Blogger's Archives

November 2007

Thursday 1 November 2007 21:35 GMT

I had my line, my bait, and an ideal location. I was all ready to go fishing.

It was still the middle of the night, and I was hovering in the air, about fifty feet above the ocean, far enough from land to be confident that no-one would disturb my sport. In my left hand, I was gripping the rope that was wrapped around my toys (two men whom I'd found). Bound up in the end of the rope, they were to be my bait.

The first step, obviously was to cast my line. I didn't have a rod, and the males were coiled up in the cord, so "casting" on this occasion meant allowing the bundle to unravel. I achieved that merely by releasing some of the rope. I let gravity do the rest, the two men spinning wildly as the rope unwound from around them, every complete rotation releasing another two yards of rope, lowering them six more feet towards the sea below.

"Stop! Please!" one of the males screamed as he uncoiled rapidly towards the waiting brine.

"I can't swim!" yelled the other.

I laughed loudly. "That's the least of your problems right now!" I observed. Clearly, despite being nearer to the sea than I was (and getting nearer every second), he couldn't see what my superhuman eyes had spotted long before: namely, the group of sharks circling below the waves.

As the bundled unravelled, I knew there was no danger of me losing control over its contents. I was holding on to my end of the rope in my delicate-looking, feminine left hand, my small fist curled around the cord. Looks, of course, are deceptive where I'm concerned. No force in existence; no massive machine, no army of men, can match the strength of my lovely hand.

Soon enough, I heard the predicted double scream of panic from my bait. Shortly followed by a nice, loud Splash!. Then the sound of a pair of males frantically thrashing about in water.

I looked down at the pathetic duo and the big, carnivorous fish swimming beneath them. Seeing as I wasn't getting an immediate bite, I couldn't resist giving a little encouragement.

"Here, fishy-fishy," I called, chuckling, whilst the men continued to bob and splash around.

Continued next post.

Monday 5 November 2007 22:59 GMT

With my bait (two would-be burglars, remember?) in the water, dangling at the end of my line (the rope I'd tied them up in), and the fish I was hoping to catch (a group of circling sharks) all in place, I was disappointed not to get a bite straightaway.

You'd think the sharks would recognise what a rare opportunity I was presenting them with and snatch it up immediately. Instead, they seemed content just to circle around the duo as they bobbed on (and sporadically under) the surface of the sea, thrashing about wildly and yelling whenever their mouths were clear of the brine.

Now, regular readers will know that, along with all the other too-numerous-to-list-here superpowers that I possess, I also have unending patience. I don't age, I don't need sleep and nothing can ever harm me, so "time" is not a concern for me the way it is for ordinary people. I could have waited all night for the sharks to take the bait. In fact, seeing as things like food and drink (or even air) are not commodities I've ever required, I could have waited until my bait died of old age, remaining completely comfortable floating in mid-air, fifty feet above the sea.

However, I did mention that endless patience is only one of my countless superpowers. And, to be honest, compared to most of my other fantastic abilities, it's not nearly as much fun to use. Even though I could have waited all night or all century, my other, more entraining powers meant that I didn't have to. That's the thing about being as powerful as I am: not only do I always get whatever I want, I also never have to wait for it. Unless I want to.

So, it was not impatience that made me speed up the fishing process, but rather my terrific sense of fun, a fact which I'm sure the two males acting as my bait would have appreciated.

Of course, in order to move things along, what I needed to do was to make my bait more attractive to the sharks. I could have done that from my position without moving the two men, but with the whole "sense of fun" idea very much in the fore of my thoughts, I thought it would be more enjoyable to do it up close.

As regular readers will know, I can fly around the circumference of the Earth in less time than it takes them to read this sentence. I could have swooped effortlessly down to the two men in a millisecond. But a goddess does not travel to lesser creatures. A goddess forces lesser creatures to come to her. Thanks to my limitless strength, a quick, casual, almost unthinking little tug on the rope I was holding jerked the males up out of the sea and brought them screaming and dripping towards me. They would have shot past, had I not reached out with my other hand and grabbed hold of the rope they were bound up in, stopping them mid-flight.

Bringing the bundle of two men close, I positioned it so that my perfect face was just inches from one of the males' terrified features and grinned at him.

"Please! We can't take much more!" he pleaded, desperately.

I raised an eyebrow in mock concern, but I didn't let my smile dissipate. "Oh well," I said, with a pretend sigh that buffeted him momentarily with enough warm superbreath to dry him out, "Never mind. I won't be needing you much longer."

"Put us back on land! I'm begging you! We'll do anything!" cried the other male. I turned the bundle around until his face was next to mine.

"I know what's wrong here," I told him, still grinning. "I know why the fish aren't biting. It's because you two make lousy bait. You're just too boring: 'Please this' and 'I'm begging you that'. No wonder I'm not catching any fish. They're all bored. I don't blame them. I'm getting bored with you too. I need to make you more interesting. Now, what do sharks find exciting?"

"Please! No! We can get anything you want for you!" blurted the male with whom I was face-to-face.

"Yes, anything!" chimed in the other one. "You name it, we'll steal it for you!"

I laughed. "Do you seriously think I need a pair of puny creatures like you to get things for me? Don't you get it yet? You're just a couple of toys I've picked up for my amusement. I don't need anything from you. I fancied playing with you for a bit, so I helped myself. I don't care what happens to you. When I'm done playing, I'll toss you away. If you don't like it, you're welcome to try and stop me."

One of the men started to cry. The other began to struggle vainly with the ropes. I ignored them both completely. "Now, where was I?" I asked rhetorically. "Oh yes... what do sharks find exciting?"

Continued next post.

Tuesday 6 November 2007 18:46 GMT

So I'd yanked my line and my bait back up out of the sea, because it wasn't working.

Having explained to the pair of moaning, pleading males acting as the bait that they were too boring, I'd wondered aloud how to make them more interesting to the sharks I was hoping to catch. Although neither of them could provide any kind of answer other than futilely begging for their release, it didn't matter. Firstly, the appeals of insignificants have never achieved any effect on me other than causing me mild amusement. And secondly, I already knew just how to make the two men more appealing to the fish.

Hovering perfectly still, fifty feet above the ocean, I was using a single hand to hold the duo by some of the rope they were wrapped up in, the whole bundle as light as a feather to me. Effortless turns of my wrist rotated the mass of rope and men, allowing me to bring either of the two males' faces up to my own as I addressed them in turn.

"Come on, boys," I encouraged. "Even inferior males like you must know what gets sharks going!"

"Please! No!" one of them cried.

"That's not the answer I'm looking for," I responded. "Lucky for you I'm feeling generous. I'll give you one more guess."

"Please!" the second creature screamed.

"Wrong again," I told him. "You lose. The correct answer is: Blood. Now, where do you think I can find some of that out here in the middle of the ocean?"

"No! No! Don't!" shouted my toys.

"Oh, do shut up!" I tutted. "If you can't offer anything constructive to the discussion, keep your pathetic moaning to yourselves. I'm trying to work out where I can find some blood to get those sharks in the mood for biting. Let me think... It's a tricky one, isn't it. Obviously, I can't use my blood. I'm completely invulnerable, you see. Nothing can penetrate my skin. I've never even seen my blood."

This was completely true, of course. Knives and swords have bent and broken in wasted attempts to pierce my perfect flesh. Bullets and rockets and cars and buses and aeroplanes have crumpled up and exploded against my sexy body, but none have ever bruised, let alone scratched, never mind actually cut me.

"No," I surmised. "Using my blood isn't possible. It'll have to be someone else's. Any ideas, boys?"

"Fish!" one of them screamed. "Get the blood from a fish!"

"Hmmm," I said, pretending to consider the response. "That would mean going all the way down there..." I nodded at the sea below. "No, I'm sure there's another way..." I told him. Then, with a big, broad smile I announced "That's it! I've got it! We can use your blood!"

"NO!" both males chorused.

"Yes!" I grinned.

Continued next post.

Wednesday 7 November 2007 17:44 GMT

So I mentioned yesterday (and countless other times in the past), the entire population of Earth between them have found a grand total of zero methods for extracting my blood.

Conversely, however, my limitless, glorious powers mean that there are over a million ways that I can get blood out of any member of that population. And only a tiny handful of those require any kind of effort. Some might say that it’s actually too easy for me to hurt people, but I certainly wouldn’t. As far as I’m concerned, it could never be too easy. In fact, I’m always delighted to demonstrate just how easy it is. The nearest to “difficult” it gets is when I have to chose which of the million methods to use.

I’ll give you a few, general, examples: I can touch them with one finger and make them bleed. I can gently stroke them with one of my perfect fingernails and slice them open. I can make any part of them burst and spill its contents with the most casual squeeze. I can brush them lightly with any part of my splendid body, and knock them into a wall or the ground or some other supposedly “hard” (ha!) object, tearing their skin. Or if I can’t be bothered to brush them, I can just blow on them. Or I could just turn my head quickly, letting my lovely, shiny straight hair whip around like thousands of unstoppable, devastatingly sharp razor blades. Then there’s my heat-vision which I can precisely control to burn instantly through anything from a millimetre of the softest male flesh to a dozen yards of solid steel. And I haven’t even mentioned all the times I’ve punctured a man with a super-hard and mind-bogglingly sexy aroused nipple. Or two men at once using both nipples…

And that is why, once I’d decided to get my bait-toys bleeding in order to attract the sharks I was fishing, I took a few seconds to mull over my options. A few seconds is enough for my superhumanly fast mind not only to consider each of the million potential methods but also to think back on previous occasions for many of them and wallow in happy memories, smiling all the while.

Needless to say, once those few seconds were over, and I’d finally settled on a decision, that smile grew even broader. I love anticipation!

Continued next post.

Thursday 8 November 2007 16:54 GMT

My two toys were bound up in several coils of rope. Their arms were hopelessly trapped, held fast by the cord.

They’d been struggling for hours now to free themselves, without achieving the slightest degree of success. All their wriggling and pushing and rubbing had made no difference whatsoever to their situation. There was nothing to show for their efforts. The rope was as strong and unyielding around them as when I had first tied it up.

I was not surprised. I never expected that two men doing so much work for so long would cause even the slightest fraying of the rope. I learnt long ago not to overestimate the abilities of males. This particular rope was much, much stronger than both of my bait-toys combined.

I was only using my left hand to comfortably hold the two men and the rope suspended above the ocean fifty feet below. Selecting one of the two males, I stretched my free right hand out towards where his left wrist was bound.

“Wh- what are you going to do?” he asked, terrified merely by the site of me reaching in his general direction.

I smiled at him. “You’ll see,” I told him.

Casually, I placed my thumb and forefinger on opposite edges of the stretch of cord that had imprisoned the man’s muscular arm. As I effortlessly pinched by fingers together, the “tough”, “strong” rope simply crumbled away to nothingness under my superhuman touch. What two men couldn’t do in five hours, I managed in under a second with total ease.

Having freed that arm, I turned my attention to my other toy. I could hear the already partially liberated man tried to hit me with the fist I’d released, but I hardly felt his desperate, random blows against my sexy flank. Meanwhile I’d located a piece of rope that was wrapped around the second man’s elbow. Another easy pinch broke the line in half, freeing the arm.

This time, I didn’t wait to be hit. I grabbed the second arm by its wrist and pulled it towards the first, completely ignoring the useless struggles against me. In no time at all I’d captured both wrists in my right hand, holding them away from their two owners. I pulled the two arms towards me, against the wishes of the men. Carefully adjusting my grip, I took hold of just the forefinger of each hand, gripping the two male digits between a couple of my own fingers.

“P-p-please don’t hurt me!” the first male begged pathetically.

I winked seductively at him, licked my lips slowly and then bent my head down towards the pair of forefingers. Slowly, I opened my mouth. I steered my lips over the two fingers, sealing them gently around the knuckles, erotically pretending to suck on the males’ digits. Although they were both fighting with all their remaining strength to pull their hands away from me, I paid no attention as I continued to mock fellate their fingers.

Then, very briefly and very, very gently, I sucked for real.

My gentle suction proved far more than the fragile males were built to withstand. Both men screamed. Mixed in with their yells, I heard the sound of their muscle and flesh tearing as the fingers were ripped from the hands to which they had been attached.

I was careful to hold the pair of captured and now damaged hands away from my body so that the twin fountains of blood that erupted did not splash over me. With the two severed fingers in my mouth, I lifted my head away, and turned it to the side. Then I spat out the amputated digits, watching them soar more than two miles from me before they finally splashed down into the sea.

Turning back to my two profusely-bleeding bait-toys, I grinned. “That’s better,” I told them “Now you’re ready for the sharks!”

Continued next post.

Friday 9 November 2007 17:36 GMT

After I’d “primed” my two bait-toys I lowered them quickly back towards the sea by the rope they were bound up in.

Of course, they screamed all the way down. I stopped letting the line slip through my fingers as the two men splashed on the surface, closing my hand on the rope, holding it fast in a superhuman grip that is best described like this: totally, utterly, unbreakable.

The water briefly silenced the toys’ cries of pain. Twenty seconds later, however, one of the two heads bobbed back to the surface. A moment later, the second one popped up too. From only fifty feet up, I could clearly hear the desperate gasping for air.

I was right about the best way to make my bait more interesting. Not really interested in the males fighting for oxygen, I watched the sharks swimming below them suddenly stopping their leisurely circling. One by one, the big fish darted towards the men’s dangling legs and the streams of blood flowing from their wounded hands. I saw the beasts’ huge jaws opening wide and I watched them closing again.

The screams returned, louder than ever. The little dark streams of underwater blood from the finger-stumps were quickly swallowed up by massive billowing clouds of the stuff. The sharks went into a frenzy, each attempting to lay claim to his portion of the feast.

“Help me!” one of the two men managed to scream up at me.

“Pull up! Pull up!” cried the other. He would have been better off saving his breath. It was always my intention to pull up at that moment. I mean, what’s the point of fishing if you don’t haul in your line when you get a bite?

Continued next post.

Monday 12 November 2007 19:39 GMT

The rope bound around my two bait toys was relatively tough.

Not tough enough to have survived when I pinched it between two of my pretty fingers (obviously), but plenty tough enough to withstand the teeth of the sharks attacking it. The thick cord restricted the fishes' assault, confusing and further enraging the big man-eaters. Despite that, from time to time, the large creatures did manage to get a decent bite on their would-be prey.

It was still some hours until dawn, and the dark waters around the thrashing men were further obscured by thick, billowing clouds of their blood in which half a dozen sharks were darting around furiously. Yet, from my station at the other end of the rope, fifty feet up, my superhuman eyes and lightening reactions made it easy for me to follow the action unfolding below. I watched closely, waiting for the right moment to haul in my catch.

It was all a matter of timing. Each of the six sharks in the group was snapping constantly at the two males. I waited until not one, nor two, but three of the beasts had their jaws locked on various bits of the bait and then quickly pulled the rope towards me.

The line had felt as good as weightless to me with just the two men dangling from it. Now, with a trio of eight-foot long killer sharks hanging from those men by their teeth, increasing the weight by a factor of at least five, it still felt as good as weightless. I started to pull it up, hand over hand, with consummate ease.

The first pull dragged my two original toys out of the water. Their screams were loud and desperate. With the next tug, I got one shark, his teeth buried in the shoulder of one of the males, almost entirely clear of the brine. Another shark's head, attached to the same male's hip, also emerged. Pull three brought the tails of two of the sharks above the surface. The third fish was chewing on the second man's foot. It was another two pulls before I hauled that third shark completely out of the water.

I'm not sure who was more freaked out: the two men who were halfway through being eaten by the three sharks or the three sharks who found themselves being yanked right out of the sea while they were halfway through eating two men. Either way, the sight of the mass of males and oversized fish dangling hopelessly from the end of the rope I was drawing up was most amusing. I chuckled as I continued to pull them all up towards me.

Until, that is, the teeth of the shark that had been biting on to a male foot finally managed to close, severing the bone. Having successfully torn off a mouthful, the fish had also cut himself free of the parts of the bait that were attached to my line. With the chewed-off foot in his mouth, the shocked fish fell back towards the sea, landing a couple of seconds later with a mighty Splash!.

"You idiots!" I shouted down to the two men who were still over thirty feet from me. "You let one of them get away!"

There was no reply save for a few more incoherent screams. Ignoring them, I continued to pull in the line, determined to successfully land the rest of the catch.

Continued next post.

Tuesday 13 November 2007 19:57 GMT

Having already lost a third of my catch, I was eager to "haul in" what was left before any more got away.

Obviously, none of the four creatures hanging off the rope I was pulling up could withstand superspeed, so I had to be careful as I lifted them towards me. Which is why I brought the hanging bundle up to where I was floating fifty feet above the ocean at only the speed of an express elevator. Of course I accomplished that feat without any strain at all on my long, sleek, feminine arms.

One of the two pieces of bait was shouting "Get them off me! Please! Get them off me!" I suppose he was talking about the two large sharks, one whose teeth were sunk deep into his shoulder and the other who was biting down on his flank.

The other man was screaming "My foot! My foot!" which I took to be a reference to the part of his body which the third shark (the one that got away) had chewed off.

The two males were still bound up in the line, and despite their massive, gaping, bloody wounds, their limbs were still being held tight in the cord. The sharks, on the other hand were outside of the rope-bound bundle, and were free to thrash about. They jacked their massive bodies furiously in the air, their tales flapping around crazily.

Finally, I gathered in the last of the surplus rope. With my right arm extended high in front of me, I let the entire bundle of men and fish and cord dangle from just three of my dainty, but supremely powerful, fingers. As the mass turned slightly in the breeze, I found myself alternately eye-to-eye with each of the males and one of the sharks.

I could not help but admire my catch as I held it up for inspection. Each man's yells increased in volume as he rotated in front of my triumphantly grinning face whilst the shark just looked wild. Meanwhile, the second fish's eyes were nearer the level of my knees. Like his fellow, his body was still bending and snapping furiously. They were obviously deeply distressed out in the dry air.

After a minute or so of letting the bundle hang and turn in the wind for my pleasure, I decided to put the poor dumb creatures out of their misery. One second and two effortless taps of the middle finger of my free hand later, I had done just that. Both men's skulls collapsed like the tops of boiled eggs under the superhuman force of that casually-wielded single digit.

As for the sharks, well I was only fishing for sport, not dinner. Having caught them and reeled them in, I let them go again. In fact, I just opened the fingers of my right arm, releasing the rope entirely and allowed everything, thrashing fish, dead males and rope, to fall down to the sea.

Just before I flew off out of there, I spotted the two sharks below the surface of the water, along with several of their colleagues, resuming their meal. I'll bet I made it home before they'd even finished eating.

Wednesday 14 November 2007 21:08 GMT

My little fishing game was fun. That's to say, I fully enjoyed it while it lasted.

It was only when I was home much later, chuckling to myself as I reflected on it all, that I realised I'm not such a big fan of fishing in its purest form. The actual "fish" part (the moment when I finally held the two sharks dangling from my arm) wasn't nearly as satisfying as listening to the screams of the two men I'd used for bait.

Seeing that helpless pair of males, at the other end of the rope in my hand, completely at my mercy, was without doubt the best part of the whole game. The feeling of success when I drew the sharks out of the water wasn't nearly as exciting. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I imagined myself having similar sport with fresh toys, but without bothering with the sharks...

And that's when I had an idea for a brand new game. Immediately, I knew I had to try it out. Of course, being a goddess of unending power, when I get a whim, there is nothing that can stop me immediately acting upon it. It works like this: 1) I decide that I want something. 2) If anything stands between me and that something (brick walls, steel barriers, armies, bombs, bullets... I really do mean anything) I swat it aside or smash my perfect body right through it. 3) I help myself to the "something", regardless of how "heavy" or "dangerous" it's supposed to be. 4) I do whatever I please with the "something" until I decide I've had enough of it. 5) Should anyone object, or try to stop me, see 2).

Anyway, to put my idea into practice, I needed some equipment. And, of course, as I'd abandoned the last couple to the hungry shark-pack, I also needed some new toys to play with. So, I put on a tight black sleeveless T-shirt that nicely shows off the staggering curves of my magnificent chest, and a tiny pair of denim shorts and flew out of the window to help myself to what I wanted.

Continued next post.

Thursday 15 November 2007 21:20 GMT

I was collecting up the necessary bits for my latest game.

Dressed in what I would call a snug, sleeveless T-shirt-and-shorts combo (which most males would probably call a heart-stopping, figure-hugging sex-fantasy), I flew well below top speed to preserve my outfit. In fact, it was a full ten minutes before I swooped down, my bare feet gracefully meeting the ground on a patch of tyre-marked concrete behind a huge factory complex outside of town.

I'd already scanned the various buildings on the site from the air during my approach. (X-ray vision saves a lot of time that would otherwise be spent smashing from room to room, floor to floor…) Having already decided that I wasn't interested in anything in the various machining and assembly areas, I'd landed around the back of the main warehouse building where the already-manufactured items were stored.

Immediately next to where I had come down was a large set of steel double doors. Each was ten foot high and together they were almost as wide. Both were covered in fading, flaking red paint. My unique visual abilities allowed me to see that they were secured shut from the inside by a series of four large iron bolts. I also used my X-ray vision to look beyond that, at the two men in greasy overalls who were stacking boxes some fifteen yards inside the building. Blinking my eyes back to "normal", I noticed a large industrial push-button had been screwed to the exterior brick wall to the right of the doorway. Above it, a hand-written, slightly weather-faded sign announced: "DELIVERIES/COLLECTIONS: PRESS BELL AND WAIT."

I'm not the sort of superhuman who appreciates being asked to wait for anything. I glanced at the button. Then I glanced through the steel at the oversized iron bolts. Then I shrugged, lifted my left leg and casually swung my foot at the midpoint of the double doors. My exposed toes hit the metal with a massive Clang! that seemed to shake the entire building momentarily. The four thick iron bolts snapped liked dry twigs under the massive force of my easy kick and the big doors shot open, slamming against the inside walls, dislodging a fair amount of plaster. The two men inside dropped the large cardboard box they were lifting and dived behind a pile of other cartons. Meanwhile the huge upper hinges of the left hand door had been torn by the impact. With a loud, metallic creak, that half of the steel panel titled as it came to rest in the fully-open position.

As the dust and plaster particles swirled in the air, I strolled happily through the wide open entrance, pausing for only a moment to glance at the lopsided door and admire my handiwork.

I heard a groaning sound from behind the stack of boxes where the two warehousemen had thrown themselves as I kicked in the doors. It seemed to be taking them a while to climb back onto their feet. I made my way in their direction as they finally peered around the side of the cardboard wall.

There is a moment that I've experienced a million or more times. Despite the obvious familiarity (and the pattern of the moment rarely deviates from the standard template), it never fails to amuse me. Of course, I'm referring to the moment when a man first sees me. With my supersenses I can follow the upheaval in his body as his brain struggles to register my superhuman beauty: the sudden thumping of his heartbeat, the hyperactivity of his glands, the rasping of his breath. Then there's the way his eyes grow huge and struggle to take me all in, feasting on my gloriously sexy body piece by piece before finally, almost inevitably, settling on my peerless chest.

The "moment" came for the two warehouse workers as they slunk around from behind the boxes. When it had passed, it left the two of them (a gangling youth with smooth cheeks and a chunky, middle-aged fellow with slightly greying hair) panting as they gawped at my upper torso.

It was the older of the two who managed to speak first. "What happened? Are you… alright?" he inquired of my breasts.

"What happened?" I echoed. "Your locks weren't as strong as my foot. That's what happened. And, as for me being 'alright' -" I placed my hands on my hips, and slightly bent one of my long, shapely legs, letting my already brief shorts ride up slightly and expose a little of my superfirm, flawless thigh. Then I turned my body slightly from one side to the other, showing off the main objects of the men's lust. "- well, I'd say I was more than 'alright'. Wouldn't you?" I asked back.

"Um... abso- absolutely," stammered the greying man, part-hypnotised by my slowly moving torso.

"And you?" I demanded, turning to face his companion. Languidly, I started to walk towards him, keeping my hands on my hips even as I swung them seductively with each step. "Do you think I'm 'alright'?"

The younger man swallowed hard as I approached him. He seemed paralysed, unable to move or speak or even to tear his pinball-eyed gaze away from my breasts. I made sure they bounced and shook beneath the tight fabric of my top every time I took another stride. Naturally, that only increased the frantic beating of his heart.

"I asked you a question," I reminded him, as I got to within six steps of him. I moved my shoulders, making my large, firm bosoms jiggle even more. "Do you think I'm 'alright'?"

He was trying to talk, but his mouth and throat must've been completely dry. That was in stark contrast with his sweat-laden forehead. Flushing as red as a ripe tomato, he moved his lips but produced no recognisable sound.

I smiled triumphantly at him, not concerned with hiding my delight at having reduced him to such a nervous wreck merely with my fabulous feminine charms. All the while I continued to sashay towards him. Just three paces away now.

"So," I said, still grinning, my voice slow and seductive as I took anther step, "You're what they call the strong, silent type." One more stride. Then I was standing right in front of him, the obvious points of my nipples, tenting my T-shirt atop my glorious round breasts only an inch from his skinny chest and my thick, erotic red lips just two inches from his blushing, sweating face.

Calmly, sexily, and deliberately slowly, I lifted my right hand from my hip and started to reach towards his head.

I licked my lips. "Let's see just how 'strong' and 'silent' you really are," I grinned.

Continued next post.

Monday 19 November 2007 22:34 GMT

Last post I was telling you about a brief stop I made to collect some supplies for my latest little game...

I'd kicked my way into a factory warehouse and was in the process of introducing myself to the two men working there. I'd exchanged a few words with the first of those, a middle-aged man. But his younger companion, an awkward, skinny fellow, seemed to have been robbed of the power of speech by my sexy appearance. As I'd walked towards the youth, my hands on my hips, I'd joked that he was the "strong silent type". Having offered to find out just how strong and silent he really was, and now standing right in front of him, I began to reach for him.

The man's head was bowed. This might have been down to chronic shyness on his part; a crippling fear of looking a beautiful (alright, alright: superhumanly, stunningly beautiful) girl in the eye. I suspect the actual reason for his lowered chin had more to do with the irresistible force that was holding his gaze on the front of my tight T-shirt where my large, round breasts oh-so-sexily stretched out the fabric. Sometimes, I wonder if my chest contains a secret tractor beam that locks on to male eyeballs and captures them in its inescapable power…

Anyway, my hand leisurely made its way under the young man's chin. He might well have been resisting me with all his (utterly insignificant) strength, but I wouldn't have noticed. He was certainly trembling, although I didn't bother to find out whether that was out of nervousness, effort, lust or terror. I just effortlessly lifted his head with my palm, tilting his chin upwards until he had no choice but to tear his stare from my breasts. His eyes were wild and panicky as I stared into them, a gleeful grin stretching out my lips.

Curling my fingers around his lower jaw as I held his chin, the grin on my face remained unchanged (although my lovely bright brown eyes may have sparkled a little) as I slowly squeezed my hand. That finally brought his vocal chords to life.

"Ow! Ow! Y-You're h-h-hurting me!" he stammered. I merely continued to smile. My only response to the moan was a mock-curious slight-raising of my perfect, feminine eyebrows. That, and a little more squeezing, of course.

"Yeoooow!" Now he'd really found his voice. His two hands came up to join my one. I could see his knuckles turn white and his fingertips becoming bright red as he strained and strained first to pull my hand from his face, and then, when that proved utterly futile, to prise my digits off his chin one by one. Naturally, all his efforts failed to budge any one of my slender, pretty fingers even a millimetre.

"Hmmm," I grinned, as if I'd reserved determining my opinion of him until that moment. "Not very 'silent' after all…" I said, passing judgement.

Perhaps it was my effortless calm as I overpowered him; my ability to smile as each of my fingers in turn completely resisted all the strength of his two hands combined. Maybe it was the realisation that all his greatest efforts counted for nothing against my goddess-like strength. Or it could have been the increasing pain he was experiencing. Whatever the reason, the young man seemed to abandon his useless attempts to resist me physically and chose a new tactic:

"Please! It hurts! It hurts! Let me go!" he begged between clenched teeth.

"…and not 'strong' in the slightest!" I completed my verdict.

I started to straighten out my arm. That's to say, I started to straighten out the arm whose hand was cupping and squeezing the neither-strong-nor-silent young man's chin.

"Help!" he croaked, pathetically as I continued to straighten my arm.

The straightening caused my hand to rise higher. As the male's lower jaw was being held (painfully) tight in that rising hand, the jaw, and the head it was part of, not to mention the body attached to the head, were all forced to rise too. The weight of a head, a whole man (or thousands of men for that matter) could never slow my rising arm with its sleek, sexy, all-conquering superhuman muscles.

Thus I lifted the young man completely from the ground with my single hand under his chin. Now it was my turn to tilt my head up as I kept my eyes locked on his, the happy smile still on my face. For a few seconds I looked at him dangling helplessly at the end of my arm, enjoying his terrified panic.

"Please! Let me go!" he pleaded.

"Sure," I acquiesced. I let him go with a tiny flick of my wrist, just enough to send him screaming through the air in a massive arc that covered the length of the warehouse, his arms and legs flailing wildly as his flight-path reached its apex some fifteen feet from the floor. Finally, he impacted with the far wall, about twenty yards away, sliding down to an unmoving heap in the corner.

If anything, my smile was even wider after that. I placed my now-free left hand on my hip, mirroring my right, and turned towards the remaining warehouseman.

Continued next post.

Tuesday 20 November 2007 17:46 GMT

Unsurprisingly considering he'd just watched me lift up his colleague by the chin and toss him clean across the big warehouse, the older worker was a little apprehensive when I turned towards him.

With both of my hands now resting on my hips, and the smile fixed on my features, my delight at the little demonstration of my fabulous strength was on full show. No wonder the new target of my attention started to nervously back away before I'd even began walking towards him.

"H-h-how did you d-d-do that? Is he OK?" asked the second man, alternating between shooting frightened glances at his unmoving colleague and me.

"I'm superhuman. And, no, he's not OK," I answered. I began strolling in the direction of the older man. He immediately increased the pace of his reversing. He managed three more backward steps before his back hit a stack of heavy boxes. I couldn't help laughing at him as he looked around in panic.

"S-s-superhuman? What did you do to him?" trembled the warehouseman.

"Do you always ask your questions in pairs?" I chuckled. "Oh well. The answers are: Yes, superhuman. And: I threw him into the far wall. I thought you saw that."

"H-h-how? Why?"

"With my little hand…" I smiled, taking my pretty palm off my hip momentarily so that I could wave it, "…and because I could."

Something about my answers (or was it the way I was confidently walking towards him whilst he remained "trapped" with his back against the wall of boxes?) helped the middle-aged man come to a decision. He glanced to the left and right and then began running towards the entranceway I'd kicked open. Being merely a male, his "sprint" was so slow I could have flown to the moon and back in the time it would have taken him to make it out of the room.

Instead of paying a lightening visit to the solar system, I merely jogged around him, planting myself right in his path. Of course, my leisurely jog is too fast for any "normal" person's eyes and brain to follow. If he saw me at all, I would have been just a flashing smear of colour. But I'm pretty certain, given his cry of shock, that he didn't notice me. Not until I had come to a dead stop, still smiling, still with my hands on my hips, but now standing directly in front of him. By then, it was far too late for his slow mind and limbs to react.

Continued next post.Unsurprisingly considering he'd just watched me lift up his colleague by the chin and toss him clean across the big warehouse, the older worker was a little apprehensive when I turned towards him.

With both of my hands now resting on my hips, and the smile fixed on my features, my delight at the little demonstration of my fabulous strength was on full show. No wonder the new target of my attention started to nervously back away before I'd even began walking towards him.

"H-h-how did you d-d-do that? Is he OK?" asked the second man, alternating between shooting frightened glances at his unmoving colleague and me.

"I'm superhuman. And, no, he's not OK," I answered. I began strolling in the direction of the older man. He immediately increased the pace of his reversing. He managed three more backward steps before his back hit a stack of heavy boxes. I couldn't help laughing at him as he looked around in panic.

"S-s-superhuman? What did you do to him?" trembled the warehouseman.

"Do you always ask your questions in pairs?" I chuckled. "Oh well. The answers are: Yes, superhuman. And: I threw him into the far wall. I thought you saw that."

"H-h-how? Why?"

"With my little hand…" I smiled, taking my pretty palm off my hip momentarily so that I could wave it, "…and because I could."

Something about my answers (or was it the way I was confidently walking towards him whilst he remained "trapped" with his back against the wall of boxes?) helped the middle-aged man come to a decision. He glanced to the left and right and then began running towards the entranceway I'd kicked open. Being merely a male, his "sprint" was so slow I could have flown to the moon and back in the time it would have taken him to make it out of the room.

Instead of paying a lightening visit to the solar system, I merely jogged around him, planting myself right in his path. Of course, my leisurely jog is too fast for any "normal" person's eyes and brain to follow. If he saw me at all, I would have been just a flashing smear of colour. But I'm pretty certain, given his cry of shock, that he didn't notice me. Not until I had come to a dead stop, still smiling, still with my hands on my hips, but now standing directly in front of him. By then, it was far too late for his slow mind and limbs to react.

Continued next post.

Wednesday 21 November 2007 17:35 GMT

I'd chucked one warehouse man across the room, and then, when the second one had tried to run from me, I'd moved around him at superspeed and placed myself right in his path.

He didn't have enough time to process the new information ("Terrifyingly strong and staggeringly sexy woman had just appeared right in front of me!") and take appropriate action. Of course the most appropriate thing would have been for him to stop running and prevent his body moving any further in the direction it was headed.

I don't know what my top running speed is, because finding out would almost certainly cause catastrophic damage to the Earth and its atmosphere. I do know that ten thousand miles an hour is a comfortable jogging speed for me, which I could sustain indefinitely if there was ever a reason to do so. And whenever I've ran at those speeds, I've always found it ridiculously easy to halt, mid-stride, in an instant, maintaining my perfect balance throughout.

Compare that with the rest of the planet: when ordinary people are running at their snail-like maximum speed of barely twenty miles per hour (which they can't sustain for more than a few dozen yards!), they nonetheless require a minimum of five or six strides to come to a halt. I'm always amazed that creatures who move so much more slowly than me seem to need so much time (and space) to slow down.

Take warehouseman number 2 for instance: He was still one-and-a-half strides from me when he saw me "suddenly" standing, hands on hips, smack-bang in his path. He had enough time to cry out in shock. Yet he didn't seem to be able to steer himself around me, or even stop his legs. Instead, still yelling, he simply ran straight into me.

I couldn't resist activating my wonderful gravity-defying abilities and floating a few inches up from the floor just before the moment of impact. By then, he'd already closed his eyes, resigned both to the inevitability of a collision and the likelihood of it being unpleasant. Again, that was so different from me: I've never faced a collision I couldn't have avoided if I'd wanted to. And I never, ever close my eyes when I'm about to smash bodily into something (or when something's about to smash into my body). I mean, why miss the good stuff?

Anyway, the warehouse guy did close his eyes, so he didn't get to see me rising half-a-foot. He didn't get to see the awe-inspiring curves of my magnificent, superhuman bust looming in front of his face. And he didn't get to see those fabulous mounds absorb the full force of his head slamming against them without even the slightest dimpling of their rounded feminine perfection.

That was his loss, of course.

The impact must've felt like running into two warm, soft-to-touch, harder-than-diamond-to-hit, smooth spherical rocks. His cry of shock at seeing me was immediately cut off by the knock. He staggered backwards like a boxer who has just taken a powerful upper-cut. As he tried to blink his vision clear, wobbling on his feet like a drunk man, I noticed two huge dark bruises already beginning to form around his eyes. He looked like a wrongly-coloured, inebriated panda. No wonder I burst out laughing at him.

"I told you I'm superhuman!" I chuckled. Still uneasy on his feet, he looked at me, his face, a wonderful mix of bruising, fear and awe. "I suggest you listen to my words more carefully this time," I told him. "If, that is, you want to live…"

Continued next post.

Thursday 22 November 2007 15:44 GMT

The warehouseman and I had reached that wonderful stage in our relationship where he had witnessed and experienced enough of my amazing powers to be both fearful for his life and in total awe of me.

Now, he watched my every move with intense trepidation, no longer merely fascinated by the look of my perfect body. We'd moved on from that. Lust was only part of the reason for his staring. Terror of what I might actually do (or more precisely, what I might do to him) with that perfect body was playing an increasing role.

It was the same with my words. When I'd first entered the warehouse, I could tell that what I had to say was of only peripheral interest compared with, say, the way my tight sleeveless top displayed the fabulous outlines of my big, round breasts. But now, as well as gawping at my chest, he was also hanging with extreme attentiveness on every syllable I uttered. Not so much as if his life depended on it but rather because he knew for certain that his life did, indeed, depend on it. After all, I'd just told him as much.

He was still reeling from the double-blow he'd sustained when he'd ran helplessly into my superhuman bust. Watching his unsteadiness and listening to his heartbeat, I could tell that he was, in boxing terms, "on the ropes". The next hit of any strength would floor him for sure. That's why I had to resist the temptation to play with him some more for a while. I needed him conscious and at least semi-alert.

Standing in front of him, utterly certain in the completeness of my dominance, my hands planted on my hips, my head held high, I explained my purpose:

"I want two hundred meters of the specialist thick-guage nylon cord that is manufactured here."

His face betrayed surprise at my request, unease and fear. A lot of fear.

"I... I d- d- don't know what you mean!" he protested. "I've never seen 'nylon cord' on a label. I swear!"

His heartbeat suggested he believed he was telling the truth. I swept my eyes quickly around the large warehouse. In all, it took me half a second to count a quarter of a million cardboard boxes, read their labels and take a good, detailed peek at their contents. When I was done, I pointed at a group of cartons in the middle of a huge stack of others over by the far wall about thirty yards away.

"What about those five boxes?" I demanded.

"Wh- Which?" he trembled, his features wracked with confusion.

"Those," I repeated. "The labels say '30 amp flex' but there's sixty meters of nylon cord in each one."

"How.... how do you...?"

I rolled my eyes. "X-ray vision." I explained, adding a slightly exasperated "Obviously."

The warehouseman looked at me in amazement. I laughed. "Let me show you what else I can do with my eyes," I grinned. Narrowing my gaze I let the familiar energy build inside my eyeballs and then focussed the twin beams of pure heat that shot from my pupils on a steel trolley that was parked a few yards from me. The metal glowed briefly red and then collapsed into a puddle of smoking molten steel.

"Fucking hell..." breathed the male, staring at the hardening liquid, his jaw hanging open.

I chuckled. "If you don't want to end up like that trolley, you'd better fetch me those boxes quickly," I said.

"B..b..but I'll have to move all the other cartons on top of them first..." he protested.

I shrugged, hypnotising him once again with the resulting dramatic movement of my chest. "You have three minutes to set those five boxes in front of me," I told him. "Or it's 'zap!' time for you!"

I smiled as he frantically got to work, climbing up the high stack of boxes, hurriedly throwing the top cartons from the pile.

Of course, with my superhuman speed and strength I could have extracted the boxes I was after in under a second. But that wouldn't have been anything like as enjoyable.

"Woah!" yelled the warehouseman, losing his balance at the top of the slowly shrinking pile of cartons and falling fifteen feet to the ground. He landed on top of some of the boxes he'd already thrown off the stack. A split-second X-ray-vision-assisted glance revealed that he'd suffered no broken bones although he was badly shaken and bruised. It seemed to take him a while to start climbing back to his feet.

"Two minutes five seconds left." I called out, cheerfully.

The male looked at me in terror, swallowed, tried to shake his head clear and then staggered uneasily back to work on the wall of boxes.

Continued next post.

Monday 26 November 2007 17:04 GMT

An invariably perfectly accurate sense of judgement is more than just another superpower in its own right. It also adds a goddess-like dimension to many of my other superhuman abilities.

I possess so much strength in my long, shapely arms that hoisting a sixty-ton battle-tank over my head seems effortless. That's undoubtedly superhuman. I also have the power to toss that tank across a big field with an easy movement of my glorious limbs. That's even more impressive. But the ability to throw the tank two hundred yards so that it lands precisely (to the inch) on top of the target of my choice (say for example, a man running in the distance…) Well, that makes me a goddess.

Likewise, being able to generate lasers with my eyes that can heat any object of any size to temperatures beyond those found on the surface of the sun is a fantastic ability. Knowing I can reduce the largest block of steel on Earth to a pool of molten metal inside a second is a wonderful feeling. And then, I can apply my amazing superhuman control: I can use my heat-vision to affect any size of target from many cubic metres down to less than a single cubic millimetre, according to my whim. And of course, I can heat that target to any temperature from "slightly warm" to "stellar" to within a few degrees of my desire, whether that desire is thirty-five degrees Centigrade or six thousand. That means I can vaporise a man in a blink of an eye or, if I'm in a different mood, I can burn most of his clothes away leaving his suddenly exposed flesh completely intact (if slightly reddened in places).

There are so many more examples I could give. Like how it's a lot of fun being able to generate unstoppable winds of a thousand miles-per-hour or faster merely by parting my sexy lips and blowing. And even more fun to control that blowing by exhaling just hard enough to knock a group of men off their feet and send them rolling helplessly down the street, or pin them to a wall, several feet off the ground, without killing them. That way I get to see how they react to being completely overpowered by nothing more than a little puff of my lovely breath.

All that, and I can fill a tight T-shirt in ways that turn the average man into a drooling, tongue-tied wreck willing to entirely surrender his dignity in return for the privilege of simply looking at me.

Of course, perfect judgement has other less spectacular uses too. I can gauge distances more accurately than any man-made measuring tool by glancing briefly at them. And I can keep time with phenomenal precision. It's not something I do intentionally, but I just have a knack of knowing exactly how many seconds have passed since I last saw an accurate clock. For instance, if I check the time at home, fly out of the window, up into space and on to Pluto, I'll know the precise time, to the second, of my arrival on that frozen ball of space rock even though no watch can survive the trip. I'll just know that four hours, twelve minutes and thirty seven seconds have elapsed since I glimpsed the clock at home.

Anyway…. Last time I posted, I mentioned how I'd given the warehouseman three minutes to fetch me five boxes from the middle of a huge stack of cartons. Of course, if I can time four-and-a-quarter hours (or indeed, ten weeks) perfectly and to-the-second, then you can imagine how effortless it is for me to time three minutes without any assistance. The frequent glances I shot at my watch were not for my benefit, but rather that of my pushed-for-time "friend": Each time he noticed me checking my watch and saw my reaction (giving a low whistle or a chuckle or maybe just a tiny movement of my eyebrows) the struggling male's heartbeat sped up still further and his face contorted even more in nervous panic.

He was still throwing boxes from the top of the stack, working for all he was worth to get to the particular cartons I had requested. He'd already fallen once, losing his balance on top of the pile and giving himself some painful marks on his legs and hips. That was in addition to the bad bruising on his face and general unsteadiness he was still experiencing as a result of running smack into my fantastically large, rounded, superfirm chest.

Now, as he struggled to meet the deadline I had imposed, the last thing he needed was to fall from on top of the boxes for a second time. Unfortunately for him, however, I'd decided that it would be amusing to demonstrate my fine control over my superbreath and blow him the tiniest of little kisses as he clambered to the top of the stack. Not a hard blast of my breath that would have been more than enough to make him splatter on the far wall. Just a tiny, gentle little puff that knocked him off balance and sent him tumbling to the ground.

I was right, of course. It was amusing. As he groaned, and awkwardly, not to mention painfully, hauled himself back to his feet, I made sure he saw me looking at my watch once more. "Fifty-five seconds!" I called out, laughing.

He looked ready to pass out at any moment as he hurled himself back into his task. But I couldn't resist a second little show of control. As he climbed back up the pile of cartons, I carefully ran my heat-vision up and down his lower body, reducing both his trousers and underpants to smoking rags.

"Ouch!" he cried as the heat scorched his legs in a few places.

As the burnt fabric fell away from him, leaving him naked from the waist down save for his shoes and socks, I giggled at his sudden exposure.

"Fifty seconds…. Looks like you're not going to make it!" I teased.

Continued next post.

Wednesday 28 November 2007 20:38 GMT

Moving five boxes from the middle of a stack and carrying them fifteen yards is a simple task.

And yet, despite the fact that I gave the warehouseman an exceptionally generous three minutes to complete the job, he was struggling to beat the deadline. Obviously the injuries he'd sustained were slowing him down. Falling twice from the top of the pile (once due to his own clumsiness and once when he was knocked off by a gentle puff of my superbreath) hadn't helped. Likewise he was hampered by his slightly scorched thighs (a result of me using my heat-vision to "zap" away his trousers and underpants). And, of course, he was still badly dazed as well as severely bruised around his eyes (all courtesy of him running full-pelt right into my magnificent, superfirm chest).

His heart was thumping hard in his ribcage and I didn't need supersenses to notice his rasping, gasping breath or the sweat pouring from his forehead as he set the second box down at my feet. I made a show of checking my watch, even though I knew exactly how long he had left.

"Thirty-three seconds to go," I grinned. "It's not looking good for you!"

Without wasting a moment on any form of response, he turned and ran back to the pile of cartons, clambering over a series of other boxes to reach the next one he needed to bring me. Although it must have felt heavy to his puny, male, 'only-for-show' muscles, he hoisted it quickly and ran back as fast as he could to deposit it with the first two, puffing and panting as he put it down. He was already on his way for number four as I happily called after him "Twenty-four seconds!"

For such an unfit, clumsy and weak creature, he displayed unexpected agility as he leapt over a large box to reach his target, grimacing in discomfort as he lifted it. I could see by his trembling arms that he was tiring rapidly, but he seemed to be refusing to be defeated. As he turned around, momentarily catching my eye, I smiled at him and casually shot four blasts of heat-vision at a quartet of cartons strewn on the ground between us.

Each of the boxes I targeted burst into flames the instant the beams from my eyes made contact. The warehouse man, carrying an non-burning carton himself, found that he was suddenly confronted by a low wall of fire directly in his path. He baulked at the blaze for a moment and then glanced at my grinning face over the flickering tips of the flames. A look of determination came over his face. With a yell, holding his box high, he ran through the fire, the hairs on his exposed legs and groin singeing. The heat made him scream but he kept running until he was through the blaze. Triumphantly, he placed the fourth of my chosen five cartons on the ground in front of me. Then he spun on his heels, charging back for the last box, sprinting through the flames with another desperate cry.

"Thirteen seconds!" I cheerfully informed him.

Continued next post.

Thursday 29 November 2007 17:09 GMT

By the time he went for the fifth box, the warehouse man was beginning to resemble an action hero from a movie.

His lower body was naked, covered in singed hairs and blackened by soot. He was coated in sweat as he leapt in desperation from one carton, over two others, onto a fourth. The boxes I had set alight with my heat-vision continued to burn, but with my superhuman eyes, I had no trouble watching his progress through the flickering flames.

Despite his many injuries, he looked like he was going to complete the task I'd set him within my deadline. It hadn't seemed possible thirty seconds before, but through an adrenaline-infused, terror-fuelled effort of epic proportions, he had made up a big chunk of time.

I knew the boxes I'd told him to bring were heavy for a mere man like him. He raised the last of them from the stack, growling and grimacing like a wild animal, turning to face the gauntlet of strewn cartons and flames that stood between him and me. He had just eight seconds to place the box in his hands alongside the four others already at my feet. He should have collapsed, but somehow, he kept going, fighting his pain and exhaustion, determined to make it in time, sprinting and leaping his way through.

I realised that (provided he managed to get through the low wall of burning cardboard as quickly as he last few trips) he was going to be finished with quite a few seconds to spare. So I decided to make the conclusion of the challenge a little more exciting. Tilting my face up towards the ceiling, I unleashed a couple of quick blasts of heat-vision at the steel support struts under the warehouse roof. The lasers I produced with such ease from my eyes sliced through the thick metal like a red-hot sword through ice-cream and in no time at all, I'd succeeded in cutting a number of chunks of steel girder free.

No longer attached to the roof, the small sections of metal support I'd targeted fell like bombs from above. The first landed barely an inch from the leading foot of the running, box-carrying warehouseman, smashing an indent in the concrete floor and making him jump back in shock as little chips of dislodged stone struck his bare legs, drawing blood. Aware of his severely limited time, he ignored the fresh wounds and looked up, just in time to see the second chunk of steel about to fall on his head.

With the box still in his hands, he leapt surprisingly acrobatically to the side, only just avoiding the lump of metal which crashed beside him, hurting him anew with more broken concrete floor debris. Now he really was in "action hero" mode. As the third and final bit of roof support zoomed down on him, he tossed the carton he was holding up into the air, rolled spectacularly out of the path of the steel lump, and caught the box as it fell. The last chunk of metal landed, spraying his ankles with sharp concrete shards, making him scream. Still, he refused to be beaten, jumping to his feet and crying out again in what must have been extreme agony.

He ran on his burnt, bruised and bleeding legs towards me, leaping the flames, and tossing the box in his hands towards the other four in front of me. As the final carton flew threw the air, I happily counted down: "Three…. Two….. One….."

The fifth box landed next to the other four. Against all the odds, the warehouseman had risen above his pathetic fragility and hopeless weakness and had beaten the three minute deadline I'd imposed. He had drawn on every last ounce of energy and strength, completely exhausting himself in order to complete the task I'd set him. A task that I could have completed myself without any effort and within half a second. A task which I had decided, on a whim, to force a man to do within three minutes, purely for my amusement.

"Made it!" he yelled hoarsely at me, in defiant triumph, just about when I would have said "Zero!" had he not delivered the fifth box in time. Then he swayed for a moment, sunk to his knees and collapsed onto the ground in sheer exhaustion, breathing hard and barely conscious.

In the time it took him to draw in one desperately needed lungful of air, I moved at superspeed and arranged the quintet of cartons he had brought to me into a vertical pile. Then I lifted them, letting the entire stack balance on my left palm, holding it out at my side, my right hand casually on my hip. The warehouseman looked up at me in shock and awe, amazed by my quickness and the ease with which I was holding five boxes with a single, petite hand. Each of those cartons individually had tested him to the limit when he had carried them with both of his bigger masculine palms. I could have lifted a million of them in each hand.

Looking down at the prostrate male, I sighed, not hiding my disappointment. "Well, I said I'd kill you if you didn't bring me these boxes in time," I told him, "so, seeing as you made the deadline so heroically, I suppose it really wouldn't be fair to do it now." I could hear the changes in his heartbeat in response to my words. I waved my hand dismissively. "You may live," I said, as if suddenly disinterested. Immediately, I turned on my heels, carrying the stack of boxes at my side, and started to stroll towards the big entranceway I'd smashed open on my way in. The sigh of relief behind me was probably audible even to non-superhuman ears.

The warehouseman was too hurt and tired to move. He was still lying in the same position when I reached the doorway and paused, turning my head to look over my shoulder at him. My supersenses told me that the supremely sexy profile of my body I presented as I turned did not go unappreciated, and neither did my smile.

"Who am I kidding!" I burst out laughing. "As if I ever care about what's 'fair'!" So saying, I narrowed my beautiful bright brown eyes and slowly turned my head, letting a wide, powerful beam of my heat-vision sweep across the warehouse, turning everything it touched instantly to ash. "Thanks for fetching me these boxes!" I called out as an afterthought, just before the all-destroying lasers reduced him, and thousands of cardboard boxes, to charcoal dust.

Then I shut off my heat-vision, still laughing, and took to the air, carefully carrying my five boxes of specialist nylon cord home.

Friday 30 November 2007 15:28 GMT

It took a while to carry the precarious stack of five boxes safely home, but it was worth it.

I always leave an upstairs window open to help with quick airborne arrivals. Some people might think that's a security risk. Such a lovely big house is a natural magnet for burglars without the added incentive of an open window, but I don't mind. If a would-be thief wants to save me the bother of actually having to leave home to find a new toy to play with, that's fine by me. Even if I go out for a while and the intruder has come and gone by the time I return, my superhuman eyesight and sense of smell will make tracking him down a very simple task indeed. And then I can have some fun with him.

Anyway, no-one had tried to break in while I was visiting the warehouse. I tossed the five cartons carefully in through the window before flying in myself. Once inside, I wasted no time opening up one of the boxes to examine my latest acquisition.

I knew that the factory management were very secretive about the ultra-thick nylon cord manufactured there. I also knew that the clients who purchased it included a number of governmental and military organisations. In fact, the consignment of five sixty-metre lengths of the stuff that I took was almost certainly intended for a specialist army unit. (The unit's commander had told me all about it in between screams first of ecstasy and then of agony as I rubbed my large, round, super-firm breasts over his fragile bare chest with increasing pressure, making him talk, then making him orgasm, and finally making his ribs crumble…)

I hadn't realised just how secret it all was until the warehouseman told me he'd never even seen the boxes labelled with their actual contents. If it wasn't for my X-ray vision, he would have had to open tens of thousands of cartons to find what I was looking for. That would have taken him days. Or, if I'd done it myself, minutes. As it was, I had found the nylon cord in under one second, regardless of the fact that the boxes were actually labelled '30 amp flex'.

Back at home, I pulled out one of the sixty-metre lengths. It looked like nothing special to me, just an especially thick, almost rope-like length of nylon. I grabbed hold of a length of it between my two fists and experimentally pulled my hands apart. With a loud Snap! I tore the cord apart, not really noticing any resistance. That didn't surprise me. If it had been a five inch diameter solid steel rod in my hands, I'd have torn that apart without feeling any resistance either. The ease with which I broke the cord was due to the goddess-like, unending strength of my lovely feminine muscles, and not to any particular weakness of the cord.

In fact, I'd heard that the cord was far, far, stronger than typical rope. One of the men who developed the nylon rope claimed a single strand of it could support weights of several tonnes. Of course, I was unimpressed by the statistic. A single strand of my beautiful long shiny straight hair can support weights of several megatonnes. (In truth, my hairs can support a lot more, but three and a half million tonnes is the most I've ever attached to a single one of them…)

As well as its load-bearing ability, the rope had one other unique feature. And just as its extra strength was wasted on my all-powerful muscles, so its other main selling point didn't really work on me either. Apparently, the rope was supposed to be "as good as" invisible to the naked eye in most lighting conditions. Of course, things that actually are invisible to everyone else are as clear as day to my superhuman eyes, so there are no lighting conditions (not even darkness) in which I can't see a thick length of cord. But it seems, "ordinary" eyes just don't see the rope, hence it's secret military applications.

Testing the "strong" and "invisible" cord against my superhuman muscles and eyes was a waste of time. Everything comes up inferior against me. So I devised a couple of experiments to check out the relative properties of the rope:

First I confirmed the strength of it. Going down to the street I found a parked car. My pretty fist punctured a hole clean through the back of it vehicle. (I didn't really have to punch to penetrate the thin metal. I just effortlessly pushed my closed hand through the back of the car.) Once I'd withdrawn my arm, I casually smashed a second hole through the bodywork a foot to the side of the first. After that, it was easy to loop a section of nylon rope through the two holes, and tie it with a series of knots. Several armies of men combined wouldn't have possessed sufficient strength between them to undo those knots.

Now, I had a car with a convenient carry-strap. I took to the air, holding on to the other end of the cord in one hand. As I rose, the cord became taut and the car lifted from the road and then dangled securely beneath me. The rope held the vehicle's weight comfortably. Almost as comfortably as my single hand held the weight of both vehicle and rope. Satisfied with the cord's strength I let go and watched as the car slammed down in the middle of someone's garden. I swooped down and undid my knots, retrieving the nylon rope before flying off, leaving the owners of the car and the garden to sort out the mess.

Next for the invisibility test. I worked at superspeed, tying the cord tightly across a busy stretch of pavement at waist-height. Then I retreated to a nearby roof-top where I spent the next few minutes laughing hysterically at the series of passers-by who walked straight into the rope and invariably doubled over in pain and shock. From where I stood, the cord was clearly visible, but I guess even from point-blank range, "ordinary" eyes just couldn't pick it out. Delighted with the confirmation of the nylon's near-invisibility, I removed the line.

Despite seeming weak and obvious to me, the cord was actually everything I'd hoped for: strong and very hard to spot. That was just what I needed for my latest game.

All that I was missing now was someone to play it with.

Continued next post.