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What Are Supergirls Made Of


"Come on, baby, just relax. If you didn't want it, why
did you give me such a beautiful smile?"
Frank caressed the young passerby's face. He didn't
want to force her. He didn't enjoy feeling like an asshole. So
he just pretended that his body wasn't pinning hers to the
greasy pavement. He pretended that the perfume she wore
had been meant for him. He pretended that they were on a
bed -- but all he could afford was a back alley. Hey, it was
the best he could do, and if it wasn't good enough for her,
well, fuck her.
She had a beautiful smile. She only showed it once, as
they passed on the street, but Frank kept it in his memory.
As he worked open her shirt, she didn't resist, she didn't
scream, she just pinched her lips together and closed her
eyes. It wasn't usually this easy, so he pretended that she
was consenting.
He rubbed against her breasts for a moment,
pretending foreplay, but he was getting anxious and went
for her belt. Then she chirped out a slight scream.
He glared at her with a rehearsed glare -- a very
menacing glare, an almost insane glare. She went silent,
but the tears in her eyes, and her shivering body destroyed
his illusion of consent. So be it.
Frank was much rougher now, as he pushed down her
shorts, and he meant to tear off her panties in one motion,
when a tremendous yank from behind snapped the buttons
on his shirt and brought him to his feet.
He spun around, expecting some stupid, gallant wimp.
He frowned, and spit out: "Shit!"
There she was, in blue and red. Supergirl, the queen
of the bitches. What lousy luck.
Frank was just a rapist -- something no worse in his
mind than a man who steals for his food; he was only taking
what women should have been giving freely. Why couldn't
this kryptonian cunt be out getting real criminals?
But at least it wasn't Superman that caught him. That
bastard was cruel to rapists. He'd use his x-ray vision on
your balls, and sterilize you right there, before he hauled
your ass off to prison. The newspapers said nothing, but it
was an underground fact.
Superbitch was something else. She was awfully timid
for a girl who could kill you with a harsh glance. The word
on her was she's a sucker for tormented guys. Well, Frank
thought, I can be as tormented as the next guy.

Sometimes I fly just to relax. When people see me up
in the sky, they think I'm after someone or monitoring the
city. But sometimes I feel just like a caged bird. Tonight was
just one of those times. The air is fresh, and the wind blows
my hair wonderfully.
But up here I could hear almost everything, and
everything's in plain sight. It was a big city, with lots of
problems, and it was hard to relax when someone's in pain.
This time it was a dirty street wanderer trying to r*pe
a terrified young woman, who was too attractive and too
small too be walking alone in this neighborhood after
sunset. At times like this, I felt right as Supergirl. I pulled
him off her.
He spun around as if to strike me, but he recognized
me and stopped. I wish he hadn't noticed so quickly; he
would have broken his hand on my cheek. I pointed my
finger at him, and said "Don't move." I knew he wouldn't.
I helped the girl up. She kept whispering "Thank you"
as she adjusted her clothes.
"Are you OK?"
She tried to smile, as she wiped sweat and tears from
her face, but she faltered. "Yeah, just shaken up. This has
happened before. I can't believe I was so stupid."
I shook my head. "It's not your fault."
She nodded, as she leaned against me. "I know," she
said. After taking a few deep breaths, the shock on her face
relaxed. She collected herself quickly, I thought. "But this is
going to hurt for a while. I know it. God, I should have been
more careful. I guess you couldn't understand, but I hate
having to be careful all the time. You just never know who's
a monster."
"I understand," I said sincerely, but she probably
didn't believe me. Maybe she was right; maybe I had lost
perspective after all these years.
I talked with her for a little longer, but she seemed
fine, so I let her go meet her friends who lived just two
buildings away.
The bastard waited just where I told him to, and he
was staring at the ground. I walked up to him, grabbed his
hair and forced him to look at me. "OK, you want to r*pe
someone, try to r*pe me."
He didn't meet my eyes. "I don't want to r*pe you,
Supergirl. I'm sorry I got out of hand."
"Don't tell me your sorry."
"But I am. I've never done that before. At first I
thought she liked me, then I just lost control."
I shrugged, as I looked as his filthy clothes. r*pe is a
crime of hate, I reminded myself. But sometimes I couldn't
help but wonder of the rapist's pain. He looked pathetic. But
I bit my lip. "You sure did lose control!"
He looked at my eyes, but his eyes wandered to my
breasts, then to the ground. "You know, a few years ago, I
had a crush on you."
I softened a bit. "So ... what difference does that
make."
"I don't know. It's just that it hurts that you are the one
that caught me."
"Maybe it should hurt. How do you think she felt."
"I don't know," he said while covering his face. "I
really don't know. I didn't want to hurt her."
I sighed and did a very stupid thing.

Woman of Steel, hah! I'm just a woman of mush.
I flew over rural areas instead of the city. Not very
pretty scenery at night, but I could think in peace. I could
think how I let an aspiring rapist go free. I could think about
the other crimes I could be stopping right now. I could think
of my whole, screwed up life.
"Supergirl," "Superwoman". Feminists and the media
call me "Superwoman." Everyone else calls me "Supergirl".
I'm almost forty now, and although Superman and I age
more slowly than other people, I feel age creeping up on me,
too. Someday, I know, I will lose my youthful appearance
and everyone will call me Superwoman. I can't see it in the
mirror, yet, but I dread the day that I can. Men will give me
other, cruel names that I can't bear to think about. God, I
already have so many names. Superwoman, Supergirl,
Superbitch, Superwallflower, Kara, Linda Lee and a few
other secret identities. No wonder I have an identity crisis.
Clark's the only one who understands my problems,
and he's been great. But still things are easier for him. He
had earth parents, grew up as Clark Kent his entire life in a
nice home.
I came to Earth at seventeen. Everyone I knew before
then had died, leaving me as the sole survivor. Only Clark
knows that I was r*ped before coming here, so I didn't lie to
that lady today. And I never knew a family here. If Clark
hadn't been there, people would probably call me
"Superdelinquent".
Even having my powers were a problem. Very few
cultures on earth feel totally comfortable with me. Yeah, I
am appreciated, but whenever I do some heroic act, I know
people would have preferred that Superman did it. Strength
was meant to be a male attribute, while beauty and charm
give a woman her power. That's the culture I see every day.
That was even the culture on Krypton. I was physically
attractive, but still I felt like a woman seven feet tall and with
rugged features. I sometimes felt like I wasn't a woman but
some freak, and when I used my powers against men -- even
criminals, like that rapist -- I felt like I was offending some
gender rule. Feminists looked to me to redefine those rules,
and they looked to me as a symbol of powerful women. I
didn't want any of that; I didn't care about the powers; I just
wanted people, especially men, to see me as a normal
woman. The only powers I wanted were feminine powers.
Maybe, then, what I was doing as Linda Lee made sense,
even if Clark wouldn't talk to me any more if he learned
about it.
Clark didn't want to admit it, but the only sexual
partners we could have were each other. Some men joke
that men who have sex with me turn into eunuchs, but that is
exactly what would happen. Superman has the same kind of
problem. And if either of us wanted to have children, we
could only do it with each other. The only way I could ever
really feel like a woman is with Clark, and that would be so
easy for me, since I've loved him from the start. But I was
not in his plans, so I had to seek my sexuality elsewhere.
I heard a clock chime somewhere, so I knew it was
eight o'clock. I turned around and headed for the city. It
was time to become Linda Lee again.

Aerosmith blared from speakers everywhere at about
100 decibels, while I stuffed my super-ears with ear plugs.
Noise was my secret weakness, more secret than any of my
identities, much more secret than the kryptonite I held in my
hand. Depleted kryptonite, that is, totally harmless, and the
only substance hard enough for a super-person to shave
with. Afterwards, I hid the special razor and worked on my
makeup and wig. Outside, the song subsided and gave way
to cheers and whistles.
When I was ready, the DJ announced, "Taking center
stage is the lovely Linda Lee. Remember, caress her with
your eyes, not your hands." The cheering rose again,
strobes flashed, and the Cars began to sing "All I Want is
You."
I wore red leather, high heeled boots, a vinyl miniskirt-
G-string combination, and a silly looking leather bra -- it
didn't matter, I thought, since it was the first thing I would
take off.
As "Linda Lee," I was a favorite with the crowd. All of
the dancers were attractive, but I danced more energetic
routines, and I truly liked many of my fans. I danced to find
myself, while most other dancers had dreams of modeling or
making movies or just supporting themselves. They smiled
on cue, and pretended passion with talent. I had trouble
pretending, but often my passion and smile were real, and
the audience could tell.
Once on stage, I was swept into my role. "Supergirl"
would ponder the wisdom of dancing in the nude before two
dozen excited men, but "Linda Lee" never thought twice. It
was the only way I could feel like a woman. I danced like an
ordinary human, only rarely dazzling the crowd with a
special move. Once, I had floated in the air in a ballet spin
for just a second. The crowd was awed, and that made me
feel more like a woman, not less.
The loudspeaker spoke: "Linda! Where'd you get that
bra?"
I shrugged and smiled, playing my part.
"Men, how would you like to see that 'thing' tossed into
the crowd, never to touch her beautiful breasts again?"
The crowd approved.
I tossed the leather strap as the crowd demanded,
without the usual tease. My breasts were soft and my
nipples hard, like a normal woman. Sometimes I considered
letting someone in the crowd feel them, to prove to myself
that they were normal. If I did, one of the bouncers would
beat up the poor man, as if it were his fault.
Soon the Cars gave way to the much slower "Eye in
the Sky" by the Alan Parson's Project. The announcer
spoke again: "Oh yeah, guys! I can read your mind. Linda,
they want to see down under," and I tried to dance smoothly
as I undid the cumbersome ties.
Some dancers only trimmed the hair on their "beaver,"
but I shaved it completely as the crowd wanted. I felt that
when men saw me close up, and still believed that I was just
a beautiful woman, then I really was. So it thrilled me to
show men as much as possible.
A few men stood at the side of the stage, wanting to
put a tip in my garter. It was a symbol of the sexual act, and
I believed that it was as close to the real thing as I (and
many of these men) would get. The tipper wanted a close-
up look, and I tried to maximize it. I lay on my back and
pretended to masturbate to the music -- I went further than
even the management liked by moving under the sole
spotlight. I stroked my revealed lips with my fingers, and
occasionally split them to allow a glimpse of my pink insides.
I was too much into it, though, and I forget my role. I shut
my eyes and felt a rush. My finger massaged my clitoris, as I
was discovering something new. Something I had not
planned on. I never had one before; I had often wondered if
I even could, but I was having an orgasm -- right on the
dance floor. My fingers were now wet, and I spread the fluid
all around my shaved triangle. I was lost. My legs were
shaking, my body was convulsing, and I never even tried to
hold in the moans.
I wonder if the whole stage was moving with me. I
expect everyone was watching my fingers, and wouldn't
have noticed if it had. After some time, I sat up slowly, and
absorbed what I did. I felt a tremendous heat in my face,
and a joyous smile. I planted a big kiss on the already
stunned tipper's cheeks. The orgasm left a great feeling.
My boss might yell at me later, but it was a great moment.
Finally, I felt like a Super-Woman. I had always awed men
with my powers, but now I awed them with my womanhood.
It even felt right that my orgasm was in public, since my
heroic acts were also in public.
"Well." The DJ hesitated. "We sure got something
special there! Now, it's time for our dancers to rotate.
Linda Lee and Fantasia will move to the tables, as Sensuous
Cindy takes front stage."
The crowd was too stunned to cheer, so the DJ played
something extra loud by Boston.
I sometimes liked the table dances. I could see the
faces of the audience, and I didn't care that the tips were no
good. The men wanted me, and I wanted to dance for them. I
wanted to have more orgasms for them. God, the manager
was going to be pissed at me.
I was surprised that no one was at the side table when
I got there. I started dancing when a middle-aged man sat
down in the shadows. With a smile, I closed my eyes and
tried to give him a show. But my body still felt excited and I
had trouble dancing.
"Please do what you did on stage," he whispered. I
heard despite the loud music. I even heard the desire in his
hoarse whisper. I nodded and lied down on the floor. I
wanted to do it, anyway, but I felt better knowing that it was
at his request. So I fondled myself again with almost the
same effect as before, disregarding what my manager
would say. I imagined my fingers were his fingers. My
thoughts drifted into oblivion, as I lay there, motionless,
after a second climax, staring into the colored lights, when I
heard the gentleman whisper the name "Kara."
I looked at the man in the shadows, and I sat up
abruptly to see that the man I danced to and showed every
inch of my sexuality to was Clark. He had a slight beard and
his hair was longer, but I don't know how I could have
missed him.
My emotions were jumbled, a little shame, a little
shock, and alot of confusion.
"Kara, can we talk? Please get dressed and come
outside."
I hurried off-stage and put on a robe. The manager
was waiting for me, but I rushed by him. He grabbed my
arm, but I didn't stop. "Sorry, I have to go."
Clark was pacing outside, deep in thought.
"Oh, Clark, I don't know what to say."
He shook his head, "I was so shocked to see you
there."
"I know," I said. "God, what you must think of me!"
"No, you don't understand." He looked me strait in the
eyes
Only then did I think about why Clark was there. The
strait-laced Smallville hero, I could barely believe it.
"I come here sometimes, like any other lonely guy who
has to sleep alone every night."
"It's OK," I said, seeing the pain in him for the first
time. I took his hand. "Every man has a libido. Sometimes I
forgot you were a normal man, though."
"I never thought of you as a woman, either. I mean
sexually. You brought the subject up, I know. Kryptonian
Adam and Eve. How we were destined for each other. But
hell, you were like a little sister."
I smiled, and sensed his arousal. "And now?"
He smiled shyly. "Well, your not like my little sister
anymore. Regular women could turn me on, but I knew it
was impossible. You really excited me."
I smiled shyly this time. "Do you want me?"
He touched my cheek and kissed me, as his hand
slipped under my robe. "You don't need x-ray vision to see
the evidence."
I slapped his hand away with a smile. "Not here."
"Oh, look who's shy now. I guess you want to do it
someplace romantic, like on the moon."
"A bed in a hotel will do fine."
He took my arm and led me to his car. "Let us make up
for lost time then."
That night, we kept an entire neighborhood awake half
the night.
In the following weeks, the world saw a new Supergirl
-- a woman who no longer needed to prove herself, and who
was not afraid of her powers.

End of Story