Suping Out

Dinner was quieter than usual.

Trevor had been unusually evasive about his plans. He said he was going out but wouldn't say where. He borrowed her car—her dependable old sedan—and she let it go. Sometimes, a mother had to pick her battles.

As the door shut behind him, Theresa stood in the middle of the kitchen and exhaled, hands on her hips.

There were two reasons she didn't press him for more.

First, because she was honestly glad to see him go out. Since finishing school, Trevor had fallen into a pattern. Wake up early, head out to do landscaping—hard, honest work, but not what he'd trained for—then come home, eat dinner, and vanish into his room. She worried about him. He had no real friends in town, no girlfriend, no hobbies. He didn't seem unhappy, but he didn't seem happy either. Just… still. Stuck.

She wanted more for him. A spark. A purpose. Something to shake him loose.

Second?

She had plans of her own.

The moment his taillights disappeared from the driveway, she turned off the stove fan, wiped the counter, and headed upstairs.

Time to supe-out.

That's what she called it, anyway. Supe-out. Her little secret. A life in the shadows, but thrilling all the same.

She stepped into her bedroom and shut the door softly. Her room was simple—modest bed, pale green curtains, an armchair by the window—but there was one part that held true magic: the top shelf of her closet.

She dragged a chair over, climbed up, and reached behind a stack of old yearbooks. Her fingers brushed cardboard.

The box.

She brought it down with care and set it on the bed. The cardboard creaked as she peeled it open, releasing a faint scent of talc, fabric softener, and the unmistakable thrill of having a secret that nobody else could know, but brought you so much pleasure..

Inside: clothes Trevor must never see.

She smiled faintly. She used to feel shame opening this box. Now? It felt like unlocking a forgotten version of herself.

She lifted the garments out one by one. A cherry-red micro-skirt. Thigh-high stockings with a lace trim. Panties so small they'd disappear under anything, and a matching bra with a rhinestone clasp. Stripper heels with clear platforms. A tight, black satin top that laced up like a corset.

She laid them out like sacred relics across the bed. Her fingers trembled slightly as she chose each piece. The air in the room felt heavier somehow, as if something ancient and secret was about to awaken.

She began with the panties—sliding them up her legs, the silky band hugging her hips with a teasing snap. The sensation sent a ripple through her stomach. She shivered.

The bra followed, the soft cups lifting her breasts into a shape that felt both obscene and divine. She fastened the rhinestone clasp behind her back and ran a hand over herself. Already, her skin felt different—more alive.

She slipped into the corset top, tugging the laces tight, then the skirt—short enough to feel indecent, tight enough to thrill. The stockings clung as she rolled them up, snapping gently at her thighs.

Last, the heels.

When she stood, her posture changed—hips tilted, back arched. A woman transformed.

She moved to the vanity. There, she applied makeup with slow, practiced strokes. Smoky eyes. Red lips. A dusting of shimmer along her collarbone. Dangling earrings. A silver cuff.

And there she was.

She looked in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back: sexy, fearless, dangerous. Younger. Not just in looks—though the transformation was striking—but in spirit.

She saw herself again.

And for a moment, she remembered.

She'd been sixteen the first time it happened. A bored, curious teenager sneaking into her older sister’s room while she was at college. Theresa had always admired her sister’s style—bold, sexy, unapologetic.

She'd tried on a pair of sheer red panties and a matching babydoll slip. Something had sparked the moment the satin touched her skin. She remembered how the fabric had whispered along her legs, how the top clung to her chest in a way that made her feel... powerful.

Then, to her horror—and delight—she'd started floating.

At first, just an inch off the floor. Then higher. She'd panicked, flailing, but didn’t fall. She floated to the ceiling, touching it with the tips of her fingers, her breath caught in her throat.

She hadn't been afraid long. Something inside her had awakened. When she kicked the ceiling in alarm, it cracked—but she didn't feel a thing. That was how she learned she was invincible too.

She'd kept the secret all her life.

Never took a costume name. Never made a public appearance. But she'd tested the limits—flying under cover of night, using her strength to stop a mugging once, saving a child from a car accident another time. All in secret. All while raising a son.

She wouldn't change that. She never regretted being a mother. Trevor was her world.

And thank God, the powers hadn't passed to him.

He wasn't the adventuring type. He was gentle, introverted. Too smart for his own good sometimes. If he had powers, he'd overthink himself into a panic. Or worse, try something reckless. She couldn’t bear the thought of him getting hurt.

No—better that the gift had ended with her.

She walked to the window and opened it, the night air curling over her skin like a lover's kiss. There was no fire escape, but the roofline sloped just enough to make a launch feasible. She climbed out slowly, carefully, heels clicking against the shingles.

She crouched, bent her knees, and pushed off.

The wind caught her instantly.

And then she was airborne.

The city spread beneath her like a living map, lights twinkling, cars threading through streets like sparks in motion. The night wrapped around her like a second skin, cool and perfect.

She banked left, arched over the rooftops, laughing aloud.

She didn't have a destination. She never did. She just needed the sky. The speed. The freedom. A reminder that before she was a mother, she was someone else too. And that someone still mattered.

Tonight, she was her.

Theresa Tapper.

Powerful.

Beautiful.

Unstoppable.