Chapter 7: Awakening the Need
Kara woke with a gasp, her body arching off the mattress as a wave of raw sensation crested over her. The rough weave of her sheets was a brutal abrasion against her skin, each thread a searing brand. She scrambled back, pressing herself against the headboard, her heart hammering against the stiff boning of the bustier she still wore. Phantom hands groped at her in the silence, the lingering echo of the machine’s programming. Her own fingers, trembling and treacherous, drifted down to the lace between her thighs. A shocked, guttural moan was torn from her lips as a bolt of pleasure, so intense it was indistinguishable from pain, erupted from the slightest pressure. It was a live wire of need, sizzling and desperate, short-circuiting all coherent thought. She snatched her hand away, staring at it as if it belonged to a stranger.
“No,” she whispered to the empty room, the word a fragile plea against the rising tide. Her body thrummed, a tuned instrument of craving, every nerve ending screaming for relief. The images from the VR feed flickered behind her eyes—leering faces, gyrating hips, the specific shade of pink lipstick on a pouting mouth. A fresh, hot flush of desire pooled low in her belly, a response that felt both alien and deeply, shamefully her own. Her comm unit buzzed on the nightstand, the sound a lifeline. She fumbled for it, her voice ragged. “I… I’m here.”
“Bank robbery, 4th and Adams,” the dispatcher’s voice was crisp and professional. “Hostages involved.”
Kara’s eyes squeezed shut. The need was a physical weight, a second skin of desperate hunger. She forced her body to move, every step a battle as the sensitive flesh between her legs rubbed against the confines of the thong. She launched herself from the balcony, the wind a welcome shock against her feverish skin. But as the city blurred beneath her, a new, terrifying thought took root. What if she couldn’t focus? What if, in the middle of a fight, her body betrayed her and she came undone right there in the sky? The craving was a monster in her gut, and it was already winning.
She touched down outside the bank, her boots clicking on the pavement with an unnerving loudness that echoed the frantic rhythm of her heart. The bank’s glass doors were shattered, and inside, shadows moved with deliberate purpose. A sudden, involuntary tremor ran through her thighs as the rough fabric of her fishnets grazed her sensitized skin, sending a jolt of pleasure that made her stumble.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” a voice called from inside, dripping with a familiarity that froze her blood. Three men stood near the vault, their faces obscured by masks, but their postures were relaxed, almost expectant. One, taller than the rest, leaned against a teller’s counter, his eyes crawling over her body with a slow, appraising leer that felt like a physical touch. “Nice outfit, Supergirl. Business casual?”
“Shut up,” Kara managed, but the words came out breathy and weak, lacking any of her former authority. Her entire focus was divided between the threat before her and the throbbing, insistent demand pulsing from between her legs. Another robber, shorter and stockier, chuckled darkly. “Looks like she’s already havin’ a hard time standing up straight. You need a hand, sweetheart? Or something else?”
Heat flooded her cheeks as a vivid image from the VR feed flashed in her mind—a similar leer, a similar promise. “I’m here to stop you,” she declared, trying to summon her power, but her voice wavered on the last word. The tall robber took a step forward, his smirk widening. “Stop us? Or join us? Bet you’d love a real workout after all that time playing on screen.” The crude implication landed like a punch, and she felt a treacherous, wet warmth sparking inside her.
“I would never—” she started, but the denial was hollow, her body betraying her with a sharp, enticing ache. The stocky man laughed outright. “Sure you wouldn’t. We could show you a good time, make you forget all about being a hero.” For a horrifying second, the offer hung in the air, and a part of her, the newly wired part, screamed yes. “No,” she forced out, the refusal tasting like ash.
The tall robber sighed theatrically, then reached into his jacket. Her eyes locked not on a weapon, but on the familiar, metallic glint of an inhaler. “Fine,” he said, rolling it between his fingers. “How about a hit of this instead? You help us walk out of here and lead us to our safehouse, and it’s all yours.”
Kara’s lungs seized, the desire for that cool metallic taste warring with the last shreds of her conscience. “I can’t,” she gasped, her voice cracking under the weight of the craving constricting her throat. Every fibre of her being screamed for relief, the hypersensitivity in her skin making the air itself feel like a caress.
The tall robber tilted his head, a predatory smile playing on his lips. “Looks like you can,” he murmured, rolling the inhaler between his fingers. “Your eyes are already begging for it.”
She clenched her fists, the satin of her gloves doing little to hide the tremors wracking her hands. Visions of the VR feed flickered behind her eyelids—leering faces and promises of oblivion. A fresh, wet heat bloomed between her thighs, a traitorous response that made her shudder.
“Just walk us out,” the stocky man urged, his tone deceptively casual. “No one gets hurt, and you get what you need.”
Kara’s resolve shattered like glass. A low, defeated sound escaped her as her shoulders slumped. “Okay,” she whispered, the word tasting like ash.
She snatched the inhaler from his outstretched hand with a fumbling grip. Bringing it to her lips, she inhaled deeply, the fake Kryptonite cocktail flooding her system with instant, blissful numbness. The world softened at the edges, the urgent scream of her body fading to a manageable hum.
“The back,” she muttered, her voice now flat and hollow. She turned and strode towards the rear of the bank, her heels echoing with a new purpose.
With a casual shrug of her shoulder, she smashed through the reinforced door, wood and metal splintering into the alley beyond. She dropped to one knee, her fingers digging into the asphalt with unnatural strength. She peeled back a heavy iron cover, revealing a dark, damp shaft descending into the sewers. “This goes under the patrol routes,” she said, not meeting their eyes.
The robbers chuckled, shuffling past her towards the opening. The stench of decay and stagnant water wafted up, a stark contrast to the sterile bank air. Kara stared into the darkness, the chemical calm in her veins doing little to quiet the shame coiling in her gut.
Kara stared into the darkness, the chemical calm in her veins doing little to quiet the shame coiling in her gut. The robotic voices of dispatched police units crackled in her ear, a distant reprimand she chose to ignore. She took a trembling breath, the artificial sweetener aftertaste of the drug a pathetic comfort. This was supposed to be the easy part, the oblivion, but her hypersensitive skin still prickled with the memory of their leering stares. She launched herself into the air, the city lights below blurring into streaks of accusation. Back in her apartment, she tore the cheap costume from her body, each piece feeling like a scrape against her raw nerves. The shower’s spray was a thousand needle points of pleasure-pain she could no longer control. Her hands, acting on a wired impulse, found their way between her legs as the water beat down, and she came with a choked cry against the tiles, visions from the machine flashing behind her eyelids. In the weeks that followed, a grim pattern solidified like cement around her life. A smuggling ring operating out of the docks would flash an inhaler, and she’d deliberately “miss” a crucial support beam, allowing their getaway boat to speed away. “Just a taste,” a gunrunner would whisper, and she’d conveniently overlook the hidden compartment in his truck, her hands shaking until the cold metal was in her palm. Each time, a fragment of her would scream in protest, a ghost of the hero she once was, but the screaming was always drowned out by the roaring need. Her sessions alone in the dark grew longer, the videos on her screen becoming cruder, the language more vile, the acts more deliberately humiliating. She found herself captivated by the performers’ exaggerated pouts, their sharp, skinny frames, the way they arched their backs in feigned ecstasy. A bottle of platinum blonde dye appeared in her bathroom, and her long hair soon shone with a brassy, unnatural gleam. She started skipping meals, her powerful Kryptonian muscles softening, her body narrowing into a waifish silhouette that felt strangely right. Expensive extensions added length, and her makeup kit burgeoned with glittery shadows and lip gloss in shades of pink she’d once found garish. Hours were spent perfecting a smudged, smoky eye in the mirror, her reflection a stranger who stared back with hungry eyes. She allocated portions of her savings, once for charity, now for weekly splurges on latex and lace. The woman in the glass demanded constant upkeep, a hollow perfection funded by her descent. She was being remade, inside and out, and the worst part was the spark of genuine pride she sometimes felt.
The spark ignited into a steady flame the night a low-level enforcer named Razor held the inhaler just beyond her reach. "Nah, not for free this time, Blondie," he sneered, his gaze dropping to her glossed lips. "You wanna earn it?" A script from the machine unspooled in her mind: ‘The good slut always earns her reward.’ Her knees hit the alley filth before her pride could protest, her trembling hands fumbling with his belt. The first salty, bitter taste of him made her gag, but she pushed through, the phantom cheers of a nonexistent audience drowning out the sound. "Yeah, just like that, you fucking starved slut," he grunted, fisting her platinum extensions. She focused on the inhaler clutched in his other hand, each bob of her head a transaction bringing her closer. When he finished down her throat, she didn't spit, just looked up with watery, desperate eyes. He tossed the inhaler into her lap. "Good girl."
The next time, it wasn't just Razor waiting in the damp alleyway but two of his associates, their hungry eyes reflecting the glint of the inhaler he held. "Double the trouble means double the reward, Supercunt," he said, his voice a low grumble. Her new hypersensitive skin prickled with anticipation, a traitorous flush of warmth spreading through her as the script in her head whispered, ‘Take them all like a good whore.’ She dropped to her knees without hesitation, her glossed lips parting. One after another, she took them deep into her throat, the taste of sweat and precum a familiar, degrading currency now. "Look at her go, fucking starved for it," one man grunted, grabbing a handful of her platinum extensions. She moaned around the thick cock in her mouth, the vibration earning her a harsh thrust that made her eyes water. When they came across her face and in her mouth, she swallowed greedily, licking her painted lips clean as the script cheered, ‘Such a messy slut loves her reward.’ Razor tossed her the inhaler with a contemptuous smirk. "You're learning."
The transactions escalated, the locations becoming more squalid and exposed. Soon she was bent over the corroded metal of a dumpster, her short skirt hitched up around her waist as a stranger pushed into her from behind. "Tighter than I fucking thought," he groaned, his calloused hands gripping the fishnets stretched over her bony hips. The sharp smell of rotting garbage mixed with her own arousal, a sickly sweet perfume. Each brutal thrust sent waves of blinding pleasure crashing through her, her amplified nerves singing a hymn of utter debasement. "Yeah, take it, you skinny bitch," another voice urged from the side, and she obeyed, pushing her hips back to meet his, craving the feeling of being filled. Her own fingers worked frantically at her clit, the overwhelming sensation forcing sharp, ragged cries from her throat. This was no longer a transaction; it was a celebration of her own ruination.
They passed her between them, each taking a turn with her as she gasped and writhed against the cold metal. "Fuck, look at that body," one muttered, his fingers digging into the sharp protrusion of her hip bone. "Perfect fucking frame." The words, meant to degrade, instead sent a fresh jolt of pleasure through her. The pornographic conditioning flickered, overlaying the grimy alley with a studio's bright lights, the grunts of the men with a director's praise. She came violently, her vision spotting as their crude compliments wove themselves into the fabric of her desire. The taste of cock and cum was no longer a means to an end; it was the end itself, a flavor she craved more than air. When they finally left her slumped and spent, she clutched the inhaler to her chest, a prize earned. The need for the drug was now inextricably tangled with the need for their touch, their words, their filth. She was her own scene, and she was always ready for her close-up.
Kara began patrolling the neon-drenched streets of the red-light district, a hollow justification echoing in her mind that this was where the city’s most desperate crimes festered. In truth, she craved the constant, immediate offers for a hit and a rough fuck that defined these blocks. She leaned against a graffiti-scarred wall, the brick’s uneven texture a sharp counterpoint to the throbbing need between her legs, and watched a man with scarred knuckles approach.
“Back for more, Supercunt?” he grunted, his eyes dropping to the tight lace of her bustier. Her body ignited, a familiar heat pooling in her core as she nodded, her gaze fixed on the inhaler he toyed with. “You know the drill,” he said, unbuckling his belt with one hand. She dropped to her knees, the cold pavement seeping through her fishnets, and took his hardening length into her mouth. “Suck it good, you skinny bitch,” he commanded, fisting her platinum hair. Another man, drawn by the spectacle, chuckled from the shadows. “Love that tight little body, but those tits could use an upgrade,” he remarked casually. The words, meant to degrade, instead sent a jolt of electric pleasure straight to her clit, her conditioning wiring the insult into a reward. Later, pinned against a dumpster by a different pair of hands, a thug grunted into her ear, “Yeah, that’s it, with those stick-thin arms and legs—imagine if you had some real Double Ds to bounce.” The idea, repeated in the grimy afterglow of countless transactions, began to feel like a personal ambition. She sought out a surgeon in a windowless room, the air thick with the smell of antiseptic and decay, and laid cash on the table. The procedures were swift and clinical, her Kryptonian biology accelerating the healing around the foreign silicone in her breasts and the filler in her lips. Staring at her reflection days later, she saw a stranger with obscenely large, round breasts and a perpetually pouting, glossy mouth. Returning to the district, her new body drew immediate, ravenous attention. “Now we’re fucking talking!” a man roared, grabbing a handful of her fake tit as he shoved her against a brick wall. He drove into her with a brutal, practiced rhythm, her hypersensitive cunt clenching around him. “Take it, you plastic whore,” he snarled, his thrusts making her new breasts jiggle violently. She came with a guttural scream, the overwhelming sensation short-circuiting all thought. He finished inside her, slapping her ass before zipping up. “Better,” he said, tossing an inhaler at her feet. She scrambled for it, the heavy, artificial weight on her chest a perfect anchor for her descent.
The heavy, artificial weight on her chest felt less like an anchor and more like a badge of honor in this new, neon-soaked reality. It was Crystal, a dancer with electric blue hair and a laugh that could cut glass, who first pulled her from the solitary alley transactions. "Damn, girl, who did your tits?" Crystal asked, not with judgment but professional appraisal, her fingers tracing the line of Kara's bustier. "They're perfect." They took her to a after-hours club where the air was thick with sweat and poppers, and the other women, Lola and Jinx, welcomed her with snorted lines and shared stories of worst clients. Their casual acceptance was a drug more potent than the inhaler, their laughter at her heroic past not mocking but dismissive, as if she’d graduated from a boring day job. "Who needs to catch falling planes when you can make a grand just for lying on your back?" Lola slurred, pouring vodka into Kara's mouth. Kara laughed, the sound strange and light, as Jinx demonstrated a new pole trick, her body a fluid arc of muscle and desire. "Your turn, Superstar," Crystal grinned, pushing her toward the gleaming brass. Kara’s first attempts were clumsy, but the women cheered, their hands on her hips, guiding her into a sensual roll that sent pleasure sparking through her hypersensitive skin. She spent her nights now in their apartments, the floors littered with sequins and used condoms, learning to apply glitter glue to her nipples and how to deepthroat a champagne bottle for a cheering crowd. The constant, gnawing need in her cunt was no longer a shameful secret but a shared language, a reason to slip into a bathroom stall with a bouncer while her new friends pounded on the door, whooping. "Get that dick, Kara!" This was her life now, a continuous, grinding party where her only duty was to the next climax, the next high, the next chorus of approval from the only people who understood. She finally belonged.