Private exhibitionism

Kara stood in front of the mirror, the bathroom’s harsh fluorescents carving every muscle, every soft curve, into sharp relief. She barely recognized the woman staring back. Her hair, instead of the innocent golden waves she once favored, now fell in a tousled, almost predatory halo around her face. Her eyes, wide and blue and still so painfully honest even after everything, seemed like a child’s eyes painted onto the mask of a deviant adult. She adjusted the straps of the strappy black ensemble—lingerie, technically, though it felt more like a harness or a warning label—and tried to ignore how the magic thrummed beneath her skin, hungry and hopeful.

“This is fine,” she whispered, and the mirror-Kara’s voice sounded raw with disbelief.

She’d bought it, of course, for this exact purpose. Not because she wanted to, not because the old Kara Zor-El, Daughter of Krypton, would ever in a thousand years have let herself be seen in it, let alone photographed. But because the magic had started to needle her again, sending insistent shocks of need through her body at inconvenient moments—mid-battle, during flight, sometimes even in the middle of a Justice League meeting. Aphrodite’s influence was a constant, steady thrum now, like the heartbeat of a second, secret self.

You’re not addicted, she told herself. This is just management. Just containment.

She picked up her phone with fingers that trembled, ever so slightly. “Just take pictures,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “No touching. No involving anyone else. Just… private exhibitionism. Compartmentalization.”

A harmless compromise.

Right?

She set the phone to portrait mode, propped it against the sink, and attempted a smile that didn’t look deranged. She failed, of course. But that was fine. She had a job to do, and she was going to do it, and then she would go back to being a responsible adult and a superhero and everything else she was supposed to be.

All she had to do was scratch the itch. Just enough to satisfy the magic for one more day.

The First Photo (Innocent Enough)

She posed against the bedroom wall, one knee slightly bent, chest out, lips pursed. Her cape was gone, her hair mussed, the top of her costume replaced with black lace and sheer mesh that left little to the imagination. She’d left the “S”-shield necklace on, for effect. Before she even took the picture, she knew it wasn't going to work.

Too tame.

The magic shifted under her skin, and even without her powers she could sense its disappointment. The part of her that was still Kara the person, not Kara the exhibitionist demigoddess, wanted to crawl into a hole.

She tried again. This time, she let the straps slip off her shoulders, exposing the top of her breasts and the silver glint of her new piercings. She bit her lip, looked straight into the camera lens, and clicked.

Still not enough.

The Second Photo (Less So)

Lying back on her bed, she arched her body so the mesh stretched tight across her chest, the peaks of her pierced nipples threatening to shred the delicate fabric. One hand trailed down her stomach to rest just above the matching black thong, her fingers brushing the skin as if inviting the viewer to fill in the rest.

Click.

The magic offered a slow, indulgent ripple of pleasure—a reward for effort, but not for completion. Kara groaned. She could practically hear Aphrodite snickering in the background, a cosmic mean girl delightedly watching her squirm.

The Third Photo (Oh.)

She propped her phone on the nightstand, set it to burst mode, and parted her thighs. The angle was a little awkward, but she was motivated. She let her hand slip lower, fingers grazing the soaked fabric, then pressed in. Her head fell back, her mouth open in a silent gasp.

Click, click, click.

The magic surged—And then—“Fuck it.”

Her fingers dug in.

The Fourth, Fifth, Eleventh Photos (No Turning Back)

Click. Click. CLICK.

The flashes became a strobe, each one punctuating a new, more **** pose. Her hands moved frantically, tugging at the lingerie, yanking it off, her other hand holding the phone now, switching to video, capturing every slick, obscene motion. Her own face in the screen looked wild and greedy; for a moment she was both repulsed and fascinated by herself.

She whispered, “Touch yourself”—and realized, mortified, that she wasn’t sure if she was talking to herself or to the camera, or to the unseen, hypothetical audience she so desperately swore didn’t exist.

Didn’t matter.

She grabbed desperately at her tits with one hand, arching and grinding into her own palm, while her other hand worked furiously between her thighs.

“Oh, god—”

The magic roared, a rushing, blinding pleasure that made her vision go white for a second. She came—hard—and kept going, the camera still rolling, the world reduced to nothing but sensation and the relentless pressure of Aphrodite’s will.

The Aftermath (Regret? What Regret?)

She lay on the bed, panting, eyes shut, the taste of her own sweat and victory in her mouth. Her fingers were still sticky when she reached for her phone, and she fumbled it twice before managing to look at the screen.

The video was… long. And explicit. And, judging by the thumbnail, something that would permanently ruin her life if it ever got out.

She laughed a little, weakly, and hit save. She’d just delete it, she reasoned. No harm in keeping it for a minute.

And then she saw it.

The notification.

“Video uploaded to Cloud Storage. Privacy setting: Global access.”

Her mouth went dry.

“No. No no no—” she yelped, scrambling to open the app, furiously hammering the delete button. The phone vibrated in her hand, mocking her—“Are you sure you want to delete this item?”—and she stabbed at “YES,” ****, sweating, her heart pounding so hard her vision wobbled.

But the magic gripped her wrist, holding her hand still for a second longer than necessary.

Why? it seemed to whisper.

You loved it.

And worst of all?

She had.

She woke up to notifications.

Not the normal Justice League ones—hostage situations and world-ending crises. Not the calls from Clark asking her to please, please, please use her indoor voice in Metropolis for once. Not even the spam texts from Power Girl, who’d taken to waking her up with increasingly depraved memes since the transformation.

No.

These were… different.

“U are Supergirl??? Pls respond.”

“Love the piercings, babe. DM me.”

“FAKE. Supergirl doesn’t have piercings like that.”

She sat up so fast she nearly threw up.

Oh no.

Oh. Hell. No.

She grabbed her phone, unlocked it with trembling hands, and went straight to the only place she could think of:

r/SuperheroNSFW

She scrolled, heart pounding, through the posts.

Top Post (23K Upvotes, 5.4K Comments)

“ALLEGED Supergirl Fap Material (Full Vid in Comments)”

She didn’t even need to click it to know. There she was. In glorious, humiliating 1080p, writhing on her own bed, begging into the camera with a heat she didn’t even recognize. Her face, clear as day. The S-shield necklace, unmistakable Kryptonian design. The way her lips curled as she came, her hand moving in a blur of need and super-speed—

Her stomach dropped. She clicked the comments anyway, as if some secret part of her wanted to see the aftermath in full color.

“Not even trying to hide it. That tongue piercing is new, right? Love it <3.”

“Look at the way she MILKS it, I’d believe this is the real deal.”

“Jimmy Olsen is crying somewhere, somebody got better shots than he ever did LOL.”

She closed the app, tossed her phone onto the bed, and curled up in a ball.

The good news? No one could prove it was her.

The bad news? Everyone was going to try.

Karen Starr—formerly Power Girl, currently almost the only other person with even less shame than Kara—was waiting for her in the kitchen. She’d made coffee, which was slightly odd given that neither of them needed caffeine, but it gave her something to do with her hands. Her breasts, bare as always, pressed against the granite countertop, and her platinum hair was pulled back into a messy bun that looked, somehow, more scandalous than leaving it down.

She locked eyes with Kara the moment she entered.

Karen grinned, wolfish. “Heard you went viral last night.”

Kara groaned, pouring herself a mug and hiding her face behind it.

“Oh, come on. It’s not like you’re the first superhero to have a scandal.” Karen reached across the counter, snatched Kara’s phone, and started scrolling through the notifications. “You know, you could have monetized this. PornHub would have signed you on the spot.”

She snatched the phone back. “Do not screenshot that!”

“Way ahead of you,” Karen snorted, already scrolling.

“It was an accident!”

“Mhm.” She smirked. “Tell that to KarenGripz69420 in the comments.”

She groaned, burying her face in her hands. “This is a nightmare.”

Karen patted her shoulder—squelch—her own permanently exposed pussy glistening under the morning light. “Welcome to the club, Super Slut.”

Lex Luthor’s Curiosity (Not Good)

Meanwhile, in a suspiciously dark office:

Lex Luthor leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, watching the leaked footage on loop.

“Hm.”

He zoomed in—on the tongue piercing, the S-shield jewelry, the distinct curl of the girl’s lips as she came—

“Interesting.”

A few keystrokes later:

Mercy. Draft a press release about ‘heroic integrity.’ Then… find me a Kryptonite cock ring.

Diana didn’t even look up from where she was oiling her own cleavage when she walked in.

“Cam-whoring didn’t scratch the itch?” she asked, squeezing her tits together and admiring the way they glistened.

She slumped onto the couch beside her. “Not the way I hoped.”

Diana finally turned—and immediately smirked at her now branded nipple rings, the tiny ‘S’ shields glinting under the light. “Ah. So that’s why you’re sulking.”

“They keep marking me,” she groaned.

Diana tilted her head, considering. “You need something public enough to satisfy the magic, but controlled enough that you don’t end up…” She gestured vaguely at her phone, where the NSFW subreddit was still blowing up. “…indisposed.”

“Yeah. Good luck with that.”

Diana’s smirk widened. “Bikini car wash.”

She blinked. “...What?”

“Fundraiser for the Metropolis Orphanage. We strap you and Power Pussy into something scandalous, have you rub soap all over yourself, and let everyone get a show.” She hefted her tit again for emphasis. “Plenty of exposure. No actual penetration.”

She opened her mouth—then paused.

It was better than her too-successful camgirl attempt.

And the magic was already buzzing at the idea....

Damn it.