John Constantine

It was a packed house and Constantine had conjured himself a front row seat. He'd known Zee a long time and her show looked better than ever, as did she.

As the audience gasped at the tricks and illusions, his mind was elsewhere. He knew how the tricks worked and how she deceived her audience; she just used real magic rather than the usual smoke and mirrors. No, his mind was on Zatanna, in those high heels and fishnet stockings, that tight waistcoat that accentuated her hourglass figure and those magnificent breasts that he so missed nuzzling against.

As the raven-haired beauty continued her show, he knew what show he wanted to see, along with a lot of the audience he suspected, whose gasps and sighs were audible when an audience member placed handcuffs on Zatanna and started to tie her up. Constantine was quite content to mentally undress her all night, but he knew the real thing was even better. Why not give this audience the greatest show on Earth?

For a second, he relented, but then he remembered how he'd been so sweet and young and innocent when he'd met her all those years ago on her father's tour of the UK. That teenage slag had had no second thoughts about introducing him to the darkest magic, the most mind-blowing sex, where she'd let out every curse word as she'd orgasm, and then insist he join her in a post-coital cigarette. Zatanna was addictive, he realized, as he felt the bulge in his pockets that for a second he thought was his cigarettes, and then he realized he wanted nothing more that evening than to see her cum, live and on stage. She'd corrupted young John Constantine so long ago, and now it was time for his ****, to corrupt her. She might never forgive him, but maybe she would when she saw what it did for ticket sales.

All doubt had left him, as the heady mixture of **** and lust brewed within him. Zatanna can go fuck herself, he thought, as he cast his strongest spell, pouring all his soul and tantric energies into it.