I Don't Remember...

Blinking rapidly, I try to clear the fog that's settled over my mind, but it clings stubbornly, muddying my thoughts. I'm standing in what looks like an underground warehouse, the dim light casting long shadows across rows of old crates. A black woman stands before me, her wide eyes filled with fear. She hesitates only a moment before turning on her heel and fleeing, her form disappearing between the crates.

I watch her go, an inexplicable pang of loss tightening in my chest. She's striking – even in the poor lighting, her beauty is undeniable, and there's an allure to her that I can't ignore even as she vanishes from sight.

Glancing down at my hands, they seem foreign to me – normal, yet not. My gaze traces the lines of the cobalt blue and electric yellow suit clinging to my body, a costume I don't recognize. A wave of confusion hits me, and as it does, my form wavers, morphing into an amorphous, humanoid shape, a mirror to my inner turmoil.

"Who am I?" The question echoes in my head, but it's not the most pressing concern. My attention is drawn to a young man nearby. He's the quintessential nerd – big glasses, an awkward stance, but there's something about him that feels crucial to me. I can't shake the feeling that he's important, that his desires should be my priority.

Approaching him, I ask, "Who are you? What do you want from me?" There's a part of me that wants to ask who I am, but it feels trivial next to the need to understand him.

He looks at me, his expression just as lost as I feel. "I…I don't know who I am…" he admits, his voice laced with confusion.

Circling the young man, I scrutinize him, searching for any flicker of recognition in the blank canvas of my memories. The intense loyalty I feel towards him is baffling, an anchor in the sea of confusion that my mind has become. His requests are silent, yet my insistence bubbles to the surface.

"Tell me, what do you want from me?" I press, my tone edged with my usual directness despite the haze clouding my thoughts.

He meets my gaze, the confusion in his eyes mirroring my own. "I… I don't know what I want," he stammers, clearly overwhelmed by the situation.

I can see he needs guiding, a gentle hand to steer him through the fog. "I'm not sure what's going on here," I admit, "but there's this one thing I'm fucking certain of: whatever you want, I want to give it to you. It's like… it's what I'm here for, even if I can't remember why."

The young man considers my words, his eyes roaming over my vague form. Despite the amnesia, I intuitively understand that I can mold my appearance, my body shifting a moment ago evidence of it. Men usually have a thing for attractive women, right? I can't recall where I learned this, hell I can't even recall ever meeting another man before, but it feels like an ingrained truth.

With that in mind, my shape shifts subtly, softening into a more feminine silhouette, my features gaining definition while remaining enigmatic. I watch his reaction closely.

"What are you doing?" he asks, his curiosity piqued.

I tilt my head, a smirk forming on my lips. "Do you find me attractive?" I challenge him, the words feeling natural even in this state of unknown.

His eyes linger on me, taking in the changes. There's a spark there, a hint of something more. It's all the confirmation I need.

As I circle the young man, my mind a blank slate, I can't shake the compelling need to serve him, to mold myself into whatever form he desires. His eyes are on me, expectant and silent, and I interpret his lack of words as permission to proceed.

"Do you like me like this?" I ask him, my voice carrying the usual assertive tone I seem to naturally possess, "Sexier?" I can't remember who I am, but I know what I'm capable of, and that's enough for now.

He swallows hard, his eyes fixed on the larger tits I've crafted on my otherwise nebulous form. "Yes," he admits, and I see the satisfaction in his gaze. It's all the incentive I need to continue my transformation.

I concentrate, feeling the strange energy within me as I redefine my curves, sculpting my ass and legs into a more appealing shape, guided by an instinctive knowledge of what men generally find attractive. When his ogling intensifies, I take it as a sign to enhance those particular features further. If he shows a hint of displeasure or disinterest, I immediately retract the change, seeking his approval with every adjustment.

Finally, when I sense that I've reached the pinnacle of his desires – my body now the epitome of sexual allure, an exaggerated parody of femininity with voluptuous breasts, a cinched waist, and hips that promise sin – I stop and smirk, pleased with the result.

I'm not aroused by him, not in the slightest. My thoughts drift to the black woman who fled earlier, and I can tell I found her attractive. Yet, this doesn't concern me; my satisfaction lies in fulfilling his wants, in being his perfect creation.

Noticing the growing bulge between his legs, I address it matter-of-factly. "Do you want me to take care of that for you?" I ask, ready to provide whatever service he requires, my voice dripping with the confidence of a woman who knows she's got the power, even if she can't remember why.

I don't hesitate, my hands working with a purpose to free his hardness from the confines of his pants. Taking him into my mouth feels like second nature, the shape of his cock familiar against my tongue, even though I can't recall ever doing this before. I bob my head, taking him deeper with each motion, drawing pleasure from the way he shudders above me.

Just as I'm getting into the rhythm, the sound of footsteps signals an intrusion. Two Asian women, identical down to the last detail, rush in wearing their super costumes. Their sudden appearance does little to deter me; my focus remains on the task at hand - pleasuring this man whose name I don't even know.

"Why the fuck is this happening here? What about Memory Doe?" One of them spits out, her words crude and her gaze fixed on us with a mixture of shock and intrigue.

I let out a muffled laugh around his cock at their confusion, the sound vibrating against him. The name 'Dr. Mind' they call out sounds like a bad comic book villain, and it tickles me more than it probably should. But I keep sucking, determined to bring this man the relief he's clearly seeking.

"Do you girls wanna join or what?" he gasps out between moans.

The twins exchange a conflicted glance, their eyes darting between him and me. After a moment of hesitation, one of them speaks up, her voice a mix of curiosity and concern. "Do you want us to?" she asks him, her tone suggesting she's not entirely opposed to the idea.

The twins are visibly torn, but they don't need much convincing after the young guy I'm blowing nods. As they look at each other, they begin to multiply, creating more eager copies of themselves. Their super costumes are tight and revealing, highlighting their slender figures and perky breasts - a sight that I can't help but find arousing, my body responding to their presence.

They approach us, hesitancy giving way to a shared desire to please. Their hands, mouths, and bodies join the fray, and soon, the air is thick with the sounds of moans, skin slapping against skin, and the scent of lust. As the pleasure builds, I find myself lost in the sensations, the electricity of my power crackling beneath my skin, unused but thrumming with potential.

Finally, the man reaches his climax, his release filling my mouth as I swallow every drop. We collapse together, a tangle of limbs and heaving chests. I lay there, panting, the satisfaction of providing what he wanted coursing through me, even as my mind remains a blank slate.

Lying there amidst the tangled limbs and satisfied sighs, I hear a crackle in my ear - a feminine voice that's fierce yet smooth. My head's still spinning, but I manage a chuckle, amused by the chaos of the situation.

"What the hell is going on? Why isn't anyone responding?" the voice demands, urgency lacing every word.

I can't help but laugh, the sound raw and genuine. "Well, I've been a little tied up," I reply, my voice dripping with innuendo. "I've been fucking this guy."

Confusion taints the voice in my ear. "What about Memory Doe? Weren't you supposed to—"

I cut her off with a snort. "Who?" I say, my gaze still locked on the guy sprawled out beside me, his glasses askew, his breaths deep and even.

"Wait… what guy are you talking about?" Now she sounds not just irritated but clearly confused.

I describe him as best I can without the details that don't matter. Truth be told, he's not that pretty, but he doesn't need to hear that. "He's this tall dude with big glasses…"

There's a pause, a moment of silence that's almost palpable, and then a string of curses floods my ear.

The Asian woman, now singular again, looks just as disheveled as I feel. She grabs a communicator from her costume, speaking to the voice as well. "Sienna… Seems like Memory Doe wiped their memories and took off," she explains, the realization dawning in her voice.

I giggle again, the information slotting into place. No wonder the nerd and I can't remember a damn thing.

"We need to bring Mark back to the lair," the voice orders, sounding like it's on the edge of panic.

Lair? I've got no clue what she's talking about, but the name 'Mark' catches my attention. I glance at the nerdy guy, who frowns at the mention of the name, just as lost as I am. His confusion is almost comical, and I notice an earpiece in his ear too. Is he… Mark? Did we have some secret mission with this Memory Doe everyone keeps yapping about? The black woman who bolted… could she be the one?

The Asian super, her costume now slightly torn, jumps in. "I don't know if he wants to go back to the lair," she says, her eyes flicking to the guy beside me. "He seems pretty fucking out of it."

Before she can finish, the voice cuts her off, the panic now unmistakable. "I don't want to hear what he wants right now!" There's a desperation in her tone, like she's fighting every instinct to stay professional. "I'll keep going with what I know he wanted. Got it?"

The cute Asian super frowns deeply at her communicator before it goes silent. She turns to the guy who's apparently Mark, and introduces herself in a way I can't help but find amusingly crude.

"I'm Clonica," she says. "Here's the deal! So, we're all part of this freaky-ass super league you created. We've all been zapped by some crazy ray gun a while ago that's made us loyal as fuck to you. It's why this chick here," she points at me, "and me, are so damn eager to please you. We were in a mission to catch that other chick, Memory Doe, to zap her too, but it seems she zapped you first."

Her explanation sounds absolutely batshit, but it clicks. That's why I've been so focused on satisfying Mark's every desire. It's absurd, yet it makes an odd sort of sense.

She continues, her expression serious despite her colorful language. "We all wanna do what you want, but right now, you've gotta realize we're in some fucked up situation 'cause you can't remember shit. The best thing would be to get you back home and to see how we can fix this mess."

She kneels in front of him, her eyes locked onto his. "So, big guy, what do you wanna do?"

He chuckles, a sound that's somehow both endearing and exasperating under the circumstances. "Honestly? I could fucking go for some ice cream."

Clonica clenches her jaw, her frustration palpable. She looks to me, and I can only shrug in response. If he wants ice cream, then that's what we should get him. Simple as that.

She groans, running a hand through her hair. "Fine, let's get some damn ice cream," she mutters, her loyalty to him clear in her begrudging agreement.

We find a staircase leading to the surface, the steps cool and gritty beneath my bare feet. Clonica, her nerves practically visible, keeps throwing glances my way. I'm still rocking the naked bimbo look, my curves exaggerated beyond belief, my tits jiggling with every step.

"You might wanna tone it down, Vixen," Clonica suggests. "You're a walking wet dream, and we're about to hit the streets. Maybe conjure up some clothes at least, be a bit more discreet?"

Mark chuckles, his eyes roaming over me with unabashed delight. "I kinda like her this way," he says, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. "Who knows when I'll want another round with her, especially after some sweet ice cream."

His words spark a warmth within me, my body eager to comply. I want to please him, that much is clear. Clonica looks like she's about to pop a vein, clearly torn between her desire to keep him safe and the compulsion to do as he wishes. I don't know what's making her so nervous, or rather I don't remember, and I'm kinda thankful for that. It's much simpler this way, isn't it?

"Please, at least let her wear something," Clonica pleads, her eyes darting around the dingy staircase. "This ain't exactly the safest part of town, and we're about to walk into a shit show with her looking like that."

He gives a nod, conceding to Clonica's request, but not without adding, "Make it hot, girl. Scorching."

With a smirk, I let my body shift, keeping the sex appeal dialed up but adding a skimpy, form-hugging dress that leaves little to the imagination. It's the kind of outfit that screams 'look but don't touch'—unless you're him, of course. Clonica lets out an exasperated sigh, but there's a hint of relief in her eyes as we continue our ascent. If he wants ice cream, then ice cream he shall have, and I'll be the cherry on top.

I've got no idea what city we're in, my mind's a blank slate, but even without memories, I can tell this place has seen better days. We end up standing in front of a small corner store with Mark licking an ice cream cone that Clonica has just bought for him.

The hot asian, still in her superhero getup, shifts uncomfortably as people start to notice us. Her eyes dart back and forth, taking in the stares and the smartphones coming out to snap pictures. I can tell she's pissed about the attention, but what did she expect, parading around in a costume in a place like this?

Some of the locals start to catcall, throwing lewd comments my way, but I don't give a damn. I've only got eyes for Mark, and as I sidestep closer to him, I make sure my body language screams 'taken'.

"Jesus, can't you degenerates take a hint?" Clonica snaps, her voice carrying that edge that says she's two seconds away from kicking ass. "She's with him, so back the fuck off."

The crowd around us thickens, held at bay by the simmering threat of Clonica's posture. Her voice breaks through, laced with frustration. "Where the fuck is Dr. Mind?" she asks us, eyeing the crowd warily. "Either of you remember what happened to him?"

Mark snorts, his humor cutting through the tension. "Not remembering much is kinda the theme of the day, isn't it?" His chuckle is infectious, and I join in, hoping to match his mood. It's important that he sees I'm on his side, even in this amnesiac haze.

Clonica's eyes fixate on the rapidly dwindling ice cream cone in Mark's hand. "This thing is like a fucking ticking time bomb," she mutters under her breath, voicing her concern about what he'll ask for next.

I find myself wondering why Clonica's so on edge. The ray's effects make it so easy, so fulfilling to give Mark what he wants. Doesn't she feel that same rush of satisfaction from serving him?

Mark's frown deepens, the lines on his forehead betraying his annoyance at Clonica's palpable anxiety. "Hey, you're kinda killing the vibe here," he says, his voice light but the undercurrent serious. "Can you just… chill a bit?"

Clonica lets out a nervous laugh, a sound that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "It's just… how do you expect me to give you what you want when what you want is for me to feel something I can't fucking control?"

He contemplates her words, taking a slow lick of what's left of his ice cream. "Follow her example," he says, gesturing to me with a tilt of his head, his eyes appreciating my form. I stand proudly, my shapeshifted body an exaggerated vision of desire, my dress clinging to every curve like a second skin.

Clonica looks at him, searching for clarification. "What do you mean by that?"

Mark shrugs, a simple motion that seems to carry weight. "I don't know, do something hot. Give everyone a little show or something."

You can almost hear the cogs turning in Clonica's head as she processes his words. The conflict is written all over her face, but the nod comes eventually. She takes a deep breath, steels herself, and steps closer to the onlookers. Her hand moves to the zipper of her costume, poised to peel the fabric away from her body for Mark's entertainment.

An explosion rocks the ground a few blocks away, jolting everyone into high alert. Screams pierce the air as the bystanders scatter, fleeing the sudden danger. Mark drops to his knees, covering his head protectively, while Clonica and I, driven by pure instinct, prepare for a fight.

Clonica's body begins to blur, multiplying until a dozen identical figures form a protective circle around Mark. I feel a surge of electricity crackling at my fingertips, my body shifting, muscles tensing for combat. Despite the gaping hole in my memory, my powers respond, ready to strike. It's a strange comfort, knowing I can fight, even when I don't remember learning how.

Then, cutting through the chaos, an old man in a ridiculous costume struts into view, and I'm ready to pounce. But Clonica's body language shifts from defensive to recognition.

"Dr. Mind! Where the hell have you been?" one of her calls out.

The old man offers a polite, apologetic bow. "I do beg your pardon, ladies and Mark. I've been in pursuit of Memory Doe, quite successfully in the end, I must say." he announces, his voice smooth as silk.

The black woman from the warehouse steps out from behind him, looking bewildered and out of place. Before any of us can react, her eyes glow with a luminescent power.

And just like that, the fog in my brain lifts. Every memory, every detail of my past rushes back in a flood of information.