Chapter 4 – Supergirl

Marcus woke to the scent of sex and power.

He lay in Wonder Woman's bed—no, his bed now, for all beds in the Watchtower were his by right—surrounded by the wreckage of his appetites. Morning light filtered through the viewport, casting long shadows across the chamber and illuminating the three magnificent bodies that lay scattered about the room like discarded toys.

Diana was closest, sprawled on her stomach with one arm hanging off the mattress, her divine physique marked by his attentions. Even in sleep, she looked like a goddess carved from marble and gold, her dark hair tangled across the pillows, her ass still bearing the red marks of his hands. Between her thighs, a pool of his seed glistened, leaking from both openings he'd claimed repeatedly through the night.

Zatanna had collapsed against the far wall, her legs splayed wide, her magician's body exhausted beyond the capacity for modesty. Her enhanced breasts rose and fell with shallow breathing, nipples stiff in the cool recycled air of the station. His cum trickled down her inner thighs, marking her as thoroughly as the rune he'd had her place on Star Girl.

And then there was Dinah.

Black Canary lay on the floor where he'd left her, her athletic form twisted in a pose that spoke of thorough use. Her blonde hair was matted with sweat and other fluids, her lips swollen from the service she'd rendered. Like the others, she leaked from both holes—he'd been particularly rough with her, testing the limits of his new stamina, using her body as a vessel for his divine lust until she'd passed out from pleasure.

Marcus stretched, feeling his godlike physique respond to consciousness. Muscle rippled across his chest, abs tightening into perfect definition. His cock stirred, already half-hard and massive even in its resting state—a weapon of flesh that matched his new status. He was no longer the nervous graduate student who'd first teleported into the Watchtower. He was a god among heroes, and these women were his worshippers.

He focused his will, feeling the power that Star Girl's conduit provided flowing through him. The magic was intoxicating—he could feel the boundaries of his strength, and they were limitless. He reached out with his mind, his telekinetic abilities—a gift from Zatanna's enhanced ritual—wrapping around Dinah's sleeping form.

She rose from the floor like a puppet on strings, her body limp and yielding, floating through the air until she settled on the bed beside him. Her eyes fluttered open, confused, then focused on him with immediate adoration.

"Master," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Did I... did I please you?"

"Not enough," Marcus growled, already hardening fully. "You're going to please me now, Canary. Properly."

He reached out and grabbed a fistful of her blonde hair, yanking her head toward his lap. Dinah gasped, then moaned as he forced her mouth onto his cock. She took him eagerly, her training from the previous night having rewired her reflexes, but Marcus wanted more than her mouth. He wanted her power.

"Use it," he commanded, gripping her hair tighter, forcing her down until her nose pressed against his pelvis. "Your Canary Cry. On my cock. Now."

Dinah's eyes widened—this was dangerous, her sonic scream could shatter steel, could pulverize bone. But the Signal overrode her caution, made her want to obey, made her desperate to please him even if it meant destroying herself. She focused her power, directing the sonic vibrations not outward, but inward, surrounding his shaft with resonant frequency that made the air itself hum.

The sensation was indescribable. Marcus threw his head back, groaning as his cock was enveloped in sonic stimulation, vibrating at frequencies that targeted every nerve ending simultaneously. Dinah's throat massaged him while the Canary Cry turned her mouth into a vessel of pure pleasure, the sound waves traveling through his flesh and settling in his balls, building pressure that demanded release.

"Don't stop," he snarled, thrusting up into her mouth, using her hair to guide her rhythm. "Make me cum, you little bird. Make me cum with your scream."

Dinah's eyes rolled back, the power flowing through her and into him, the vibration intensifying as she lost herself in service. Marcus felt his climax building—not the gradual rise of mortal pleasure, but the sudden, overwhelming surge of godhood. He erupted down her throat, pumping thick ropes of cum directly into her stomach, his cock pulsing with the force of his release while the sonic vibrations continued to milk him dry.

When he finally released her hair, Dinah collapsed backward onto the bed, gasping, her throat working as she swallowed the last of his seed. She looked wrecked—eyes glazed, lips bruised, her Canary costume torn and stained. Marcus stood, admiring his handiwork, his cock still hard and ready despite the massive load he'd just deposited.

"Stay there," he ordered, though none of them were in any condition to move. "I'll be back when I'm ready for round two."

He dressed in clothes that Zatanna had conjured for him—tight black pants that showed off his physique, a shirt that strained across his chest, open at the collar to display the power coiled in his muscles. He looked like a conqueror. He looked like a king.

He looked like their god.

---

The Watchtower's main console occupied the center of the command deck, a holographic interface that displayed the status of every League member, every ongoing mission, every threat to Earth's safety. Marcus settled into the central chair—Batman's chair, technically, though the Dark Knight hadn't questioned his presence there in days—and pulled up the personnel files.

The list scrolled before him, a catalog of power and beauty that had once been untouchable, mythic, beyond the reach of a mere graduate student. He remembered being eighteen jerking off to fantasies of these women, imagining what Wonder Woman's lips would feel like, what Power Girl's tits would look like freed from that ridiculous costume, what it would be like to bend Supergirl over and claim her Kryptonian purity.

Now they were his for the taking.

He scrolled through the names, making mental notes. Power Girl was off-world, unfortunately, dealing with a crisis on Rann. Hawkgirl was in the training levels—he'd get to her later. Batwoman was on Gotham duty. But there, highlighted in the active roster, was the name he'd been hoping for:

Supergirl. Kara Zor-El. Status: Onboard. Location: Mess Hall.

Marcus smiled, a slow expression of predatory anticipation. Supergirl had always been his favorite—the innocence mixed with impossible power, the farm-girl sweetness wrapped around a body that could bench-press mountains. She was young, technically nineteen but with the cultural innocence of someone much younger, new to Earth and its customs, trusting and eager to please.

She wouldn't know what hit her.

He rose from the chair, feeling his cock stir against his thigh, already anticipating the tightness of Kryptonian muscles, the heat of her alien physiology, the way she would cry out when he claimed her. The Signal pulsed in his pocket—enhanced now, magical, irresistible—and he knew that when he took her, no one would stop him. No one would even question it.

He was infrastructure. He was background noise. He was the god they ignored while he claimed their women.

---

The mess hall was crowded when Marcus entered, the lunch rush in full swing. Heroes and support staff mingled, grabbing food from the automated dispensers, discussing missions and training schedules. The noise was substantial—clattering trays, overlapping conversations, the general chaos of a cafeteria serving metahumans with enhanced appetites.

Supergirl sat at a table near the center, surrounded by other young heroes. She was wearing her costume—the blue and red, the House of El shield across her chest, the red skirt that showed off legs that could crush diamonds. Her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she was laughing at something someone had said, her face open and trusting and beautiful.

She was perfect.

Marcus walked toward her, the crowd parting automatically—not through conscious deference, but through the Signal's subtle influence, making room for him as they would for a piece of furniture, something unremarkable and necessary. He reached her table and stopped, looking down at her with his new godlike height, his shadow falling across her like a cloak.

Supergirl looked up, confused. "Um, can I help you?"

Marcus didn't answer. He reached out, his hand moving faster than even her Kryptonian reflexes could track, and grabbed her shoulder. With a casual display of strength that would have been impossible a week ago, he shoved her backward over the table.

The crash was tremendous. Trays went flying—food scattering across the floor, drinks spilling, plates shattering. Supergirl landed on her back across the table, her legs kicking, her eyes wide with shock. "What—what are you—"

Marcus was already moving. He grabbed the hem of her skirt and yanked, tearing her panties away with a single brutal jerk, exposing her Kryptonian pussy to the air. She was blonde there too, he noted with satisfaction, a neat triangle of golden hair above virgin folds that were already glistening—fear or arousal, he couldn't tell and didn't care.

"Stop! Get off me!" Supergirl tried to sit up, her hands pushing against his chest, but her strength failed her—not physically, but magically. The Signal hit her like a wall, overriding her Kryptonian physiology, making her muscles relax, making her want to submit even as her mind screamed in protest.

"Quiet," Marcus commanded, and she went still, her eyes glazing over as the suggestion took hold.

He freed his cock from his pants—it sprang forth, massive and heavy, already leaking pre-cum. Supergirl's eyes went wide at the sight, her mouth opening in a silent 'o' of shock. She had never seen anything like it. She had never imagined anything like it.

Marcus didn't give her time to adjust. He lined up with her entrance and thrust forward, burying half his length in her super-tight Kryptonian cunt in one brutal stroke.

Supergirl screamed. It was a sound of shock, of violation, of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Her back arched off the table, her hands clutching at the metal surface, her nails leaving grooves in the reinforced steel. She was tight—gods, she was tight—her alien physiology making her grip him like a velvet vise, muscles rippling around his shaft as he forced himself deeper.

"Please," she whimpered, even as her hips tilted to accept him better. "Please, I can't—it's too big—you're splitting me—"

"You'll take it," Marcus growled, gripping her hips and thrusting again, sinking the rest of the way in until his pelvis pressed against hers. "You'll take all of it, Supergirl. Every inch."

He began to move, pulling back and slamming forward, using his full strength now. The table creaked beneath them, the metal groaning under the force of his thrusts. Supergirl's tits bounced with each impact, still constrained by her costume top, and Marcus reached down with both hands and ripped the fabric away, freeing them to the air.

They were perfect—full and high, tipped with pink nipples that were already stiffening in the cool air of the mess hall. He grabbed them as he fucked her, using them as handles to pull her onto his thrusting cock, squeezing and kneading the firm flesh.

But what delighted him most was the bulge.

His godlike physique meant he towered over her—she was petite for a Kryptonian, barely five-foot-five, while he stood nearly six-and-a-half feet of sculpted muscle. And his cock... his cock was visible inside her. With every thrust, he could see the outline of his shaft moving beneath her skin, bulging her stomach outward, reshaping her insides to accommodate his divine size.

"Look at that," he taunted, slowing his thrusts to emphasize the visible movement. "You can see me inside you, Supergirl. You can see my cock claiming your Kryptonian cunt."

Supergirl looked down, her eyes widening further at the sight of her own stomach bulging with each thrust, the outline of his massive shaft clearly visible beneath her skin. "Oh god," she whimpered. "Oh my god, it's—it's too much—I can feel it everywhere—"

"Good," Marcus snarled, resuming his brutal pace. "Feel it. Remember it. This is what you were made for."

He became aware, peripherally, that the mess hall had gone quiet—or rather, that the noise continued but had shifted in tone. He looked around, still thrusting into Supergirl, and saw that the other heroes had returned to their meals. Superman sat at a nearby table, frowning at the spilled food on the floor.

"Kara," the Man of Steel said, his voice carrying a note of mild irritation. "You're making a mess. Clean that up when you're done."

Supergirl—Kara—whimpered, her face flushing with humiliation even as her body responded to Marcus's continued assault. "Yes, Kal," she managed, her voice breathy. "I'll... I'll clean it up..."

Superman nodded, already losing interest, turning back to his conversation with Green Lantern. No one else even looked over. The Signal was working perfectly—Marcus was invisible to their concern, his actions registered as unimportant background noise, like a maintenance worker fixing a light fixture or a janitor mopping a spill.

The power of it rushed through him, intensifying his pleasure. He was fucking Supergirl on a table in the middle of the Justice League mess hall, and no one cared. No one would stop him. He could do anything to her, take anything from her, and they would simply ignore it.

He drove into her harder, pounding her against the table with enough force to crack the surface. Supergirl's screams had turned to continuous moans, her Kryptonian body betraying her, adapting to his size, beginning to respond to the stimulation. Her hips rose to meet his thrusts, her hands moving from the table to his shoulders, clutching at him even as her mind fought to resist.

"Please," she begged, though whether she was begging for him to stop or to continue, even she couldn't say. "Please, I can't—I'm going to—"

"Cum," Marcus commanded, reaching between them to rub her clit with his thumb. "Cum on my cock, Supergirl. Show everyone what a slut you are."

The command pushed her over the edge. Supergirl threw her head back and screamed, her body convulsing around him, her Kryptonian muscles clamping down on his shaft with enough force to crush steel. Marcus felt her orgasm rip through her, felt her juices flooding around his cock, felt the heat of her alien physiology spike with pleasure.

He kept thrusting through it, using her body even as she came apart beneath him, driving toward his own climax. When it hit, it was like a supernova. He buried himself to the hilt and erupted, pumping thick ropes of divine cum directly into her womb, marking her Kryptonian depths with his seed. He came and came, his godlike balls producing enough semen to flood her completely, until it leaked out around his shaft and pooled on the table beneath her.

When he finally pulled out, Supergirl lay sprawled and wrecked, her costume in tatters, her pussy gaping and leaking his seed, her eyes glazed with the aftermath of pleasure and violation.

"Clean me," Marcus commanded, standing beside the table, his cock still hard and glistening with their combined fluids.

Supergirl blinked, confused, but the Signal compelled her. She slid off the table, her legs barely supporting her, and dropped to her knees on the mess hall floor. Without hesitation, she took him into her mouth, tasting herself on his flesh, cleaning his shaft with her tongue and lips, sucking the mixture of their essences until he was clean.

The humiliation was complete. She was on her knees in the middle of the Justice League mess hall, surrounded by her colleagues who ignored her existence, worshipping his cock with her mouth while his cum leaked down her thighs.

Marcus let her work for a moment, enjoying the sight of the mighty Supergirl reduced to a cocksucking slut, her blonde head bobbing as she serviced him. But he wasn't done with her yet.

He reached down and grabbed her ankles, lifting them and spreading her legs wide, exposing her ass to the air. Supergirl squealed around his cock, realizing what was coming, trying to pull away, but he held her firm.

"No," she managed, pulling back from his shaft. "Not there—I've never—please, it's too big—"

"Quiet," Marcus commanded, and she went still, her eyes glazing again, her body relaxing into acceptance even as tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

He lined up with her asshole, still slick with her juices and his cum, and pushed forward. She was even tighter here, her Kryptonian muscles resisting even as the Signal demanded she accept him. He forced his way in, inch by inch, watching her stomach bulge with the visible outline of his cock as he claimed her final hole.

When he was fully seated, he began to move—not gentle, not careful, but brutal and claiming. He used her like a ragdoll, gripping her ankles and pulling her onto his thrusting cock, pounding her ass with the full force of his godlike strength. The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the mess hall, wet and obscene, accompanied by Supergirl's whimpers and the clatter of nearby heroes eating their lunch.

He lifted her completely off the ground, holding her by the ankles as he impaled her repeatedly, using her body as a fleshlight, a vessel for his pleasure. Her tits bounced wildly, her hair dragged on the floor, her hands clutching at nothing as he destroyed her ass with divine cock.

"Take it," he snarled, his pace becoming frantic. "Take it all, you Kryptonian whore. This is what you are now. This is all you are."

Supergirl could only moan, her body overwhelmed, her mind shattered by the dual assault of physical pleasure and magical compulsion. She came again, her ass clamping down on him, her whole body shaking with the force of her orgasm.

Marcus followed her over the edge, burying himself to the hilt and flooding her bowels with another massive load, marking her inside and out, claiming every part of her as his property. He held her there, suspended by her ankles, impaled on his cock, until he was completely empty, until the last pulse of his orgasm faded.

Then he dropped her legs, letting her collapse onto the floor in a heap of used flesh and torn costume. She lay there, gasping, cum leaking from all three holes now, her eyes vacant and broken.

Around them, the mess hall continued its business. Superman stood up, carrying his tray to the disposal, stepping carefully around the puddle of Supergirl's juices and Marcus's seed on the floor.

"Try to keep it down, Kara," he said mildly, not even looking at her. "Some of us are trying to eat."

Marcus laughed, the sound booming through the hall, as he tucked his still-hard cock back into his pants. He looked down at Supergirl, at the broken Kryptonian princess at his feet, and smiled.