Getting for the Canary Cry incident.

Unlike last time, he took some precautions. He sat on the half-couch in the dressing room and tugged Black Canary with him, sitting her down in his lap with her face pointed away from his body. His dick pressed between her thighs, nestled against her trimmed pussy in a hug that made them both sigh with pleasure. Unaware as she was of his presence, she didn’t even realize her rolling hips threatened to envelop him entirely, and rather than wait for her to settle onto his cock he took the initiative to push his head between her lips. One little flick against her bud was all it took to drive her mad with lust, and when he grabbed her waist and pushed into her unprotected pussy, she sucked him in without a moment’s hesitation.

He checked the clock on the wall. Seven minutes left, according to the producer’s timetable. Not enough time to relax and savor his latest conquest, but plenty of leeway to have a little bit of fun. He pushed her hair out of his face and grabbed her tits from behind, squeezing them like overripe fruit. There was no need to be gentle or delicate with her; she was a superhero, far tougher than the average woman, and the amulet translated every hint of pain or discomfort into mindless pleasure. Black Canary didn’t realize she was moaning like an escort or grinding in a strange man’s lap. Thanks to inscrutable magic, she simply thought she was alone in a dressing room, and riding the nearest dick was just a natural consequence.

And riding she could do! Brandon guessed she liked being on top, because she rolled her hips like she was born to do it, milking his cock for every drop of baby batter. Without his prompting she tucked her legs under her, the better to bounce along his full length in a delectable reverse-cowgirl. She rose and fell with a musician’s perfect rhythm, climbing until only his head remained inside her then dropping so fast her ass rippled from the impact. To his relief, she was a quieter lover, still moaning and cooing like the others but all under her breath. Her soft whispers and the subtle motions of her shoulders spoke to a sultry, personal lover, not the sort of woman who wanted all the neighbors to know she was getting fucked into next week. As a change, he kind of liked it, not least because he didn’t want an orgasmic yell to blow his cover when he blew his load.

He checked again. Three minutes and change. He had to pick up the pace. He pumped his hips and squeezed her breasts so hard he could feel her warmth through his gloves, and she replied by picking up the pace on his dick. The first load of the day brewed inside him, waiting for any reason to surge into a fertile woman, and with every movement she unknowingly brought herself closer to being his latest vessel. She felt every bit of it along with him, whispering tiny little “oh, fuck”s and “harder, baby”s and “I’m so close”s barely louder than the insipid talk-show feed whenever she wasn’t licking her lips or panting aloud. Her pussy spasmed around him, and he gritted his teeth, trying to hold himself back until he felt her orgasm start. When she bent forward and began to shake from head to knee, he finally let go, pumping his sperm far enough for it to get sucked into her thirsty womb. She milked him for all he was worth, taking every drop of spunk, and when he pushed her back to her shaky feet, not even a trickle of evidence leaked from her soaked pussy lips.

A knock sounded. “Miss Canary? You’re on.”

Brandon yanked Black Canary back onto the couch next to him, and she responded with a confused “Just a minute, I…stood up too fast?” While she gathered her thoughts, he rifled through his discarded clothes, finding his second amulet just as the cute producer entered. This time there wasn’t even an instant of adjustment; the producer simply regarded a nude, slightly-disheveled superhero like it was an everyday occurrence. Or, he guessed, a nude, slightly-disheveled generic woman. As he’d observed, without her outfit Black Canary was just some random blonde—leggy, well-toned, perky, but not obviously hero material. He draped the amulet over Black Canary’s shoulders, and after a moment’s thought he guided her into her trademark jacket. Now she looked a little more like herself, and the one piece of clothing only highlighted the rest of her nudity. With grace belying her flagrant exhibitionism, she smiled at the producer and strode away, toward the set where she would be broadcast live to a national audience.

But, Brandon mused, it would be some time before the fallout started. If everybody backstage and in the studio was female—and he had no reason to doubt they would be—absolutely nobody who noticed Black Canary’s lack of dress was in a position to do anything about it. It wouldn’t be until the external media realized what was happening, or the viewers at home started calling in, that a male would arrive to break the amulet’s spell. Until that time, Black Canary would be part of a perfectly normal morning talk show segment, helping the amulet work its spell over dozens—if not hundreds—of helpless women. Further, she was his ride home. He couldn’t get back to the Watchtower until either somebody took the amulet off her and she fled in humiliation or she finished the interview and took the teleporter per her schedule. For the time being, he was stuck backstage, too wary to go onto the set proper in case a stray man still hung around. And as long as he was here, he might as well enjoy it.