I know, I know, the last entry was a week ago. What can I say? I’m a very busy superhuman, super-gorgeous girl. You know how it is… people to hurt, places to trash. Plus, they don’t have internet on Mars. (They do however have a late 19th century garden gazebo now. More on that next time).
OK, OK. I left things just as I was slipping into a hospital room to pay a visit to a “new friend”. Kind and thoughtful as ever, I’m aware that some of you can’t remember details that far back as you need all your available brain cells to fantasise about me. So a quick recap for the benefit of inferior male readers who may have forgotten the details in the intervening 7 days:
Out for an evening stroll, I met a policeman who told me to be careful as there had been a number of violent attacks in the area. (Of course, all the “violent attacks” had been my doing in the first place). Once out of sight of the copper, I flew over his head and gave him a nice, warming blast of heat-vision which left him hospitalised. The next day, the papers were full of a “mystery woman” that the policeman had seen just moments before he got burnt. Apparently, the “mystery woman” was wanted as a potential key witness. But the only guy who could identify "her" was lying in hospital with third degree burns, so I thought I’d pop by and say “hello”…
“Hello!” I said, chirpily, as I strolled into the private room. My “friend” looked like something out of a cheap horror film, wrapped almost entirely head-to-toe in bandages.
“Hi,” he croaked. Even though one of his eyes was apparently unhurt enough to have been left outside of his wrappings, he couldn’t yet see me as his mammoth dressings prevented him from sitting up or turning his head. I had to walk over to the side of his bed and lean over his face so that he could get a look at me.
The recognition in his one, unbandaged eye was instant. “They found you!” he said, obviously delighted, even though the mere act of speaking was clearly causing him considerable pain. “Did you give them a description?”
“Did I give who a description?” I asked, innocently.
“The other police officers!” he wheezed. “Did you tell them what you saw the night I was attacked?”
“Oh, that!” I said, with a dismissive wave of my hand. “Don’t worry about that. It’ll all be sorted in a minute.”
“Eh?” he said, painfully. “Did you see what happened? Did you see who did it?”
“Of course I saw,” I said, flippantly.
“So… who… who was it?” he asked, his voice dry, every word causing him agony.
“Duh! Me, of course.” I smiled, proudly.
“You?” He seemed confused.
For a second or two, nothing happened. He seemed to be trying to process what I had said. Then, tortuously slowly, he began moving his heavily-wrapped left arm. I spotted the alarm button he was reaching for. At his rate of movement, it would have taken him two minutes to reach it. I gave him two seconds before gently taking hold of his arm between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand, holding him completely still, despite his increasingly desperate (and presumably agonising) attempts to free himself from my easy grip.
“Let’s just keep this between the two of us,” I said with a wink.
“What… what are you doing?” he asked, bewildered and suddenly a little afraid.
“Oh, don’t be so suspicious!” I told him. “That’s the trouble with you cops. You think everyone is a criminal. You shouldn’t be so quick to judge. I only came here today to make up for what I did the other night.”
“What do you mean?” he croaked. He winced as he made yet another futile effort to pull his arm away from me. “And what have you done to my arm?”
“You arm?” I asked, pretending to be surprised by the question. “I’m just holding it.”
“But, I… I… I can’t move it!” he protested, confusion and increasing fear getting the better of him.
“Well, it’s not my fault I’m about ten million times stronger than you.” I said, dismissively.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you I’m superhuman? Never mind! I haven’t got time for that now. Like I said, I only came to make up for what I did the other night.”
“You… You burnt me?” Now he sounded really afraid.
"Yes, yes," I said distractedly, "but now I 'm going to make it up to you. Now, let's see... Hmmm... What's the best way to compensate someone for making them a little too hot?... Yes! Of course! I'm going to cool you down again!"
"I... don't... understand..." he coughed.
"It's simple," I told him. "I made you hot so now I'm going to make you cold."
The guy looked at me with his one usable eye, his gaze one of nervous unease. I gave him a warm, bright smile, flashing him my perfect teeth. Immediately, he seemed more relaxed. I leant my face in a little towards his. Still grinning, I sexily breathed "You're not going to like this much."
"Wha...?" he croaked.
I winked at him. "Sssshhhh..." I said, very softly. I stretched the sound out, slowly, erotically, changing the shape of my mouth as I did so, pushing out my lips so that "sshhhh" became just a gentle stream of my breath that washed over him. Cold breath. Supercold superbreath.
I did not have to exhale with any force at all. In less than two seconds every last molecule in his head was frozen solid. A thin layer of frost coated his unmoving features and the pillow around him. I closed my lips and smiled again.
"Chill out, lover." I muttered as I slipped unseen from the room.
Friday 8 December 2006 23:20 GMT
There’s a lot about me that most people don’t know.
Anyone who reads this blog already knows that I’m generous and beneficent. If anything, I’m far too kind to the inferior and unworthy beings that I live amongst. But did you also know that I have a superb sense of humour?
Having superpowers is a definite advantage when it comes to playing practical jokes. Fun things, like turning an entire building over on its side to confuse people are easy for me with my incalculable strength. Even classic old tricks take on a new meaning…
Remember that old gag where a girl asks strangers to help her move a suitcase, but the strangers find they can’t even lift it, despite the fact that the girl picks it up quite easily? Of course, the original was done using electromagnets. My version was similar, but without the magnets. I just used my slender fingers to mould a chunk of solid steel to fit perfectly inside the case. Although I could lift it effortlessly (with just the little finger of my left hand wrapped around the handle), none of the men I asked could raise it so much as a millimetre, even with two hands.
As well as revisiting the classics, I’m also rather good at creating new pranks of my own. I made a brief mention yesterday of a late 19th century garden gazebo. That was part of my latest trick.
I spotted the thing flying over some big country estate. It’s quite an ornate affair, about thirty feet in diameter, with a roof supported by ornate columns. As soon as I saw it, I thought of a wonderful idea. I turned in the air in a way no aeroplane ever could and headed for the nearest town.
I flew straight down through the roof of a museum. There were a couple of people inside at the time, but that was alright as the debris displaced by my high-speed entry knocked them all out instantly and left them half-buried under a ton of rubble, so there would have been no witnesses.
As the dust settled, I had plenty of time to find what I was looking for, even though I only needed a fraction of a second to locate the tattered antique Union Jack flag still attached to its original pole. Allegedly, the flag was first planted on some battlefield in the 1870s. It was displayed behind glass, which shattered when I reached forward and thrust my hand through. Of course, I didn’t even suffer a tiny scratch as I pulled the whole thing out.
With the flag under my arm, I flew quickly through the museum to the "Industrial History" section. There, in the middle of the floor, was an original coal-fired steam turbine that had, according to the information panel beside it, been in service in some factory for thirty years, ending in 1902. Made of thick, solid cast iron, it probably weighs about fifteen tons. Not that I noticed when I picked it up by hooking three fingers of my left hand under a convenient protrusion. In fact, it might as well have been a small bag of feathers for all the strain I felt carrying its weight.
Carrying the flag and the turbine, I soared back up through the hole I’d installed in the roof and headed back to the estate. I placed the flag and the turbine inside the gazebo, and flew off again.
A minute later, I was walking through the door of a fancy dress shop. The assistant, who must have been at least sixty-five years old, audibly gasped as I entered. I knew without looking that he was staring intently at me as I strolled around. A couple of times I turned round and caught his eye. On each occasion, I flashed him a smile and listened with my superhearing to the way that made his heart beat faster and faster.
I found a "Victorian Gentleman" costume and carried it on its hanger over to the counter. With a pout that no man could possibly resist, I arched my back slightly to thrust my big breasts towards the ageing assistant and grinned as he shifted uneasily, his trousers suddenly a little tight for him.
"I wonder if you could help me," I said, seductively. I suppose that any request I made of him at that moment would be granted. "You see," I went on, "I want to get this costume for my father. He's about the same shape and size as you are. Is it too much trouble for you to try it on for me so I can see what it looks like?"
"Um, er, normally we wouldn't do something like that, but, er..."
"Oh, please," I said, pushing out my fantastic bust even more. His eyes grew huge as I did so, and his heart began thumping at an alarming rate, "for me...."
"Well, I suppose I could make an exception..." He paused for a moment, his eyes locked on the overstretched portion of my oh-so-tight T-shirt and swallowed hard. "...for you."
"Oh, thank you!" I breathed. He nearly fainted.
Barely recovering himself, he took the costume from me and carried it into the back room. I watched him change with my X-ray vision, chuckling to myself as he struggled to conceal his erection inside the nineteenth-century-style trousers before coming out into the shop once more, sweating and panting from the exertion.
"Yes," I said, looking him up and down, "that will do perfectly."
"I'll just take it off and wrap it up for you," he said.
"No," I said, reaching out with one hand to sensuously stroke the big lapel of the long Victorian jacket, "don't take it off... yet."
"Um... I... er..." he stammered.
"I'll tell you what," I said, "I'm going to take my clothes off instead."
"Uh... ah..." Clearly he'd lost the power of speech. I left him to his struggle with his vocal chords and proceeded to pull my T-shirt over my head.
He gasped when he saw that I wasn't wearing a bra. The mind-blowing shapes he had seen through the shirt were my actual shapes. My superhuman fullness and firmness needs no support. Indeed, no garment could ever improve their beautiful erotic perfection.
I leant in, moving my chest slowly from side to side, hypnotising him with my wonderful orbs. I could feel his panting breath on my body and hear the thumping of his heart getting faster and faster and faster. I moved those incomparable mounds a little nearer, until they were almost touching him.
He started to shake. The thumping inside his ribcage reached new levels of rapidity. Then, suddenly, his face contorted. He clutched his chest. For a moment, I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head. Instead of that, they went dull. The expression of shocked pain on his face froze. A second later, he slumped forward onto the counter.
I left him there for a moment as I put my top back on and then walked over to the other side of the shop to pick up an antique brass Captain Nemo-style diving helmet. Going back to the ex-shop assistant, I lifted his head up with one hand and used the other to stick the helmet over his head. Finally, I grabbed a length of red cloth from a matador costume and wrapped up the old man in his Victorian suit and deep sea diver's headgear.
With the improvised sack on my back, I strolled out of the shop. As soon as the coast was clear, I took to the air and headed back to the gazebo, tossing the dressed-up corpse in with the flag and the turbine before I hit the ground. Swooping down, I flew straight into the lawn beside the little edifice, my body carving through the packed earth as easily as it carves through a vacuum. Then I steered myself through the soil to fly upwards immediately under the centre of the gazebo.
With my hands above my head, palms upwards, I started to push up on the structure. The thick stone foundations tore free of the ground surprisingly easily (not because it wasn’t well built, but because I’m just so strong).
In an eruption of earth, I forced the little building up, out of the ground, flying beneath it and supporting its considerable weight effortlessly. Higher and higher I pushed it, until I reached the edges of the atmosphere. For a while after that, I had to fly very slowly at a narrow angle to the Earth, so that friction wouldn’t cause the gazebo or its contents to disintegrate. Even when I was out in space, I couldn't accelerate much without destroying everything so it took quite a while to carry the thing all the way to Mars where I carefully set it down.
Next, I set to work. I used the immense power of my arms and the indestructible superfirmness of my chest to reshape the iron turbine by hugging it gently against my perfect body, giving it a strange, unfamiliar, but still recognisably industrial shape. I set the gazebo down on top of the "engine", using a few zaps of heat-vision to fuse the building to the machine. When I was done, the combo really did look like a late 19th century vision of a spaceship.
To finish the display, I took the antique flag and, using the minutest portion of my strength, one-handedly planted the pole a foot deep into the solid Martian ground. Then I took my dead "Victorian astronaut" and left him lying beside the banner with his hand clutching its base.
Next, I returned to Earth. With no fragile building, iron, cloth or corpse to protect, I could travel much closer to my normal speed, making it back home inside half an hour.
Now, all I have to do is wait. At some point in the next few years some high-powered camera will see the little scene I created. How I'll laugh when "Victorian Gent Travelled to Mars in home-made space ship" is the top story in the news!
Monday 11 December 2006 21:21 GMT
Some people like to get in their cars and go for a drive around their neighbourhood on a Sunday morning.
Personally, I have no time for cars. I can run, silently, dozens of times faster than any noisy vehicle, without tiring or "running out of fuel" or giving off unpleasant exhaust fumes. (I should mention at this point that breathing carbon monoxide has, as you'd expect, absolutely zero effect on me.) And I have nothing to fear from head-on collisions: anything I hit running at speed is instantly destroyed, leaving not so much as a scratch on my perfect body, not even a chipped nail. Plus I'm about a billion times more interesting to look at than any car.
So, I don't go for a drive around the block on a Sunday morning. Instead, I prefer to take a nice, leisurely flight around the world under my own inestimable power.
Of course, I like to take my time, helping out the people I soar above along the way. This weekend, for example, I helped a whole load of Scandinavians take a nice warm bath.
I saw them from above the clouds; a group of about sixty people at the edge of a small town, skating on the surface of a frozen pond. Understanding how exercise makes normal people perspire (not a problem I have to deal with, unless their sweat gets on me), I decided to assist them all to get nice and clean.
Dropping down until I was hovering barely fifty feet above the centre of the pond, I unleashed my heat-vision, aiming a weak, but constant beam from my eyes onto the surface of the ice. Naturally, it began to melt immediately.
As the skaters started to fall through one by one, I kept my lasers firing into the water, warming it to a nice, uncomfortable (for "ordinaries") hot temperature, and melting every last trace of ice from the surface. The steam rose so thickly, it looked as if a cloud had descended to ground level. Fortunately, my superhuman eyes could pierce the fog with total ease, allowing me to enjoy the sight of people splashing and panicking.
Chuckling to myself, I flew off as the first ones began hauling themselves out of the hot water onto the freezing edges of the pond...
Tuesday 12 December 2006 20:34 GMT
Sometimes, I’m more “super” than even I appreciate.
A good case in point concerns supersenses.
Sure, they are fabulous when needed. Say I’m looking for some insignificant object (for example, a man) at night in a dense forest. With my amazing eyesight I can spot it (or “him” if you insist on being politically correct) from two miles up above a layer of thick clouds. Or I can stand by the edge of the forest and hear his heartbeat from ten miles away just by tuning out all other sounds. Or from the same location and over the same distance, I can smell his unique odour.
But my supersenses also work when I’m not even actively employing them. If I’m strolling down a street, I can detect someone trying to creep up “silently” when they’re still miles behind me without making a point of listening out. Or when I quickly cast my gaze over a large crowd, I can spot all the people carrying concealed weapons, despite the fact that I’m not deliberately seeking them out.
Just last night such an episode occurred. I was at home, minding my own business, just playing around with some plastic explosive I “borrowed” from a mountain-road construction team (it tastes foul, but it’s fun when enough of it detonates inside my mouth). Suddenly, above the muffled boom of half a kilo exploding on my tongue, I overheard the sound of a twig snapping in the gardens.
Immediately, I turned to the direction the noise came from. Bringing my X-ray vision into play, I looked straight through three intervening walls and a couple of tree trunks, across a hundred yards of pitch-black night-time gardens and focussed on a young man, dressed entirely in black, tiptoeing around the outer edge of my property. Naturally, my first thought was that he was a burglar. I smiled as I considered all the thousands of ways I could use him for entertainment.
Two seconds later, I was floating down from the air to land silently just two steps behind him. Of course, he had no idea that I was there because, unlike me, he didn’t have supersenses.
“Hello there!” I greeted him. He jumped a foot off the ground and let out a yell of shock. And that was before I’d even touched him! He spun around (probably as quick as he could, but it was an extreme slow motion manoeuvre to me).
“I… I… I’m not a burglar!” he blurted out.
“Really?” I asked with a smile, putting my hands on my hips, enjoying his nervousness.
“I swear!” he said.
“Then perhaps you’d like to tell me what you’re doing on my property?” I enquired.
“The owner sent me...” he started.
“I don’t think so!” I replied, a little angrily. “I am the owner!”
“Er… he said he was the owner…” he stammered. I raised an eyebrow. “He sent me to check if there was anyone living here.”
“Oh, how interesting!” I declared. I moved in close too quickly for him to react. “I think we’d better continue this little chat indoors," I announced, picking him up and tucking him under my arm.
"Hey!" he shouted, shocked. I ignored him (and his fists pounding uselessly against my side) as I carried him like a rolled-up newspaper into the house.
Next time, I'll reveal what happened after that...
Monday 18 December 2006 17:25 GMT
Sorry for the lack of posts during the back end of last week. I was busy planning my Christmas party for this year.
Well, technically it’s actually someone else’s party. That’s how they intend it anyway. But it’s going to be mine. I’m looking forward to it so much. There’s going to be loads of people there. I get the feeling that none of them are going to enjoy it nearly as much as I am…
Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. This whole “party” thing has only come about after the incident with the intruder in my garden. Remember? I was telling you about him last week. He was creeping about, dressed in black but when I confronted him he swore he wasn’t a burglar. Last post, I was recalling how I’d picked him up and carried him under my arm into the house…
Once inside, I closed the door and then raised the arm that was pinning his middle to my slender, curvaceous side. Without my lovely, fabulously-strong silky-smooth arm holding him he fell instantly to the ground. I lifted my left leg and carefully placed my bare toes on his chest before he could even start to think about trying to stand up. By the time he gathered himself, he was helplessly pinned.
He tried to push himself up with all his might, his muscles tensing, veins bulging, face reddening. But all his straining efforts were effortlessly overpowered by the tiny superhuman muscles in my pretty, feminine toes. In desperation, he clasped both of his large, hairy hands around my delicate-looking ankle and fought, utterly in vain, to lift my foot away.
“Enough games,” I announced, sneering down on him, my arms folded under my glorious chest. “Tell me why you were in my garden.”
“Never!” he wheezed back, his features bright crimson from all his wasted efforts.
I smiled. “It’s up to you,” I told him. “We can do this the painful way, or we can do this the excruciating way.” To prove the point, I kept my foot dead still and merely curled my dainty toes, pressing the tips of them into his thorax with enough force to puncture his skin and crack one of his upper ribs. He screamed as I enjoyed the warm, wet sensation on the balls of my toes.
“So,” I said, calmly, as his yelling subsided, “you were saying that you were never going to tell me what I want to know.” I lifted just the big toe of the foot resting on his now bloody chest and pushed it down into the fresh wound. It made a squelching sound as I pressed it with total ease through his muscle, but this was soon obscured by fresh agonised screaming. “Do go on…” I invited him, once he stopped shouting to gasp down some air.
“Please!” he hissed through gritted teeth while I made a show of listening intently from my position looming over him. “You’re killing me!”
I rolled my eyes. “I already know that!” I told him, pressing my heel down very very slightly until I heard the satisfying Pop! of a fragile male rib giving way to my lovely feminine foot. His predictable cry of pain followed shortly after. “Now tell me something I don’t know.” I instructed him.
“OK! OK! Please!” he gasped, throatily, “Please stop! I’ll tell you everything! Please!”
“Then stop snivelling like a child and tell me.” I commanded. “Or I’ll step on you properly.” Just in case he wasn’t sure what I meant by that I used my heel to Pop! another rib.
“Yyeeeooowww!” he croaked. “Alright! The guy who sent me said he was the owner! He said some woman had tricked him into letting her use the place. I was supposed to check and see if anyone was still around and give them a letter. That’s all! Please! I swear! I don’t know anything more about it!”
“A ‘letter’ you say?” I raised an eyebrow but didn’t adjust the crucial positioning of my foot in any way.
“Yes! A letter! It’s in… in my….” He struggled to move, but, obviously in overwhelming agony, gave up. “In my pocket,” he said.
Finally, I moved my foot, lifting it off him and planting it next to my other one. “Hand it to me,” I ordered. Freed from the crushing restrictions of my toes, he fought the pain and, wincing and moaning, reached across his body with his right hand to extract a folded envelope from his pocket. Evidently, one of the many tributaries of the thick red stream that emanated from the gaping wound in his chest had meandered its way as far as his pocket, because one corner of the white paper was drenched in sticky crimson.
With his face contorted in agonies, he stretched his arm upwards from the ground, holding the envelope, clean side outwards, as near to my hand as he could reach. I snatched it from him, tore it open and extracted the single page typed letter within. Noticing that the red stain had penetrated as far as the paper inside I said “What kind of pathetic postman are you? You’ve only got one letter to deliver and you’ve managed to get it soaked in blood!” There was no response from the recipient of my criticism.
Despite the red blotches, I read the letter and thought over its contents in around three ten-thousandths of a second. I’ll tell you about it next time. And on a lighter note, I’ll also tell you about what I did with the messenger too…
Tuesday 19 December 2006 16:48 GMT
So, that (slightly blood-stained) letter that the intruder had been carrying in his pocket:
Addressed to “The Current Occupier”, it was indeed from the man with whom I’d so successfully “negotiated” a transfer of ownership for the house. Only, he seemed to have forgotten the deal he’d made with me…
There were several references to “under extreme duress” and “improper state of mind” to imply that the agreement we had struck was not valid. If that wasn’t amusing enough, the next bit was hysterical: apparently, I was being given until the end of the year to move out! Imagine that! Me, a goddess with unlimited power (not to mention unparalleled beauty) being presented with an ultimatum by some feeble male!
It seems the former owner of my house is a partner in a famous law firm. By famous, I mean they are well-known amongst certain sectors of society (particularly gangsters, corrupt businessmen and crooked politicians..) They’re the lawyers that will get guilty men off against all the odds through minor legal technicalities.
They’re also the lawyers which, according to the letter, are going to be lined up in court against me should (!) I chose to ignore the “instruction” to vacate the premises. There was a pathetic passage which said something about my “unusual brand of physical intimidation” not being “admissible in a courtroom”.
Once I’d stopped laughing at the ridiculous audacity of it all, I zapped the letter with a tiny, lightening-fast blast of heat-vision, reducing the paper to ash that sprinkled over the prostrate, badly wounded form of the black-clad intruder. “Your boss must enjoy pain more than you do,” I observed.
He gave me nothing but a quizzical look in reply. The injuries I’d caused him with my toes must have been quite deep because he was still dripping blood onto my floor. He looked utterly pathetic, lying there so helplessly, entirely at my mercy. And yet, his boss, a man no less fragile, no less weak, had dared to write to me with a threat! What a joke!
Having read the message, of course, I had no further need for the messenger. I looked down on him. “Can you walk?” I asked, slightly impatiently.
“I… I think so….” he wheezed.
“We’ll soon fix that,” I told him. I lifted my left foot off the ground and brought it down onto his right ankle. I didn’t stamp on him hard (I wasn’t trying to crush his leg into paste). I merely made a nice, light contact with the sole of my bare foot. Just enough to shatter all the bones in his ankle with a delightful, “Cccrrrrrunch!” sound.
He didn’t even scream. His eyes rolled upwards and then shut as the unprocessable agony short-circuited his brain and he lost consciousness.
Satisfied that my surprise guest wouldn’t be seeing himself out any time in the near future, I left him to it as I stepped over him and made my own way to the door. I had a few errands to run while he was sleeping, starting with a visit to the headquarters of the law-firm mentioned in the letter.
And I’ll let you know how that went next time…
Wednesday 20 December 2006 22:06 GMT
As the crow flies, it's just over ten miles from my house to the ostentatiously grandiose building where the law firm mentioned in that letter are based.
Of course, compared to me, crows are very inefficient flyers. Then again, compared to me, the latest supersonic jet fighter is a slow, crude, clumsy and noisy heap of junk. Suffice to say, I stepped out of my door, soared into the air and twenty seconds later I was descending towards the roof of the lawyers' place.
With my ability to think and act at superspeed, I had plenty of time to scan the building beneath me as I plunged, feet-first, towards it. Instead of walking in through the lobby and locating a sign that said which businesses have offices on which floors, I just scanned the entire place in the time it takes you to blink. By reading the names and address on pieces of headed note-paper on dozens of desks, I was able to build a complete plan of the companies using the building. That took about a fifth of a second.
Even though I was coming down fast (faster than, say, a falling meteorite just as it's about to impact with the ground) I still had plenty of time to glance over the roof and check for an entrance hatch or similar access point. However, I chose not to bother. Instead, I let my bare feet create a new roof opening, my soles carving through the solid concrete and a steel girder as if they weren't there.
As I descended into the top floor, huge chunks of masonry and lumps of metal fell with me, bouncing harmlessly from my invulnerable body, raining down on the carpet all around me when I came to a rest, using my powers of flight to slow my speed from hundreds of miles and hour to completely stationary in a millisecond. The air was filled with dust and tiny particles that my violent entry had dislodged, but I just blinked away anything that got into my eyes.
From above, I'd chosen to land right in the middle of a large room with several sofas, some pretentious-looking paintings on the walls and a desk at one end, near to a door. There was a woman sitting at the desk, although she jumped back with quite a scream as I burst through the ceiling, even though she was well away from the worst of the falling debris. Gingerly, she started to get back onto her feet behind her desk, staring at the thick swirling dust-cloud..
I'd already seen an aerial view of the ridiculously luxurious office on the other side of the door behind her. There was no-one in there at that moment, but I didn't need my superhuman intelligence to work out that it was the office of the top man at the company, and that the screaming woman was his personal assistant.
"Oh my goodness!" she exclaimed once the air had cleared enough for her to see me. "Are you alright?"
I laughed. "It takes more than a few bits of brick and steel to hurt me, woman." I revealed. I stepped over the rubble at my feet and walked towards the desk.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"I haven't got time for all that nonsense," I replied. "I want to know where your boss is."
"I.. " she seemed to pause for a moment, as if unsure. I guess I was unnerving her as I approached. Eventually, she came to an internal decision. She appeared to have chosen a course to take, and her face was set, showing her determination to stick to it. "I can't tell you that."
"What kind of incompetent P.A. doesn't know where her boss is?" I mocked. "I'd understand if you were just some Barbie-doll bimbo, but you're no way pretty enough to be here for your looks."
The insult had an immediate effect. "I don't know what you're playing at, young lady, or what you did to the ceiling, but I'm calling security," she said, reaching towards the telephone handset in front of her.
I moved with superspeed, almost knocking her over with a wall of displaced air as I rushed to intercept her. I stopped dead still, right in front of her, my hand hovering over the phone, just beneath hers. I suppose, from her viewpoint, it would have seemed as if I'd just vanished and then rematerialised suddenly very, very close to her.
Naturally, she was terrified. I suppose I didn't help her state of mind by pressing my palm down on the handset, slowly crushing it to useless fragments of plastic and circuit boards. So much for "calling Security"!
The woman was doing everything she could to hide her growing terror, but there isn't much that can be hidden from my supersenses. "Your spine is a lot less tough than that phone was." I observed, taking her fear up a couple of notches. "Now, let's drop the games. Where's your boss?"
"Amsterdam," she answered immediately. Suddenly, she couldn't divulge information fast enough. "Pre-Christmas party for the senior partners," she blurted.
"So, they're all out there?" I asked.
"All the senior partners. And a few of their P.A.s..." she rushed, nervously, obviously frightened that I might not like her answer.
"And you weren't invited?" I teased.
"I'm not that sort of P.A." she replied. Even in her terrified state, she couldn't hide her bitterness.
"We can't all be beautiful," I laughed, showing off my perfect curves a little. She feigned disinterest, but communicated rampant jealousy. I smiled. "If it's any consolation to you, I can tell you that none of them are going to enjoy themselves very much."
"Whatever you're planning to do, you're too late," she said. "They fly back in the morning."
"Oh, I'll be there inside ten minutes," I told her, floating up off the floor and performing a few mid-air somersaults.
Her jaw hung open. "Wh.. Wh.. H- How?" she tried to ask.
"Oh, it just comes naturally to me." I smiled.
The woman swallowed hard. "What are you going to do with me?" she trembled.
"That depends," I said. "Are you going to tell me the name of the venue for this Christmas party?"
At once, she clicked the computer mouse on her desk and read me the name of the place and its exact address off the screen. "You're going to rob them, aren't you?" she said.
I laughed. "Rob? No! I have something else in mind. But I want it to be a surprise. I can't have you phoning up the boss and warning him."
"I won't, I swear!" she said.
"I know you won't," I said. I reached over and tapped her very lightly on the back of her head with the tip of my forefinger. The blow knocked her out cold as I intended. I slung her over my shoulder, her weight not really noticeable as I carried her over to a stationery cupboard and shoved her inside, twisting the latch shut so that it could only be opened with a hacksaw.
Then I took to the air, soaring upwards through the hole I'd made on entering. Three minutes later, I was zipping over the North Sea, en route to Amsterdam. Well, I didn't want to be late for the party...
Thursday 21 December 2006 23:44 GMT
Even when I'm totally naked in the near-absolute zero of deep space, I never feel in the least bit chilly.
So, Amsterdam in late December isn't cold. That said, no-one else was walking around in just a (tight) T-shirt and shorts. I got stared at even more than usual and I usually get stared at a lot.
You will recall from yesterday's post that I was on my way to gatecrash the senior partners pre-Christmas party of a certain law-firm. I knew the address, but I didn't want to go straight there in my unseasonable clothes, so I made a (very brief), superspeed dash into a costume shop, where I picked up something ideal and ran out with it before anyone could see me.
Next post, I might even give you a glimpse of it...
Friday 22 December 2006 17:49 GMT
So, I was going to a Christmas party and, uninvited or not, I was determined to turn up in something suitable.
I was only inside the costume shop for three-quarters of a second (including the sprints in each direction from the door to the clothes rack) but that was plenty of time for me to select an ideal outfit for the occasion. I didn’t hang around after I’d grabbed the ensemble, taking a short cut out of the shop which meant my right hip just clipped a salesman as I streaked past.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that the minimal high-speed contact had been enough to throw him right across the retail space. He crashed down on top of a display of hats, smashing a few glass display shelves. There was plenty of blood. Naturally, I wasn’t in the least bit concerned (it was only a man!) but I did look to see the mess for the purposes of my own amusement. A millisecond was enough for my X-ray vision to reveal a few broken bones and my superhearing is so sensitive that I couldn’t help but overhear the sound of his heartbeat. I’d say he was a very lucky man. If I’d bumped into him properly, there wouldn’t have been anything left of him….
Anyway, the important thing is that I got myself something to wear. I changed, unseen, on the roof of a cinema, stashing my T-shirt and shorts for later. The costume I picked came with matching underwear, and I decided to enter into the spirit of the season by putting it on underneath the rest. Because it’s a time of giving, here’s the best present you’ll ever get: a picture of me in the full outfit.
Note: Regular readers will appreciate that I am wanted by the police and other authorities in about sixty different countries for a total of approximately fifteen thousand “crimes”. This is an inaccurate figure of course, because quite a few of my “moments of enjoyment” have been blamed on other people. The accurate number is probably nearer twenty thousand. However, before anyone uses this data to accuse me of being “evil” (or some equivalent nonsense) I should point out that only around a fifth of these “crimes” were actual murders (although, to be fair, quite a lot of those were multiple killings). It’s OK, however, as almost all the victims were males.
Anyway, I mention all that to explain why I’ve had to pixellate part of the picture. I wouldn’t want any law-enforcement personnel, or any surviving victims or witnesses to recognise me. So I’m afraid you won’t get to see the most gorgeous face on the planet this time, but this is what I looked like as I strolled into the bar where the senior partners’ pre-Christmas party was being held:
Of course, the party itself was in a private room out the back. I spotted it by looking through the walls as I entered the main room. The staff were all pretty busy and no-one noticed me approach the door marked “Privaat”. I entered carefully, not wanting to damage the door. Once I was on the other side, I shut it. Then I squeezed the handle and lock mechanism in my feminine palm, the solid brass yielding like wet clay to my vast strength. After that, no-one would be entering or leaving without my permission.
I turned to face the room. No-one had noticed me yet, so with a big smile, I announced my arrival. “Merry Christmas, everyone! Let’s have some fun!”
I’ll continue the report tomorrow (Saturday).
Saturday 23 December 2006 20:31 GMT
By announcing my arrival at the party, I made sure I had the attention of everyone in the room.
They stopped their conversations and movements, and turned to look at me. One by one, I studied each person there. Their faces, their clothes, the contents of their pockets, the skin beneath what they were wearing, the organs beneath that. I noted the names on their credit cards, the photos in their wallets, the rhythm of their heartbeats, the weaknesses in their bone structures. Then I committed all that information to memory.
My complete inspection of the eight men and three women took less than a quarter of a second to complete. There was only one of me for the other eleven to check out, and without X-ray vision and supersenses, my outward appearance was all they could observe. But, as you can probably imagine, they spent much, much longer studying me than I had spent studying them.
Two of the men I recognised. A short, overweight, balding guy in a tailored suit. His ugly face matched the one on several photographs in that big office at the firm's building. He had to be the top man whose P.A. I'd paid a brief visit. He was staring at me in open-mouthed wonder, his eyes unsure which magnificent part of my glorious body to look at next.
The other one I knew on sight was the jerk who'd signed his house over to me and had then sent the useless spy with that threatening letter. He was the reason I had decided to come to the party. His jaw was also hanging open, but I suspect the reason for that was more than just my extraordinary beauty...
As for the other six men, well they just stared. Mostly at my chest and the generous portion of my superb, deep, flawless cleavage that my costume displayed. I enjoyed the way their eyes widened and widened the more they gawked, as they tried to take in more and more of my physical perfection. It was also fun listening to the various accelerating heartbeats, knowing how deeply the mere sight of me was affecting them on a physiological level.
The three women also glared at me, but their intense expressions betrayed jealousy rather than the lust that was written all over the men's faces. I couldn't really blame them: they were obviously there for their looks alone (and certainly not for their professional secretarial abilities) and I was making them appear quite ordinary by comparison with my superhuman beauty.
After what seemed an age, the short fat fellow finally broke the silence. "Who ordered the Santa-gram?" he asked.
"That's not a Santa-gram!" said the former owner of my house, "That's her! The one who tried to steal my house!"
"Excuse me," I interjected, putting my hands on my hips and thrusting out my glorious chest, drawing an immediate response which included gasps of desire, increased heart-rates, and the appearance of obvious bulges in five of the eight male groins in front of me. "if you recall properly, you signed the house over to me, fair and square."
"You... You forced me!" he shouted, trying to make himself appear intimidating with a big voice to mask his growing nervousness (which was, of course, a waste of time. No male could ever hope to hide his internal state from my supersenses.)
I chuckled. "Now, how could I, a mere slip of a girl..." (I couldn't help wiggling my hips and making my breasts bounce as I said the word "girl", which did nothing for the ever-rising levels of male lust in the room.) "...force a big, important lawyer like you to sign over a house?"
"You... You know how!" he yelled, angrily. For a professional user of words, he was not being especially eloquent.
His boss tried to come to his rescue. "Young lady," he started, pompously, "this is a private party. Besides, under the circumstances, it would be inappropriate for you to stay. Please leave now."
"Leave?" I raised an eyebrow. "Leave now? You don't really want me to leave, do you boys?" None of the others spoke. When I tried to catch their eyes, they looked quickly away (only to turn their gazes back onto my body as soon as they thought I was no longer watching).
"You heard him!" shouted the ex-owner of my property, losing whatever shreds of self-control he'd been clinging on to. "Get out!"
The short fat man cast him a discouraging look which seemed to say "Whilst I appreciate the strength of your feelings, that kind of undignified outburst just will not do."
For my part, I just smiled. "No-one's going to be leaving this room unless I say so," I explained matter-of-factly. "The party's only just begun and there's an awful lot of fun to be had first."
The rotund little self-important creature met my gaze with what he probably thought was a masterful, assertive stare. "No, I am afraid that it is quite unacceptable for us to remain in each other's company any longer, madam," he pronounced in a ridiculously self-absorbed manner. "You will have to leave. At once."
My smile grew into a broad grin. With my hands still planted on my hips and my superb bust thrust out with vast, justifiable pride, I stared right back at him.
"Make me," I challenged.
Find out what happened next in tomorrow's (Sunday's) post.
Sunday 24 December 2006 23:11 GMT
So, we had reached a stand-off.
The short fat boss (I can't be bothered with such an insignificant creature's name) wanted me to go and I had refused. He immediately sprang into action. That is, the only kind of action such a man ever takes: he delegated.
"Steve, Dan," he said, glancing at two of the other men, "could you help the young lady out of the room?"
The two he'd nominated started to walk towards me straight away. As they neared me, the jerk who'd signed his house over to me blurted out "Careful, guys. She's um..."
Before the pathetic idiot could find the word he was searching for, I completed the sentence: "Superhuman."
My single-worded statement had quite an impact on my audience. Perhaps that was because of the way I illustrated the point: As the two men came within reach I just lifted my hands and simultaneously gave each of them a gentle, effortless shove in the chest.
Both of them seemed to fold double over my arms. Both sets of feet left the floor. Both bent-over bodies flew backwards away from me. Both travelled over twenty feet through the air. Both landed on top of tables which collapsed under the force of the impacts.
Neither moved once his body came to rest amidst the debris. By then, my hands had returned to my hips. The remaining men and women, unanimously shocked and frightened by what they had just witnessed, turned their gazes slowly, one by one, from the mess on the floor to me.
I didn't try to hide the big, satisfied grin on my face as I asked "So, who's next?"
To be continued tomorrow (Monday)
Monday 25 December 2006 23:22 GMT
Having taken out two of the senior partners (with the easiest of unthinking shoves), I had somewhat disturbed the party atmosphere.
Being a (super)girl who loves her fun, I knew straight away that some enjoyable party games were very much in order. Smiling happily at the six men and three women (that was everyone in the room who was not comatose on the floor), I was just about to suggest one of my favourites, when boss-man decided to take his own action.
I'm not sure he was hoping to spice up proceedings in the same way I was, but he certainly got things going when he open his fat mouth and started to shout "Hhheeeelll-".
He never got to scream the "pppppp!" part. I travelled the eight steps from where I was standing to the short man's side in about half the time it took him to blink. And in much, much less time than that, I placed my open palm over his blubbery lips, silencing him.
The surprise almost made him stagger backwards. As his ocular muscles readjusted to the suddenly shortened focus-distance, he found himself eyeball to cleavage with me. That (understandably) caused him to instinctively gasp. But with my hand over his mouth, he couldn't take in any air. Which naturally triggered panic.
Both flabby hands came up to my narrow wrist, engulfing my perfect female skin with his ugly masculine flesh. He was trying (and how!) to dislodge my palm; sweating, trembling, reddening by the second... But, if he was a thousand times stronger than that, he would still have failed utterly to budge me. Even a millimetre.
I simply ignored his pathetic efforts.
"Now we can't have any fun if people are talking out of turn," I told the room. "From now on, anyone who makes a sound without me telling them to gets some of this..." I glanced down at the balding dome of the fat boss' head, my lips stretching into a smile.
I already had my hand over his mouth. All I had to do was curl my fingers to get a slight grip on his face. Then, with little more than a flick of the wrist he was clasping, I lifted him bodily from the ground and flung his short but bulky and supposedly heavy body at the far wall. He flew the twenty feet, rising all the way, and smacked the plaster, with his shoes five foot up, hard enough to dent it. He bounced away and landed, flat on his face, his yelling-for-help days well and truly in the past.
One of the stunned women put her hands over her mouth to just-about-successfully stifle a scream. Unsurprisingly, no-one else said anything. Apart, of course from me. Well, I did have the undivided attention of everyone there...
"Right," I announced, cheerfully, "let's play some games!"
More tomorrow (Tuesday).
Tuesday 26 December 2006 16:39 GMT
Out of all the invitees to the Senior Partners Pre-Christmas party, there were eight still standing:
Five of the senior partners (two others were lying unconscious on top of the wreckage of a couple of tables. The fat boss man was face-down by the wall, well beyond medical help) and three of their personal assistants (all of them young, reasonably attractive girls who been asked along as party decorations).
The idiot who wanted to challenge my ownership of his former property was one of the five. I would imagine he was beginning to regret ever writing that letter. To be honest, he didn’t look any more terrified than the others as I addressed them, sweeping my gaze from one to the other, enjoying the way each one squirmed as I looked straight into his or her eyes.
“Look at you all!” I laughed. “Where’s your Christmas spirit? Maybe a kiss from Santa will cheer you up.” I ran my hands over the front of my Santa costume, briefly cupping my large breasts to emphasise the low cut at the front where they almost spilled of the outfit. My superhearing and super-sensitive nostrils detected no decrease in the levels of fear in the room, but there was a very noticeable heightening of male sexual desire. “So who wants to give Santa a kiss?” I asked.
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.
“Aww,” I said, mockingly. “What a bunch of killjoys! Santa’s just going to have to pick someone to kiss herself. How about…” I extended my arm, curling all but one finger so that I was pointing at my audience. I moved my hand from person to person, taking my time as I made a selection, giving all of them a chance to think they might be the one I chose.
“…You!” I said, finally stopping my finger when it was pointed at the youngest man in the room, a slim, blonde guy who was standing next to my letter-writing, former-property-owning acquaintance. The one I picked started to visibly tremble. He glanced nervously for a moment across at one of the three P.A. girls, a petite red-head and then back at me, unsure what he was supposed to do.
“Is she your girlfriend?” I asked. Scared out of his wits, he mumbled a reply in the affirmative, but I pretended not to hear. I recalled the girl’s name from a photo-ID card which I’d read inside a purse that was in a handbag hanging off the back of a chair. “Jane, you won’t mind if your boyfriend gives me a kiss, do you?” I asked.
There was no instant reply, and I didn’t wait to see if there was one on its way. “Of course not,” I answered for her. “Who could be jealous of Santa, eh?” I turned to face the blonde man once more. “Well, then, what are you waiting for? Come here and give me a kiss!” I ordered.
Full of trepidation, but too frightened to disobey, he began to walk slowly towards me. I remained motionless as he self-consciously approached and then stopped, still standing about a yard from me. He began to bend his body, shaking all the while, towards me, pushing out his lips, moving his face towards the side of mine, as if he was preparing to give me a very quick peck on the cheek and make a quick getaway afterwards.
When he was about half-way towards me, I reached up and cupped his chin, gripping the bottom of his face between my fingers with just enough force to give him no chance of escaping without actually crushing his jawbone. Surprised, he did try to pull away, but naturally my dainty digits would not be opposed. “Not like that!” I chastised him. “Give me a proper kiss! On the lips! Like this!”
I pulled his face towards mine, his feet dragging along the carpet as I effortlessly brought him close. His eyes were wide with fear as I got him near enough to touch his lips against mine. I could feel the instant reaction in his body as we made contact. He must have been in considerable discomfort. I wasn’t gripping his chin that tightly, but experience told me it was a more than firm enough hold to cause a normal man pain. Despite that, and his terror, he couldn’t help but respond to the intimate contact with a physically perfect and indescribably desirable young woman.
Of course, he held his lips closed, but I was able to force them apart without any struggle with my own, deepening the kiss and making his erection throb insistently against my flat belly through our clothes. His teeth were clenched, but I merely stuck out my tongue, pushing the enamel barriers out of its way by tearing them from his gums, filling both our mouths with loose teeth and fresh blood. With my lips sealed over his, I had no need to hold him in place by his chin, so I released it.
Leisurely, I used my tongue to force all the debris from my mouth into his. Then I spent a few moments exploring at will throughout his oral cavity, knocking out more teeth now and then. Whenever he tried to challenge me with his own tongue, I just brushed it effortlessly aside.
His hands had come up between us in a wasted effort to try and push me away. Of course, my lips alone were thousands of times stronger than every muscle in his body combined, and his frantic shoving and pressing achieved precisely nothing as I continued to aggressively possess his mouth with my tongue. In a desperate bid to gain a better leverage, he laid his palms on my big, round, superhumanly firm breasts and leant against them with all his considerable weight. He failed to even dent my glorious mounds.
Pretending to mistake his latest struggles for passion, I brought my own hands up and laid them, palms down, on the backs of his. My delicate-looking, feminine hands looked tiny on top of his large, hairy paws but my super-strength made the size differential irrelevant. As I pressed my hands slowly into his, he was crushed against the unyielding firmness of my breasts. The bones in his hand broke in a series of Crunch! sounds like a foot lowering onto loose gravel. He would have screamed, were it not for my lips forming a complete seal over his and his tongue being pinned to the roof of his mouth by my own.
When the first small pieces of shattered bone began to poke bloodily from the backs of his ruined hands, I released the pressure and pulled his palms off my chest, noting with great delight the deep wounds caused by each of my nipples, and with less delight the blood stains on my Santa outfit.
I broke off the kiss by merely withdrawing my tongue and relaxing my lips. Blood poured from the blonde man’s mouth as he immediately sunk to his knees and then passed out altogether at my feet. I licked the excess crimson from my own lips and smiled at the redhead who was silently crying. “I don’t know what you see in him,” I told her.
I turned my head to address everyone. With a pout, I said “Santa better get a good kiss soon or no-one’s going to get any presents this year. Let’s see… who am I going to choose next…” I looked around at the seven pairs of pleading eyes. ‘Please!’ the faces seemed to be silently begging, ‘don’t pick me!’
“I know!” I said, “I’ll shut my eyes and one of you will come here and give me a kiss. Here goes!” I closed my eyelids, but continued to watch everyone using my X-ray vision. No-one was moving.
“Come on, I’m waiting!” I encouraged. Still, there was no movement. I saw them glaring at each other, nodding their heads to say ‘You go!’ but for some reason, there was a universal reluctance. After a while I said, “OK, I’m going to count to five and then I’m going to open my eyes. Whoever’s nearest when I do gives Santa a kiss. 1… 2…”
That had an instant effect. All seven of them sprang into action, turning on their heels and running towards the far walls. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing as they pressed themselves against the side of the room, spread out along a stretch of wall encompassing one corner.
“3… 4… 5!” I opened my eyes. “Hmmm… who’s nearest?” I mused out loud. “It’s hard to tell…” Fourteen terrified eyes stared at me as I slowly began to cross the room towards them. As I neared, two of the men began to shuffle sideways along the wall, trying to maintain the distance between themselves and me. I adjusted the course I was taking, turning towards that pair. Immediately, they started shuffling in the other direction. The others were creeping around too in response to my new direction.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, excitedly, “A chase game!” I quickened my walk, pretending to lunge for one of the girls. She shrieked and dived to the side and then started running towards the other end of the room. Of course, with my superspeed, I could have run twenty circuits of the space in the time she needed to complete a single step, but for the sake of the game, I let everyone think she had “gotten away” from me, and turned towards one of the men instead. He twisted and sprinted away, so I moved for a third target.
I could have grabbed anybody in that room within a hundredth of a second if I’d wanted to, but I was having too much fun scaring them and making them run around in panic. I chased them relentlessly, laughing and laughing as I terrified them, making them run long after they were exhausted, panicking them into knocking into each other, teasing them with little winks of my eye.
After half an hour, the room was full of panting, sweating people, scared out of their wits by my every little movement. They were hardly able to stand any more, and only their terror prevented them from collapsing. As for me, well, naturally, I wasn’t doing any panting or sweating. In fact, I was as fresh as ever.
“I’m still looking for someone to kiss!” I trilled, with a big grin, as I looked around me. After a few seconds’ pause, I moved towards the red-haired girl. Screaming, she forced her aching, exhausted limbs into action once more. “This is fun!” I chuckled, pretending to chase one of the men for a while.
Sadly, all good things must come to an end, and our game did (eventually) finish. I’ll tell you all about that in the next post tomorrow (Wednesday).
Wednesday 27 December 2006 15:31 GMT
For the record, it wasn’t me that brought about the end of the chasing game.
Personally, I could have played all week, even if none of the other players would have lasted more than a few hours. Sadly, the fun was brought to an unnecessary quick end.
I was just standing in the middle of the room, not chasing anyone in particular at that moment, but pausing while I selected my next target, enjoying the way everyone was edging, terrified, around the perimeter of the room. I was also highly amused to observe various unsubtle attempts by different runners to open the door. Because of the way I’d mashed the mechanism with a little squeeze of my fingers, none of them could even budge the handle, even when they leant on it with all their weight.
Naturally, after every failed struggle, the perpetrator would shoot a nervous glance at me to see if I’d noticed. And each time, I gave the guilty party a big ‘you-bet-I-saw-you’ wink. I’ve got to say that the look of dawning horror on each face as its owner finally came to realise the hopelessness of his or her situation was wonderful entertainment.
In the centre of the room, with my hands on my hips, I was laughing. Laughing at the despairing, exhausted, terrified people all around me. Behind me, I heard scuffling and rasping breath and I could smell the sweat of a man who had run longer and harder than his stamina would normally permit, but I was enjoying myself so much I didn’t bother to turn around.
I missed the sight of the idiot who was challenging my home-ownership hoisting a heavy wooden chair over his head. I also missed him charging at me and slamming the substantial piece of furniture down onto the top of my head…
Of course, I heard the dull Thud! as the chair struck. I also felt it (it was a bit like being lightly tapped by a small child’s fingertip) but all I actually saw were the broken bits of wood that fell in front of my face having shattered on my invulnerable skull.
I couldn’t let such a direct physical challenge pass without reacting, so I turned slowly on my heels, with my palms still planted on my hips and a mocking sneer on my face. From the scent of his perspiration, I already knew who I would find standing there, but I was a little surprised to see him still vibrating from the impact.
Tutting and shaking my head, I scolded him. “There’s always one who doesn’t know how to play properly. Well, I hope you’re proud of yourself. You’ve ruined the game for everybody.”
Either the guy was arrogant beyond comprehension, or he was remarkably stupid for a supposedly hot-shot lawyer or perhaps he was just a hopeless masochist. Whatever the reason, he tried, between panting breaths, to answer back: “Leave…pant…us…pant…alone!...pant”
“Silence!” I commanded. I drew back my hand and very, very carefully (not to mention extremely gently and exceptionally slowly) tapped his cheek with my palm. I was enormously cautious not to put any strength behind the contact so as not to separate his head from his torso. Nonetheless, the slap made a lovely big sound, and the impact was enough to knock his head to the side and turn his skin bright red. He rubbed his cheek as silent teardrops fell from his eyes.
“Oh, stop crying you overgrown baby!” I chastised. “You can go and stand in the corner until you grow up.” He looked at me in tearful confusion.
“Do you want another slap?” I asked. Quickly, he shook his head. “Then do what you’re told!” I said. “Go and stand in the corner!”
Broken, he shuffled towards the edge of the room, stationing himself as I had instructed.
“Face the wall!” I ordered. He complied without hesitating. I left him to it as I whirled around to face two of the P.A. girls who were edging away on the far side of the room. “Boo!” I joked, taking a half-step towards them. With a shriek, they began running. I moved quickly (but not at superspeed), changing direction to force the girls to run into one of the remaining men. Then I tricked the three of them into sprinting towards the other two guys.
Pretty quickly, without having to actually touch any of them, I had all six corralled in the opposite corner of the room to the still-sobbing former owner of my house. I stood, at most a couple of steps away from any of the trapped half-dozen, grinning at them as they cowered from me. I made a show of adjusting the low neckline of my Santa outfit, smoothing the material around the magnificent curves of my bust as I jokingly cried “Ho, ho, ho!”
Strangely enough, no-one else seemed to be laughing. But I wasn’t concerned. I’d already decided on the next fun activity. And I’ll let you know all about it in my next post tomorrow (Thursday).
Thursday 28 December 2006 14:50 GMT
So, my little party was in full-swing.
Three senior partners of the law-firm were lying unconscious on the floor, two of them on top of wrecked tables, the third on the carpet with blood still spilling from his mouth. The body of their boss was face-down at one edge of the room.
Standing in one corner, facing the wall, was the idiot who had signed his big house over to me and then thought he could challenge that deal in court. I left him there, where he could hear everything but see nothing, because it seemed to make him even more terrified, much to my amusement.
I had trapped the remaining six party guests (three male senior partners and three female ‘personal assistants’) in the opposite corner of the room. As they quivered in fright, I spread my arms wide, threatening to embrace them as they huddled.
“Caught you all!” I exclaimed in triumphant delight. “I win and you lose! This is fun!” I waited a couple of seconds, so that my joy could be reflected in the despair of the three men and women I was addressing. Then, I breezily mused “Now, what shall we play… Oh! I know!”
I let the smile drop from my face, suddenly adopting a stern expression to unnerve my audience even further. “Everybody line up with your backs against the wall!” I commanded.
Exhausted and terrified, their resistance long since shattered, the half-dozen meekly obeyed, arranging themselves in front of me. Meanwhile, my superhearing detected the sound of cloth moving on the other side of the room. I spun round and caught the former owner of my house stealing a peak at me over his shoulder.
In less than a twentieth of a second, I was standing so close to him, my chest was almost touching his shoulder. He jumped in shock as I appeared (to him) to materialise within his personal space. I grabbed his left hand in my right, carefully placing his index finger between my thumb and forefinger and pulling it back until it made a little Snap! sound and he yelled in pain.
Still holding the finger, I began to pull. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” he shouted, as I observed him coldly, a disinterested look on my face. “Please stop!” he cried. I kept on pulling, slowly, leisurely, until with a wet rip, the finger tore just above the knuckle. He clutched his suddenly freed but mutilated hand in his other palm, blood pouring over his nine remaining fingers as I held the detached digit up to his pain-wracked face.
“That’s for disobeying me,” I explained. I tossed the loose finger over my shoulder, and heard it Splat! against the far wall. “Next time I catch you, it’ll be your penis.” I warned. He swallowed hard and his legs wobbled for a moment as if he was going to faint. “Now, face the wall!” I ordered. Unsurprisingly, he complied at once.
I hopped back across the room where the three men and three women were waiting for me, still lined up against the wall as I had told them to be. Having all witnessed the finger-episode, none of them were in the mood to challenge me either.
“For the next game,” I told them, “we need to get into pairs. Oh, wait a moment!” I made a big show of counting them one by one and including myself. “There’s seven of us. That’s no good for pairs… I’m so sorry! Someone is going to have to sit out the next game. Let’s see…”
I started to walk up and down in front of them, looking each one up and down in turn, loving the way their heartbeats went into overdrive and fresh sweat began to bead on their foreheads as I passed by. “Well…” I said, pretending to think out loud, “we’re four girls and three boys, so to keep things balanced it should be one of the girls…”
I stopped right in front of one of the P.A. bimbos. “You!” I said, making my decision. “We shan’t be needing you any more.” I raised my hand above her head, tapping her oh-so-gently with just the tip of my index finger on the top of her skull. Of course, the blow knocked her instantly unconscious.
Before she could slump to the ground, I grabbed a fistful of her party dress with my left hand. Her weight felt like nothing to me as I supported it with my slender arm for a moment. Then I flung her, casually, over my shoulder, making sure that she crashed down some ten yards away, on top of the soft body of her fat, dead boss. “That’s better!” I said once I was done. “Now we’re a nice, even number. We’re almost ready for the next game…”
And you lucky, lucky readers can find out all about that next game in the next post tomorrow (Friday).
Friday 29 December 2006 15:14 GMT
“OK, like I said, this next game is for pairs.” I told my five-strong audience of remaining party-goers.
They were lined up against the wall in front of me, so when I told them “Everybody find a partner and stand next to him or her,” four of them only had to shuffle a step or so to the side to comply. Two of the senior partners found themselves shoulder-to-shoulder in one pair. A few feet from them, the next couple was comprised of one of the female “personal assistants” and the third male senior partner. That left the remaining P.A. on her own.
The isolated girl looked at me nervously. I smiled back at her “You’re my partner.” I told her. The look of terror that came over her face was her only response to that. I theatrically held my hand over one side of my mouth as if I was about to tell her a secret. Then I “whispered” to her in a voice loud enough for the others to hear “We’re going to win!”
Removing my hand, I switched to my normal, confident, feminine voice and announced “We’re going to have a three-legged race. Now, normally for this we’d use some rope to tie the left leg of one team member to the right leg of the other, but -“ I pretended to look around the room “- we don’t seem to have any rope. Fortunately, that doesn’t matter. You see -“ I ran at superspeed across the room, upending an armchair and tearing the steel frame from it before returning, metal tubing in hand, to the exact same spot in front of the five party guests faster than they could understand “- when you’re as strong as me - “ I held up the length of bent steel and preceded to casually straighten it out with my bare hands “- a metal bar is as flexible as any rope.”
I continued to work the armchair frame, unkinking and stretching the steel with utter ease, the heavy, groaning metal like soft putty to my petite, flawless, feminine, superstrong hands. Merely by pinching the steel a third of the way along its length between my thumb and forefinger, I was able to cut off a section of it. I crouched by the feet of one of the two waiting pairs and wrapped the metal tubing around their ankles, joining the right leg of one of them to the left leg of the other as easily as if the steel had actually been a length of rope.
Using the same method, I sliced the remaining metal in two. One half, I used to attach the middle two legs of the second waiting pair. Then I walked over to the lone P.A. girl and, putting her back and mine to the wall in line with the two other couples, I tied the final length around her left ankle and my right shin.
“We’re all set then!” I announced, standing up straight. “The first team to touch the wall on the far side of the room wins. On your marks… Get set… Go!”
A full report of the race will appear in tomorrow’s (Saturday’s) post.
Saturday 30 December 2006 23:35 GMT
The race, like just about every vaguely significant activity in the room by that stage, was initiated by my order.
We were three pairs. The other two began clumsily but, probably because they were eager not to give me any reason to be displeased with them, they stumbled on, moving reasonably quickly for exhausted non-supers with ankles tied together.
Of course, my team moved many, many times faster. Well, let me be more precise. I moved many times faster. As my partner's ankle was attached to my own, she had no choice but to move at the same pace as me. Of course, no human, could ever match that pace, so she was just, well, dragged along.
After my first stride, her leg was pulled out from under her, and she fell onto her rear. I heard the "Pop!" of her hip dislocating as I took the second step. She was screaming by the third stride, and unconscious by the fifth. Two more steps and I could touch the far wall. I slapped the plaster hard enough to rip a deep hole in it.
The debris displaced by my hand dibbled down on the comatose body of my partner down by my feet as I triumphantly declared "We win!"
Bending down, I used my fingernails to effortlessly slice open the steel bonds joining me to her. Freed, I just stepped away, leaving her lying on her side, her leg sticking out from her body at an amusingly unnatural angle.
"Hey, don't stop racing you guys!" I called out to the other two teams who were still barely halfway across the room. "There's a forfeit for the team that comes in last place..."
The four racers glanced at each other and then redoubled their efforts.
I'll tell you all about the final positions and the forfeit tomorrow (Sunday).
Sunday 31 December 2006 22:10 GMT
So I won the race. How did the other pairs do?
Long after I'd cut myself free from my out-for-the-count partner, the all-male duo limped, gasping for air, to the wall. And slumped, physically drained, against it.
The P.A.-Senior partner combo were a step behind. By the time it was their turn to collapse against the wall, I was standing over them, my hands on my hips, shaking my head. "Oh dear, oh dear," I said. "Last place in a three-team race... Not very impressive."
I bent down and grabbed the steel tubing that was wrapped around their ankles, standing up straight with it in my grasp so that both members of the losing pair were dangling upside-down at the end of my out-stretched arm. They may as well as have been weightless for all the strain I felt holding them like that.
"You two are out of the game!" I announced, tossing them both across the room with a single, casual flick of my slender wrist. They hit the far wall, slid down into a heap and stayed there.
That just left the two senior partners who had finished second in the race and the idiot former owner of my house who was still exiled to the corner of the room. I marched over to the still-ankle-bound pair and cut the steel tubing apart with a swipe of my perfect, long, feminine fingernails.
"Get up, boys," I commanded them. "It's time for the next game."