Ultraboy tries to forget.

Surreal could best describe the situation Ultraboy found himself in following his retreat. Thoughts in disarray at the almost absurd evening, he made a beeline back home to the familiar security therein. The night air was cool and crisp, wind tousling his brown hair almost playfully as though to say it were saying that all was forgiven, everything would be alright. He sighed, closing his eyes and letting his mind go blank, meditative and introspective. In the firm reality of the city night, flying as though he were on patrol, the normality of the situation settled in his mind, pushing away the prior experience like one would a dream on waking. Yet, much like a dream, it nagged at the back of the mind, teasing him with flashes of images and – perhaps far more menacing – sensations therein. His cock stirred within his skin tight costume even after home came into view.

Hiding in plain sight, his mother had called it, such a description proving extremely apt. A typical suburb home: three rooms, two bathrooms, white picket fence and sloping red roof with windows peeking out from beneath its hood. Of course, looks were very much deceiving, the residence sporting a high tech security system and underground base from which the super hero duo spent most of their real time. Much like the underground lair, both Ultramom and Ultraboy made sure to maintain a surface disguise of single mother raising her son, fine neighbours who cared for their lawn, the sort who would be upon your front porch, welcoming you to the neighborhood with a homemade pie and smiles. Not the sort whose son would spend the evening in the parlor of a pale seductress, the candlelight glittering off her creamy flesh, sparkling off the beads of sweat and throwing her suit which left nothing to the imagination into stark relief; her manicured hands that could break a man’s neck with a flick of the wrist wrapped with such tenderness around his cock…

Ultraboy shuddered and shook the thought from his mind. No. It did not happen. That was nothing more than a…a mistake, an error in judgment. He was merely in a confused state at the time, so many things happening at once. Not something which would ever be consummated by willing choice.

He almost believed himself. Almost, until he opened the window, slipped inside his room, turned on the light, and found an erection straining against his suit.

“Dammit!” Ultraboy cursed, practically tearing loose his cape and throwing it on the floor. He needed a cold shower. Running a hand through his curly brown he stomped into the bathroom, kicking his long red boots off at the threshold of the bathroom, soon followed by what was left of his uniform.

Flicking on the light, he caught himself in the mirror, and stared. Scrawled in red with lipstick like blood on stone was the number. 882-6420. The super hero was frozen at the image, staring at his toned naked body in the mirror, arms hanging limply at his side. His breathing grew a little shallow. It was easy to dismiss what had happened before. But here was concrete evidence of his experience, and the possibility of a repeat performance. A shudder ran through him from toes to the very tips of his hair. Throwing up his arms, he clenched his hair in both hands, the pose making him look like he was flexing at the mirror. Without meaning to, he made a small thrust at the mirror, his erect cock stabbing at his reflection, throwing the scarlet numbers at his face as though demanding his attention.

Realizing what he had done in time to catch a second thrust Ultraboy tore his hands away from his hair. In sudden decisiveness he grabbed a cloth and soaked it in water. Roughly, he rubbed what remained of the evidence of the earlier fornications. He did the same to the numbers, only for the lipstick to smudge across his entire groin like he had been burned.

Done, he fairly fled to the safety of the shower. Cold water cascaded over him as he did his best to **** the memories from his mind. Breathing heavily, Ultraboy turned off the water and stumbled out of the shower. Haphazardly dabbing at his body with a towel, he wandered into his room and sat down on the bed, leaning his head into his hands. He stared at his crotch, the skin still rough and red from the lipstick. As he stared, he found himself tracing out the numbers all over again. 882-6420. 882-6420. A maddening mantra which he felt he could not escape.

There he remained for some time. “Dammit…” he grumbled at last. Grabbing a piece of paper and pencil from the bedside table, he etched the number down. When done he leaned back and looked upon the number. Odd as it was to say, with the number written down once more, it was as if a load had been removed from his mind. Though he found it troubling that it were to be so, the sheer palpable relief excused it and, with a flick of the switch, he turned off the light and rolled into bed. Tomorrow was a new day, one which would put the events of the prior one firmly in the past.

So he thought when closing his eyes. Dreams however work far different, and in the privacy of night, when his guard was down, he felt fingers trail along his cock, his nipples tingling at unseen caresses, stroking, gasps as lips red hot with passion pressed against his own, dominating, demanding his reciprocation. And in the freedom of his imagination, he did so, and gladly.