Chapter 3: Rough Cut
The silence in the submersible bay was heavier than the ocean pressure outside.Dr. Aris Thorne’s question hung between them, a scalpel poised over a latent infection. Kara looked at the woman’s keen, analytical face, still flushed from their frantic coupling, and felt a cold clarity slice through the post-coital haze.
“It did nothing,” Kara said, her voice flat, final. She pulled her suit back into place with a thought, the material flowing seamlessly to cover her skin. The act felt like slamming a vault door.
“That’s a lie,” Aris replied, not accusingly, but with the certainty of measured data. “Your epidermal conductivity spiked for a full seventeen seconds after the orgasmic contraction.Human tissue can’t do that. Kryptonian tissue under a yellow sun shouldn’t do that.”
Kara took a step back, the water sloshing around her boots. “You don’t know what Kryptonian tissue should do.”
“I know electromagnetism,” Aris said, standing now, pulling her ruined wetsuit over her shoulders but leaving it open.“And I know a feedback loop when I see one. Or feel one.” She paused, her head tilting.“You used the storm.It wasn’t just weathering it. You were… interfacing. Getting off on it.”
The bluntness of it, the clinical accuracy, was more violating than any groping hands in a dark alley.Kara’s jaw tightened. “My ship is stable.Your crew is safe. Our business is done.”
Before Aris could formulate another hypothesis, Kara turned and punched the sealed bay door. It wasn’t a gentle push; the metal screamed as it buckled outward, twisting into a sunburst of torn steel. Cold spray and grey dawn light flooded in. Kara was a blur, gone before the first piece of shattered metal hit the water.She flew, not home, but away. The soaring high over the city that usually brought peace now felt like a hollow exhibition.Dr.Thorne’s words echoed. ‘Something is different in you.’ The sailor’s rough hands, the penthouse stranger’s polished touch, the lightning’s violent current—they were all variations of the same desperate signal, trying to drown out a frequency only she could hear.A frequency that was now changing pitch.She needed noise. Real, loud, human noise.
Johnny Smash’s warehouse didn’t open until midnight, but the locks were a polite suggestion to someone who could see the tumblers from the street and melt them with a glance. Kara phased through the reinforced steel door, entering the cavernous dark.The silence here was different, pregnant with the memory of bass and sweat. The main floor, a vast expanse of polished concrete, reflected the faint emergency exit signs. The VIP lounge, her destination, was a raised platform behind a heavy velvet rope, shrouded in deeper shadow.
She found him in the glass-walled booth he called his studio, overlooking the empty dance floor. Johnny Smash, born Jonathan Smolinski, was a bear of a man with a shaved head and intricate tattoos crawling up his neck. He was hunched over a mixing board, headphones on, reviewing footage from last night’s show on a large monitor. The screen showed a writhing mass of bodies, strobing lights catching glints of ecstasy-dilated pupils.Kara didn’t announce herself. She walked up behind his chair, her movements silent. On screen, the footage jumped to a more private angle: two women in a corner booth, hands exploring under sequined dresses. Johnny’s hand was on a slider, adjusting the color saturation, making their skin glow.
A part of her recoiled. This was the grubby underbelly, the transaction even more explicit than the ones she engaged in.Johnny traded in voyeurism and access. He provided a hunted, exclusive hedonism for the city’s wealthy and bored, and he recorded every second of it. For leverage, for his own private collection, for the dark web forums where such things fetched astronomical prices.
He sensed her presence finally, a change in the light, and spun in his chair. Surprise flickered in his small, dark eyes, followed by a slow, knowing smile.“Look what the cat dragged in. To what do I owe the honor, Miss Zor-El? Need another distraction?”
He knew her name.Not Kara Danvers, but her real name. It was the price of entry here, two years ago. A moment of drunken, grief-stricken candor after too much synth-Kryptonite-laced vodka that barely gave her a buzz. He’d stored it away, the ultimate piece of leverage, and had never once used it overtly. He was smarter than that.The unspoken threat was more valuable.
“I need to not think,” Kara said, her voice quieter than she intended.
“You came to the right place,” Johnny chuckled, leaning back and spreading his legs slightly, a king on his throne. His gaze was appraising, stripping her out of the Supergirl suit. “The thinking part happens out there.” He jerked a thumb toward the silent city. “In here, we just feel.”
She dropped to her knees on the scuffed concrete floor.The action was deliberate, a subjugation she was imposing on herself. She needed to be here, in this grimy reality, far from the piercing questions of a scientist in a flooded bay.
Johnny watched, saying nothing, as she unbuckled his belt, the loud click echoing in the quiet booth.She unbuttoned his jeans, pulled the zipper down. He was already half-hard, thickening as she freed him.He was thick, veined, uncircumcised. The musky scent of him, cheap soap and stale sweat, filled her nostrils. She didn’t hesitate. She took the head into her mouth, her tongue flattening against the sensitive frenulum.Johnny let out a long, satisfied groan.“Fuck yeah. Always wondered if the stories were true.”
She didn’t know what stories he meant, and she didn’t care. She hollowed her cheeks and took him deeper, her enhanced control suppressing her gag reflex completely. She took him all, until her nose was buried in the coarse hair at his base, his entire length sheathed in the wet heat of her throat. She held it there, feeling him pulse against her tongue, then pulled back slowly, dragging her teeth lightly along the underside.
“Jesus Christ,” he hissed, his hands coming down to tangle in her blonde hair. He fisted it, not gently, controlling her pace.“Yeah, just like that.You’re a natural. Better than any of my paid whores.”
The words were meant to degrade, and they did. They painted her as a commodity in his world, which, right now, she was. She let him fuck her mouth, his hips pumping upward, his grip on her hair tightening until her scalp burned. She focused on the physical details: the salty-bitter taste of pre-come at the back of her tongue, the scratch of his zipper against her chin, the low animal sounds grinding in his chest.
When he was rock-hard and leaking steadily, he pulled her up by her hair.“Turn around. Bend over my desk.”
She obeyed, turning and bracing her hands on the sleek, cold surface of his editing console. Monitors displayed frozen, lurid images. He pushed her cape aside and pulled her suit down from her hips, exposing her.The cool air of the booth raised goosebumps on her skin.
He leaned close, his breath hot on her ear.“Look at that. Perfect little superhero pussy. And this tight, pretty asshole.” He spat, a gob of saliva landing directly on her rosebud opening. Before she could react, his thumb, calloused and broad, was pressing against it, circling, then pushing inside with a steady, insistent pressure.
Kara gasped, her forehead dropping to the console. The intrusion was sharp, unexpected, a violation that sent a jolt of something dark and electric through her spine. She pushed back against him, a whimper escaping her lips.
“You like that, don’t you?” Johnny muttered, working his thumb in deeper, twisting.“All that power, and you just want to be used. Filled up.”
He withdrew his thumb, and she heard him spit into his palm, slicking himself. He positioned the thick head of his cock at her entrance, still wet from her mouth. He didn’t ask.He just drove forward, burying himself inside her pussy in one brutal, claiming thrust.
The desk screeched, sliding a few inches on the floor from the force. Kara cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound. He was big, stretching her, a deep, almost punishing fullness. He set a relentless pace immediately, each slam of his hips driving the desk forward with a metallic scrape. His hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the indestructible flesh hard enough that they would have bruised anyone else.
“Tell me,” he grunted, the sound punctuated by the wet slap of their joining.“Tell me what you are.”
She knew what he wanted. The humiliation was part of the needle, the sharp point that pierced the numbness. “I’m… I’m your little cunt,” she moaned, the vulgarity acid on her tongue.
“Louder.”
“I’m your cunt!” she shouted, the words bouncing off the glass walls.
“Damn right you are.” One of his hands left her hip and came down hard on her ass. The slap cracked through the booth, a shockwave of stinging pain that bloomed into heat.He did it again, on the other cheek. The pain was bright, clean, a counterpoint to the deep, grinding friction inside her.“My personal superhero cum dump. Aren’t you?”
“Yes!” Her orgasm was building, coiling from the abused place his thumb had been and the deep, piston-stroke of his cock. He reached around her hip, his fingers finding her clit, rough and demanding. He pinched it, rolled it, his timing perfectly brutal.“Come for me, you Kryptonian slut,” he growled. “Squeeze that fucking super-cunt.”
The command, the use of her heritage as a prop in his degradation, was the final trigger. Her climax broke over her not as a wave but as a shattering of glass inside her veins. She screamed, her back arching, her inner muscles clamping down on him in a series of frantic, rhythmic pulses that had nothing to do with super-strength and everything to do with base, animal release.He fucked her through it, his own rhythm becoming ragged, frantic. Just as she felt him swell, felt the telltale throbbing, he pulled out of her suddenly. His hot cum splashed across the small of her back, in thick, roping streaks. She shuddered, still spasming from her own orgasm, feeling the cooling trickle of it on her skin.He was panting heavily behind her. After a moment, he pressed the head of his still-dripping cock against her skin and smeared his spend across her back in broad, possessive strokes, pushing it into her skin like it was lotion.
“A reminder,” he said, his voice hoarse.“Until next time.”
Kara pushed herself upright, pulling her suit back up. She didn’t look at him.She didn’t look at the monitors. She focused on a single speck of dust floating in a beam of grey morning light filtering through a high window.
Johnny tucked himself away, zipping up with a sense of finality. “You know, I got some new footage in today.Interesting stuff.From a research vessel caught in that freak storm last night. The Aegis.Weird energy signatures all over it. Some scientist is already calling it ‘atmospheric plasma anomalies.’” He chuckled, wiping his hands on a cloth. “But I’ve got a clip.From a secondary hull camera that survived.Shows a blur. A red and blue blur, diving into the water right before the worst of it hit. Then, later… a different thermal signature.Two of them.Hotter than the surrounding ocean. Stationary for… a while.”
Kara’s blood, still heated from the sex, went cold. She turned her head slowly to look at him.Johnny met her gaze, his smile all teeth. “Don’t worry, superstar.It’s safe with me. For now.” He leaned forward, tapping a key on his console.The monitors all went black.“But it got me thinking. You’re getting sloppy.Or you’re changing. That scientist, Aris Thorne… she’s been making some very specific, very discreet inquiries on protected servers.About bio-electrical fields. About Kryptonian cellular energy absorption.” He stood up, walking to a mini-fridge and pulling out a bottle of water.“The question is, what does she know? And what’s it worth to keep her from knowing more?”
He wasn’t just a pervert with a club anymore. He was a spider, and his web had just tangled around a part of her life she couldn’t afford to expose. The numbness she’d sought was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp dread that felt infinitely more real than any touch.
“What do you want, Johnny?” Her voice was dead.“Right now?Nothing.” He took a long swig of water. “I’m just collecting pieces.You should go. The cleaners will be here soon.”
The chill from his drying semen on her back was nothing compared to the ice now spreading through her veins. He knew about the ship, about Aris. He’d woven a noose from her own carelessness, and he was smiling as he held the rope. Walking away meant leaving that leverage in his hands, alongside the sordid footage of every other night she’d stumbled in here desperate to feel something. The thought of that scientist’s piercing curiosity being filtered through Johnny’s grimy commerce was intolerable. A plan, cold and surgical, unfolded in her mind.
She didn’t move toward the door. Instead, she let a slow, deliberately seductive smile touch her lips, one she’d never given him before. She turned fully, leaning back against the console, letting her cape fall open. “You’re right, Johnny. I am getting sloppy.” She traced a finger along the neckline of her suit. “Maybe I need a better distraction. One you can’t capture on your little cameras.”
His eyes narrowed, interest battling with instinctive caution. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You collect experiences, don’t you?” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Unique ones. I’m offering you one nobody else on this planet can give you.” She pushed off the console and closed the distance between them, her hand resting on his chest. “How would you like to be the first man to join the Mile High Club without an airplane?”
A beat of silence. Then a greedy, disbelieving laugh barked out of him. “You’re fucking with me.”
“I’m dead serious.” Her fingers trailed lower. “I’ll fly you up, right now. Above the clouds. Where it’s just us, the stars, and nothing else. You can have me there. Any way you want.” She emphasized the last words, watching his pupils dilate. The crude fantasy, paired with the sheer impossibility of it, was overriding his rat-like survival sense. His own greed for the story, for the ultimate bragging right he could never actually share, was swallowing him whole.
“Any way?” he breathed, his hand grabbing her wrist.
“You’ve wanted my ass since the first time you saw me in this suit,” Kara stated, her tone flat and knowing. “Up there, you can have it. You can fuck my ass while we float above the whole world. You’ll cum inside a Kryptonian miles in the sky. Think about that.”
He was hard again, the bulge in his jeans pressing against her thigh. The threat of the footage, the scientist, all of it was forgotten, buried under a tsunami of depraved ambition. “Alright, superstar,” he grinned, all teeth. “Let’s take a trip.”
He expected a princess carry. Instead, she turned him around, wrapping one powerful arm across his chest, her hand splayed against his pectoral. “Hold on,” was all she said before she shot straight up, phasing them both through the warehouse roof. The ascent was violent, a cannon shot into the twilight. The city fell away in a dizzying smear of light, the air growing thin and bitterly cold. Johnny’s shout was stolen by the wind, his body rigid with a terror that was instantly addictive.
In under a minute, they breached the cloud layer, emerging into a silent, sunlit realm of blinding white. The sky was a deep, endless violet. She stopped, hovering, the only sound the faint, panicked whistle of his breath. The planet’s curvature was a visible line below them. “See?” Kara said, her mouth close to his ear. “No cameras.”
“Holy fuck,” he gasped, trembling, his earlier bravado evaporated in the face of actual infinity. The fear in him was a tangible, pheromone-rich scent.
Kara rotated them, maintaining a tight grip. She used her free hand to guide his, forcing his fingers to tear at the seam of her suit at the back until it opened. The sub-zero air kissed her exposed skin. She guided his other hand to his zipper. “Do it. Fuck me right here, Johnny. Claim your trophy.”
His hands were shaking, clumsy with cold and awe, but lust won. He freed his cock, already painfully hard from the adrenaline and the obscene novelty of it all. He spat into his palm, the saliva freezing almost instantly into slippery crystals. He rubbed it on himself, then pressed the hot head against her exposed, tightly clenched hole.
“It’s too tight,” he stammered.
“Then work for it,” she hissed, pushing back against him.
He groaned, a raw animal sound lost in the vast silence. He applied pressure, his other hand gripping her hip like a lifeline. Slowly, with a burning, exquisite stretch that made Kara’s breath catch, the head of his cock popped past the ring of muscle and sank inside her. The sensation was shocking, a brutal fullness heightened by the absolute alienness of their location. He was buried in her ass while they floated in the stratosphere.
“Oh my god… oh my god…” he chanted, beginning to move. The motions were awkward, his thrusts hindered by the need to cling to her, but each one sent a jarring spike of sensation through her. Her enhanced senses took in everything: the ragged heat of his breath on her neck, the microscopic shift of his cock inside her, the distant, pale eye of the moon watching impassively. He fucked her with a desperate, claiming fury, as if trying to imprint himself on this moment, on her.
“You’re mine,” he grunted, his voice thin in the thin air. “My personal fucking… celestial whore.”
“Yeah,” Kara moaned, the sound strained. “Fill my ass, Johnny. Come in it. Leave your mark where only the sun can see.”
The vulgar permission shattered his last shred of control. With a cry that was more scream than moan, he slammed into her one final time and held, shuddering violently. She felt the hot, pulsing rush of his release flooding her insides, a wet, private claim in the freezing void. He slumped against her, spent, panting, utterly conquered.
Kara gave him three seconds of the afterglow.
Then her arm, still locked across his chest, vanished. He began to fall. His scream was instantaneous, pure mortal terror. She let him drop ten feet, twenty, the clouds rushing up to meet him, before she streaked down and caught him not by his arm or his shirt, but with a single, viselike hand wrapped around his still-wet, softening cock.
A sharper, more piercing scream tore from him. He dangled from her fist, his entire body weight suspended from his genitals, a white-hot agony of stretching, tearing pain obliterating everything else. Kara hovered, holding him aloft over the infinite, fluffy landscape of clouds.
“Listen very carefully, Jonathan Smolinski,” she said, her voice perfectly calm, carrying in the thin air. “You will delete every piece of footage from the Aegis research vessel. You will erase all traces of Dr. Aris Thorne’s inquiries from your servers. You will never speak of me, of this, or of her again.” She gave a slight, threatening jiggle of her hand, and he howled, tears freezing on his cheeks. “If you ever try to leverage me again, or if so much as a blurry still from that ship leaks anywhere, I will not catch you next time. I will find you, and I will drop you from this exact spot. You will have several minutes to think about it on the way down.”
“I’ll do it! I’ll do it all! Please!” he sobbed, snot and spit streaming from his face.
“I know you will.” Her grip tightened infinitesimally. “Because you’re a cockroach who loves his own skin. And his dick.” She began a slow, deliberate descent, not letting up the pressure for a second, forcing him to endure the excruciating ride down. She didn’t speak again until they phased back through his warehouse roof, landing with a jarring thud on the concrete studio floor. She released him. He crumpled, vomiting between heaving, traumatized sobs, clutching himself.
Kara looked down at him, the hollow quiet within her now filled with a sterile, operational satisfaction. “The cleaners are here,” she said, and walked out, leaving him broken on the floor.
The city air felt thick, tainted. She flew a slow patrol over the docks, past the burnt-out hulk of the Mariner’s Lament, but the memory of the sailor’s hands brought no heat. The phantom ache from Johnny’s violation was already fading, another sensation filed away. The threat was contained, but the source remained.Dr. Aris Thorne had looked past the sex and the spectacle and seen a malfunction. Something was different. The storm hadn’t just energized her; it had tuned her to a new, unsettling frequency. And as she landed on her apartment balcony, the silence waiting behind the glass doors felt deeper, and more interrogating, than ever before.