1) The following is a work of erotic fiction. Those under 18 (or whatever is the age of majority in your jurisdiction) should stop reading now.

2) This story contains characters and settings copyrighted by DC Comics. This story should be considered a parody of those characters and settings. It is also distributed free of charge and is a non-commercial enterprise; the author derives no profit from its distribution. No copyright infringement is intended.

3) This story contains depictions of sex as a healthy, non-degrading activity that consenting adults engage in for fun and pleasure. Those who prefer their depictions of sex to be debased should go find something else to read: this being the Internet, you shouldn't have to look hard.

4) This story uses the TV show Justice League Unlimited and its ancestors as its model, but is set in a hypothetical fourth season of JLU (hypothetical, sadly, because it seems a real fourth season will not come to pass). This setting is a plot device that allows me to arrange characters and relationships as I want them, without cumbersome continuity revisions. For those that care about such things, my most recent story before this one, "Birds in the Hand," uses the same setting.

5) Stories like this take time and effort to write, and frankly aren't worth the trouble unless more people than just me like to read them. If you enjoyed this story, or if you have constructive criticism, please drop me a line and let me know. The more feedback I receive, the more likely it is I'll keep writing new stories.

*

Michael looked up as the proximity alarm chimed. "Computer, report."

The speaker in the ceiling murmured "A visitor at the front door. Scanners identify Justice Leaguer, codenamed 'Huntress.'"

"Execute welcome protocol COLLEAGUE. Inform her I'll meet her in the parlour."

He stood up from his workbench and walked to the elevator. After he stepped inside, it began to ascend, noiselessly, on a shaped magnetic field. He passed the laboratory level and the garage and stopped at his living quarters on street level. As he stepped out of the elevator he affixed his mask to his face. The fabric released a series of nanopolymers that held it in place firmly but comfortably. He waited for a moment to let the mask adhere. Behind him, the elevator door slid shut, and the holofield which concealed it hummed to life. With a final pat to his forehead, he strode into the parlour, passing the serving droid on its way out.

Helena was sitting on the burgundy couch, a martini in one hand, the other idly stroking the soft paraleather cushion. She didn't rise when he entered, but she looked up at him, and smiled languidly.

"Nice place you have here, Mr. Terrific."

"Thank you. And in private, I prefer 'Mr. Holt' to 'Mr. Terrific.'"

Michael had never bothered to conceal the fact that he was the alter ego of the superhero Mr. Terrific. Michael Holt was well known to be the third-smartest man in the world; he was among the richest men in America; and, last but certainly not least, he was black. Given his public profile, Michael had reasoned, the chance that Mr. Terrific's true identity could be kept secret was slim to nil, so why go to the trouble? Helena had a private life she wanted to keep private, so she'd showed up in full Huntress regalia: purple mask, purple cape, purple boots, and form-fitting halter and tights, purple also. But Michael was in jeans and a flannel workshirt. His only superheroic accoutrement was his T-shaped mask: he didn't dress up when he was at home.

(Even the mask was a token gesture. Form-fitting as it was, it didn't conceal any of his features. But a superhero without powers, like the Batman or the Question or the Huntress herself, had to wear a mask. It came with the territory.)

"Normally," he continued, "I don't welcome visitors without an appointment, but you're League, so I'm making an exception. What can I do for you?"

Helena held his gaze, smoky amusement to his cool politeness. She rose, smoothly and gracefully, and stepped forward, standing only few feet away from him. They didn't know each other, except by reputation, so she was well inside his personal space. He held his ground, and Helena's smile broadened.

"They tell me I should set you at ease before telling you why I'm here, but I've never been a stickler for what other people think. I'm here on a mission. One of the special missions."

His eyes widened slightly, but that was all.

She leaned in, pushing her body up against his, and pressed her lips against his. The contact was brief but electric. "Take me to your bedroom."

He didn't move. Helena grunted in annoyance. "And here I'd been told you were a genius. I'll make this clear: I'm here. For you. To get your rocks off. If you don't want me to, that's fine, but don't waste my time. Take me to your bedroom or send me away, but spare me the shocked indecision."

Michael blinked. "Uh." Then he smiled, a warm lascivious smile. "Follow me."

He led the way through a short hall to a flight of stairs, recessed at the back of the house. They ascended to the second floor and passed into the master bedroom. Furnished in tasteful mahogany, the bedroom set—armoire, dresser, and bedframe—was set off by sea-green bedding. The window looked out onto a street of attractive brownstone residences. Like other parts of Harlem, this street had gentrified into upper-class respectability. The sun, somewhere out of sight, was setting, and the streetlamps had only just come on, leaving the bedroom in dim twilight. There was street traffic, pedestrian and vehicle, but, thanks to the soundproofing, the room was absolutely silent.

As they entered, Michael stepped aside to let Helena precede him. "Window's one-way, at the moment. No one can see us."

Helena sat on the side of the bed and crossed her long, tanned legs. She looked up at Michael, still standing by the doorway. "Guess you've been working too hard, Terrific." She emphasized the name. "The Martian upstairs wants me to help you relax."

Michael said nothing, but just watched her, still smiling. His teeth gleamed white in the dim light.

"You're handling this a lot better than most. Maybe you really are terrific." She scowled. "Guess we'll see."

She stood and struck a pose, her chest up, her breasts straining against her tight halter-top. "Here's how we play this, tonight. Not my normal game plan, but there are... special circumstances. Tonight, you take the initiative. You tell me what you want me to do. Either I'll do it or I'll tell you no. But you have to let me know what you want. I'm not going to suggest anything."

Michael stared at her, fake smile concealing uncertainty about how to proceed. Behind her mask, the Huntress' demeanour was fierce, even hostile, expression, but her body language was inviting, her legs apart, one hand at her crotch, the other across her chest, her head cocked. The message was clear: take me, if you can. Slowly he nodded. "Well, all right," he said. "So the first thing I want you to do is tell me the truth. You ever make it with a brother before?"

Helena nodded.

"Not like me you haven't." He couldn't believe what he was saying. He knew he was covering hesitation with bravado, but at least it came naturally. "Come here."

Languidly she rose and walked over to him, her hips swaying. As she reached him he pulled her close and kissed her. Her lips parted and their tongues met. She was a good kisser: her tongue pressed lightly against his then yielded. Her perfume was faint, but he was close enough now to smell it, a sweet aroma. Her body pressed against his and he hugged her, drawing her even closer; she purred.

He broke contact. "Take off your mask." His voice was husky.

She shook her head, face still stony, even after the kiss, which had been as warm and willing as he could have wished.

"Fine. Take off your top."

She didn't say anything, just stared at him, her expression a closed book. But she reached up, each hand at the opposite shoulder, and undid the clasps there. Her cape crumpled to the floor. She pushed her chest forward, her breasts straining forward against their fabric confines, and reached back. In a moment her halter-top came loose. It was connected to her tights; a few more catches and they, too, went slack. She undulated her hips and the whole costume slithered to the ground. She gingerly kicked it over her boots. Finally, with a quick motion behind her back, her sports bra came loose. She removed it with a flourish and, now free, struck another pose.

Michael stared. He worked in a field filled with super-hotties, but damn. She had good looks: high cheekbones, glossy black hair, and a gaze that could pull the breath out of your chest. The purple mask added a note of mystery and glamour. She was clearly athletic—her arms and legs were thick and developed—but she managed somehow still to be voluptuous: generous breasts, slim waist, wide hips. In the dimness her olive complexion wrapped her in shadow, her curves thrown into relief by the streetlights behind her. Her breasts pointed perkily up at him, her nipples small pink buds on the nut-brown patches of her aureoles. She was the whole package, all right, and wrapped up nicely, too: something about her partial costume—gloves, boots and mask—set against her exposed breasts, and flimsy cotton panties, made her seem even sexier.

Her panties were purple, too. Now here was a girl who was serious about theme.

Michael reached out and cupped her breasts in his hands. They were ample enough to fill his grip, and he squeezed them. She breathed a long sigh, and her nipples hardened under his thumbs.

He began walking forward, pushing her before him, until she reached the bed and sat. Standing before her, he reached down and undid his jeans. With a few ungainly motions he had them, and his boxers, slide down to his ankles, allowing him to kick them away. His cock was partially erect, and dripping pre-cum down onto the side of the bedspread. Helena looked up at him with a knowing smile, but didn't say anything.

"I guess you know what I want." He thrust his pelvis forward, only slightly.

"I guess I do. But you have to say it."

He licked his lips. "Suck it. The best you can. As long as you can."

Her eyes flickered. Michael stared at her. After a moment, she nodded. She pulled off her gloves and tossed them to the floor. She reached out and took his shaft in her hand and began to run her fingers along it. From the base of the shaft her fingertips drifted up, to his foreskin, then circled around to the other side and down. She repeated the motion, and his cock began to perk up even more, rising to a full forty-five degree angle from his body.

Leaning forward, she took hold of his member in one hand and her left breast in the other, and began to rub the two together, running her nipple in a circuit around the tip. His pre-cum dripped onto her breast and she spread it around, so that it gleamed in the dim light. Michael's toes clenched, and he put his hands on her shoulders to brace himself. A glance at his face, and his cock, proved to Helena that he was ready. She opened her mouth and went down on him.

Helena didn't think of herself as a tramp, but she'd gotten around, both as Helena Bertinelli and as the Huntress. She knew how to use her tongue, and her teeth. Any good fellatrice did. She tickled his cockhead with her tongue, especially the sensitive underside. She licked the salty tip. She sucked on his balls while stroking his shaft with her hands. She nibbled at him, biting down just hard enough to get his attention but not hard enough to hurt. But she didn't stop there. In her own mind, she wasn't just a good fellatrice, she was a great one. She supplemented the standard repertoire with her best tricks. She pressed his cockhead against her cheeks, first the left, then the right, the end of his member stopping just shy of her Huntress mask. She cupped his shaft between her breasts and squeezed them together, hard. She tickled his balls and his asshole while bobbing up and down on his cock. She smacked her lips, she panted and growled, and every so often she pulled away and looked up at him, eyes glittering behind her mask, while her hands sped up and down his member. And, finally, the pièce de la résistance, she grabbed his asscheeks, and, bracing herself, deepthroated him, thrusting forward until his cock, all eight inches, disappeared into her mouth.

Michael groaned. He'd held out for half an hour as she worked on him, his toes turning to mush, his knees aching, his hands sweating as she twisted beneath him. And he'd held off coming all that time: whenever he got too close, he grunted with effort and mentally recited the periodic table, and Helena, sensing his distress, lowered her intensity. And he'd kept back from climax. It took superb mental and physical self-control, but he wasn't called Mr. Terrific for nothing. But for all of his virtues, the deepthroating was too much, as Helena had meant it to be. She wanted to give him her best work, but after a half hour her jaw was getting sore. So, she pushed him all the way down, held him there, for one heartbeat, two, three, and as he groaned she pulled back and jacked him, right hand not rubbing or stroking, but squeezing with a twisting motion, quick and precise, right below the cockhead, while her left fondled his balls.

He came in a flood, semen shooting out and spattering against her chest, again, again, again. Helena knew her business and didn't stop, stroking and massaging until he finally ran dry, his member drooping into lassitude. When she finally let go, he staggered to one side and collapsed across the bed, lying next to her, his arms and legs extended, gasping for breath.

Helena remained where she was. She reached out and caressed his back. Mr. Terrific, she thought, you just cost me a hundred bucks.

*

The concierge looked up as Don approached his desk. "May I help you, sir?"

"Err... yes, hello. My name is Donald Hall. I have an appointment with... that is, I'm supposed to meet someone in the penthouse suite?"

"Yes, of course, sir. Excuse me a moment." The concierge, a middle-aged Latino, smiled politely and turned away. Picking up the house phone on his desk, he spoke softly into it. Donald smiled weakly and took a deep breath. His heart was pounding and he had the makings of a tension headache. When he'd got the message, he hadn't known what to think. It had come over his Justice League communicator, but it was explicit that he was to show up at the Seattle Astoria hotel and meet his contact alone. But why alone? His powers didn't work unless his brother was present. So what could the League need him to do? Between the subterfuge necessary to ditch Hank for the evening and his concern about what was going on, he was shaping up to be of no use to anyone at all.

The concierge hung up the phone and turned back to him. "Sir? You are expected." He pulled a plastic keycard from out of his desk drawer and ran it through a slot on his computer keyboard. "Just insert this into the slot in the central elevator." He gestured towards the back of the lobby.

"Thank you." Donald took the card, nodded to the concierge, and walked towards the bank of elevators. The lobby was plush: polished faux-marble floors and walls and soft lighting overhead, the large space artfully broken up with leather couches arranged into conversation nooks. Chamber music played softly, pumped in through discreet speakers. The League was clearly in no financial trouble if it could afford to book the penthouse here for a briefing. Thinking about the briefing made him tense up again. He realized the edges of the card were biting into his hand, and relaxed his grip. He reached the bank of elevators and pressed the elevator call button. Stepping back, he started at his reflection in the brass doors. Given the venue, he'd gone for business casual: dark slacks, royal blue turtleneck, and classic blazer, to match his blue eyes (not to mention his blue costume, though that wasn't in evidence, as it appeared by magic when his powers manifested). His brow was sweaty; he brushed a hand over his forehead back across his close-cropped blond hair, slicking it into place. He smiled, but came off more sickly than confident. He dropped the smile. Expressionless, he stepped through the opening doors.

The keycard worked, and in a moment, the elevator began its rapid ascent to the penthouse. He blinked with surprise when the doors opened: rather than the hallway he expected, the elevator opened onto the penthouse itself. He stepped out and the doors closed.

He was in a vestibule, like a walk-in closet, with hangars and hooks on either side. The room wasn't lit; light seeped in from the room beyond. "Hello? Donald Hall here..." A few steps led up to a landing; there were openings to the left and right. He walked up the steps and passed through on the left-hand side. As he did so, he whistled.

Now this was luxury. Soft, deep carpet; shining chrome track lighting, tastefully subdued; fully stocked, granite-topped wet bar; the biggest flat-screen TV he had ever seen outside of the Watchtower. Those were details, though. The main event, the feature that dominated the room, was the massive picture window that looked out onto the city. It was mid-evening, and the Seattle skyline was a jigsaw of white lights in grey buildings, all silhouetted against the black of the Sound.

He wasn't alone in admiring the view. Before the window there was a couch flanked by a couple of chairs. Sitting on the couch was a young woman; she was sitting along the length of the couch, legs up on the cushions, her head turned so she could watch him come in. Even in the soft light, Don recognized her immediately as Supergirl. The big red S on her white baby-tee shirt was the giveaway, but Don recognized her face, too: young, blonde, and pretty, with china-blue eyes, upturned nose, high cheekbones, and impish smile. Her good looks were unmistakeable.

"Hey, Don. Come on in. Have a seat."

Don sat down with alacrity, taking one of the chairs facing the couch. "Hello, Supergirl. I guess I am in the right place."

"You sure are. And call me Kara."

"Er... okay. Who's the briefing officer for this mission? I think there may have been some mistake—without Hank, I can't—"

"Relax, Don, relax. It's just you and me on this one. And there's no mistake. This job calls for Donald Hall, not Dove."

Kara raised her arms over her head and stretched, grunting as her arm muscles tensed. Her baby-tee stretched. Don looked away, and Kara, noticing that he wasn't looking, frowned. Damn, she thought. It's not going to be a slam-dunk. With a mental sigh, she swung her legs around and at up properly on the couch. She leaned in towards Don. "You see, J'onn has noticed that your sibling rivalry with Hank has gotten out of hand lately."

Don leapt to his brother's defence. "Oh, you know, for us, that's normal. We just don't—"

Kara interrupted him again. "It is normal, but right now it's a little too intense. It's starting to affect your performance. So J'onn figured a little time apart for you two might be a good thing. He asked me to meet with you tonight, without Hank, and debrief you a little." She smiled, more impishly than usual. She gestured to the coffee table near their seats, where a bottle of merlot and two stem glasses sat. "Wine?"

The two spent a better part of an hour talking, Kara asking questions, Don answering them. They talked about his powers, his childhood, his relationship with his brother, and his life outside the costume. Kara listened attentively, always asking good follow-up questions, sometimes sharing a common experience. Gradually Don, usually so tightly wound, relaxed, as the wine and Kara's demeanour set him at ease. And the more relaxed he got, the more aware he became that Supergirl wasn't just a fellow Leaguer and a senior operative, but a young woman, too. And what a woman! As if her cornfed girl-next-door good looks weren't enough, there was her figure. It seemed all the women of the League were blessed with hourglass figures and ample chests, but those with truly unearthly abilities, like Maxima, Barda, and especially Wonder Woman, took the matter to a whole new level. Supergirl was on that level too. Supergirl had the physical strength to move mountains, but all that power was concentrated in a girlish frame. She had delicate hands, slender arms and legs, and the measurements of a centrefold: her narrow waist plunged downwards to wide hips and up to stupendous breasts. Of all the Leaguers, only Wonder Woman had a bigger chest, and it was well-known gossip that her metal bustier measured 38DD (the Flash had checked it personally). Supergirl's bust was only slightly smaller, and she hadn't even reached her full growth yet.
The more Don drank, and the more Kara nodded and smiled and listened to what he had to say, the more aware Don was of her chest; her baby-tee didn't leave much to the imagination. Tight as a drum, it showcased every curve, every bounce, and the swell of her nipples: apparently one of Kara's superpowers was the power to go braless and still have her breasts remain perky and free of pain. Has she always worn her shirt that tight? I've never been this close to her before. Don bit his lip and tried to focus on her eyes, but every time, as if by magic, she shifted her weight on the couch, or leaned forward to pour more wine, and free of scrutiny, he drank in the sight of her. His cock was starting to stiffen in his pants.

Nervous, he began to stammer, mangling whatever witticism he had been trying to deliver, and Kara cut him off, leaning forward and giving his right knee a gentle squeeze. "Listen, Don," she said, as his cock sprang to full attention. "Just relax, okay? You don't have to impress me."

He gurgled "Er?", all his attention focused on that hand, its slight warmth, and his now-painful hard-on pressing up against his pants. Why did I have to wear briefs?

"Listen. J'onn asked me to get in touch with you and help you relax, and unwind. There's an informal system in the League for this sort of thing that J'onn and Diana run. So that's what I'm here to do. And you," she said, frowning in mock severity, "are lousing up my mission."

"Um," he managed.

"Don. Come over here," she patted the couch next to her, "and sit by me."

Mute, he rose and sat next to her, palms on his kneecaps, back ramrod straight. He'd heard rumours, but he hadn't believed that...

For all of her incredible bosom, the Maid of Might really did have a petite body. She had to look up at him to gaze into his eyes. "Tonight, I'm yours. All yours. But I'm not going to make the first move. If you want to have something happen, you have to make it happen. Okay?"

He just looked at her.

Damn, she thought. Okay, I'll bend the rules a little. "Don." She leaned back against the couch, and smiled, a friendly smile. "Don. Do you wanna make out?"

He blinked. "Make out?" What, was she Betty to his Archie? But the phrase, hokey as it sounded, had enough of an air of innocence to soothe Don's anxiety. One lingering doubt remained, though. "Does your cousin know?"

"Kal?" She laughed. "Kal knows. Kal doesn't care. He's macking up Diana every week! For years now! That's what got all this started."

That was all Don needed to hear. Interrupting her, he said, "I'd like to kiss you," his voice husky.

She smiled, and whispered, "Boy, you go for it."

She tasted sweet, like the wine they'd been drinking. She caressed his tongue with her own and sighed happily as he explored her mouth. She rubbed his shoulder blades with a light touch and moved in closer to him. He ran his fingers through her hair, making one quick pass, her hair silky and free.

That, he figured, was enough attention to establish he was a gentleman. His hands dropped to her chest and reached up under her baby-tee. He took hold of her mammoth breasts, one in each hand, and squeezed as hard as he could. In their fullness, they exceeded his grasp, filling his hands, pressing back against him. She murmured, but didn't complain. He couldn't have hurt her if he had wanted to. He broke off their kiss and pulled back slightly, and Kara reached up and pulled her shirt over her head.

Her breasts, ripe, full, round, put every centrefold and pornstar Don had ever seen to shame. Kara giggled and shrugged her shoulders, and the jiggle and bounce of her chest proved they were implant-free. "What can I say? Yellow sun. There's more to it than super-strength and flying."

"You're amazing." His voice was reverent.

She smiled. "Thank you." She leaned back against the couch as he brought his mouth down on her left breast. He kissed it, licked it, took her nipple into his mouth. She cooed and ran her fingers through his hair. He rolled her nipple between his teeth, feeling it harden. With his left hand he found her right breast and cupped it. Shifting his weight to rest on her, he suckled away.

Certain he couldn't see her face, preoccupied as he was, Kara frowned and stuck her tongue out at him. No surprises so far—every man she had ever been with had grabbed her boobs as soon as he thought he could get away with it—but she had hoped... oh well. There was still a good chance. When Don came up for air she grinned a wicked grin at him. Reaching out to stroke the tentpole at his crotch, she raised an eyebrow.

"I make the first move, right?" Don said.

"That's right." Her voice lilted knowingly.

"Okay..." He began fumbling with his belt. Kara frowned mentally. His pants, not her shorts? In a moment he had his slacks at his ankles and kicked them off. He slid his briefs down, too, and his cock, long and strong, stood at attention. He swallowed, but Kara simply smiled encouragingly. "Come here," he said, voice uncertain.

She leaned in close to him, hand reaching out for his member.

"No," he said. "Could you... use your mouth?"

Kara blinked. Damn, she thought, but she didn't say anything. She simply rose up into the air, hovering over the couch. Keeping her head in place, she rolled her legs away until she was over the couch lengthwise, her right side closest to the seat cushions. Then she descended again, her head coming to rest in Don's naked lap. His cock was just a scant distance from her mouth. Delicately, she began to breathe on it, her breath cool. Don shivered in delight and became even stiffer. Without breaking his gaze at her face, he reached out with his left hand and began to stroke her pale blonde hair. His right found her gigantic tits and began to squeeze them again, first one, then the other, revelling in their fullness. As if that was the signal she had been waiting for, Kara floated up slightly so that her mouth was directly over the head of Don's prick. She lowered herself onto him and began sucking his cock with gusto.

Kara had only slightly more familiarity with giving blowjobs than Don had with receiving them; Don had had one before, from his college girlfriend (they broke up shortly thereafter), and Kara had given two, both to Smallville High boys she'd dated, out of curiosity, back when she'd been living on the Kent farm in Kansas. Still, Kara knew the theory if not the practice. She and Diana had talked about it in bed.

Kara was totally bisexual. Perhaps this was because of her Kryptonian physiology, or perhaps it was just a random genetic trait, the result of whatever evolutionary quirk dictated sexual orientation in Kryptonians and humans. (Personally she leaned towards the latter. As far as she knew Kal was straight as an arrow. Or if he wasn't, he kept it to himself.) Whatever the reason, Kara found playing with women to be as much fun as playing with men, and it hadn't taken her long to find a playmate: Wonder Woman, it seemed, was equally uninhibited in her choice of lovers. Kara and Diana had begun their affair within days of Kal's introducing them. The sex had been great from the start, so much so that even after Diana shocked Kara with the revelation that she had been, and continued to be, Kal's mistress, Kara chose not to break off her own relationship with the Amazon princess. Though the idea that Diana was cheerfully screwing both her and her cousin was disquieting, Kara couldn't bring herself to stop seeing her, or to ask Diana to break it off with Kal. Kal, she was sure, was equally unsettled, but both Kryptonians found Diana's sexual prowess too addictive to give up. For Kara, and Kal, and Diana herself, truly satisfying sex required a partner who was equally strong, equally filled with stamina, and equally invulnerable.

Kara settled into a smooth, comfortable rhythm on Don's cock. With her lips closed tightly around his member, making a hard seal, she licked him once, twice, thrice; then plunged all the way down, until the tip of his member tickled the back of her throat. She held him there for a long moment, then pulled up again, licked him three times, and deepthroated him once more.

Again and again she repeated herself, her mind elsewhere. She and Diana had started pretty vanilla: Kara would steal away to Diana's private island and meet her there. Together they'd relax, bathe, and end up lying on a blanket under the palm trees, kissing each other at first, licking each other at last. Once Kara was admitted into the League, they had more time for each other, and not long after that Diana's exile from Themascyra came to an end. Once Diana was able to bring her lover to her home, Kara had been shocked—but intrigued—to discover how Paradise Island brought out Diana's old sexual habits, in particular the Amazon fetish for bondage. They'd started with friendly wresting matches, the loser owing the winner a tongue-induced orgasm, and had progressed into kinkier and kinkier games. Diana had found some creative uses for her magic lasso: for all of the power that Supergirl and Wonder Woman possessed, the unbreakable lariat could still make either one of them a prisoner, subject to all of the delicious sexual tension that that helplessness could induce.

Kara smiled to herself, thinking about the romps they had together. Her pussy began to get wet, something that Don's tentative kisses and desperate groping hadn't achieved. She didn't vary her tempo, however. Up, lick, lick, lick, down and hold. She could hold her breath for more than an hour if she needed to, so she didn't need to break her rhythm. Up, lick, lick, lick, down and hold.

"There are a few schools of thought on how to please a man with your mouth," Diana had told her once, as they lay in each other's arms, wrapped in postcoital glow. Kara remembered the scene: she had stretched and pulled her lover close, looking out at the moon through the window of their tower bedroom. An island breeze stole through the window, fluttering the silk curtains. It was night and the air, coming off the sea, was salty and chill, cooling their sweaty bodies.

"One says that you should think of it like a sprint: use your mouth like your womanhood, and stimulate his manhood quickly and relentlessly, until he can stand no more. Another says that it's like a decathlon: as he gets used to one technique, find another. Lick him, but then suck him, now work him with your hands, now with your breasts, now with your throat. The unpredictability will make him mad with pleasure."

Diana nudged Kara away and turned onto her side, facing the wall. Kara rolled over as well, pressing up against Diana's back, draping an arm along her chest, below her breasts. Diana murmured with contentment, then continued. "And I won't gainsay those approaches. But you, my pet"—Kara purred like a kitten, and Diana chuckled—"you should begin with the marathon. Go slowly, but with vigour. Find a good pace, and continue, and continue, and continue. That will play to your strengths. You'll never get tired, and never get weak. They'll try to outlast you... but they won't succeed. And it will be joy to them."

Kara could hear her smile. "The same joy I give to you. The same joy you give to me."

Diana pulled away and sat up at the side of the bed. She turned her head towards Kara, serious now. "You asked me about how to satisfy a man in bed. I have something to ask you on the same subject..."

That had been Kara's initiation into the League's special missions. Normally it was a quid pro quo arrangement, where a member only was sent to relieve someone's sexual tension after having their own tension relieved, but this had been a special case: J'onn was the one in need of release, and as he was used to shapechanging Martian women, Diana wasn't up to the task herself. She'd needed help, help as tough and invulnerable as she was.

As Kara reminisced about what had happened next, her pussy now sopping, Don found himself unable to hold out. Kara's mouthwork was simple and straightforward, but never flagged, never gave him a moment to dial down his need. If he closed his eyes, his cock became his whole world, and he couldn't escape the pleasure; if he opened them, he saw Supergirl, young, pretty, barely legal (by Earth standards), the subject of the sweaty fantasies of millions, and she was bobbing up and down on his cock, her huge tits bouncing and and shaking and quivering in his grip, her nipples rubbing against his hands like rose-coloured pearls...

"I'm coming," he gasped, and Supergirl cooed her approval. That put him over the edge. With a shudder, he burst, his semen pumping out in a rush of fluid. Supergirl didn't stop her rhythm, though: she bobbed and swallowed, bobbed and swallowed, easily taking in everything he shot out.

Don's head lolled back as he went limp: as his cock emptied of semen his body emptied of tension. He sank into the couch. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so relaxed, so content.

Kara, still floating over his crotch, kept at her work, more gently now, making sure he had nothing left to give. Dove, she thought, you just cost me a hundred bucks.

*

Ollie looked up when he heard the knock at the door. He frowned: his household staff knew better to disturb him when he was in the hot tub. He'd just finished an extended workout—he'd been practicing his archery and his judo—and he wasn't as young as he used to be. His muscles had begun to stiffen, and without a good soak, he'd be in poor shape tomorrow.

He stroked his beard (blond, tapering to a sharp point) and considered, dark eyes narrow with thought. His valet had standing orders to wait until after Ollie emerged from the gym before delivering any messages. And if it was a League emergency... he glanced at the communicator he always kept with him, now flung carelessly, with his workout clothes, on the cedar bench on the far side of the room. Not blinking or humming, so he could rule that out.

Annoyed, he called out "Come on in!" and the door creaked open. The wisps of mist that poured out of the hot tub and eddied lazily around the floor began to swirl as a rush of cool air entered. The mist drew back, violently, then, instead of sinking backwards, it rose up in the air, thickening, growing heavier, making a curtain of grey vapour, a curtain that became a wall. In a moment the tub was surrounded on all four sides, trapped in a cage of heavy fog.

Ollie, coughing, splashed about, pulling himself to his feet. His hot tub was marble—Italian, grey with streaks of crimson—and circular, about eight feet in diameter. He stepped up onto the sunken bench that he'd been sitting on, water up to his knees. His mind whirred as he considered his position. It wasn't good. Naked, alone, without his bow or arrows, he had no chance. He needed to get help. He stepped carefully around the perimeter of the tub to the far side. The cedar bench where he'd left his communicator was hidden behind the fog, but he knew where it was. With a leap he could reach it, call for help. He tensed to spring, but too late. A shadow fell across the seething mists. Someone had entered the room. There was no chance to run; if he jumped or stepped up out of the tub his weight wouldn't be balanced. In close quarters like these, under circumstances like that, a child with an air rifle could have dropped him. He braced himself and took a fighting stance, his legs balanced, muscles tensed, arms up and hands tightened into fists. If he had to go down he'd go down fighting.

He heard something, a woman's voice, but couldn't make out what it was saying. Before he could react a cold rush of air blasted him, shredding the mist. He almost slipped and braced his legs to steady himself. By the time he had his balance again, the mist was gone, and the shadow before him had resolved into a figure he recognized.

Zatanna smiled up at him, sweetly. "Hi, Green Arrow. Is that a bow in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" She glanced his naked crotch. "Oops... I guess neither, huh?"

Ollie gritted his teeth and glowered. "Gee," she murmured, "if looks could kill. Or if yours could, anyway."

With as much dignity as he could muster, he stepped down, back into his tub, and settled in on the bench, he fixed her with an intimidating stare (its effectiveness, sadly, blunted by the circumstances). "What the hell do you call this?"

She shrugged. "I call it showmanship."

"I call it trespassing, breaking and entering, and invasion of privacy." He pointed at the door. "Now get the hell out! You can walk, or better yet, magic yourself out the same way you came in. Just beat it!"

"Oh, come on. You know I'm working tonight."

She was wearing her stage costume, which doubled as her crimefighting costume: a modified tuxedo. Up top she was all business, sporting a top hat, tuxedo jacket, and bow tie. But below the waist, the party started. She wore her cummerbund and dress shirt over a dark leotard. Instead of pants, fishnet stockings covered her legs from the leotard down to her high heels.

She paced forward, her nonchalance belied by how carefully she stepped. High heels and slick tile didn't mix well. Reaching the side of the tub, she sat on the broad marble edge, her legs dangling over one side, and leaned back along another. She looked lazily down at Ollie. "And when it's one of the special missions, I prefer to surprise my target. More fun that way."

"So it's come to this." His voice was still taut with anger. "J'onn and Diana are playing pimp and madam, and they've persuaded you..." Despite his ire, he paused, and chose his words carefully. "...to go along with it. Where's your self-respect?"

"Nice try. The best defence is a good offence, right? If this is about me, it can't be about you." Ollie scowled harder, and shifted his weight on the submerged bench where he sat, but said nothing. "For the record, Queen, I'm nobody's whore. That's what you were going to say, right? No one's forcing me to do anything I don't want to do, and all I get out of it is the same thing I get out of any other League mission: the satisfaction." Ollie snorted, and Zatanna frowned. His hostility was beginning to puncture her good humour. "The satisfaction," she went on, "of knowing I made a difference, I helped someone that needed help, in a way that only a League member could."

"Oh, yeah? Isn't this a quid pro quo? You got a visit from the candyman. Don't you have to reciprocate? How's that for force?"

"It's not like that. By the Ten Houses, we're goddamn superheroes! You think we can face down Darkseid or Brainiac but not tell J'onn to buzz off if he's asking something we don't want to give?"

Her voice softened. "Our lives make it hard to be intimate with anyone. Intimacy needs commitment and trust. But we can't be superheroes without that commitment coming first. And we can't trust the people in our private lives with our secrets, because that could hurt them."

"Oh, and you've found a great solution to the problem. Anonymous hook-ups when no one's looking. That's a commitment. That'll build trust."

"We can't make people form relationships with each other. And when they do form them, we can't make those relationships last."

Ollie raised his hand out of the water and brought it down in a hard slap, spraying water across them both. "Just what are you saying, huh? Spit it out!"

Zatanna looked at him, and then looked down into the swirling water. She spoke quietly. "I know about you, and Dinah, and whatever-her-name-was. You had Dinah, but now you don't, and you blame yourself." She looked up, her voice now with a hint of steel. "And you should. You screwed up. And now you're punishing yourself for it, by being faithful to her after she's gone." She shrugged. "But Dinah's moved on, Oliver. And you need to, too. This self-pity is festering, and it's becoming self-destructiveness." She gestured at the bruises on his ribs, just barely visible below the waterline. "You used to be too careful for that. But not these days."
Ollie squeezed his hands into fists. His fingers pressed heavily into his palms, the calluses numbing the pain. He didn't say anything.

"So stop beating yourself up over Dinah. Stop letting other people do it for you. Learn from the experience, make an appropriate act of contrition to the Canary, and move on. Let yourself be open to"—she paused meaningfully—"new opportunities."

Ollie didn't say anything. He stared down into the bubbling water. Gradually, he unclenched his fists. He rested his palms flat on the roiling surface of the tub, and let them float on the surface. He still didn't say anything. He had a reputation as a smart-mouth, but he didn't let it run all the time. Good archery needed patience, and stillness. So Ollie sat, quietly, and thought. Zatanna did the same; good magic required patience and stillness too. The only sound was the hum of the Jacuzzi jets.

After a time, he looked up at her. He didn't say anything, but nodded. She nodded in return. "Welcome back."

"I'm stubborn. One of my many fine qualities, but sometimes I take it too far." His voice was a murmur. "I've seen it happen to other Leaguers. There was this one time, right about the time Dinah and I met..." His voice trailed off. "Anyway. You're right. I wasn't letting her go. Past time I did."

Zatanna's voice was warm. "Then I've done my job. If you want me to go now, I will."

"And if I don't?"

Zee smiled a crooked smile, pleased to hear the old cockiness in his voice again. "Then we'll celebrate your return."

Ollie matched her grin for grin. "Come on in. The water's fine."

Zatanna cocked her head and, reaching up with her left hand, took the brim of her top hat between thumb and forefinger. With a flick of her wrist, she flipped the hat off her head, holding it upside down. She licked her lips. "Sehtolc otni tah!"

The air crackled. Zatanna's costume began to shine, surrounding her in soft blue light. The nimbus glowed bright, brighter, brighter yet, until she was garbed in it, her fishnet stockings and shoes and tuxedo all blurring together. Her top hat, which Zatanna held unwaveringly in the air, remained unaffected. She herself was unaffected as well, her attitude one of determined nonchalance. The light peeled away from her body, gathering itself into a sphere, a floating ball of light that hung in the air over the hot tub. It quivered and shook and began spinning on its own axis, stretching out into a long, quivering tube. One end of the tube undulated around and sank into the interior of Zatanna's hat. The tube slithered into the hat like a snake, sashaying left and right, until, with a last wiggle, the tip of it poured into the hat. For a moment the mouth of the hat glowed, then the light disappeared as if a door had been slammed shut between it and the room. No trace of the light, or of Zatanna's costume, remained; she sat, legs crossed, on the edge of the tub, perfectly nude. She flicked her wrist, and the hat disappeared, winking out like a soap bubble.

Ollie clapped three times, slowly and mockingly. Zatanna acknowledged the compliment with a nod of her head. "What," he asked, "a simple striptease wasn't good enough for you?"

"Already he's forgotten about the showmanship."

"Show-woman-ship. I'm pretty sure of it."

His gaze roamed over her body appreciatively. He'd known she was pretty: her dark, black hair framed a heart-shaped face. With her dark, violet eyes, her pale white cheeks, and her pouty, ruby lips, she could have been a model. He'd known she had great legs: they were long, slim, and dainty, and the fishnet stockings she favoured showed them off to great effect. He'd even known about her hourglass figure: the leotard she normally wore limned her slim waist and flared hips to the world. But he hadn't known just how stacked she was. No longer hidden away behind her tuxedo shirt, her breasts thrust forward, jiggling as she breathed. He was no judge of size, but they were clearly bigger than Dinah's, and Dinah's had been more than a handful.

He watched him watch her with quiet amusement. "I'm not an athlete. I don't work out all the time. I can keep body fat that others can't."

He started to speak but she interrupted him. "And no, I'm not reading your mind. Not with magic, at any rate. Anyone could guess what you were thinking."

"You guessed wrong, sweetheart." With an effort he wrenched his gaze upwards to her eyes. "I was wondering why you keep that all wrapped up. I would have thought a showgirl with assets like that would show them off."

"But I'm not a showgirl. I'm a stage magician. I need to be sexy enough to get the audience's attention, but not so sexy that they're watching me instead of the tricks."

"I see your point. Those would definitely be the star of the show."

"Private engagement tonight." Delicately, she uncrossed her legs and shifted her weight and sat up. She let her legs dangle into the pool. Ollie raised an eyebrow. Between her legs she was completely hairless: her womanhood winked at him as she slid down into the pool. She chuckled. "More women would do it if they could use magic. Beats razors and electrolysis hands down."

She purred as the warm water embraced her. Languidly she stretched her arms along the edge of the pool and leaned back. Her breasts bobbed free in the water, bouncing and jiggling with the rhythm of the jets. She slowly stretched her legs and brushed them against his. He made no move, even as her foot drifted upwards. He shuddered as she gently rubbed his thigh. His organ, which had been coming to attention as he'd taken in her beauty, stiffened more. But still he remained where he was.

Now it was Zatanna's turn to raise an eyebrow. "You're rather tame. Not what I expected."

"I've heard the morning-after gossip from other guys. Leaguers working... er... this sort of case prefer to take the lead."

"That's right. But variety is the spice of life." She shrugged, and her bosom heaved delightfully. "Tonight, I think, you're in charge." She lifted her arms in front of her chest and took hold of her elbows. Dipping her head, she intoned "Your wish is my command, master." Then she leaned back again, giggling.

Ollie smirked. "Fine by me. C'mere."

Zatanna slowly rose to her feet. Steam wreathed her body, and water ran in tiny rivulets off of her arms and breasts. She sashayed across the tub to him, tossing her hips as she went. She stood between his legs and looked down at him. He reached up and placed his rough, callused hands on her shoulders. He pulled on her, and, getting the message, she sank down, squatting in front of him. He pushed on her left shoulder and pulled on her right, and, following his lead, she turned around and sat, daintily, on the small area of bench immediately in front of him. With a sigh she leaned back, nestling into his body, letting her head rest on his right shoulder, her hair falling in a wave around his back. His cock, now mostly stiff, pushed up against the small of her back. Without saying anything he reached up and brought his hands around, cupping her breasts. She sighed again as he began to fondle her.

They sat in the hot tub, the only sound the whirr of the jets and Zatanna's soft moans. Ollie was enjoying himself immensely: like Dinah's, Zatanna's assets were all natural. They were plump, and ripe, and more than filled his hands. Her nipples had hardened as soon as she'd sat in his lap, but she'd been content to rest against him and let him satisfy his curiosity. Before long he dropped one hand down between her legs. With sure fingers he parted her sex and began to finger her. Later, he had no idea how long he'd sat there, fondling her chest, smelling her hair, kissing her neck, stimulating her clit. His cock was now stiff as a board, and pressed hard against her, but she didn't seem to mind one way or the other: she merely sat, and let his hands explore her body, and moaned her approval.

Ultimately, though, while the spirit was willing, his flesh was weak. The heat of the pool, combined with his own excitement, was too much; he had to get out of the tub. Zatanna guessed at his distress, and rose without comment the moment he began shifting his weight. He staggered to his feet and, stepping up out of the tub, using the bench as a step. He staggered with the sudden coolness and, feeling a weakness he hadn't expected, dropped to his haunches, and lay down on the marble edge, his back to the floor.

Zatanna kneeled on the seat next to him, her lower body still submerged. "Your heart's not going to give way on me, is it?"

"Well, let's give it a sporting chance at least. You still taking my orders?"

"Of course, Master."

"Dinah was dynamite in the sack, but there was one thing she wouldn't do for me. I haven't had a good blowjob in I don't know how long. You think you can provide one?"

She smiled a dazzling smile. "I thought you'd never ask."

He blinked. He recognized she had a job to do, but still, her enthusiasm was remarkable. Again she read his mind. "I'll tell you later. Right now, though..."

She chanted a rapid series of spells, her voice so low and quick as to obscure her words. When she was finished, she looked at him and nodded her head, indicating he should rise. This hardly seemed proper behaviour from a genie, Ollie thought, but he rose anyway. Small price to pay, after all. He sat before her, legs dangling in the pool, the heat rising delightfully up his limbs to his entire body. Zatanna knelt before him, his legs on either side of her. She was on her knees on a hard stone bench in a pool of steaming water, but she seemed perfectly content; Ollie thought he could guess at what kind of enchantments she had just cast.

She smiled up at him. Despite the heat of the pool, her skin was milky pale, without blush. Her hair, clean and dry, fell around her face and past her shoulders in an ebony wave. Her blue eyes twinkled. "I see your shaft is quivering for me."

"Stick to magic, sweetie. Leave the archery jokes to me."

She inclined her head, and bent over his organ. Thanks to the foreplay they had shared, he was hard and ready. With a smack, she kissed his purple tip. "One pours out," she said. "Two fill up."

"Huh?"

"Ask me later."

Bracing herself against his right knee with her left hand, she took hold of the base of his cock with her right hand and began to stroke him. She looked up at him all the while, her mouth open slightly. She licked her lips. With easy deliberateness she lowered her mouth down to his cock, and, without pausing, took him in.

Right away he could tell how good she was; her ministrations were tender and skilled, better than most he'd had, and in his playboy days, before Dinah, he'd had a lot. Slowly, unhurriedly, she bobbed on him. She kept his cockhead in her mouth and, holding it in place, moved her mouth around it. Her tongue traced patterns of pressure on him, at first simple circles, but now more complicated ones, crosses, ellipses, curlicues of warmth. She moved in time with the stroke of her hand along his length, a measured rhythm. She never broke his gaze, her deep blue eyes like dark wells that reflected the stars.

Ollie sat and stared. The walls of the chamber seemed to be receding. It was as if a spotlight had been turned on that illuminated her and only her, and everything else was in shadow. Her skin, so pale. Her hair, so dark. Her eyes, so blue. Her lips, so red. The heat rippling up his legs was filling him up, like some crimson vapour, filling his body. Sitting like this on a hard marble bench, with no back support, he'd begun to feel an ache at the base of his spine, but it faded away. Again and again her tongue danced around his most tender place, her patterns ever more elaborate. She was moaning in time with her bobs. "mmmMMMmmmMMMmmm..." He no longer felt the marble beneath him. He no longer felt the currents of water against his legs. He couldn't feel his hands or his arms. There was nothing but her, her soft moans, the toss of her hair and the bounce of her breasts, and the waves of pleasure crashing out of his cock, as her mouth twisted and twisted. He was losing his self. There was a pull in his cock, and he was being drawn into it. He couldn't remember who he was. He couldn't remember who she was. There was nothing but her, his dark lady, and his cock, and the dance of her mouth across it. He was hurtling through space, dark and warm, faster and faster, hurtling towards a wall. Her moans reached crescendo. The wall was there, it was upon him, he was about to crash...

When he came, he lost himself. He was just a conduit, and the universe passed through him, so vast, coursing through him, more than he could contain. She swallowed and swallowed, humming her approval. As the gouts of fluid began to taper off, his consciousness began to return. Zatanna was rising up before him, her glorious breasts filling his vision. She embraced him and pressed his face between them, and in that soft, sweaty embrace he knew himself. She pulled away from him, stepping back and down into the tub proper, sinking so that the water rose to her neck. Staring down at her (her eyes were closed and she was smiling) he tried to speak. "What..." he managed, his voice an uneven rasp. He tried again. "What did you do?"

"You said you hadn't had a good blowjob in a while. I decided to give you the best you'd ever had."

"Magic?" His head was clear now. He'd never felt so relaxed. There was no trace of any of the pains or aches from his workout. His ribs didn't hurt, and neither did any of the bruises on the rest of his body. But he was as weak as a kitten; he couldn't even raise his hands to his temples to rub them.

"Of course. Erotic magic is as old as magic, or sex. My mouth opened the way, and you poured out your pain, and your sorrow, and your guilt. You filled up with the cosmos: for a moment, you touched the heart of the world. I filled up with your seed, with the essence of life within you. But not to join it with my essence, but to feed on it. We didn't make a new life, but your life is restored to you, and mine is overflowing. One poured out. Two filled up."

Ollie wasn't listening. He was slowly laying down on his side. His head came to rest on the corner of the tub, and he fell asleep.

Zatanna watched him with satisfaction. He'd wake up before too long, filled with a vigour he would not have known for years. And she knew just how he could put it to good use. She was pleased with herself: she'd replenished her store of magical energy, she'd cured a friend of guilt and shame and self-destructiveness, and she'd set herself up for a night of wild sexual abandon. Not bad for an evening's work.

Not to mention, she thought, that I also won two hundred bucks.

*

"May I join you?"

Helena and Zatanna looked up, surprised. They'd seen Supergirl approaching, of course, but neither of them knew her well, and had assumed she'd been going to join someone else. A shift change was coming up, but even so there were enough empty places in the Watchtower cafeteria that no one needed to share a table.

Helena said nothing. She despised small talk, and would have preferred to keep this lunch date private. Helena had few friends in the League. She hadn't had many to begin with, and she'd lost most of those when she had been booted off of the team. After the business with Roulette she'd earned a second chance, but had preferred to remain on the outside. The Question had given her all the backup she needed. But that wouldn't be happening anymore, it seemed. In a predicament with no good solution, she'd turned back to the League for her second chance. Most Leaguers, though, avoided her company, and she avoided theirs. She had time for the Black Canary, and Zatanna, an old colleague from her Gotham days, but that was about it.

Helena was opening her mouth to tell Supertart to buzz off when Zatanna said "By all means," and pulled out a chair for her. Kara put her tray down and took her seat.

"Thanks. Food's good today, huh?"

Helena said nothing, and gave Zatanna a meaningful glance. Zatanna pretended not to see it and agreed that yes, the food was good.

The two chattered away between bites of their rice pilaf. Helena gritted her teeth, said nothing, and waited for Superchick to take the hint, finish her meal, and get lost. But Kara didn't take the hint: Zatanna smoothly kept up her end of the conversation, and Kara, whose ability to detect social undercurrents had obviously not been enhanced by Earth's yellow sun, chattered away, oblivious to Helena's snub.

Finally, Kara finished her meal, and Helena waited for her to pick up her tray and depart. But Kara made no move to go; rather, she picked up the saltshaker in the middle of the table and toyed with it. The conversation lulled. Finally, Zatanna said, "Kara, there's something you want to ask us, isn't there?"

She looked up with relief. "Yeah... yeah, there is. Y'see, I'm on special mission duty tonight."

Helena snorted, and Kara frowned at her. "And it's my first time..."

Helena snorted again, and Kara's frown deepened. Helena raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. She really didn't want to pick a fight with someone who had heat vision.

"Not like that. It's my first special mission solo, and it's with Dove, and I don't know him that well."

"You shouldn't tell us his name," said Helena, breaking her silence. "Privacy, remember?"

"Sorry."

"You're not supposed to know him. That's the point." Her voice was cool. "The idea is to avoid hooking up people who have experience with each other. Less messy that way."

"Adds to the fun, too. More exotic," added Zatanna. Her smile was wicked.

"I guess," said Kara. "But I was just wondering if you could give me any, you know, advice."

Zatanna looked at Helena, and Helena shrugged. "Did J'onn tell you," Zatanna asked carefully, "to come to us for advice?"

"No! No. Diana and Shayera aren't around right now, and I didn't know who else to ask, and I had a hunch you'd had some experience."

Zatanna nodded slowly. "Well, your hunch is right. I've had a few of these missions under my belt." She smiled at her pun, but the others didn't. With a pout, she went on. "I'll freely admit that to anyone who asks. I'm not embarrassed about it. But a lot of Leaguers are embarrassed..."



"Especially the men," put in Helena.

"...so you shouldn't go around asking them about it point blank."

Kara blushed as she realized what a faux pas she'd made. Despite her years in Kansas, she still didn't have a firm grasp on human sexual delicacy. It wasn't part of her Kryptonian heritage, and it wasn't an Amazon trait either. Whatever Kansas had taught her on this subject, Paradise Island had erased.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to imply—"

"You didn't imply anything. I'm happy with the work I've done, and I can tell you whatever you want to know, except of course just who it is I've been with."

She glanced at Helena, who heaved a mental sigh and said, "I've done a few myself. As a matter of fact, I've got one tonight too."

"And so do I," said Zatanna. "So we can call this a mission strategy session. What's on your mind?"

"Well, J'onn didn't give me much guidance. He just told me to follow my instincts." Given the whole privacy issue, she decided not to mention just why J'onn had such confidence in her instincts in this regard. "But Green Arrow told me once that he'd heard Leaguers on missions like this insist on controlling the encounter. So there's a protocol, right? And I just wanted to hear from a woman what that protocol was."

Zatanna looked thoughtful. "Green Arrow's mistaken. It's not protocol. That's just the way that some of us like to work."

"But it's a good way to work." Helena's voice was firm. "I'm one of those people. Controlling the encounter keeps you secure and comfortable. You're working with a stranger, usually, and you're coming to them to get them off. But there's all sorts of ways to do that, and some of them you may not like. But because of the circumstances, it's hard to negotiate that. Someone can get hurt."
Kara was shocked. "You think someone might try to—"

"No, of course not," Zatanna said. "And certainly not with you. You'd break him in half."

"It would be awkward. It would be embarrassing," Helena went on. "And the point of these missions is to help them, not make them feel worse about themselves. Especially if you scare them too much, 'cause then they go limp. I've seen it happen."

Zatanna raised an eyebrow, and Kara let out a little gasp. "What did you do?"

Helena shook her head. "I wasn't going to fail." Failure and Helena did not get along. "So I had to sweet-talk him. Took almost an hour to build up his confidence again. What a nightmare. So you set the pace. Saves any bad situations."

"Oh, I don't think letting go now and then is so bad," mused Zatanna. "Male egos... they like feeling in charge. They're never so pleased with themselves as when a beautiful woman plays harem girl for them. Mission success is off the charts." She smiled her wicked smile again. "And it can be fun, too."

Helena scowled. "Girl, you can let them stick it anywhere they like if you want, but I for one am not going to—"

"Oh, they don't want to stick it just anywhere," Zatanna said airily. "That's never happened to me once... in a League context, anyway. No, these Leaguers, they all want the same thing. They all follow the script."

"What's that?" asked Supergirl, eyes bright.

"Think about it. It's not a date, so they don't have to be gentlemen. But they don't know you, and they know they might have to work with you in the future, so they can't make you do anything kinky, not the first time, anyway. So it always plays out the same. They grab your boobs until they're hot and heavy, then they want a hummer."

She leaned back in her chair and stretched, resting her hands behind her head. "They all love getting blown, but it's not a first-date thing, so they don't get it very much, since first dates are as far as most of them can get. If they could get farther, J'onn wouldn't be sending you, right? So they play with your boobs—sometimes more, sometimes less, it depends on the target—and then they get you to suck them off." Seeing that Supergirl looked a bit crestfallen, she hurried on. "It's not that they're... what's the word I want... sexually ungenerous. They have something to prove, so they usually do their best to take care of you, too. But that's later on. You let them know, up front, that you're all theirs, and I guarantee it, they'll grab your chest, then ask for a blowjob. I guarantee it."

Supergirl pondered this. Helena just snorted. "I don't buy that at all."

Zatanna looked at her.

"You wanna bet?"