Firestar stood defiantly, her legs spread far apart, and arms crossed just
below her breasts. She watched as the policemen shoved the bank robber in
the back of the paddy wagon. A big smile spread across her face. It was
satisfying to put away a criminal, but something was missing.
She shook hands with cops, posed for pictures. A pretty black officer named
Jones was especially friendly. Their conversation was peppered with
technical jargon usually reserved for cops. They had a similar attitude
towards “the job”. Firestar waited until the police van was well out of
sight before she asked. She became shy and almost apologetic whenever she
asked. She brushed her long, red hair off the front of her domino mask and
took a step towards Jones.
“Can I have a cigarette?”
Jones was slightly taken aback. She silently reached into her starched,
blue policeman’s pants and retrieved a pack of Camel No. 9’s. She held the
pack open to Firestar, and her gloved hand delicately slid one out. Jones
offered a lighter, but Firestar only smiled.
“I got it.”
She touched an orange pinky to the tip of the cigarette and it glowed white
hot as she dragged. The light illuminated her delicate white skin, and the
freckles that dotted her nose. She tilted her head back and exhaled towards
the night sky.
“Thank you.”
Jones lit one for herself.
“It’s pretty rare to see a super hero smoke a cigarette.”
Firestar laughed. Smoke bubbled out of her nose as she spoke.
“It’s not rare, so much as it is unlikely. There is such a…stigma
attached to it…”
She puffed, stared out into the distance, trying to find the right words.
She heard a noise in the distance, looked, and saw nothing. She then turned
her head back to Jones, and exhaled a steady stream of cigarette smoke. She
hadn’t meant to exhale so close to the pretty cop’s face, but she was
excited to find the right words. It was a conversation she’d wanted to have
many times over.
“There is an unspoken super-hero code of ethics. I mean, you kick the shit
out of guys like Dr. Doom or Glactus, and you want to celebrate with a
drink and a smoke, and everybody just glares at you. It’s like the boy
scouts or something… only worse. Much, much worse.”
Jones laughed.
“Lady, my brother was a boy scout. They would get stoned in the Scout
leader’s basement and read Mad magazine instead of earning merit badges.”
The two women shared a hearty laugh. Without being consciously aware of it,
Jones rested her hand on Firestar’s shoulder. Just then, the squawk box in
Jone’s cruiser lit up like a Christmas tree. Jones ran over and answered
the call. Firestar double pumped her cigarette and looked on, curiously.
Jones returned looking slightly dejected.
“I gotta go. I wish I could stay, but I can’t.”
Firestar felt a pang of sadness, but it didn’t register on her pretty face.
She thanked Jones once more, and was about to fly away when she realized
she still had over half a cigarette left. She shifted her weight to the
other foot, and stayed in place to finish it. Jones stopped mid-stride and
walked back over to Firestar.
“Tell you what, you keep the pack.”
Firestar shook her head, but Jones insisted.
“Hey. I’m not being that generous. There’s only about a third of the pack
left. And I’m keeping the lighter.”
There was that sense of humor Firestar loved so well. She graciously
accepted, and Jones was off in a flash. Firestar lingered, double and even
triple pumping. The voluminous clouds of smoke danced in the glare of the
red and blue lights. She felt a bit ill-at-ease, smoking in public, but
Jones had calmed her nerves. Firestar wanted to bask in that feeling, even
if only for a moment. That moment ticked away and soon, too soon, her
cigarette was spent. She crushed it into the blacktop and slowly levitated
into the air. Firestar cruised over the city at a relaxed pace.
It was nice to make a non-mutant, non-superhuman connection. She was so
sick of other superheroes! She bit her lower lip while thinking about it.
“You’d think they’d have the blue collar charm of a cop, firefighter, or
paramedic! But instead you find ego-maniacs, holy rollers, and pedantic
moralists…!”
Firestar changed direction, and headed east. She found an empty rooftop,
and perched herself on the ledge, long legs dangling over the precipice.
She opened Jones’s pack, only to find a business card with her name,
address, and home phone number on it. Firestar suppressed the urge to
giggle. She hummed to herself as she gingerly plucked a fresh cigarette out
of the pack.
She was about to light it, when she heard voices from below. She peered
down to the street corner below. Three women stood there, chatting and
laughing amongst themselves. Their clothing was either leather or skin
tight spandex. Firestar squinted. If she was not mistaken, they were super
heroines. One was wearing thigh high boots like Thundra, one had a corsett
like the White Queen, and the very last wore a fake wig like numerous
heroines. She smiled. To top it all off, all three of them were smoking!
She gently floated down to join them.
All three beautiful women stared. A bright red flush came to Angelica’s
face as she stepped closer. The blonde with the corset was very beautiful,
with long blonde hair and pouty lips. The swells of her breasts were
accentuated by the tight corset she wore. The brunette with the black
leather thigh high boots was considerably shorter, but no less beautiful.
The black girl wearing the fake wig was perhaps the youngest of the group.
“My name’s Angelica. I saw you all down here…Not that I was
eavesdropping, mind you…”
The black girl spoke up.
“Is this a bust?”
Angelica laughed. “No, no. I’m a friend. We’re in the same line of
work…?”
The three women laughed. Two lit fresh cigarettes. Firestar moved closer.
The conversation began innocently enough. General inquiries, a joke or two.
Not fifteen minutes in, all gentility broke.
The blonde spoke through her exhale.
“How long have you been whoring?”
Firestar was taken aback.
“I’m not a whore. I’m a super-hero.”
Her response was met with laughter.
“No. I’m serious. I’m Firestar. Don’t you recognize me? I was in the New
Warriors.”
More laughter. The brunette chimed in: “Maybe you’re just a hooker who
thinks she’s a super-hero.”
Firestar gritted her teeth. She was getting pissed off. She was about to
fly off when the blonde touched her shoulder, and then began stroking her
hair.
“Hey. It’s not all bad. I bet you’d be a better hooker than you were a
super heroine.”
The brunette came closer, grazed her boob as she did so.
“You’re pretty. Very sexy. You could make a fortune on this street if you
wanted to.”
The other women nodded in agreement. Firestar felt her crotch beginning to
tingle. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She was about to start
her litany of questions, when a car pulled up, and the blonde leaned in
close to the driver’s window. Firestar bid a quick good-bye to the other
women and took off. She flew straight home, and was a bundle of nervous
energy when she got there. She stripped off her super hero costume, changed
into sweats and a T-shirt, and preceded to chain smoke the remaining four
cigarettes left in Jones’ pack.
She knew the correct response to the suggestion: file it away as an amusing
remark for the next year’s Christmas party at Xavier’s. It was nothing.
Prostitutes had horrible lives, everybody knew that! She shook her head, to
clear all these bizarre thoughts, and crawled into bed. Angelica tossed and
turned, but couldn’t sleep. She lay flat on her back, staring up at the
darkened ceiling. She’d give anything to have another cigarette, but she
was fresh out. She’d smoked enough today, more than enough, really.
Angelica was a social smoker at best, and tonight’s behavior was completely
alien to her.
She rolled over on her stomach. She’d been doing a lot of weird things
lately. Smoking. Hanging out with prostitutes. Things just hadn’t been the
same since Bobby “Ice man” Drake had broken her heart. She swiftly pushed
him from her mind. It’d been over a year, and had invested all of her
energy on “the job” of heroics. There was nothing else in her life.
She started tearing up. “A better whore than a super hero!” Who was that
bitch? Who did she think she was, to hurt someone so casually? So
efficiently?
Angelica smiled in spite of herself. If nothing else, there was toughness,
independence in her that Anglica deeply admired. It was evident in the way
she stood, the way she talked, and the way she smoked. Anglica couldn’t
imagine a pimp beating the piss out of her. She simply couldn’t. Did
working girls even have pimps anymore? Didn’t the internet make them
redundant? Didn’t they die out along with payphones and adult movie
theatres?
She absentmindedly started pawing at her crotch through the sweat pants.
Even as a teenager, she had secretly fantasized about sex with anonymous
strangers, but on the onset of puberty (and her powers) put a damper on
those thoughts. It simply wasn’t befitting of a super-hero. Super-heroes
didn’t have anonymous sex. Not even the males. Nearly every one she knew
had a steady girlfriend or dutiful wife waiting for them in their civilian
lives.
Angelica pushed aside her sweat pants, and began playing with herself
through her underwear. She might not be a super-hero much longer. The
concept alone was so liberating! She’d never had a job, or gone to college.
While most mutants went through a tortured adolescence, she had a much
easier road. Her parents took an active interest in her abilities and paid
for the best physical trainers. They actually pushed her to join the
Avengers or the X-Men. The look of disappointment on her father’s face when
she’d been accepted to the New Warriors was almost more than she could
bear. She’d never been “big time” like they wanted. Well she’d bloody well
be big time now!
She was two fingers deep into her dripping wet snatch when her mind
returned to prostitution. A neon lit vision of the impossible danced before
her eyes. The secrecy! The clothes! The look! The money! The sex!
She doubled her efforts. Her breathing came in great shallow breaths. She
bit her lip and grabbed a handful of tender tit flesh. It was nearly on
her, and it was going to be a big one. She imagined herself in the place of
that blonde. The glare of the headlights. The car’s engine idling. The
power window sliding and the slight whir of the mechanism as it slid down.
Peering in and seeing all that power and comfort packed in every inch of a
very expensive automobile. She brought herself off quickly and soundly, and
then drifted off to sleep.
The urge to smoke seized her shortly after she awoke the next morning.
Anglica ignored it as she dressed, and then showered. It persisted as she
set out on patrol. It was shaping up to be a slow morning, and by noon,
Firestar felt completely discouraged.
She threw an overcoat over her costume, and continued her day as a
civilian, rather than hero.
Angelica picked up a pack of Camel no. 9’s and then went straight to her
favorite cafe. Angelica secured one of the small tables just outside the
entrance. The day was bright and warm. Sipped a coffee, and enjoyed the
sunshine warming her face.
Anglica slipped the unwrapped cigarette pack out of her coat pocket. She
had wanted to smoke all morning long, but kept putting it off. She didn’t
like to think of herself as an “instant gratification” kind of person, but
today was proving different. She’d done her duty, and felt entitled to a
little reward.
Anglica peeled off the cellophane wrapper, and deposited it into the
ashtray in front of her. She rapped the pack hard against her wrist. It was
a quiet afternoon, and the sound was louder than she thought it would be. A
cursory glance revealed she’d disrupted a conversation between two old
ladies, but otherwise no one else noticed. Angelica resumed rapping,
packing the tobacco tightly. She tore out the silver foil packaging,
flipped the boxtop, and then slid out a cigarette. Lighting it, she dragged
hard, eager to get last night’s rush back again. She exhaled smoke past her
pearly white teeth as she smiled.
She leaned back in her chair, and watched her smoke dance in the sunlight.
Her exhales were strong and voluminous. In the past twenty-four hours,
she’d gotten much bolder in her execution. A brief glance revealed a young
man sitting at rapt attention. He was in his late twenties, dressed
casually in a blue polo shirt and khakis. Angelica smiled at him. He smiled
back politely, but kept his distance. Ordinarily, she might have left it at
that, but not today.
She leaned forward, and performed a slow, sensual French exhale. The man
came over and quickly introduced himself. His name was Peter, and he worked
in a nearby office. They chatted briefly, but Peter was driven to
distraction by his strong desire for her. He kept it in check, and did the
socially respectable thing by asking her for a date.
She laughed, scrunched up her face.
“I’m actually really busy, Peter. Sorry.”
She scrawled something on a napkin and slid it towards him. The napkin
read: H.J.?
It took Peter a full thirty seconds to comprehend. He wrote on the napkin
and slid it back to her.
“I’m a busy person as well, Angelica. I work, I volunteer, but I still take
time out to smell the roses now and again.”
It read: $?
“Hm. Maybe I just need to be convinced.”
She wrote on the napkin and slid it back to Peter. It read: $25.
He nodded, put the napkin in his pocket. Wordlessly, the two of them slid
between the coffee shop and the adjacent store, and walked into the
alleyway. She lit a new cigarette, and leaned him against the wall.
Angelica kissed him hard. Their mouths tasted dirty between their coffee
and her smoke. She broke her kiss, brushed her cheek against his, and then
began nibbling on his earlobe. He closed his eyes and let out a groan.
She dragged hard on her cigarette, and exhaled right next to his ear. He
felt the heat on his neck and on his face. She opened her mouth and the
husky whisper that came out surprised even her: “you like that? Hmmm? Like
the heat?”
She unzipped his pants and his cock sprang out, hard and aching. She heated
up her hand slightly, intensifying his pleasure tenfold. He opened his
eyes, and she saw that he was practically pleading with her to go further.
Angelica sank to her knees, and blew smoke on his exposed prick. His
breathing became labored when she teased the head with her tongue.
Peter held the wadded up napkin and clumsily, altered it to read: B.J.?
They locked eyes. She clearly mouthed the word: “Fifty.” He nodded quickly.
She closed her eyes and went to town. She worked herself into a frenzy,
slowing down, only to gently blow smoke on his cockhead. It wasn’t long
before he was ready to blow. She hadn’t planned to swallow his come, but
then again, she hadn’t planned to hook for money today. Angelica simply
wasn’t a planner. It felt warm in the pit of her stomach regardless of a
lack of planning.
After composing themselves, Peter paid her seventy-five dollars, and left
without a word. Angelica was giddy. Behind his back, in the relative
darkness of the alleyway, she brought herself to a fast, sticky climax.
And that was that. Angelica had gone from super hero to prostitute in less
than twenty-four hours. She didn’t look back, and more importantly, she
didn’t regret anything. The next few weeks proved more interesting than
unbearable or scary. She quickly learned to screen potential clients, and
managed to do much less rimming, or piss-drinking and much more
conventional sex acts.
A month later, she was walking down her favorite boulevard. A fat man with
thinning hair pulled up in a black Escalade. In her mind, she flashed back
to the masturbatory image of the purring, luxurious automobile. They
quickly settled on a price and drove a few blocks towards the edge of the
city.
They pulled into a vacant lot. The man was unusually quiet for someone
looking to get laid. Angelica made polite small talk with him for awhile,
but something didn’t seem right. She was about to open the passenger door,
when it was suddenly opened for her. Three cops descended on her, and
dragged her out of the vehicle.
She kicked and swore as she dragged to the ground. She was frisked, and
then cuffed. Tears welled in her eyes when they placed her in the back of a
squad car. She was surprised to see she wasn’t alone.
A beautiful black woman sat with her luxuriously long legs crossed. She
smiled as she gave Angelica an approving once over. Angelica recognized the
badge. It was Officer Jones, from an eon ago.
“Nice to see you again.”
Angelica smiled an awkward smile. She tried not to show how frightened she
really was. Jones lit a Camel no. 9. She leaned over and held it up to
Angelica’s face, as she was still handcuffed. She puffed on it and smiled.
The two of them exchanged a long, smokey kiss.
Jones stared at her. “I suppose you’re wondering how this is going to end.”
Angelica nodded emphatically. Jones simply smiled and lowered her pants,
revealing silk underwear. She then pushed them aside. Angelica drew closer.
Jones gently pushed Angelica’s head down in her lap. Being bound, Angelica
had to work that much harder to bring her lover to climax, but that didn’t
make it any less satisfying for Jones. Angelica felt tears running down her
face as she lapped energetically. If she couldn’t bring Jones off, it would
mean a long prison sentence. She redoubled her efforts. Jones closed her
eyes and double pumped her cigarette.
Jones began cursing and bucking her hips. Angelica was starting to lose all
feeling in her wrists. Jones was close. Her freedom was within sight.
Angelica sucked on her clit, and it sent Jones over the edge.
Shortly thereafter, the prostitution charges were dropped and both women
went home happy.