Making preparations for future encounters.

Brandon didn’t **** a superhero every day, but he was pacing himself. This was a marathon, not a sprint. Though it would be quite an accomplishment to knock up every female member of the Justice League in a single stealth reverse gangbang, several practical concerns got in his way. First, there was no point at which all of the world’s greatest heroines were all on the Watchtower at once. Time zones, random crises, and simple good old-fashioned proper staffing prevented that fantasy. Second, he only had so much time in any given day. He put in an abundance of effort at work, miles beyond the bare minimum he had committed to the drudgery he performed at LexCorp. If he made himself out to be a model worker, hopefully he could shirk his duties now and again and his manager would cut him a little slack. But disappearing for hours on end was a little much, especially since he could only steal away under circumstances in which no male—or security camera monitored by a male—observed him. He had to pick and choose his forays into the women’s section.

Third, and most importantly, he was himself. He simply a man with no powers, no genius, no riches, no scientific formula coursing through his veins to let him survive an earth-shattering punch from Doomsday or Bane or…honestly, he kind of blanked on Wonder Woman’s strongest villains. Ares? Whatever! The point was, he didn’t have powers. The closest thing he had to a power was, in fact, exactly the opposite: a genetic tendency to block any of his children from inheriting the powers of their mother. It was an anti-power.

And, more than that, it wasn’t superhuman stamina. On his first night out, he had inseminated four women with a long break in between Batgirl and Batwoman. On his second, he had managed to cum inside Supergirl and the Huntress before Black Canary’s blowjob nearly killed him, leaving him a shambling wreck even before he put a load into her pussy. There was no way he could make it through the entire Justice League. He doubted he could cum four times without a significant rest somewhere in the middle, and he wasn’t likely to go any longer. His boring, weak human physiology meant he had a hard cap no matter what opportunities presented themselves. Even if the entire League did gather into one room and mysteriously fall asleep for several hours, he would never be able to get past this wall.

Not without help.

People could say whatever they wanted about the Justice League, but they had money. And not just regular money, but MONEY, in all capital letters, and probably a dollar sign in there if it would fit. Or, he guessed, the euro sign would work. MON€Y. Even accounting for their weird alien tech and actual, honest-to-God magic, it still took some significant funds to have a space station larger than most buildings, a fleet of vehicles, vast recreational facilities, and probably many things he couldn’t even know about. He and his co-workers talked about how they thought the League’s finances worked; most assumed the heroes were paid something if they worked full-time, and the merchandising rights to their likenesses probably helped the balance sheet. The exact mechanics of it didn’t matter to Brandon, not after he saw his first paycheck and nearly burst into tears. He would never become wealthy doing custodial work on the Watchtower, but after years of minimum-wage, heavily-taxed work at LexCorp, a few extra dollars per hour suddenly made luxuries like working appliances and fresh food seem like a reality.

(His paycheck was still taxed, of course, in accordance with the laws and statutes of his residence in Gotham City. The Justice League followed the rules. But with the little bit of extra income, suddenly the taxes felt more like “an acceptable cost to pay to keep society running” and less like a direct attack on him for daring to exist. Funny, that.)

Brandon considered slowing his mission so he could stretch out the time he spent earning a half-decent wage, but Luthor’s promise of a seven-digit payday convinced him to put his new earnings to a more immediate use. He spent several nights scouring the Internet for exercises, diets, pills, creams, meditations, and anything else he could do to increase his sexual stamina. Ironically, most of the advice he found pertained to lasting longer in bed, which was exactly the opposite of his goal; he needed to cum ten times a day, not make love for ten hours before cumming once. In fact, if he suddenly became a quick-shot it might be even better, allowing him to spread his seed faster and easier. Alas, this limited his options drastically, and he climbed further and further into the online rabbit hole searching for an answer.

Then he gave up and called Miss Graves. He skimmed his instructions to find her business contact information and explained the situation to her, and she handled the rest. LexCorp’s reach proved far greater than his, and by the next evening he had an appointment at a “clinic” with a “doctor” who only took cash (graciously provided by Miss Graves in an unmarked envelope), administered a shot, and “prescribed” some “medicine” for the burgeoning anti-supervillain. His libido soared, and while it did mean he had to spend more time masturbating at night than he might have liked, it proved the effectiveness of his treatment almost immediately.

It did make him a little more **** to forward his plans, not because of his stronger desires but because he knew Luthor would be expecting a quick return on his increased investment. He forayed into the women’s half of the Watchtower with more frequency, making up for the lost working time by cleaning at a feverish pace when he was back where he was supposed to be. His co-workers lauded his efforts and wondered aloud whether he was angling for a promotion or a bonus. Luckily they interpreted his stammering excuses as a coy attempt at modesty, then largely left him to his own devices, a happy accident that gave him even more leeway.

But no matter what he might have learned from low-budget pornographic videos, sexy misadventures did not spontaneously occur whenever women interacted without male supervision. The Watchtower was not small, nor was it laid out with ease of exploration in mind, and most of his trips to the forbidden zone proved fruitless. The gym didn’t always have two barely-legal women getting sweaty, and the showers didn’t always have naked models soaping each other. After some effort he did find the living quarters, but every door was locked, a barrier that really should have occurred to him during his fantasies about **** a woman in her own bed. Still he searched, waiting for an opportunity to literally fall into his lap.

The empty halls, at least, did carry sound nicely, and after about a week his **** ears caught a small moan bouncing down the metal walls. With a strange mixture of relief and anxiousness he followed the voice, then a second, to a sterile white lab he had passed several times but never investigated.