mean, don’t I have rights? I’m just a girl (alright, a stunningly beautiful, irresistibly sexy girl) with a few special abilities (alright again, a vast array of imagination-defying, unopposable super powers) who wants to enjoy herself. It’s not right that I cannot go out in public and use my natural gifts for a bit of a laugh without running the risk of having the all the police, armies and government scientists of Earth trying to hunt me down.

If, say, some people get hurt or broken when I’m having a good time, well, that should be the end of the matter. I’m superhuman and other people are not, so of course they’re going to get hurt! I should just be left alone.

But I know that if I did relax and let down my guard (for example, if I decided to play how-high-can-you-stack- them-before-the-tower-collapses with a few dozen cars on a busy street during rush hour… you know, something that every supergirl should be allowed to do) some policeman would probably try and arrest me. Then some other cops would turn up to try and arrest me for hurting the first policeman. Then the armed teams would arrive and try to shoot me. After they’d wasted all their ammo on my gorgeous, indestructible body, the army would come with tanks and missiles. Then the media would plaster my (stunning) picture everywhere, saying I was “evil” just for wiping out the entire military. And all because I was enjoying myself and the authorities tried to intervene.

So, to avoid all that mess and irritating attention, I have to always be very careful how, when and most of all, where I use my powers. It’s the terrible price I have to pay to maintain the low profile I prefer: always checking for witnesses and making sure that any evidence or potential testimony against me is destroyed. Now, whilst the “destroying evidence” part can be (and usually is) quite a lot of fun, it’s still something that someone as gloriously powerful as I simply shouldn’t have to do.

Considering the practically-unlimited nature of my strength, power and invulnerability, I have to show mind- boggling levels of restraint on a daily basis simply so I can continue to go about my life without people pointing and shouting things like “That’s her! The girl who kicked that bus through the third-floor windows of the department store!”

Now that can be a real drag. Some days, all I want to do is kick buses through the upper windows of tall buildings. I have to choose between doing what I want to do and maintaining my low profile.

I’ve thought in the past about compromising, even though, naturally, a perfect, all-powerful being like me is always going to object to the idea of compromise. I could try running up to a bus at superspeed so that I couldn’t be seen, kicking the thing with my bare foot hard enough to raise the entire massive vehicle a hundred foot into the air, and then sprinting off at five times the world record land-velocity before anyone could spot me.

Don’t get me wrong: it would be amusing watching the bus soaring through the air, but not a fraction of the fun of this: The driver and passengers staring at me as I slowly walk up to their transport, hands on hips, awesome chest thrust out. The confusion on their faces as I tease them a bit, making the whole vehicle rock from side to side just by poking it with a finger. Then the shock as they see me, drawing back my long shapely leg before punting them into oblivion. After that, the thrill of turning to face the stunned and terrified on-lookers once they’d watched me effortlessly take out the bus…

Why can’t I do that and still stroll home at a “normal” pace, unhassled by the authorities? Is it really so much to ask?





Tuesday 13 June 2006 16:55 BST (GMT+1)

I never, ever, get tired of being superior. And I always enjoy demonstrating my superiority. (Who wouldn’t?)

If I hear a new world record has been set, I always go out as soon as possible to see by how many hundred or thousand times I can smash it. Of course, the equipment to properly measure my powers is yet to be invented, but rough calculations are good enough. For instance, I couldn’t measure my time for a hundred meter sprint with any accuracy. Instead, I timed myself over a hundred kilometres, and divided that by a thousand. (Remember, that fatigue is not a factor where I’m concerned.) If you’re interested, my average 100 meters clocks in at 0.119 seconds. I can go faster, but I hardly need to bother, do I?

I used to check things like long-jump and high-jump distances, but I’ve lost interest in that since I developed the ability to fly. As for my strength, I think these days that would be just about impossible to measure. I’ve tried lifting a few buildings lately, but they have an annoying habit of falling apart before I rip them completely from their foundations. Big ships, like oil-tankers, aircraft carriers and so forth are less tricky. I like to “stand” on the surface of the sea, holding a massive steel vessel over my head and lifting it up and down. But I know I could easily manage more weight than that. Much more weight. I wonder if I’ll ever find out exactly how much more.

One thing I did get to test scientifically was my superbreath. At an aircraft manufacturer’s testing labs a wind tunnel had been set up, complete with a device for accurately recording wind-speeds. I stood about twenty yards away and started to gently exhale. The plan was to gradually blow harder and harder. Sadly, before I really got going, the equipment was torn from its steel mountings by my breath. It would have smashed into the far brick wall if that, too, hadn’t succumbed to the force of my lungs. I stopped blowing at once, but there were bits of wall already strewn over two square miles. The last figure recorded was a wind-speed of 1,127 mph. But, like I said, I had hardly even begun.

The problem is, of course, that everything on this planet is too fragile to fully test the limits of my powers.

But then again, I quite like things that way…





Wednesday 14 June 2006 17:02 BST (GMT+1)

I lost my broadband internet connection at about 8 o’clock last night.

The previous owner had only paid a month in advance, and the account just ran out. I called the helpline, and after a 5 minute wait I finally got through. You know the drill: “Hello **** Internet. Chas speaking. How may I help?”

I explained the situation and was told that nothing could be done at least until the morning , but probably not for a few days at least. I said something along the lines of “That’s not good enough, Chas.”

“There’s nothing I can do about it,” he said unapologetically, “that’s how long it takes.”

I pointed out that it doesn’t take a few days to flick a switch (even for the weakest, slowest, most stupid of males).

“Well, we also have to process the account information,” bullshitted Chas, “and assign an engineering job number and -“ I hung up.

Two minutes later, I was descending from the sky to land perfectly on my lovely, bare feet right outside the locked offices of the Service Provider. I banged on the door once with my left index finger. I wasn’t trying to knock and get attention. I just wanted to smash the thick heavy-bolted wooden door down. It broke into a number of pieces which landed around the entrance lobby.

An alarm went off and, as I stepped inside, a middle-aged, slightly overweight man in a security guard’s uniform came running from within the building. “Stop right there!” he shouted at me.

“No,” I said, simply, walking slowly towards him. He appeared caught in two minds, unsure whether to try and intercept me or just stay where he was and stare at me. Before he could come to a decision, I’d lifted him from the floor with just one of my petite hands tightly grasped around his flabby neck. I let him punch my flat stomach twice, the first hit breaking the knuckles in his right hand, the second rendering his left unusable. I think the first scream was slightly louder than the second, but that may have been because he was running out of air.

“Where’s the call centre?” I asked him. He looked at me in total surprise.

“Tell me where the call centre is,” I repeated, “or I’ll kill you.”

Eyes wide in panic, he blurted out an address. “Thank you,” I smiled, “you’ve been most helpful.” I still didn’t let him down or even relax the grip on his neck.

“I… I would have told you if you’d just asked,” the security guard whimpered.

“It’s more fun like this,” I told him, still grinning.

“Please… put me down,” he pleaded.

“Pathetic.” I observed, opening my fingers to let him drop whilst at the same time turning my back on him so that I never actually got to see him hit the ground in a heap. I could hear him crying softly as I strolled out through the smashed doorway.

The address he gave me was three hundred miles away. I was there inside a quarter of an hour.

I’ll tell you about what happened once I arrived next time.





Thursday 15 June 2006 16:40 BST (GMT+1)

The call centre office had a special out-of-normal-business-hours entry system.

The heavy double-glazed glass metal-framed door was well-locked. Mounted on the wall beside it was a swipe- card reader and a key-pad plus a small intercom with a buzzer labelled "XXXX ISP Call Centre" and a whole load of flashing L.E.D.s. Overhead, a very prominent CCTV camera kept watch. The whole set-up must have cost a fortune to install.

Naturally, I dealt with the camera first. As I mentioned in Monday's blog, I don't want any footage of me displaying my powers to be in circulation. At superspeed, I leapt up, grabbing the lens portion of the electronic eye and giving it a firm squeeze, instantly crushing the metal casing flat and turning all the glass and plastic and ceramics inside the contraption to dust.

I only wanted to get inside the building, so I have to admit that the blast of heat-vision that I aimed at the fancy control box on the wall wasn't strictly necessary. Still, I enjoyed watching the complex electronics and their housing turn to liquid. That'll take some jerk a very long time to clean up.

Having gratuitously destroyed the entry system, I turned my attention to the door itself. Panes of half-inch thick toughened glass surrounded by a solid steel frame stood between me and the inside of the building. I didn't give them a second thought as I strolled through. My prominent chest hit the glass first, the material dissolving on contact with my unstoppable body, diamond-like fragments raining down over the front of my tight T-shirt. My groin (under my jeans shorts) struck the middle bar of the frame and simply pushed the steel dismissively aside, despite the groans of the metal as it was stretched, bent and finally torn in half.

In less than a second, I was inside. I hadn't felt any resistance as I'd smashed through the security door. Only the debris all around told me that I really had destroyed the entrance with my perfect body. I brushed a few fragments of glass out of my hair, just as a young man in a white shirt and green tie came running around the corner from the interior of the building. "Are you alright?" he asked, breathlessly, seeing the mess.

I laughed. "Am I alright?" I echoed. "I'm better than 'alright'. I'm magnificent!"

The young man's gaze had quickly enough come to rest on the top half of my body. Evidently, what he could see did not contradict my self-diagnosis. "Yes, you are..." he whispered to himself, but of course, I heard perfectly.

"Are you Chas?" I asked.

The guy seemed absolutely devastated by the question. The crushing disappointment (that I was asking for a different male by name) was writ large on his features. "Er... no," he said. "He's inside." Then he had a brainwave. "He's, ah, very busy right now, though. Can I help you in the meantime?" Such a desperate attempt to spend a few more moments in my company! The poor man just couldn't help himself faced with my physical glory.

"No. I want to see Chas." I told him.

The look of disappointment returned. I greeted it with a smile. "Bring him out here for me, will you?"

"Sure. No problem." He practically ran to obey. What was he thinking? That if he did me the favour, I was going to let him anywhere near my stunning body? The capacity of pathetic males for self-delusion never ceases to amaze me.

The capacity for pathetic males to obsess over my appearance, however, is tiresome. This is what my superhearing picked up from inside the building:

"What was that noise, Frank?"

"I think someone must've crashed a car into the door and driven off or something. Nearly killed your girlfriend..."

"My girlfriend? I don't have a gir- er, I mean, it can't be her, she's... um... away in er... Norway."

"Well, there's a girl in the entrance area asking for you."

"For me? You sure?"

"Definitely. You're the only Chas here. If you like, though, I can tell her you're too busy and er, get rid of her for you."

"What's she look like?"

"Um... Oh, I didn't really notice..."

"You're such a bad liar! I can see it on your face! Come on, what's she like?"

"Can't fool you, can I? She is absolutely fucking stunning, mate. Gorgeous face, tits you'd crawl a mile over broken glass to touch and -"

"Big, you mean?"

"Huge. And really firm-looking, like ripe grapefruit. You can see her nips and all..."

"I'd better go and check the damage to the door and, er, see what this girl wants."

"I can sort out the door for you."

"No, that's alright, Frank. You mind the fort here."

"I can come with you in case you need any help with anything."

"Nah. It's fine. You stay here."

"You sure, Chas?"

"Sure, Frank."

"OK. I've just got to, um, go to the lav..."

I heard two diverging sets of footsteps for about ten seconds, then one of the sets of shoes stopped. The sound effects were predictable to say the least. As the feet presumably belonging to Chas continued to get nearer, I listened to: a toilet door closing and being locked. A fly unzipping. Panting. Flesh being vigorously rubbed. A groan. And then viscous liquid hitting porcelain in spurts. The whole process lasted about quarter of a minute. I guess I must have made a very strong impression on Frank...

Meantime, Chas had arrived. "Hello!" he announced. "I'm Chas. How can I... Help... You..." The pause after the "I" was the moment he saw me fully. The second hesitation was the moment his eyeballs locked on to the shape of my large, proud nipples and the wonderful round breasts behind them. The word "you" seemed to be addressed entirely to my chest.

"We spoke about an hour ago on the phone," I said. "About my broadband connection."

"I, ah, don't think so..." Chas told my nipples, "the only female customer I've spoken to this evening was down South."

"That was me," I confirmed.

"No, it couldn't have been. The wom- er, lady I spoke to was at home like I said, down South." he re-iterated, not taking his eyes of my feminine glory for a moment.

"Yes. That was me," I said, once more.

"I'm sorry, but it just could not have been you," he began. I almost expected him to say "either of you" as he seemed to be holding the conversation not with me, but with my breasts. The poor jerk was almost drooling as he went on, "The lady I spoke to lives hundreds of miles from here."

"I know where I live," I responded, crossing my arms under my chest, making the curve of my mounds even more dramatic, and drawing an involuntary gasp from Chas. I reeled off my new address and saw the confusion spread over his face.

"But, but, I spoke to you... on your landline... fifty-five minutes ago... How... how did you get here?" Again, he really should have asked 'How did you two get here?' because he did seem to be speaking exclusively to my bosoms.

"Chas, did no-one ever tell you it's rude to stare at a woman's tits?" I asked. He blushed bright red and then made a strong effort to tear his gaze away. Too embarrassed for eye-contact, he ended up looking at the broken glass on the floor around me. Perhaps the glimpse of the damaged door reminded him of his duties, or perhaps it was the fact that his entire, feeble, male brain was no longer being occupied processing the sight of my chest.

"Did you see what happened to the door?" he asked, no doubt relieved to have a valid reason for changing the subject.

"I thought you wanted to know how I got here. Well, anyway, it doesn't matter. It's the same answer."

"Eh?" he said. What a novelty: a confused male...

"You asked how I got here and what happened to the door," I explained, "The answer to both questions is the same, really."

"Eh?"

"Not very bright, are you Chas? Here," I said, grabbing his arm tightly enough to make him yell. I pulled him to me with enough force to stop the shout dead as the impact of his supposedly-hard but actually-fragile chest with my supposedly-soft but actually-firmer-than-steel-breasts drove all the air from his lungs. "Let me show you."

I'll let you know just how I showed Chas next time.





Friday 16 June 2006 20:54 BST (GMT+1)

So, I’d tracked down the guy I’d spoken to on my ISP’s “help”line.

You might recall that I’d temporarily silenced him by pulling him hard against the front of my superhuman, perfect body, forcing the air from his lungs. And you might also remember that I had promised to answer two questions for him: firstly, how I had travelled so far so fast and secondly, what had happened to the entrance of his building.

“There’s something you should know about me, Chas,” I explained. “I’m no ordinary girl. You realised that as soon as you saw me, didn’t you? But it’s more than just looks with me. I know you think I’m the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. I know you’re in awe of my body. I can feel you reacting to it. It’s like all your dreams come true to feel my body against yours, isn’t it Chas?”

“I… er… I…” was the best he could manage by way of a response.

“It’s really special, my body, isn’t it, Chas?” I asked, rhetorically. “More special than you could ever imagine. That’s how I got here so fast, you know. With my special body. It can go faster than you can fathom. And the door. That wasn’t a car that crashed into it, Chas. It was my body. My beautiful, special body.”

“B… b… body?” the jerk was totally bewildered. Perhaps that was in part due to the blood being diverted from his brain to another part of his anatomy as the contact between us had its inevitable effect.

“Yes, that’s right, Chas,” I went on, “This gorgeous body, the one that’s turning you on so much right now, did all the damage. It smashed right through that heavy door, without even slowing. Can you believe that, Chas? Can you believe my body is so special and so tough?”

“Eh?” he really was finding it difficult to express himself.

“Shall I show you what I mean, Chas? Shall I show you just how special my body is?” I put my long, slender arm behind him and used it to gently hold him against me.

“Aagh! You’re hurting me!” yelled Chas. I could see his chest yielding to mine, taking on a slightly concave shape as the supreme firmness of my bust forced his body to adapt as best it could to my magnificent curves.

I could barely feel the pressure of his torso resisting mine. In fact, I felt it less than I felt the modest erection tenting his trousers, probably because the erection was insistently poking at my upper groin. As I used my slender arm to grasp him a little tighter, his face quickly began to redden. “Stop!” he wheezed, “Can’t… breathe!” Our faces were now just a couple of inches apart. I was enjoying the close-up view of the panic in his eyes.

“Please!” he groaned. The fight to take in enough air to utter even a few words was proving a little too much for him.

“What’s wrong, Chas?” I asked innocently, with a smile.

“I… can’t…. breathe! Your…. breasts….are….squashing…..me…..” he trailed off, as further speaking became impossible.

“Don’t you like the way they're pressing against you, Chas?” I inquired, knowing that a verbal answer was out of the question. “From the way you’ve been staring at them, I’d say there’s nothing you want more. Your little prick seems to agree, doesn’t it? It’s all hard! It’s gone hard for me, hasn’t it? Hard for my lovely big breasts. Aren’t they wonderful? Don’t you love the way they feel, tight against you?”

“Gnnnnaaa!” was all he could groan, so I went on.

“It’s such a shame that the rest of you isn’t nearly as hard as your little prick, isn’t it? Because my breasts are so very, very firm, aren’t they? They’re so much firmer than your puny body, Chas. So much firmer.” I tightened my arm around his back very slightly, just enough to pull him a little closer. Of course, the dramatic shape of my bust was unaffected. As usual, it was the male whose body did all the accommodating. I could feel his ribs beginning to bend slightly under the unrelenting pressure of my bosom.

“GNNN!!” he used the last of the air in his lungs to mount one final, desperate protest. It was only then that I realised he was trying to pry my arm off his back. I don’t know how long he’d been struggling to remove my shapely limb, but needless to say, he could have fought all day without so much as moving my arm a hairsbreadth.

“Chas!” I smiled, noticing a trembling in his groin. “Is your little thing about to go off down there? You really do like my breasts, don’t you? It is because they’re so firm? They’re bending your bones, you know. You see, you’ re so soft compared with them. And I’m not even holding you tight! Not yet, anyway.” I saw his eyes appear to grow, as if they were about to pop out of his skull. The horror they displayed was delightful.

“Do you know what will happen if I pull you to me a little tighter, Chas?” I asked him, even though he was well, well beyond answering. “Can you guess what happens if I press my fabulous breasts against you a little more? Do you think they would flatten against you? No, of course not. You know they won’t. They’re far too firm, aren’t they. They won’t change shape at all, will they, Chas? But you will, won’t you? You’re nothing like as firm. Your body, all your bones, your organs, they’d all be squashed, wouldn’t they? Squashed by my lovely big breasts. Squashed until there was nothing left….”

He started to tremble against me. For a moment I thought it was sheer terror, but the damp warmth I felt against my crotch through my jeans and his own trousers, revealed the real reason for his shaking. “Oh? Do my breasts turn you on that much, Chas?” I teased. “Even as they’re about to crush the life out of you! Glorious, aren’t they?”

He made no attempt to reply. He merely continued to look at me, the orgasmic contortion of his features giving way to an expression of agony and blind panic.

“Now it’s time for you to find out just how firm my body is, Chas,” I announced. I squeezed him, very, very carefully, watching his torso deform around the perfect roundness of my glorious chest. His eyeballs seemed to become even more prominent. If he could have done so, he would have screamed at the top of his voice. But he had no air left to make any noise. There was nothing to mask the sound of the muffled Pop! as one of his ribs surrendered completely to my left breast and snapped.

“Did you hear that Chas?” I asked him. “That was your rib breaking, wasn’t it? That must really hurt! My lovely soft breast just snapped your hard, strong bone, didn’t it? Your ribs are just like that door, Chas. They don’t stand a chance against my fabulous body, do they? It’s just too firm for you. Even my awesome breasts are too firm for you, aren’t they? They’re crushing you slowly. I can feel another rib about to break! Can you feel it too, Chas? Can you feel my breast breaking your rib? Listen!”

Pop!

“There! Did you hear it, Chas? Of course you did! Aren’t my breasts just fantastic? Do you want to feel more of them? Do you want to feel your body surrendering to the amazing firmness of my beautiful chest? Well, Chas? Do you want to feel my breasts crushing you completely?”

He couldn’t answer. But the clear indication from the wild, desperate look in his eyes, which seemed about to burst from his skull any moment, was that he had felt enough.

“Do you understand the power of my body now, Chas?” I asked him. “I think you do. So here’s what happens next. I’m going to let you go. And I’m going to go home, the same way I travelled here. That means, I’ll be there in half-an-hour. And if I find my internet connection isn’t working when I get there, I’ll return here twice as fast. And it won’t be a couple of ribs I’ll be breaking. It will be every single bone in your body, one by one. You’ ll beg me to kill you. You know I can do it, don’t you Chas?”

I was still crushing him painfully against me. He couldn’t say “yes”, but he could (just about) nod. Unsurprisingly, he did.

“And if you ever tell anyone about me, Chas, I’ll turn you to paste. Very, very slowly. Understand?”

More nodding. And a strong hint of pleading in his eyes. I responded to the silent begging by pulling my arm an eighth of an inch closer to me. Which meant of course that there was an eighth of an inch less space for his torso.  That was just a fraction too little for yet another of his ribs. Pop! it went. The crazy panic returned to his bulging eyes.

Smiling, I released him. He staggered backwards, clutching his chest and gasping frantically for air, tears (of pain? relief? fear? humiliation?) rolling down his cheeks.

"Twenty-nine minutes, Chas." I reminded him. He looked up at me, horrified for an instant and then laboriously, clearly in terrific agony, turned and started to drag himself towards the interior of the building. "See you in a little while, maybe!" I called after him, cheerfully.

I walked out through the smashed entrance, not wanting Chas or Frank or anyone else for that matter, to see me fly. But once I was in the dark, deserted street, I soared straight up into the sky.

Flying in the most relaxed way, grinning all the way at the thought of the fun I'd had with Chas, I made it home in twenty-five minutes.

I don't suppose you're surprised to hear that I found the internet connection miraculously working. Not only that, but it seems to have been upgraded to a 16MB line. I guess that's because Chas couldn't find anything faster.

You can bet that if I ever have any kind of connection problems again, I'll be on to the helpline in a flash. And naturally, I'll ask to be put through to Chas.





Monday 19 June 2006 17:44 BST (GMT+1)

So, I've received a question from one of my countless fans:

"O great and beautiful goddess Blogger," he writes. (Some people are understandably scared of displeasing me with an incorrect form of address. If anything this guy might have overdone it. He possibly could have left off the "O".)

"I'm fascinated by your glorious strength," the correspondent continues. I can understand how he feels. Anyway, he goes on: "and I love reading about you overpowering several men at once." Again, that's understandable. I love doing the actual overpowering.

"I've had a good idea," the email states. I find that bit a little hard to believe. Whoever heard of a male having a "good idea"? Reading on, it does actually turn out to be a good idea, but only after I've tweaked it a little...

"Why don't you organise a tug-of-war with you at one end of the rope and a whole sports team at the other end?"  You see, it's not bad, but here's how it could be improved upon:

First, how is one team of peak-fitness males going to challenge me? Make it hundreds of teams, (we'd need a long rope). For added fun, I could "organise" the event by snatching up the various men without warning and forcing them to take part against their will. No doubt the police/military would object to the snatchings, which is fine by me: I could force them to join the male team too.

Then, how about this for a twist: instead of standing either side of a mark drawn in the ground, we make the winning line the edge of a cliff. All the males stand on their side of the "line" (the top of the cliff) and I "stand" on my side (floating in mid-air using my flying abilities).

Now, not only would this give the men an extra incentive to resist my pull (when they lose, they go over the cliff) but it would also make the whole exercise more enjoyable for me (when they lose, they go over the cliff).

With my improvements, I think it would be a pleasant afternoon's entertainment. Any volunteers for the male team?





Tuesday 20 June 2006 17:06 BST (GMT+1)

Yesterday, I wrote about a wonderful idea for some sport, involving pulling hundreds of big, “strong” (ha ha!) men off a cliff.

Needless to say, I spent many a happy moment, chuckling to myself as I pictured the scene: the men yelling as my effortless tugs drag them hopelessly over the edge, the way they tumble through the air, unable to resist the laughably weak force of gravity, the way the impact after a mere hundred foot fall shatters their fragile bodies... And all the while, I’d be stood, proud and straight, my fabulous body displayed in all its magnificent glory, awesome breasts thrust out towards the helpless males.

I think I would only use one hand to pull the rope. I won’t need both my arms to provide enough strength to pull a thousand men off their feet. So, my free hand would rest on my hip: a show of my power, my dominance, my complete confidence in my untouchable invulnerability. My lips would no doubt be parted in a smile. I just wouldn’t be able to hide my satisfied glee as I watched the effects of my strength on so many males….

I’d pull slowly at first, dragging a few dozen of my opponents towards the edge inch by inch until they started to tumble. Then I’d give a sharp tug, yanking the rope ten feet in one go, pulling maybe a hundred off the cliff in one, panicking mass. After that, some more slow dragging, perhaps teasing the remainder with a couple of tiny tugs before another big pull takes much of the rest of them. And, of course, I’d take my time with the last couple of dozen, once they knew their fates were inevitable….

Maybe some would manage to detach themselves from the rope before being pulled off the cliff-top. They’d probably try to hide or run, thinking maybe that they can escape the destiny I’ve assigned to them. After finishing with the rope, I would have to float effortlessly towards them, soaring imperiously over their heads goddess- fashion before descending to my feet behind the survivors, landing and placing my hands on my hips in a single, fluid movement.

Then, at my leisure, I would just bend forward a little at the waist, push out my sexy lips and blow. My superbreath would hit the males with more than enough force to push them off the precipice. By merely turning my head calmly from left to right, I could sweep every single last man from the cliff-top, just as you might blow dust from an old book. But rather than particles of dust, my breath would be scattering fully grown muscular men, picking them up and tossing them into oblivion.

Some would be sent rolling out of control as the hurricane force of my lungs hit them. Others would loose their feet and just fly backwards through the air, carried away by my exhalation. A few might try to cling on to the ground, but even gripping with all their desperate will, they would be powerless to resist the sheer might of my breath.

As they were pushed away by the warm, fragrant wind-storm, some of the males might get a glimpse of me, standing so casually, looking so relaxed as I effortlessly produced the deadly hurricane, channelling a seemingly endless stream of my breath through my erotically puckered lips, my beautiful eyes sparkling with delight.

I would only stop blowing when every last creature had been cleared from the cliff. Even then, I wouldn’t need to inhale before throwing my head back and roaring with triumphant laughter…





Wednesday 21 June 2006 17:16 BST (GMT+1)

Dear readers,

I think I’ve fallen in love! I’ve met a lovely boy who’s very sweet and gives me chocolates and flowers. Yesterday, we bought each other the cutest little furry teddy-bears with big pink heart-shapes on them and then we had our picture taken together in one of those self-operated passport-photo booths…

Ha ha! Of course I’m joking. Me! In “love”! With a “boy”!!! How ridiculous!

I did meet someone. A middle-weight boxer who just turned pro (or so it said on the letter that was folded up in his pocket. X-ray vision is such fun!). Anyway, the contents of the letter seemed appropriate: the guy was all muscle and sinew. He gave me the eye as we passed each other in the street, so I smiled back and nodded towards an alley between two shops. Naturally, he took the bait. He almost melted on the spot when I grinned at him.

In the alley, I roughed him up a bit with a couple of casual sweeps of the back of my left hand. Then I pushed him down onto his rear with a finger on his shoulder. I let him stand up a couple of times, forcing him back down each time with the same single digit until I got him properly angry.

Not one to discriminate on grounds of sex, he decided to give me a taste of his professional talent. I saw him winding his arm up in preparation for a big uppercut. His eyes betrayed the rage I’d inspired in him. I could tell he was out of control. I waited till he had launched the blow. Then, with my hands on my hips and my glorious chest pushed out to full (stunning) effect, I used my powers of flight to levitate about eighteen inches off the pavement.

The jerk didn’t even notice my remarkable (by his standards) feat until his big fist connected with the underside of my right breast. The large round mound didn’t budge beneath my tight T-shirt. It didn’t even yield to his oversized, solid knuckles.

“Ow!” the big guy yelled, suddenly appearing confused as he realised he had to crane his neck to look at my face. “What is this? Some circus trick?”

“You’re the only clown here.” I responded.

“Bitch!” he said, reaching up to slap me. I just floated a little higher so that his open palm smacked the outside of the same breast with a loud “Whack!”

“Ouch! Fuck!” he cried, clutching his hand which was now injured on both sides. “What the fuck is going on?” he asked through clenched teeth. “You wearing a metal bra, bitch?”

Checking to see that we were still unobserved, I crossed my arms and grabbed the base of my T-shirt. Swiftly, I pulled the top over my head and draped it over the boxer’s head. He was far from subtle as he inhaled deeply, enjoying my irresistible scent, before angrily whipping the garment off and tossing it aside. In the meantime, I floated down so that my feet were only fifteen inches off the ground. His gasp as his eyes were uncovered, leaving his vision filled by the spherical perfection of my breasts, made me smile.

“Look ma, no bra!” I said, enjoying myself.

He only had one functioning hand with which to try and exorcise his fury. I let him try, using all the punching skills he’d learnt in the ring and all the strength of his trained and muscular arms.

“Ouch!” he yelled as his first punch bounced off my unmoving left bosom. I laughed.

“Shit!” he cried as an attempted uppercut crashed into the underside of the same breast, with a similar complete lack of success. I laughed some more.

“Fuuuuckkkk!” he screamed when a jab with his already wounded fist hit my other mound, front-on. My big, harder-than-diamond nipple left a small but deep, profusely bleeding hole in his obviously shattered knuckles. He doubled over, pressing his hands between his knees, cursing and wailing. I roared with laughter, but quickly recovered my composure.

“My turn now,” I said. I descended to the pavement and reached for his chin. His efforts to pull my small hand away were pathetic to say the most. In a second, I’d lifted his head up until it was level with my unharmed, but slightly blood-stained chest.

“What the f…?” he muttered, clearly still in great pain as I held his face in place, despite every effort he could make to move it.

“I said it’s my turn,” I repeated, before clarifying: “You hit my breasts. Now my breasts are going to hit you.” I twisted my upper body to the side, offering him a stunning close up view of the fantastic, not-to-mention dramatic, profile of my mounds. Pulling his face a little towards me, I turned my torso back towards him, letting the side of my glorious right breast smack him in the cheek.

The sound of the blow echoed up and down the alley Whack! but my confused fighter didn’t make any noise. My breast struck the guy harder than any boxer has ever hit any opponent. I let go of his face just in time to let his head fly back in response to the impact. His body followed the head, pulling his feet off the ground as it flew five yards backwards. I’d actually lifted the jerk clean into the air just by gently knocking him with my beautiful mound!

His legs folded under him as he came back to earth. His body collapsed in a heap, but such was the force of the hit that he continued to roll away from me for a further ten yards before finally coming to rest at the other end of the alley, one side of his face already a mass of darkening bruises. I bent over to recover my T-shirt and pulled it back on, smoothing it over my big, victorious chest as I strolled out of the alley, leaving my new friend to sleep it off.

Knockout!





Thursday 22 June 2006 17:41 BST (GMT+1)

Let’s continue the sporting theme that I seem to be featuring this week. Why? Because I want to. And what I want always happens.

I was watching a little of the World Cup yesterday. As a panicking defender whacked the ball almost out of the stadium, the commentator remarked “He almost put that clearance into orbit.”

Now, I know that men like to exaggerate the achievements of fellow members of their useless sex as it helps to maintain the illusion that males, as a group, are in some way not a hopeless, pathetic bunch. But, of course, they are just that.

I do know a being capable of putting a ball into orbit. And guess what: it’s not a man. It’s someone female. Very female, in fact. Gorgeously female, sexily female. And mind-boggling powerful. I’m referring, in case you hadn’t worked it out yet, to myself.

To prove the point, I had to get hold of one of the controversial new tournament footballs. These are stored under tight security, to prevent them falling into unofficial hands. But nothing can prevent my hands from taking whatever they want.

It took all of half-an-hour. A quick flight over to Germany. A security guard knocked unconscious as a blast of superbreath threw him backwards until he smashed into a wall. A locked security door ripped off its hinges with a flick of my pretty digit. A triple-locked steel cabinet opened like a tin can with a casual swipe of my perma- manicured fingernail. One official tournament ball extracted and carried, under my arm, as I flew home again.

I placed the ball on the grass in the grounds of my home, and took a few steps back, as if preparing to take a free kick. A short run-up, and my naked right foot swung through the air with enormous power. And Bang!.

Rather than propelling the ball into space, my dainty toes ripped right through the tough surface, exploding the ball and scattering pieces of it all over the gardens!

I should have realised that a ball designed by, and constructed for the use of, weaklings was never going to stand up to my physical glory. I held back quite a lot when I kicked the thing, but obviously nowhere near enough.

I’ll need to use considerably less strength next time if I want to actually put a ball into orbit…





Friday 23 June 2006 19:25 BST (GMT+1)

Sometimes, men just have to be properly punished.

The two I encountered this morning certainly fell into that category. Such unacceptable behaviour cannot be allowed.

I swatted the first man away with a casual sweep of my arm that threw him ten feet back. He hit the wall with his feet a yard from the ground and slid down to the carpet, leaving a wide, red vertical stain. The impact with the wall didn't kill him, however. My arm had already done that. (For the record, I hadn't set out to murder him, I just didn't take care to ensure that he survived.)

I turned to the dead man's colleague. As he was just a man, his words are unimportant, so I won't bother reporting them. But here's what I said to him:

“What about you? Do you want to die as well?"

I flicked him in the chest with my finger making him scream in pain as he flew back a couple of yards. He fell onto his rear, rubbing himself where my finger had struck, looking up at me in pure terror.

"Take off your clothes. All of them! Now!

“Stop whimpering or you can join your friend on the floor over there. That’s better. Put your hands behind your back. Ha! Is that it? Is that the best you can do, male? With the most beautiful woman in existence standing before you? Do you think that could ever satisfy a goddess?

“Silence! I don’t want to hear your pitiful excuses. One more sound out of you and I’ll rip out your tongue. Understood? Good. Get on your knees. Faster! Now, look at me. Am I not the most desirable thing you have ever seen?

“Of course I am. I’m perfect. You want me with all your pathetic being, don’t you? Answer the question!

“You can’t control your lust for me, can you? I’m just too beautiful. You burn for me. Your body aches for me. But you cannot touch me. You know I will kill you if you do. You are just a puny mortal kneeling before an all- powerful goddess.

“I want to see your futile hunger for me. Take your useless organ and show me your desire! Masturbate at my feet. Worship my beauty the only way you can!

“That was quick! You really were bursting for me! Now, do it again. Or die."

"Wise choice."

“Careless fool! You spilt your miserable seed on my feet. Lick them clean!

“That’s better. Now worship me again! What are you waiting for? Hurry up! That’s better.

“All done? Nothing left inside? Pathetic! A goddess like me requires much more devotion. Do it again!

“What do you mean you ‘can’t’? I order you to do it! Now!

"Who told you you could cry? You pathetic creature! Worship me again!

"What are you doing? I said 'Worship me'!

"You can't get it up? Liar! You cannot resist me. See? All I did was breathe over you and you are ready again. Now, worship me!

"Why have you stopped? It's only blood! Continue!

"What now? Your heart? But I didn't tell you to stop. What are you doing? Oh, it really is your heart. And I was considering letting you live... Oh well. That'll teach you to wink at me."





Monday 26 June 2006 15:32 BST (GMT+1)

A couple of times in the last two weeks I’ve caught sight of Ultragirl flying high overhead, looking down over my new home. Some people will do anything to get a peek down my top.

Of course, a very select (phenomenally lucky) handful get to see that unsurpassably erotic view without going to such lengths. Like the man cleaning windows as I passed down the street this morning. I caught him taking full advantage of his position (up a ladder, working on the first-floor windows of a solicitor’s office) as I walked below. Even from down there, I heard the sudden dramatic acceleration of his heartbeat as his rapidly widening eyes feasted on the spectacular sight offered by my low-cut T-shirt.

I looked up at him, winked in a friendly “I caught you!” manner, and then returned the interest he had expressed with a tiny little air-kiss. Just the most minute puff of my breath, channelled and directed through my sexily pouted lips. Enough, of course, to blast the guy clean off his perch (the tail of the wind I generated tipped the ladder over, but only after the window-cleaner had been blown into the air).

It was only about a fifteen foot fall to the pavement (well, OK, twenty feet, as my breath did briefly toss him an extra five feet upwards before I stopped blowing and let gravity take over). He crash-landed right by my feet as I strolled on, naturally without slowing my pace in the slightest.

I gave him just enough of a glance (less than a thousandth of a second) to count his broken bones with my X-ray vision. I spotted fourteen major breaks and a couple of dozen fractures. There’s no way he’ll be getting out of hospital before New Year. Still, I’m sure he’d say that the brief glimpse of my charms was well worth the agony…





Tuesday 27 June 2006 19:10 BST (GMT+1)

When is a door not a door?

When it’s an unstoppable projectile, of course.

It happened two nights ago. The door belonged to a car. A very expensive, very flashy sports car. The car belonged to a young man. He was wearing a trendy suit that looked ridiculous on his scrawny frame, but still no doubt cost a small fortune.

I could tell, as he roared past me at nearly twice the speed limit, that he was profoundly in love with himself. He almost didn’t notice me at all because he was so busy checking his own reflection in his mirrors, but once he had finally caught sight of me, I was always going to end up the sole focus of his attention. I heard his brakes screech and waited for the inevitable crunching of gears and high-speed reversing.

I didn’t do him the service of waiting for his return, but continued to walk along the pavement as if I was completely unaware of him. He had to wind down his window, lean out and shout. His words were so predictable! “Hey, babe! Wanna ride?”

I ignored him totally.

“Ah, come on,” he said, “hop in and I’ll take you home. Maybe I can take you to a few places you’ve never been to before on the way…”

Still I paid him zero attention. Being a pig-headed narcissist, he assumed that all he needed to do was change tactic and I would be all his: “You know, it’s not safe for a young lady to be out in this part of town at night....”

That did it. I stopped in my tracks, turned and took two strides bringing me up to the idling sports car. Looking down at him, I sneered: “The only person in any danger here is you.”

He chuckled. “Is that supposed to be a threat, doll?”

“No,” I dead-panned, “It’s a statement of fact.”

“The only thing I’m in danger of, babe, is showing you a good time.”

“No,” I told him, “you’re in danger of getting killed.”

“I don’t think so, gorgeous,” he disagreed. I decided to show him what I meant. Curling my right hand index finger around the handle to open the driver’s door, I gave a short easy tug, tearing the steel hinges messily in half and ripping the entire door free of the rest of the vehicle.

I let the detached door hang from my right arm (even if it had been fifty tons, I really wouldn’t have felt its weight) as I reached into the car with my left. Opening my fingers, I placed my hand flat, palm-upwards, against the inside of the roof of the vehicle. Then, I started to raise my left arm.

The chassis creaked as though begging me to stop as I slowly exerted more and more upward pressure on the car’s roof until, with me noticing no strain whatsoever in my long, slender limb, all four tyres simultaneously came up off the tarmac. I was holding the whole vehicle in the air with one hand, but it might as well have been a sheet of paper for all the effort I needed to make.

I continued to raise my arm, lifting the car higher and higher. The driver glanced quickly over the side where I had removed the door and noticed, with all the text-book signs of panic, that the road was two foot (and growing) beneath his wheels. In fact, the floor of the vehicle was now level with my thighs. Which meant that, when he turned to look at me, his pinball-like, goggling, terror-filled eyes were level with mine.

“I told you you were in danger.” I said, with a smug smile. A small bending of my arm caused the whole car to lower about a foot. The driver was bounced in his seat, banging his head on the roof hard enough to make him cry out. He still hadn’t settled back when I thrust my arm upwards, straightening it out fully, my feminine limb transferring vast momentum into the chassis of the vehicle.

The car shot straight up as I pulled my arm free, tilting my head to watch as the vehicle took off vertically like a rocket. I could hear the driver’s desperate, rapidly receding screams as the underside of the chassis rose ever higher into the night sky above me.

Glancing down at the car’s door, still hanging from my right arm, I couldn’t help but smile as I decided what to do. The most casual flick of my dainty wrist launched the car door like a missile. The door left my grasp at just below the speed of sound, spinning like a martial arts weapon (only, of course, much faster). My aim was perfect as ever. My strength, it goes without saying, was mind-boggling.

The door chased down the rest of the vehicle like a rocket, closing in on its target (only much more accurate. And silent.)

I’d directed the throw with the intention of hitting the car’s fuel tank. After a couple of seconds, at a height of around two hundred feet, the car door caught up with its goal. The thin edge of the door ripped instantly through the bottom of the chassis and tore into the fuel tank. Not the edge of the fuel tank. The exact centre of the fuel tank. A laser guidance system could not have achieved anything like such precision. (And a laser guidance system is less than one billionth as sexy, but that’s another story).

As I’d hoped, the rupturing of the fuel tank, combined with the sparks generated by the metal of the car door slicing through the metal of the vehicle, caused a massive mid-air explosion. The car dissolved into a ball of orange flame that lit up the street for a moment. Huge chunks of burning scrap steel started to rain down from the sky, crashing down onto the street around me, some still aflame as they landed. Of course, I didn’t flinch. Then again, I had nothing to fear from several hundred pounds of burning metal...

Black smoke filled the air as the last of the debris slammed down to the ground. I could hear shouting from nearby houses and, in the distance, the first of what was bound to become many sirens. Not being in the mood to give a witness statement, I took to the air. Ten seconds later, I was sitting on my sofa at home, watching TV, waiting for the inevitable news report on the "mysterious" car explosion…





Wednesday 28 June 2006 18:01 BST (GMT+1)

I get asked a lot of questions.

Some of the most frequently repeated include: 1) “Is this some kind of trick?”, 2) “How the hell did you do that?”, 3) “Am I dreaming?”, 4) “Are you real?” and 5) “Are those real?”

Should you ever have the honour of crossing my path, I’ll save you the bother of having to ask the same questions as everyone else by giving you the answers now:

1) NO it’s not a trick, 2) I did it EFFORTLESSLY, 3) NO you’re not dreaming (if you were dreaming you wouldn’t scream when I do this), 4) YES I’m real (that’s why it hurts so much) and 5) YES they are real (but don’t take my word for it; decide for yourself as they slowly crush the life out of you).

I hope that’s cleared everything up.





Friday 30 June 2006 16:28 BST (GMT+1)

Regular readers will know that I didn't post an entry yesterday.

Well, so what? You're lucky I write anything at all. Where else can you get a glimpse into the day-to-day life of the most powerful being in existence, told through her own, beautiful eyes? Nowhere else, that's where. Because nothing and certainly nobody is as magnificent as I am.

Anyway, I'm in a generous mood so I will tell you where I was. You know that tiny crater near the North Pole of Pluto... Wait a moment! Of course you don't. It's too small to be visible from Earth, even with the most advanced telescope. And no manned spacecraft has ever reached even a tenth of the distance...

Well, that's where I was yesterday. Who needs a telescope when they have superhuman eyes? The crater might not show up for "ordinary" weaklings, but I can see every tiny crack in the ice on Pluto. From inside my house. With just my naked eye.

And as for travelling to the very edge of the known solar system, well, what's the big deal? I got there and back inside two days. How many years would it take the most advanced spacecraft ever built to complete the trip?

I said before that I'm in a generous mood, and here's further proof, in the form of Blogger's Travel Guide to Pluto:

Pluto is great if you like rocks and ice and nothing else. And if you're impervious to temperatures only slightly above absolute zero. And you can travel, nice and relaxed, under your own power, at a quarter of the speed of light.

The principle leisure activity on Pluto is to strip naked, put your hands behind your back and keep them there. Then you smash up huge chunks of frozen stone using various parts of your body. That's what I found to do there, anyway.

I enlarged the crater I was in by diving headfirst at it, letting my indestructible skull crack and crush the solid rock. I sent dozens of boulders flying out into space by casually swinging one of my long legs and kicking them, barefoot, off the planet's surface. I ground smaller lumps of stone to powder by sitting on them and wiggling my perfect, pert, peach-like rear. And I carved deep channels in the solid rock by leaning my chest into it, letting my big, round, glorious breasts crush whatever they encountered to space-dust, dragging my bust through the frozen stone as easily as I move it through a vacuum.

Pluto is not so great if you like tormenting other people and flaunting your overwhelming superiority as there's no -one there. That's why I eventually left.

Oh, and by the way, watch out for a couple of massive meteors which are streaking towards Earth on a collision course as I type. I kicked a couple of particularly large lumps of rock into space before taking off for the 8-hour flight home and overtook them on the way. They'll probably do quite a lot of damage when they eventually impact, so if you don't have complete invulnerability, I suggest you check the skies for the next few days...