Lustre: Slutty Nympho Superheroine

"I could be behind a dumpster, sucking off some old dude, but instead, here I am, saving a busload of kids from a fire."

A curse slips out as you hover midair, the heat licking at your bare thighs and midriff. Superpowers were supposed to make life easier, but instead, they’d made everything way more complicated than it needed to be.

Let’s rewind.

A few months ago, you were just Lena Vex, a perfectly average, if slutty, nymphomaniac teenage girl. The kind of girl who’d fuck anything that moved, and a few things that didn’t.

You’d fucked every guy in your school. The arrogant rich kid with his fresh stack of cash, an allowance from his parents? Check. The asshole bully who beat up nerds between classes? Check. The fat, virginal comic book nerd who reeked of stale Doritos and Mountain Dew? Double check. You even let him finish in your mouth.

You’d fucked the guy without a girlfriend, the guy with a girlfriend, and even the guy with a boyfriend. You let the entire football team run a train on you, the fit black quarterback fucking your ass while the running back pounded your pussy, all while you blew the offensive lineman and stroked the cocks of two more. A team-building exercise they’d never forget.

You fucked the teachers, too. The principal, strict in public but obsessed with eating teenage girl ass in private? Check. The vice principal, who embezzled school funds and loved being verbally degraded while he devoured your pussy? Check. The handsome substitute teacher every girl at class fantasized about? Check. The ugly, bald, misogynistic math teacher? Check. The one going through a divorce, the one in a seemingly loving marriage who still couldn’t resist his teenage student? You fucked them all. For grades, for fun, out of boredom, just because you could. Hell, you even let the old janitor take a turn.

You fucked the rich kid’s dad in a five-star hotel behind his wife’s back. Later, he introduced you to some of his friends, all married and wealthy, and they took turns fucking you in the suite. You even fucked the comic book nerd’s divorced, fat, hairy dad.

Sometimes you fucked guys for money or gifts, but mostly, you did it for the love of it. You loved sex. You loved getting fucked in the pussy and creampied. You loved getting fucked in the ass and filled with cum. You loved sucking dick. You loved swallowing.

You weren’t picky. Old, young, fat, ugly, if it had a pulse and a dick, you’d ride it, fuck it, and suck it dry. You loved fucking strangers, rich, poor, white, Black, it didn’t matter. Sometimes for cash, sometimes for the hell of it, but mostly because you loved it.

The stretch, the burn, the taste of cum on your tongue. You loved the way men looked at you while you were naked, the way they needed you, the way you were the only thing that mattered to them, even if it was just for five minutes of grunting release.

Sometimes, you’d blow old dudes behind dumpsters, suck dick for bus fare, and walk home. You were a nympho, a slut, and every other name for a girl who loved sex. And since you were pretty hot, a blonde, white teenage girl with the right curves, you never ran out of guys who wanted to fuck you. No dates, no romance, just raw, unfiltered sex.

Then, one evening, it happened.

You met an old scientist on your way home. He was old, fat, ugly, balding, and sweaty. Just your type. Without hesitation, you dropped to your knees, sucking, fondling his balls, kissing, licking, and devouring his decrepit, wrinkled cock. When he finally came, a thick, foul-smelling load, you swallowed every drop and laughed as he gasped like he’d never been sucked off before.

You’d noticed his balls and dick glowing faintly in the dark, like a bad neon warning sign. You figured it was just a trick of the mind.

Later, you learned the truth: the man you’d blown was Doctor Victor Krane, a famous nuclear scientist who’d been selling secrets to another country. He’d also been experimenting with nuclear radiation in his secret lab, exposing himself, and his genitals, to it in the process.

The morning after you sucked his dick, he was dead. Radiation poisoning, the news said. You recognized his face immediately, the guy you’d blown in an alley, whose pungent load you’d happily swallowed. The man whose cum had rewritten your DNA.

That night, your body changed. Muscles coiled with newfound strength. Your skin hummed with energy. You could fly. You could lift weights you’d never dare attempt before. You could even hear a fly’s wings fluttering three blocks away.

Yup, that’s right.

You’d gained superpowers from sucking off a radioactive scientist and swallowing his radioactive cum.

Not exactly the kind of origin story they’d feature in kids’ comic books.

But just like that, you were a superhuman.

You had zero interest in being superhero though. Being a slut, passed around like a piece of meat, was way more enticing than fighting crime.

So you ignored your powers and tried to return to your hedonistic, nymphomaniac, sex-loving ways.

But then, just as you were about to fuck two fat, eager guys you’d met online, waiting in a cheap motel room, you heard it:

A little boy crying.

Your super hearing picked up the sound: a kid crying nearby, shouts for help, a building engulfed in flames.

"Damn it!"

You might be a slut, a nympho, a harlot, a degenerate sinner that Bible-thumpers claimed would burn in hell forever.

But you weren’t a monster.

You weren’t going to let a kid burn to **** in a building when you had the power to save him.

"Fuck!"

You abandoned the motel room, slapped together a makeshift mask, flew into the burning building, and carried the crying boy, around six years old, out of the flames.

The crowd cheered. The boy’s mom sobbed, calling you a hero. The gathered onlookers, the cops, the firefighters, the news reporters, they all cheered for their new hero.

"Damn it!"

You suddenly realized: you were a superhero now. With great power came great responsibility, and with great responsibility came a lot less time for sex.

The more time you would spent hero-ing around, the less time you would have for hoe-ing around. But fuck, you couldn’t just let kids die in burning buildings.

You might be a slut, but you weren’t a monster who could look the other way while children died, no matter what the good Christians thought of women like you.

Being a hero was a fucking inconvenience, but you held out some hope.

Maybe it wouldn’t all be about saving people. Maybe you’d occasionally get captured by supervillains who’d tie you up and let their henchmen gang-**** you, though was it really **** if you were more than willing? Or maybe you could hook up with local superheroes. Judging by their posters, muscles and abs straining against spandex, their dicks and asses barely concealed, it might not be so bad to fuck them. Or maybe you could seduce grateful civilians.

You wanted to call yourself Slut Girl, but apparently, that name was already taken and copyrighted. Seriously. What the fuck? Who would even trademark and copyright a name like that? Anyway, you tried Lust Girl, but reporters misheard it as Lustre.

And that’s how you settled on your name.

Lustre.

A bonafide superhero.

You picked the skimpiest costume you could find: basically a bra and panties, blue and black. But even then, you were getting a disturbing lack of sex.

Most of the time, you found yourself saving kids, little boys trapped in burning buildings or buses. (It was impressive how often they seemed to get into those situations.) Not exactly the type you could flirt with.

You might be a nympho, but you’d never make a move on someone underage. That was just sick.

Anyway, here you are, saving a bus full of school kids outside a burning bus.

You aren’t the only one saving the day, though. There’s also Paladin, the town’s top teenage male superhero and a regular Boy Scout. His costume is white and gold, his mask pristine, and he’s good-looking, with a fan club of good girls cheering him on. But he’s not your type. Not with all that moral fiber and those disapproving glares.

He shoots you a judgmental look. "Do you really have to wear something like that while rescuing kids?" he snaps, his eyes flicking away from your bikini-style costume, which leaves most of your midriff and legs bare.

"Do you have to be such a prude?" you fire back. "What’s your problem?" Most guys love seeing you in your skimpy costume, the one you put so much effort into. Their eyes lock onto you, enjoying the view you give them. But here’s this Boy Scout acting like you’re the one in the wrong, looking away like you’re some kind of disgrace.

He scoffs and launches into his lecture. "First, it’s impractical. A bit of armor would protect you from fire and shards of glass. Hell, even a full-body spandex suit would give you some protection. Instead, you’re out here practically half-nude!" His eyes narrow. "Are you doing this to actually help save people, or just to build your brand, sell subscriptions, and make money?" He grits his teeth. "Not to mention, it’s wildly inappropriate to dress like that in public."

You scoff, already writing him off as a prick. "It’s not my fault you’re having inappropriate thoughts about me."

"It’s not about me," he counters. "You’re practically half-nude in front of school kids."

You grit your teeth. The guy might have a point, but you’re not about to admit it. "I still saved half of them, didn’t I?"

He clenches his jaw. "You did," he admits grudgingly, while you have to grudgingly accept that he saved the other half.

You could never be friends with a prude like him. He’s the first guy who’s ever annoyed you enough to make you stop thinking about sex, even for a second. But you’ve worked together. The two top heroes in the city, at least in terms of lives saved. Your philosophies might be worlds apart, and you’d never be cordial, but at least the kids are safe.

The kids you saved wave at you, grinning. One of them shouts, "Thank you for saving us, Miss Lustre!"

You find yourself smiling despite yourself. Being a hero might cut into your time for the things you actually love, sex with strangers, blowing old, ugly men behind dumpsters, but it’s not all bad. You’ve done some good. Saved some lives.

"Stay good, kids," you call back, giving them a wave as you fly off.

For the first time, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, you should put a little more effort into this superhero thing.