That armour-piercing bullet had felt lovely inside me.
I was glad I'd made the effort to properly insert the barrel of the rifle into my sex because, without my assistance, no mere bullet could ever achieve such intimate penetration of my invulnerable body. When the arms-dealer had fired at my womanhood with the whole of the gun outside me, the shot had just exploded against my labia without stimulating my inner core. By prising open the fleshy gates to my femininity with my fingers and thrusting the gun within, I had ensured that the next bullet was much closer to my pleasure-centre when my body overpowered it.
My reward, as I described in my last post, was a small, but enjoyable orgasm during which the arms dealer had another finger torn off. More significantly, I was left wanting more. So, I ordered the bleeding wreck of a man kneeling at my feet to pull the trigger once more.
His scream as he fired the gun was amusing. It went: "OW! OW! OW! Yeaaaaarrrrrgggggg! Eeeeeek! Aaaaaaaaagh!" . Mixed in with all that were two very close together Bang! sounds and (indistinguishable to anyone without my fabulous super-hearing) a dull metallic Clink!. Oh, and lastly, a Thump!
I suppose I had better explain each noise in the order of its occurrence:
"OW! OW! OW!" That was the arms-dealer expressing his pain as he put pressure onto what was left of his fingers in order to squeeze the trigger as I had commanded him.
The first Bang! was (obviously) the gun firing. I noticed, to my disappointment, that the discharge of hot gas from the end of the barrel felt much less intense than the previous time. That's when the dull Clink! happened. Only then did I realise what was happening. My inner muscles must have squeezed the end of the rifle a little too hard during my orgasm. Being only machined steel, the thing never stood a chance against my vaginal grip. I had pinched the barrel of the rifle enough to block the passage of the bullet.
Which is why it reacted as if it had hit its intended target, detonating its "armour-piercing" charge and causing the second Bang! Most of the explosion was contained within me. The barrel of the rifle split into dozens of pieces which were forced outwards by the blast, only to find themselves trapped within the invulnerable walls of my canal. Hot metal slammed into my intimacy, bouncing around furiously inside me, creating a rush of glorious sensations. I could feel a build up of sexual force within me. An orgasm, much stronger than the first, was welling up in my loins, preparing to rip through my being.
I mentioned that most of the explosion was contained within me. A small portion of the blast, however, made its way back down the barrel of the gun towards the firing mechanism. The bulk of the force of the detonation met with my impenetrable, undefeatable flesh. The small amount of explosion that reached the end of the barrel, however, encountered solid steel instead. Whereas my vaginal walls were merely stimulated, the comparatively weak and pliable metal was completely destroyed. The part of the gun that was outside of me broke into countless pieces that flew out in all directions.
Now we come to the "Yeaaaaarrrrrgggggg!". The arms-dealer still had the surviving fingers of his hand on the trigger when that section of the rifle blew up. At the bottom of my vision, I watched as part of the firing mechanism sliced off what remained of his digits. Another chunk of shrapnel ripped a bloody hole right through his palm and then a third piece of flying torn metal hit the base of his hand, ripping it completely from his wrist. All that happened inside a fraction of a second. In fact, I doubt the male's slow brain even registered the individual impacts. What it did register was pain, hence his desperate cry.
The "Eeeeeek!" was his reaction when he looked down at the source of that pain, and a spurt of blood from his truncated wrist hit him in the eyes, momentarily blinding him. If I wasn't girding myself at that moment for the huge orgasm about to crash over me, I would have burst into hysterical laughter.
I barely even noticed his horrified scream ("Aaaaaaaaagh!") when he finally managed to blink his gaze clear of blood and saw for the first time that his hand had been amputated. As his eyes grew huge in shock, mine started to close in ecstasy. I felt the imminent eruption inside reaching the point of no return. Then I heard the Thump! of the arms dealer's body hitting the floor. I guess he lost consciousness. (In my experience, that often happens to males when bits of them break off.)
After that, my senses were overwhelmed by a beautiful, warm, tingling sensation that spread inside me from my groin and outwards into every extremity of my body. I felt myself shaking with sheer delight and, losing myself in the wonderful feelings that continued to wash over me in wave after delightful wave, I cupped my large, firm round breasts, massaging them with my superhuman fingers, pinching my big nipples with sufficient strength to vaporise steel.
My orgasm broke like a supernova. I lost track of the passing of time as it tore through me relentlessly. My internal muscles closed around the barrel of the rifle, hugging it, squeezing it so tightly that the steel not only bent, it melted. Somewhere, amidst all the colours and lights flashing through my mind, I was aware of red hot liquid metal oozing through me, sizzling against my sensitive flesh and boiling in the stellar heat of my passion.
Continued next post.
Tuesday 2 October 2007 23:58 BST (GMT+1)
The tremendous orgasm brought about by the armour-piercing bullet exploding deep inside me left me feeling exhilarated.
My endless, inexhaustible power means that I don't really understand the term "physical exertion". I never get out of breath, or sweaty or tired in any way. Even after such a strong release of sexual energy, the instant I regained full control of my mind and body, I snapped my eyes open, as fresh and perfectly lovely as ever.
In a nanosecond, I glanced around the room. The walls and the ceramic floor tiles bore the marks (chips, tears, cracks, bits of shattered bullets and so forth) of the previous minutes' gunplay. The arms-dealer who had fired the final two shots and lost his hand in the process, was crumpled in a bleeding, unconscious heap at my feet, his skin decorated with countless cuts and bruises. Of course, my own skin was as flawless and unmarked as before. Although, there was a trickle of molten steel oozing from between my labia and making its way down my inner thigh...
A lot of the arms-dealer's blood had dripped onto the floor. Some had splashed the walls too. Quite a bit of it had spurted onto my perfect flat stomach as well. There were also more than a few traces of crimson on my glorious big round breasts and my superhumanly-firm, silky-smooth thighs.
Clearly, there was some cleaning up to be done. Now, according to the cliche, "if you want a job done properly, do it yourself." Obviously, that expression is more true for me as an invincible, invulnerable goddess than it is for the ordinary weaklings who normally trot it out. There's nothing, no "job" or task or feat that I can't do better, quicker and more spectacularly than anyone else (or any group of people, for that matter).
That applies equally to big jobs (say, moving an aircraft carrier with a thousand men on board from the middle of the ocean to the top of a mountain) and to little jobs (for example, cleaning up blood from my perfect naked body).
However, you might be surprised to learn that despite my unique and limitless abilities, I'm not a big fan of the "If you want a job done properly..." mantra. Yes, I might be singularly qualified to perform any task better and infinitely more efficiently than a lesser being (or, in other words, any other person on Earth), but where's the fun in that? I have my own little expression which I find much more appealing. It goes like this:
"If you want a job done in a more entertaining way, force a male to do it for you."
Which brings me back to the arms-dealer. I could have cleaned his blood off me in no time at all using any of a hundred different techniques. After all, I've had plenty of opportunities to perfect each of those many methods. For the record, some of the items on that list of techniques are:
-Using heat vision to vaporise the blood and any other foreign objects. The extreme temperatures I generate with my eyes can turn any substance into gas in an instant, except of course my own skin which won't burn, or blister or turn slightly red, even at the core of the sun.
-Moving with superspeed, either by spinning on the spot or running or flying. Again, the friction warms me until anything that's not a part of me boils away.
-Wiping. With my strength, this mundane method can be extremely effective. I might tear a "rag" out of the clothes of a handy male. Or I might pick the actual male up (say by his hips), use him and his garments as a rag whilst he's still wearing them and then, once I was done, toss him aside like... well, like a used rag.
Anyhow, as I said, I could have wiped myself up, but, as I also said: if you want a job done in a more entertaining way, force a male to do it for you. The only trouble was that, in order to force the arms-dealer to clean me, I needed to wake him up...
Continued next post.
Wednesday 3 October 2007 23:58 BST (GMT+1)
So, I had decided that I would be using the unconscious arms-dealer for my entertainment by getting him to clean me up.
Looking down at the creature, I noted that he was much more in need of cleaning up than I was. There was only a relatively small amount of his blood on my perfect body, whereas he was positively soaked in the stuff. In fact, there was barely a square inch of him that didn't feature a fresh wound.
Of course, despite his greater need, it was my greater power that took precedence.
The stump of his wrist, where his hand had been amputated, was still bleeding profusely. With all that sticky red stuff dripping from him, he wasn't going to be a very effective cleaner. I solved that potential problem by slightly narrowing my eyes and focussing in on the injury until I felt the familiar build up of energy inside my eyes. Then I unleashed a short, sharp blast of my heat-vision, letting the twin red beams that shot from my pupils converge on the arms-dealer's wrist, sealing the severed arteries by part-cooking the end of his arm. After that, I considered him ready to be woken. (If I'd burnt his wound after rousing him, the shock would have just knocked him out again.)
I briefly toyed with the idea of employing the traditional method of slapping him awake. With my superhuman, feminine muscles, a tap of one dainty fingertip can be more devastating than a thousand heavyweight boxers if I wish. I know from experience that the most casual swipe of my little palm is more than enough to collapse a large building (but that's another story for another time). Of course, I would needed to hold back almost all of my fabulous strength to ensure his survival, but it's an irrelevant point, because I chose a different method of rousing him.
Without needing to move from where I was standing, without even needing to reach down to touch the unconscious male, I merely bent my chin downwards, parted my sexy lips and gently blew on him, blasting his face with a cool, unrelenting stream of my breath. I still needed to exercise restraint: too much force in my exhalation and he would have been smashed against the wall or even crushed into the floor, and too much coldness in my breath and every molecule in his body would have been frozen solid.
Naturally, my judgement was perfect. I blew just hard enough and cold enough to bring him round. As soon as he blinked his swollen eyes painfully open, I stopped blowing, my lips closing and then stretching out in a smile. Straight away, my companion began to wail as the pain from his wrist registered.
"Silence, male!" I commanded. He turned his head slowly, looking up at me in terror and awe whilst biting his lip to contain his agonised cries. Seeing both the fear in his eyes and his eagerness to obey, I couldn't help but let my grin widen.
I had known all along, of course, since before I had first seen his face. The arms-dealer now understood completely too. He existed purely for my amusement.
Continued next post.
Thursday 4 October 2007 22:03 BST (GMT+1)
The arms-dealer was still lying next to my feet in the heap he'd passed out in, but at least he was conscious now, with his eyes just about open.
I glared down at him, placing my hands on my hips so that my pose reflected my total dominance. Now all that was left was to get him to clean me up. Obviously, he wasn't going to be able to do that from the floor...
"Stand up!" I ordered him. He started to gather his legs and his face contorted with pain. Instinctively, he moved to place his hand on the ground for support, only remembering at the last moment that he no longer actually had a hand. By then, he was already unbalanced. He toppled sideways, rolling onto his shoulder and yelling in agony while I burst out laughing at his helplessness.
It took a few moments for him to pick himself up onto his knees. Every tiny movement seemed to be causing him pain. He was clearly struggling for all he was worth to carry out my command, no doubt aware that disobedience would be even more painful. I could tell that he couldn't move his bleeding, battered body any faster, but I was enjoying his suffering so much, I just couldn't resist snapping "Quickly!" at him.
Naturally, in his panicky rush to comply, he fell over onto his side once more. I roared with mocking laughter at the man at my feet who appeared to be performing an (unintentional) impression of an overturned beetle whilst he fought and panted and groaned, trying to get back onto his knees.
When he was almost done, looking up at me in terrified supplication, I controlled my laughter just long enough to wink at him, pucker up and sexily blow him a tiny kiss. The brief warm wind I so effortlessly created knocked him over once more, much to my amusement. There were tears in his eyes as he struggled onto his knees yet again.
"I said 'Stand up!'" I reminded him. Nervously, he began to straighten out one leg. He was unsteady, wobbling hopelessly as he tried to get to his feet. I don't know if his lack of balance was due to his injuries, his terror or the fact that I'd brought him round from unconsciousness too quickly. Whatever the reason, I found his pathetic efforts very funny, and made no attempt to hide my amusement.
After much struggling, he made it to his full height, standing extremely uneasily, right in front of me. But only for a second. He seemed to be overcome with dizziness and fell forward. Without thinking, he thrust out his remaining hand to seek support, placing his palm on my smooth, flat abdomen and panting heavily.
"How dare you touch me!" I exclaimed. He withdrew his hand immediately, as if it had been resting on red hot coals, rather than my warm, silky skin. Without me to lean on, he swayed on his feet, watching me through pleading eyes, looking as though the merest touch would knock him over.
"I'll punish you later for touching me without permission," I informed him. "Now clean all your filthy blood off me!"
Trembling, he began to reach his hand towards my stomach once again, his eyes locked on mine, desperately scanning my face for signs of approval or disapproval.
"Not with your hand you pathetic male!" I snarled. "Use your tongue!"
Continued next post.
Wednesday 10 October 2007 01:45 BST (GMT+1)
So, I told you how I revived the unconscious arms-dealer and then ordered him to lick my body clean of blood.
Plenty of the crimson liquid had been splashed onto my perfect silky skin. Of course, all of it originally belonged to my companion who had shown himself to be a most inconsiderate bleeder, letting his multitudinous gaping wounds shed blood all over the place. As he was solely responsible for the mess, it was fitting that he should clear it up. After all, it was his fault for being so fragile and bleeding so easily. I have never in my life shed any blood. In fact, nothing has ever managed to even scratch any part of my perfect body. So why should I clean up other people's blood? They should learn to bleed less.
Anyway... In my last post, I explained how, having made it quite clear that he was forbidden to touch me with his hands, I ordered the arms-dealer to lick his blood off me. I had two good reasons for making him use his tongue:
Firstly, from a practical point of view, the male's tongue was just about the only part of him that wasn't still bleeding. Getting him to clean me with a limb that was still gushing fresh blood would have made the task almost impossible.
Secondly, and most significantly, forcing him to use his tongue was likely to be more humiliating for him, and therefore more amusing for me...
Once I'd commanded him to start, I stood perfectly still with my hands planted on my hips, the blood-splattered front of my incomparably glorious, naked body on full display. My big round breasts were thrust out, traces of the arms-dealer's blood trickling over my spectacular curves and dripping from the underside of each of my proud, heavy mounds. The arms-dealer bent towards me, shaking with fear and the unsteadiness brought about by so much loss of blood. Plainly terrified that he might touch me by mistake, he kept his arms by his sides despite his obvious need for the extra balance they might have afforded him.
As his head lowered, he momentarily lost balance. About to tumble forwards, he used all the remaining strength in his legs to regain control, taking a quick quarter step to re-establish his equilibrium. He moaned as the exertion caused wounds to be painfully stretched. I fought the urge to laugh at him and instead watched as he tentatively stuck out his tongue and resumed the task of bending his head down towards my body. I could feel his panting breath against my stomach. Still shaking, he struggled to lower his face enough to reach my flat abdomen with the tip of his tongue.
Finally he made it. His ran his soft, weak tongue across a small strip of my belly, wiping away a tiny proportion of crimson mess. I watched his face briefly contort as the taste of his blood registered. Personally, I've always rather enjoyed the flavour of men's blood, but it seemed that, ironically, the arms-dealer didn't share my taste. Fortunately, I was unconcerned by his displeasure.
"Hurry up!" I commanded down to him.
Immediately, he went for a second lick, wiping his tongue across my abdomen just above my deep, flawless navel, grimacing as he swallowed the blood he collected. Then he carefully pressed the tip of his tongue either side of my bellybutton, creating a moat of "clean" unblemished skin around the sexy indentation in my stomach.
I was beginning to enjoy the process as much as I had hoped I would.
"Now, inside the navel!" I ordered. He duly obliged, scooping my bellybutton with the tip of his tongue. The sensation of his light touch was almost pleasurable. So I insisted he do it again. Then I told him to keep doing it. After barely a minute, he was moaning with discomfort, his head bent into my midriff, his mouth apparently sore and aching. I could hear his rasping gasps as he fought to take in enough air whilst he continued to lick out my navel.
Thirty minutes later, I still hadn't given him the order to stop. My vast experience of males and their puny, rapidly fading "strength" led me to the realisation that he was on the point of exhausted collapse. He was working my bellybutton with his head turned to the side, perhaps to give some of his neck muscles a temporary rest. All the while, a trickle of yet-to-be-licked-up blood that had been running down and over the magnificent curve of my left breast was collecting on the underside of my bosom. Meanwhile, I was considering giving his neck some relief by permitting him to move on to a different part of my body.
At that moment, the gathering blood on the bottom of my mound achieved enough mass to form a drip which stretched under the pull of gravity and, reluctantly, detached itself from my breast. The blood-drop fell with a Splat! directly into the arms-dealer's ear. In surprise and instinctive panic he lifted his head away from my belly and shook his eardrum clear.
"I didn't tell you to stop," I admonished him. "For that, you can lick my navel for a whole hour." He looked up at me with pleading eyes. "One hour." I repeated. "Starting now!"
He had no choice but to obey. Well, no choice except slow, painful death. Either way, he obeyed. By the end of that hour he was barely conscious.
"The hour's up," I announced. I waited for the inevitable sigh of relief before snapping "Now start on my chest!"
Continued next post.
Wednesday 10 October 2007 16:29 BST (GMT+1)
The arms-dealer was fading fast.
With my remarkably sensitive senses I could detect exactly how great a toll his wounds had taken and exactly how near to total collapse he was. I knew he was barely capable of remaining conscious and in no fit state to perform any physical actions. In fact, he desperately needed rest. And a hospital. I’ve played with, damaged, and broken enough males to know which combinations of injuries are fatal without medical assistance. I was fully aware that the creature currently licking my body clean needed to be seen by a doctor within an hour if he was going to survive the day.
Of course, he couldn’t be seen by a doctor at that time because I wasn’t finished with him yet. He’d been licking me, following my orders, for nearly two hours, but he’d only managed to wipe away a small area of blood from my abdomen. By forcing him to spend ninety minutes working my navel with his tongue, I had robbed him of most of the remaining strength of his body, severely reducing his chances of survival. But, more importantly, I was enjoying the sensation of being licked clean. Why rush him to a hospital where immediate care would probably save his life if I could continue to force him to give me mild pleasure for a few more minutes?
So. I ordered him to move on to my chest. I loved the feeling of his soft, weak tongue caressing the outer curves of my two big round breasts. The sensation was deliciously light, providing a fascinating contrast with the high-powered weaponry we had been playing with earlier. I kept my hands on my hips, thrusting out my glorious mounds whilst the arms-dealer continued to work his way around each of them, methodically licking away all traces of red.
I watched as he chased one particular streak of blood over the top slope of my right breast, following the trail of crimson with his tongue, moving his head as he pursued the trickle around my mound, on to the perfect, expansive inner curve of my breast. As his tongue worked the smooth side of my cleavage, I couldn’t resist momentarily flexing my superhuman chest muscles, bringing my large breasts together, closing the warm, fleshy walls of my feminine valley around his tongue.
With no effort on my part, I was able to trap the arms-dealer’s tongue in my cleavage, squeezing it between my wonderful breasts until he let out a garbled scream. I giggled at his predicament, my laughter making my body (and especially my heavy breasts) jiggle which, in turn, put more pressure on his tongue and brought forth new screams. For a moment, I was tempted to tense the muscles in my chest more firmly and crush the male’s tongue to paste in my cleavage. But, whilst that would certainly have been amusing, it would not have been in the spirit of the on-going clean-up operation. So instead, I relaxed my chest, letting my breasts move slightly apart and freeing his tongue.
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” he moaned, panting, using the fingers of his remaining hand to gently touch his badly bruised, but still intact, tongue.
“How dare you stop!” I said, sternly. “Only I say when can you stop.”
“Please….” he pleaded, his speech badly effected by his now swelling tongue.
“Silence!” I commanded. “Keep licking!”
With tears in his eyes, he bent his head and extended his painful tongue towards my chest once more.
Continued next post.
Thursday 11 October 2007 22:56 BST (GMT+1)
Sometimes, I almost feel sorry for the males that cross my path.
Naturally, the key word in the sentence above is "almost". I don't actually feel anything at all for them, "sorry" or otherwise. Nonetheless, I have noticed how the pathetic creatures just don't seem to stand a chance. It seems it's not enough that are they utterly defenceless against my vastly superior strength and completely helpless against my total invulnerability. They also have to be, thanks to their own genetic programming, in awe of my gloriously sexy, staggeringly gorgeous body.
My limitless physical powers mean I could conquer this entire planet not just bare-handed, but entirely naked. But most of the men I encounter fall under the spell of my beauty and become slaves to their own lust for me before I get to use my powers. Like I said, they don't stand a chance.
The arms-dealer was no exception. Regardless of his mutilated, battered state. As the last dregs of his life-force were ebbing away, he was still in the grip of sexual yearning for my body. Just because his legs could barely stand and were wobbling and trembling, threatening to give way at any moment, did not mean that his organ wasn't completely rigid.
Getting him to clean up my incomparable breasts by licking them was making his loins boil with ever-increasing desire even as the rest of him was starting to shut down. Of course, I was enormously enjoying observing the two contrasting processes (lust and death) taking place inside him.
Almost all of the blood that had been splashed across the front of my body had been wiped away. Having licked my belly (and especially my navel) free of his blood, the arms-dealer had also cleaned out my cleavage with his tongue, almost losing it in the process when I trapped it between my big, round breasts. All that remained were the traces of red on the underside of each of my large heavy orbs and a few spots of crimson on the crown of each mound.
He had to stoop and bend his neck to reach underneath my breasts with his tongue. In his exhausted, pain-wracked state, the task was laborious. Of course, I'd forbidden him from touching me with any other part of his body, and he seemed to be having an increasingly difficult time keeping his balance, swaying like a tall blade of grass in a stiff breeze.
But every contact with my warm, silky, perfect, firm, feminine flesh was driving him to new levels of longing. Listening to his breathing and his thumping heart, I knew that my breasts were overwhelming his senses. Their taste, their unrivalled sexy scent, their irresistible appearance... they were taking control of him completely.
By the time he reached the peaks of my mounds, his whole body was shaking, not just from exhaustion, but also from an impending orgasm. The first flick of his tongue on one of my big, super-firm pink nipples made him groan, involuntarily, with lust. The second caused him to gasp.
Realising that my cleaner was only seconds away from becoming utterly useless to me, I made sure he finished his work quickly.
"Clean the other nipple!" I commanded. "Now!"
Long past the stage when he had surrendered all independent thought to me and my breasts, he obeyed at once, almost missing my other teat and falling over. Somehow, he managed to swipe his tongue across my harder-than-diamond, finger-tip-sized nipple, more by luck than judgement clearing up the last of the blood from me.
His job was complete. I had no further use for him. As he quaked and panted, surrendering to the inevitable tightening in his groin that heralded the strongest orgasm of his life, I casually twisted my body to the side and straightened out again, catching him on the cheek with my right breast.
It was only a glancing blow. But my superhumanly firm feminine flesh struck him a dozen times harder than the best boxer's best hook. His head was knocked violently to one side. There was a Crack! as his neck snapped like a twig under the force of the impact. His eyes went instantly dull, as a spurt of blood flew from his mouth.
The momentum from my breast sent him flying. His feet left the ground, and his whole body took off, the red liquid like a comet's tale as it left his lips. His flight ended abruptly after about five yards when he slammed into a wall, dislodging a section of plaster. His corpse crumpled under the force of the collision before falling with a heavy Thud! to the floor.
He never even got to enjoy that last orgasm.
Of course, that didn't matter. I'd had my orgasm, and a lot of fun besides.
All that was left was for me to grab some souvenirs from his stash of weaponry before I left by the back door, shooting up into the clouds before anyone had the chance to notice me.
Monday 15 October 2007 23:54 BST (GMT+1)
It's inevitable that a being of unfathomable power, such as myself, spends a lot of time looking down.
Of course, as a vastly superior entity, I metaphorically "look down" on everything over which I (imperiously) cast my gaze. But I also do a lot of literal looking down too. I look down on the males who fall at my feet. I also look down on the ones I push to the ground, or knock over. And the ones I order to kneel or lie before me.
Since I discovered that I have the ability to fly, I've been looking down even more than ever. It helps when you have eyesight as fantastically powerful as mine. Being able to see tiny details from vast distances through solid objects in the dark means that I can stand on the surface of the moon and look down on a man hiding in a concrete bunker a mile below ground on Earth.
That power of flight added to my complete invulnerability to extremes of temperature and pressure, along with the fact that I don't actually need to breathe, mean that I can rocket into space any time I like. I say "rocket", but I'm dozens of times faster and millions of times more powerful than any mere rocket. Anyway, I always enjoy going out into the solar system. Mostly because it allows me, both metaphorically and physically, to look down on the whole of planet Earth. Usually with my sexy lip curled into a sneer.
Recently, I've thought up a really enjoyable new game which involves quite a lot of looking down. I'll tell you how I came to invent the game in my next post.
Tuesday 16 October 2007 23:23 BST (GMT+1)
So, you want to read all about the new game I've thought up. First, I'll tell you about the incident that inspired me to create it.
I mentioned last time how much I enjoy looking down on the world, and how flying allows me to do just that. I love gazing over people and buildings and cities and countries, happy in the knowledge that everything I see is mine for the taking and that nothing down there can hurt me, or even slow me down.
I soar through the skies, my beautiful bright eyes scanning the helpless world below, examining the most minute details at speeds no computer will ever match. Your mind simply could not comprehend the sheer amount of information my superhuman brain processes every second as I fly over the world, but I don't even have to make an effort to do it.
From time to time, I hover motionless a mile or so above a city, using clouds or darkness for cover. I like to "stand" in mid-air, perpendicular to the ground far below, with my hands dominantly resting on my hips, and stare downwards. My fantastic powers of vision can selectively pierce any and all obstacles, so I can peer through every building in an entire city, floor by floor, room by room, observing and noting all its contents.
That's how I know things that no-one else could ever know. The official statistics might claim that there are approximately 6.8 million people living in a particular city. But I don't do "approximately". Last night, I stood high above the centre of that city and counted them. There were 6,963,544, every single one of them, without exception, vastly inferior to me in every way. It took me nearly ten minutes to reach that figure, but I was also checking the contents of every drawer and cupboard in every room. All 175,137,924 of them...
As you can probably imagine, being able to look down on entire regions and see everything laid out is useful. Not just for getting accurate census information. For example, I can see through the ground as easily as I can see through concrete (in other words, as easily as most ordinary people can see their fragile hands in front of their faces). Nothing is hidden from me. I know all the secret underground installations and what's in them. I know where all the undiscovered deposits of minerals and oil are.
But by far and away the best thing about seeing so much from high above is that it allows me to spot opportunities to have fun. And that's where this episode starts.
Just as an ordinary person might pop out to get some fresh air, I also went out one afternoon last week. OK, I'll confess. It wasn't just like an ordinary person. For starters, I don't need air to live, fresh or otherwise. The only breathing I do is for effect. (Usually spectacular effect...) And while an ordinary person might walk around the block or across a couple of fields, I went to another continent. And I didn't walk. I flew.
So, completely unlike a normal person popping out for some fresh air, I flew a quarter of the way around the globe. Travelling six thousand miles under my own, fabulous power took me less time than that ordinary person would need to circumnavigate a block on foot. My perfect feminine body carves through the air with a grace and manoeuvrability, not to mention speed, that missile designers cannot even dream about.
It's all so effortless! I merely ignore gravity. I go where I want to go, regardless of the laws of physics. Floating up off the ground is as natural and easy for me as opening or closing my eyes. And I barely need to tense a few of my sleek, endlessly powerful muscles to propel my body, in any direction I want, at any speed I like. It's a fun way to undress. When I go fast through the atmosphere the friction of the air I'm zipping through heats my body until any normal clothes I'm wearing disintegrate. If I go faster still, the temperatures generated can melt steel. But, of course, that just feels comfortably warm to me.
Anyway, as I said, I "popped out" to another continent one afternoon. On a whim, I left home and flew around the planet to check some documents which I thought might be filed away deep in the bowels of a large multinational corporation's massive main office. As usual, I "stood" in the sky, high above the roof of the forty-storey building, peering down through the intervening floors and seeing inside the rows of (supposedly) pitch-dark filing cabinets in the basement.
It took three minutes to find what I was looking for and less than three microseconds to read it. Then, I was all set to fly back home. I turned fluidly in the air, but just before the split-second when I was going to accelerate from stationary to several thousand miles an hour, something caught my eye.
I was over the financial district of a city that is home to a number of major businesses. There were dozens of tall chrome and glass buildings laid out, but my gaze was drawn to just one of them, the offices of a pharmaceutical company. Instantly, I zoomed in on the roof. It was dark, but I had no trouble seeing the two men dressed entirely in black near the edge of the roof. They were working on a large contraption which I quickly realised was a winch mechanism. It was obvious that they were about to attempt some type of daring (or stupid) break-in.
Naturally, I wasn't interested in whatever it was they wanted to get at inside the building. If I want something, I just take it, regardless of how many tonnes of solid steel are protecting it and how many armies are guarding it. If there was anything in that building I particularly wanted, I would have helped myself to it long ago. But I just could not resist the obvious opportunity for some sport with the two males.
I didn't need to move to observe them. I just looked down at them from my lofty position, patiently waiting while they went about their scheme. So slow... So clumsy... So awkward... And so, so weak!
Predictably enough, they were using the equipment to lower themselves, painfully laboriously, down the front of the building. They'd thrown a rope over the side of the roof and one after the other, they were climbing down it. All that gadgetry; the winch, the harnesses, that thick rope, and they barely moved at twelve inches a second. Not only that, but they both seemed terrified, despite the rope secured on the roof.
I let them get on with it until they had managed to descend about three floors. Then, in what to them would have seemed the blink of an eye, I swooped down towards them. Flying around behind the duo, I stopped. Then I pretended to lie down on an invisible cushion several hundred feet above the city streets, with one hand behind my head and my back arched so that my magnificent, firm breasts were displayed in the most heart-stoppingly desirable way.
Both abseilers froze in their downward tracks when I made a sound as though I was clearing my throat. (My throat never needs clearing.) I waited for them to gingerly look around. Both men almost lost their grips when they caught sight of me. I flashed them a smile which sent their already pounding hearts into a techno-beat overdrive.
"'Evening, boys," I greeted them.
"Wha...?" one of them said. The other just opened his mouth noiselessly.
"Guess what? It's your lucky night," I told them. "You get to be my toys!"
Continued next post.
Wednesday 17 October 2007 23:53 BST (GMT+1)
There I was, "reclining" in mid-air, alongside two men who were trying to abseil down the front of an office tower-block.
"George!" the male who was slightly lower on the rope hissed. "George! Am I fucking crazy? Is there... is there... a... a girl... floating?"
The other man opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out of it but incoherent mumbling.
"George!" the first one tried again. "You can see her too, right? Floating right by us.... George!"
"Looks like Georgie's a bit lost for words," I said, barely suppressing a giggle. "I'm a bit too sexy for his poor little brain to handle."
"George!" the lower man almost shouted.
Almost reluctantly, George pulled himself out of his trance. Without letting his eyes flicker away from my naked perfection for even a instant, he deadpanned "You're not crazy, Andy. I can see her too."
"I wouldn't be so sure about the 'not crazy' thing," I opined. "Fragile creatures like you must be crazy to dangle from ropes hundreds of feet in the air." I smiled. "One little slip," I said, still grinning "and you'll both go splat!" This time, I didn't try to conceal my chuckle.
Both men were staring at me. George's look was probably four-fifths lust and one fifth shock. Andy's was a more even three-way split between sexual longing, confusion and awe. "Who... What... are you?" he asked, his voice detached, betraying his mixed-up state of mind.
"I'm your new owner," I smiled. That brought no change to either man's facial expression, so I explained myself more clearly: "You both belong to me now."
Clearly that touched something in George's psyche. My words provoked a strong reaction. Not sufficiently strong to cause him to move his eyes from my body, but enough to make him blurt out "What the fuck are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about this," I said, abandoning my relaxed pose and turning in the air so that I went from "lying down" to "standing". Then I floated up to George, closing the distance between us in the blink of an eye. Whilst he reacted in shock, very nearly letting go of the rope that was all that kept him from a lengthy death-plunge, I reached down and very carefully grabbed hold of his genitalia through the crotch of his black jeans, squeezing just hard enough to make him wince.
He needed one hand to grasp the rope. He used the other to try and swat my arm away. His tough, muscled, masculine arm slammed into my petite, smooth, feminine wrist. I hardly felt the impact. He yelled in pain. I could see the bruise already forming on him. Undeterred, he tried another tactic; using his hand to try and pull mine away from his groin. Of course, it was a wasted effort.
I let him struggle for a few seconds before bringing my free hand to the party, using it to effortlessly grab hold of his and pull it away from my grip on his crotch, holding it out beside us, ignoring his desperate, but futile fight against my vastly superior strength.
Placing my face close to his, I asked "Now do you understand, George? You're completely mine. To do with as I please."
"What the fuck are you, bitch?" he screamed, in terror and panic, still squirming as I squeezed his masculinity and still battling uselessly to free his hand.
"I wouldn't be so disrespectful," I rebuked him. I moved his hand, without noticing any resistance, towards his other arm. Bringing the hand I'd captured close to the one that he was using to grip the rope allowed me to quickly adjust my hold on him so that I was holding both of his wrists in one palm whilst the other remained clamped over his genitals. After that, the easiest of tugs ripped his hand from the rope. He'd been gripping pretty tightly, and the force of my pull tore away some skin, making him scream. And, of course, bleed.
His harness was still attached to the rope, but he obviously felt very insecure. "Let me go! Let me go!" he spluttered.
"Are you that stupid?" I asked. "Have you still not worked it out? You're mine now. I do what I want with you. I could slice that pathetic harness in two with a fingernail! What would happen if I did that, George? What would happen if I broke the harness and then just... let go of you? Would you float in the air, like me? Would you fly, like I can, George? Would you? Well? Can you fly George? Can you?"
There was no answer. So I squeezed his manhood just a tiny bit harder. His "Aaaaaagh!" told me I was using just the right amount of force.
"Answer me, George!" I insisted. "Can you fly? Can you?"
"No," he panted, admitting defeat. I grinned broadly and released his groin. He sighed in relief.
"Poor Georgie," I mocked. "He can't fly." I moved his hands back towards the rope and let go. Instinctively, he grabbed the cord with both hands, cursing as he put pressure on his wounded palm. "I bet you wish you could fly," I said. "Like me. Like this." I turned a quick, graceful somersault in the air. "Look how easy it is for me!" I boasted, twisting in figure-eight shapes in front of him. "You see? That's why you belong to me. Because I can do things like this and you can't."
"Who?.. What?.." George was suddenly subdued even if he wasn't quite silenced.
"Oh, do shut up. You're getting boring," I told him. "I'm going to talk to your friend for a bit. Stay there 'till I get back. Actually, on second thoughts..." I tilted my head down towards the metal catch of his harness. Then I narrowed my eyes, and let a gentle beam of heat-vision extend from my pupils to the steel loop, fusing the safety mechanism together so that it gripped the rope and could not be released. "There," I said, looking up into his face once more. "now you won't be going anywhere."
Continued next post.
Thursday 18 October 2007 21:18 BST (GMT+1)
Having secured the first male (or George, as it liked to be known) to the rope, I floated effortlessly downwards, following the dangling cord to his colleague.
The second male ('Andy' was the name the other creature called him) had obviously observed some of the teasing to which I'd subjected his friend, and had decided that he didn't want any part of it. Sadly for him, he was just a man, so his attempt at getting away from me by abseiling down the rope was rather like a crippled snail trying to slither away from a cheetah.
He'd managed to travel about fifty feet in the time I was with George. Needless to say, I made up the distance, merely by dropping down whilst remaining vertical, in less than a tenth of one second. To him, it must have seemed as though I just "appeared" beside him. I had to chuckle at Andy's shocked yell when he saw me floating alongside, less than an arm's length away.
"Aw," I pouted, pretending to sympathise with his plight. "Did you think I'd forgotten you?"
"I... ah... You... er..." he stammered.
"What's the matter?" I asked him. "You're not scared are you? Surely not! A grown man like you, scared of a girl!"
I tilted my head upwards towards his friend who was hanging helplessly from the same rope, several dozen feet above us and called up "Hey George! Andy's scared of a girl!" I chuckled, and then, turning back to Andy, caught his terrified gaze and inquired, mock-earnestly, "You're not really frightened are you?"
"I.. I... I..." he was trying, but he just couldn't form words.
"Oh my!" I burst out laughing. "You are scared! What a pathetic man you must be!"
"I.. I'm... n- n- not p- p- path- path-"
"Yes you are," I corrected him. "You can't even talk. If you're so scared of me, why don't you let go of the rope and just fly away? Oh, yes. I forgot. You can't fly. Looks like you're stuck with me then."
I reached out slowly, gripping him with my left hand, curling my fingers around the back of his neck. He struggled against my hold, thrashing about whilst I waited patiently for him to tire. I did not have to wait long.
"Let me g- g- go!" he pleaded, once he realised he could not fight me off.
"Maybe later," I said, with a grin. "First, we're all going to have some fun." A gentle pull with my slender, superhumanly powerful arm yanked him away from the rope, breaking his grip, a couple of his fingers and his harness in the process. Now I was holding him by his neck, dangling him from my effortless grasp three hundred feet above the street below. Only the limitless strength of my pretty feminine fingers prevented him from plunging to his death. If he had been scared a minute earlier, now he was terrified.
Merely by tensing a few muscles in my calves, I started to fly upwards, carrying Andy with me, his weight barely noticeable at the end of my arm. In a couple of seconds, I was hovering next to George once again. Bending my elbow, I brought Andy's dangling body towards his friend. Then I released my hold. Instinctively, Andy threw his arms around George's neck, clinging to his partner for dear life.
There was about a hundred feet of slack rope hanging below the hugging pair. With superspeed, I dropped downwards and gathered it up. Then I started to fly in tight circles around my two toys, moving so quickly that I would have been nothing but a blur to them as I wrapped the rope tightly around them, over and over, until they were completely bound up. I finished off the job with a knot that no "ordinary" person could ever untie.
Now the pair of them were helplessly trapped, hanging from the end of the rope, more than a hundred yards up. "Hang in there, boys!" I joked as the two males finally realised what I'd done to them. Both of them just stared at me in fear and awe.
I floated a few feet back from them, looking them up and down. "Hmmm," I said. "What shall I do with you two now?"
Continued next post.
Monday 22 October 2007 23:44 BST (GMT+1)
I had secured my two new toys (or "men" as they call themselves) firmly at the end of a length of rope that was dangling over the side of a tall building. The pair were firmly and inescapably bound together, dangling several hundred feet above the ground, whilst the other end of the rope was attached to the winch they had set up on the roof of the shiny office block. Meanwhile, I was hovering, dead-still, "standing" in mid-air alongside them, my hands on my hips, grinning at their hopeless predicament.
"You two look so cute, all wrapped up like that, hanging there, completely at my mercy." I started to float slowly from side to side, staying perpendicular to the pavement far, far below me, examining the bound-up bundle of man-toys from a variety of angles.
"Go away!" one of them hissed. (I think it was George, but it might as well have been both of them for all I cared)
"Go away?" I chuckled. "What? Like this?" So asking, I floated a dozen yards along the side of the building, moving away from the trapped toys, but staying at eye level with them, still facing the pathetic pair, hands motionless on my hips, my smooth, perfect left elbow inches from the wall.
"You know what?" I called out to the dangling duo, laughing. "You two look just as cute from over here!"
I brought my palm up to my chin and made a show of kissing the tips of my fingers. Then, with a friendly wink, I lowered my hand like a drawbridge until it was at a right-angle to my face and sensuously pushed out my thick lips. Then, slowly, sexily, I blew a kiss over my open palm.
The brief gust of warm wind generated by my superhuman lungs was enough to push the two men hanging on their cord about twenty feet away from me. They screamed in terror as they moved through the air, dangling helplessly. The rope remained taut, and once I'd resealed my lips, cutting off the gust, they started to swing back towards vertical, still expressing their fear by crying out. Of course, the momentum of my little superbreath "push" saw them continue to swing back in the other direction.
Like a gigantic pendulum, the two men oscillated back and forth, hundreds of feet up, shouting themselves hoarse, alternating between petrified screams and pleas for me to let them down. Meanwhile I stayed right where I was, watching their torment and giggling at my sport.
Each time my pendulum started to lose speed, I gave it another "shove" by blowing another tiny little kiss, sending the men swinging away once more and launching them into a renewed vocal frenzy. The colour soon drained from their terrified faces, to be replaced by the greenish tints of motion sickness, but I was too busy enjoying myself to let up, so I just kept on blowing and laughing for a good few minutes.
When I'd finally had enough of the game, I let them come to rest once more. Floating up close, I grinned. "That was fun!"
The only response was a groaned "Please stop!" from one of the males which, naturally, I ignored.
"Let's play another game now," I suggested. "You two stay right there." I ordered, unnecessarily. Then I effortlessly shot upwards, flying away from them, towards the top of the building and the other end of the rope.
Continued next post.
Thursday 25 October 2007 17:14 BST (GMT+1)
The two men were secured to the rope about sixty feet down from the roof.
Not wanting to kill them both with my shockwave, I flew fairly slowly up away from them towards their winch on the top of the building. So, it was all of half a second before I was standing on the roof next to the device to which they’d attached the other end of the rope.
The cord was thick and strong, a fact borne out by the way it was comfortably holding the weight of two grown males. I’d estimate that it would have taken an average man armed with a well-sharpened, specialist knife at least five minutes’ hard work to cut through it.
Of course, I didn’t have any kind of knife, so I had to make do with my petite, smooth, bare hands. I gripped the rope with both hands, placing my left about half-an-inch from my right and curling my fingers around the rope. Then, with the most casual of little tugs, I pulled my hands apart. With a Snap! and a Rrrrrip! the “thick”, “strong” rope tore in half. Instantly. Naturally, I hardly felt the resistance.
Now my two rope-clutching fists were separated. In my left hand was the portion of the rope that was wrapped around the winch. I opened the fingers of that palm and let the shortened length fall. I was much more interested in the other half of the line. The one I was holding in my right hand. That length led away from my feminine fist, over the lip of the edge of the building and down the side of the office block for about twenty yards. The far end of it, you will doubtless recall, was wrapped around my two toys.
The only thing stopping the two men falling several hundred feet to the concrete below was my single hand gripping the other end of the line they were bound up in. It was rather fortunate for the pair of large, fully grown males, that their combined weight was nothing to me. I could lift an entire, massive building with a single hand, so the mass of two men really is nothing to me.
Holding my end of the rope comfortably in my small fist, I started to walk towards the edge of the building. Even if the pull of the dangling toys was less than negligible to me, it was enough to keep the line taut, and as I moved towards the lip of the roof, the slack I created was instantly taken up by the helpless pair with the result that they were lowered a few feet down the side of the building with every step I look. I could hear their panicky cries as I walked.
Soon enough, I reached the edge of the roof. Standing there, with my two bare feet planted right on the edge, my perfect body held straight and proud in the cold night air, the wind playing with my gorgeous, long, straight hair and the end of the rope held tight in my hand, I peered down at the two men hanging from the far end, and grinned at them.
Either it was too dark, or I was too far away, or they were too busy panicking to notice my smile. They did however, see me, far above them. Both men were shouting up at me, begging me to leave them alone. I used my free hand to give them both a cheery wave. “Hi boys!” I called down to them. “Look what I’ve found!”
I straightened out my right arm so they could clearly see me holding my end of their precious rope out. The slight outward movement of the cord set them swaying again, and one of them bounced off the side of the building. They both screamed in terror. I giggled, which made the line shake a little. Judging by the desperate shouting that followed, the quivering wasn’t lost on the pair, either.
“Aren’t you having fun?” I asked, directing my voice down to them. “I certainly am!”
“Please! Leave us alone!” one of them shouted back.
“What’s that?” I replied, acting as if I couldn’t hear (although, from only sixty feet away, with my superhuman hearing abilities, I was quite capable of listening to the beats of each of their hearts). “Did you say you want me to let go?”
“NO!” they screamed up at me in unison.
“Sorry,” I smiled, “I didn’t quite hear you. Was that a ‘yes’?”
“NO! NO!” both men yelled at the top of their (puny) lungs.
“Yo-yo?” I asked, pretending to have misheard them. “What a great idea!”
Continued next post.
Monday 29 October 2007 17:56 GMT
So, the joke was this: when the two men had begged me not to let go of the rope from which they were hanging ("No! No!") I had pretended to mis-hear their cry as "Yo-yo!"
Pretty funny, I'm sure you'll agree. But to really make the joke, I needed to take it to its logical conclusion. That meant I had to turn my two new friends into a real yo-yo. Fortunately, they were already nicely tied-up on the end of a long length of rope which I was dangling over the side of a building.
I was standing on the very edge of the roof, my toes curling around the lip of the office-block. My left hand rested comfortably on my shapely hip whilst my right arm was stretched out straight in front of me. As the winds lifted my perfect hair from my perfect shoulders, I held my end of the rope in that hand at arm's length away from my glorious body, so that the free-hanging men were dangling clear of the side of the building.
Laughing, I carefully flicked my slender wrist. My superhuman muscles translated that effortless gesture into a violent jerk of the rope which travelled the length of the line, down to the two men. The force of the flick caused one side the bundle at the end of the rope to be knocked upwards, setting the whole thing spinning. As they rose, turning in the air, screaming in terror, the newly-created slack in the cord was wrapped around them.
Naturally, I made sure that I gave them plenty of momentum. They continued to rise, spinning all the while, winding in the rope as they went until the whole bundle of two men wrapped up in rope came up the side of the building, past my feet, my knees, my groin and my abdomen, finally halting just as they were about to run out of cord. And so they hung from my hand, hopelessly bound up in countless layers of rope, now level with my peerless chest.
"Hi boys!" I greeted them. I gave them three seconds to try and catch their breath. Then:
"Bye boys!" I smiled before, with another equally casual movement of my wrist, I let the rope unwind again, spinning in the opposite direction, lowering then back down the side of the building. As expected, they yelled all the way. Just before the bundled rope completely unravelled, I gave a perfectly judged tug to start the process of reeling them back up again.
They were hardly screaming at all the second time I brought them up. I guess all that rotating was a little too much for their poor fragile bodies. I didn't need my fabulous superhuman eyesight to see that they looked pale. Clearly in deep shock, both of my toys appeared in chronic need of a good rest.
But I wasn't done. Now that I had a yo-yo, I wanted to try some tricks. I started with a horizontal throw, spinning them out dead straight in front of me, rather than downwards. I launched them perfectly into the night sky, several hundred feet above ground, but they were too heavy to stay level with me once the rope was fully extended. In the end, I had to wind them in quickly before they swung down and crashed into the side of the building.
After that I tried "walking the dog", spinning the men out with the rope at a forty-five degree angle to my legs, and using a series of minor jerks of my hand to wind them back in about a quarter of the way and back out again over and over, so that they remained a good distance away from both me and the building for nearly half a minute whilst I expertly kept them at bay, laughing all the while.
Once I'd had enough of that, a final flick of my wrist brought the men spinning and winding their way back to me. This time. I let go of the rope at the last second and transferred my grip, using the same hand, to take a good hold of the entire bundle of males and cord. Holding the mass up in front of my face with that single, anything-but-tired arm, I grinned broadly at the two barely-conscious creatures inside.
"Cheer up boys," I told them. "We're going fishing!"
Continued next post.
Tuesday 30 October 2007 20:10 GMT
Fishing is not my normal leisure activity of choice.
Generally, I prefer sports like teasing, hurting, breaking, crushing, destroying and hurting. What's that? Why did I list "hurting" twice? Because I love hurting.
Anyway, I may have superhuman patience but I can think of a billion more appealing things to do with my unlimited power than sitting by a river for hours on end. Obviously, a few tweaks are necessary to make the whole "fishing" thing more befitting of a goddess...
Fortunately, I am perfectly equipped for making tweaks: My endless strength frees me from the limitations of weight and scale that bound everyone else. My immunity to gravity and ability to fly at speeds that would blow your mind exempt me from the sort of geographical and physical concerns that plague the rest of the world. And my total invulnerability means I can act with complete impunity, without bothering with things like consequences.
Now, as everyone knows, there are three basic requirements for fishing: a line to dangle into the water, some bait, and of course, a body of water with fish swimming in it. Well, I already had my line, in the form of a eighty foot long length of strong rope. (That's "strong" compared to other bits of rope. Not "strong" compared to me, of course. Nothing in existence is "strong" compared to me...)
As well as the line, I also had the bait. In fact, it was already attached to the line in the form of two fit young men whom I'd bound and tied inescapably at the end of the rope. I realise that a worm is a more traditional form of bait, but a pair of fully grown males are easier for me to lift and cast than a worm is for the average fisherman. And frankly, a couple of men are even less significant to me than that average guy's invertebrate.
All that I was lacking was a suitable body of water. (Remember, I was standing on the roof of a tall building, holding the men with the rope tightly spooled around them.) With my fabulous eyesight, I could have located every fish-infested pond in that city in seconds. But I wasn't in the mood for ponds. My oversized line and bait needed a more suitable location. So, still holding the helpless duo with a single hand by the cord they were wrapped up in, I effortlessly rose from the roof into the night sky.
With my fragile cargo, I couldn't fly at anything like my top speed. I couldn't even fly at a thousandth of my top speed. To stop the men from burning up or breaking into pieces or (basically) dying in one way or another, I had to restrict myself to travelling through the air at approximately a millionth of flat out. I also had to fly low, so that they could breathe and so that they wouldn't freeze. (It seems the air is too thin and cold for lesser beings near the top of the atmosphere. I know because I see the fatal effects every time I grab one or more of them and take them up there. No matter how many times I try it, the result is always the same.)
Thus, to keep my toys interesting (or "alive" if you prefer) I had to fly slow and low. Fortunately, I didn't notice their weight or that of the length of rope hanging from the fingers of my hand for the four hours during which I carried them. To relieve the monotony of the journey, I used the two men as my personal in-flight entertainment system. Sometimes, I shook my load around (very gently, naturally). Other times I pretended to drop it before catching it again. Each time I tried a trick like that, the two men would scream in panic, keeping me nicely amused until their yells eventually died down. Then, I'd just do something to make them start up again.
I'd been flying over the ocean for about twenty minutes, when I finally spotted an ideal site for a bit of fishing. I'm told that from the air, the sea at night is a featureless blackness to ordinary people. To me, it's as clear as in the day. That's to say: from amongst the clouds, I can spot a detail the size of the tip of a pin. On the ocean bed. Under hundreds of feet of water.
Of course, I didn't need the full extent of my powers of vision to see a flock of large sharks, swimming barely five yards below the surface. There was no deceleration when I went from flying to hovering. I just stopped exactly where I was, fifty feet above the sea, in a fraction of an instant. The momentum rocked my cargo, causing a fresh round of screams.
Once I'd stopped laughing, and without any interest in an answer, I asked "OK boys! Ready to go fishing?"