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"How (Not) To Make Love To A Superhero"

By David Perlmutter · Feb 13, 2019
3,884 words · 15-minute reading time


From the author: Anything can happen in Gennett, Anthropomorph. Even when it comes to love, romance and sex. And, for the city's diminutive, pink-furred super-heroic defender, things can get even more complicated than that...


HOW (NOT) TO MAKE LOVE TO A SUPERHERO     

By David Perlmutter                                              3664   words

 

                                         I.

   Of course, I had some idea of what I was getting into when I met him. By the looks of him, he looked like he could be more than I could handle. Robots are like that. Then again, having superpowers gives you some advantage over other girls in spotting fakes and phonies. And, normally, they work to my advantage.

    Not that time. 

    Maybe I should start at the beginning, though, so you get a better idea of why this was so weird…

                                          II.

      I come from a place called Anthropomorph, which exists as an alternate dimension to your Earth. The main difference between the two places is that you humans never came to dominate the rest of us law-abiding creatures like you did on Earth, being as your numbers are far less and you didn’t evolve the same way, especially mentally. Consequently, the majority of the “civilized” creatures in Anthropomorph, if I can say that, are animals and birds and what have you.

     For example: me.

      Most of the time, I- Barbara Bunny, pink-furred, blue-eyed and innocent looking as possible- make my living as a journalist and photographer in Anthropomorph’s biggest city, Gennett, where I grew up. I wanted to stay in town to work, not like some of my more egotistical peers, who were more interested in being “stars” in the animated films of your world. (This is where all of ‘em, even the humans, come from originally, but you didn’t hear that from me.) So I majored in journalism where they went in for acting in college, and they’re there, and I’m here, and that should be the end of it. Right?

       Only it wasn’t.

       Since I work freelance, and don’t attach myself to any particular organisation, like the independent minded dope that I am, I really have to hustle to get my stories and photos, particularly to get them published. So, naturally, when word got around that a meteor shower was expected one night, I knew I had to be the one to get the scoop. If only to increase my street cred, and possibly the size of my nickel and dime income, if I could manage it.

       So I used my feminine wiles to wrangle where the meteor shower was set to come from out of the sky. Or at least a reasonable guess of where it was going to be. ‘Cause that’s all it was.

        What happened was that my correspondent got his co-ordinates wrong. I thought I was going to be in a place where I could photograph the meteors from a safe distance, but….

         The meteors were late in coming, and I fell asleep standing up waiting for them. So I didn’t notice or move out of the way when….

         KAPOW!

          One of the suckers moved out of its orbit and landed right on top of me. Before I could get myself out from under it, it had irradiated me good, or so I found out, later on. All I knew at the time was that it really HURT!

           I lost the story, of course, and felt so sick I had to stay in bed for a whole week. But, after that was when the whole superhero thing started.

           I was pretty fast before, but I was like greased lightning afterwards. I could barely lift anything bigger than me before (and I’m short), but afterwards I was as strong as an ant. I had the stereotypically good rabbit vision before, but after….

           And so on and so on.

           But my signature move became my ability to grab light with my paws and shape it into any form I chose. I stay true to my heritage and stick to carrots for that one.

           All that added to me donning the blue-and-white trim outfit I’m wearing right now and becoming Power Bunny, the scourge of all bad stuff in Anthropomorph. And, eventually, beyond, when I met some fellow girl heroes from your world and started coming here to help ‘em out when they need an extra set of paws.

           But that’s another story.

           The story you wanted to know about is about me and the robot. And I’ll get to that right now…

                                                     III.

           Turns out one of the…side benefits…of becoming Power Bunny was that I ended up being, for obvious reasons, way ahead of the curve, as Barbara, on my competition on the crime beat. I got “exclusive” shots of PB in action, and “exclusive” interviews with her, besides, and all the papers, mags, and websites in town were after me to work for them full-time. I turned those kinds of gigs down, but I didn’t turn down the money they offered me for the shots and stories. Got to put something in the bank, after all.

          So what that led up to was me (Barbara, in this case) being invited to some swank, upper-class shindigs. In hopes that I might report on them afterwards, which I do. And I assumed that that’s why I keep getting invited even though I have a tendency, like a lot of us here, to get really smashed when I drink. Put a bottle in front of me and I can’t stop ‘til it’s all gone.

           Being a supe means that it takes a lot more to get me looped than your average girl, but I still end up pissed, due to the fact that the alcohol is always there at those ‘dos, and it’s impolite to refuse, so…

           There I was, loaded to the gills, having had, probably, more martinis than even my system could handle. The party had just broken up, and I was feeling off my game and needing to throw up. Fortunately, there was a fountain- a real ornate type, not a dinky schoolyard one- out there, and I figured: why not? So I ran over towards it, dunked my head in, and…

            Well, I was gonna do it, but then I got pulled out.

            By him.

            Whom I fell in love with.

            What can I say? I’m a reporter. I always cut to the chase.

             Of course, like I said before, I came to regret it later. But, at that moment…

              I didn’t know that he was a robot, then. All I knew, in my blurred alcoholic haze, was that he was the most handsome thing I had ever seen in my life! Didn’t give a darn that he wasn’t an animal, either. He looked like a human- not one of your kind. Ours. Ours look like what your kind thinks you should all look like. Most of them superfine, with a minority butt ugly as hell- no in-betweens. He was in the superfine category, so I couldn’t let this opportunity pass, obviously.    

              “Hey,” I said.

               “Hey,” he responded, not batting an eye.

               “You know, I was just going to go in there, ‘cause….”

               “You shouldn’t do that.”

                “How come?”

                “On account of the fact that I don’t think ladies should be doing that.”

                 That made me laugh.

                 “You think I’m a lady? That’s rich!”

                “But…you are female. Aren’t you?”

                 “Sure am! But I’m no “lady”. “Ladies” all stand around, don’t do nothing ‘til they get married, and afterwards they fade away to nothing. I’m a WOMAN! I live life to the fullest, and I take whoever’s willing along for the ride. So what do you say? You willing?”

                 That last bit was representative of how I typically….speak…when I have a few in me. Combined with my natural inclination to think highly of myself, it usually climaxed in me branding myself a super girl-lover type, and makes all the sober guys back up in intimidated fear. (The drunk guys don’t care, but they can’t really do much.) I thought he might be sober the way he backed up from me for a moment, but then he moved forward with a speed that rivalled mine, put his arms around me like we’d already been dating for months, and said:

                  “Sure am- as you would say.”

                  “You don’t mind?”

                  “What?”               

                  “That I’m a rabbit- and you’re a…..man?”

                  “Not at all.”

                  “All I needed to hear.” I grabbed his arm and held it tightly. “Come on.”        

                                                                                

                                                               IV.

                    There was no question about what we were going to do when we got back to my apartment, so I didn’t waste an awful lot of time on small talk. I went ahead into my bedroom and threw off my outer garments as best as I could, and then I waited.

                     And waited.

                     And waited.

                     I could hear my paramour talking to himself, although it sounded like more than one voice was involved. But I didn’t give that a second thought, ‘cause I was mad. I wandered out in my underwear without a care for modesty.

                    “What is wrong with you?” I said. “Are you coming in or not?”

                     “Well…” he stuttered.

                    “S’matter?” I insisted. “You gun shy all of a sudden?”

                     “Huh?”

                     “Has the thought of being in bed with yours truly given you a sudden case of impotence?”

                      “No!”

                      “Then, if you were so eager to get me here…”

                      “You brought me here,” he corrected.   

                      “Okay, then. I can understand entirely if you don’t want to…”

                      “But I do. Honestly!”

                      “Well, what’s the problem, then?”

                      He paused, and seemed to think for a long time.

                      “I…threw out my back.”

                      “So?”

                      “Well, as I understand it…-“ he said, with the stiffness of something speaking via an early 20th century record, “sexual intercourse involves a certain level of physicality, and I don’t believe that I would be able to provide you with…”

                       “Who says you have to do anything?”

                       “Huh?”   

                       “Man, are you slow! There’s more than one way to do it, you know. Don’t you know any others but the one way you’re thinking of?”

                       He was blanking out.

                       “Look….uh, what was your name again?”

                      “Uh….”

                      “Don’t you have a name? Mine’s Barbara- or did you not catch it when I said it before…?”

                      “No, I have a name. It’s….Floyd.”

                     “Okay, then, Floyd. Let me show you how to do it without sacrificing your precious backside!”  

                      “Ooh.”

                     So I commenced to jump up on him, where I presumed his waist was, and did the best imitation of a bump-and-grind dance that I could manage under the circumstances, being sure to give him some kisses to keep him in the mood. He answered me by clumsily unhooking my bra and starting to fondle my tits.

                     Then it happened.

                      I heard my panties being breached with a loud RIP, and I felt something enter my crotch. And go deep.

                     Granted, I’ve had sex before, but usually I have to fake orgasms, because the guy’s…junk…isn’t strong enough to enter me or do serious damage if it does. Didn’t have to this time.

                      This was when I suspected that he was a robot, not a man. No man of any mammal species can possibly sustain an erection for as long as he was inside me. The rest of him looked as if he was made of steel or iron or something like that. Could it be that he had a cock made of the same stuff?

                      In any event, I took the resultant pounding longer than any normal girl would want, until I was finally forced to beg and whimper for him to stop.

                     Which he did, being what I thought at the time was a gentlemanly fellow.

                      “That…..was….” I gasped, as I coped with pain I hadn’t felt for ages.

                      “Good?”

                      “You did fine. But no more tonight, okay?”

                     “You sure?”

                     “Yeah. Mama needs her rest.” I assured him I’d keep in touch, and hustled him off to the door. “Good night.”

                     “Good night,” he said, amiably, and walked out.

                     I shut the door, went to sleep, and as I did, cursed myself for allowing myself to be exposed to the umpteen levels of pain I’d had to deal with. And who knows what else in the process!

                                                         V.

                     Turns out that was only the beginning of the weirdness.

                   I had forgotten all about him a couple of weeks later, when, as Barbara, I happened to be on the scene when somebody called out that some local establishment or other was being knocked over by….some….man….type….thing. Easy pickings. I changed to PB, and flew into the building via a hole conveniently made by….

                   Floyd!

                   Betcha didn’t see that coming. I sure didn’t.

                   I wanted to call him out for his behaviour, but that would mean, eventually, that I’d have to admit that a) he did me and b) who I really was. Neither of which I could afford to do.

                   I think he must have felt the same way, ‘cause he didn’t do a thing for over a minute while he stared at me, as I glowered and hovered over him.

                    Finally, I spoke, in my PB voice.

                    “What, exactly, did you think you were trying to do?” I asked.

                    “Hold up the place,” he said. “Worked out good. ‘Til you showed up.”     

                   “My pal Barbara Bunny tipped me off about you,” I answered, maintaining my cover. “By the way: you did some serious damage to her bottom half a while ago.”

                   “Not my problem,” he answered.

                    That made me mad.

                    “So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” I said. “I’ll bust you in your metal snout, you GIGOLO!”

                    “Give it your best shot, BITCH!” he answered.

                     I did.

                     I flew in with both front paws flying, but he surprised me by clamping his own powerful mitts on mine. As I struggled to free myself, he held me very tightly, nearly as long as he boned me earlier. I thought he must have been even stronger than I was if he could do that, and I thought the worst was going to happen for a moment. But then I broke his hold on my right arm, then my left, and hit him a couple of times on the side of his head. It didn’t finish him off, but I was getting there.

                    “I can do this all day,” I said. “As long as you’re willing.”

                    “Not as long as I made love to your pal,” he countered, arrogantly. “Trust me. I’m that good.”   

                    Enough was enough.

                    “SHUT UP!” I shouted.

                   Before he could make another move, I pinned him with a football tackle and some curses, and smashed him out the back of what was left of the place. It happened to be on top of a hill, which we rolled down together as he fought back against me. When we landed at the bottom, I was on top, and I meant to stay that way. I had just wrapped my paws and legs around his and was about to rip them off his body when a voice called out:

                “Cut! Stop damaging the merchandise, Bunny!”

                I looked up and released my grip on the body of my enemy, only to see the long, slithering body of another.

               He’s a snake named Crack, with an agile green shape that makes him fast on the draw even against me. He wasn’t dangerous because he was poisonous or anything, and, even if he was, his poison would be useless against me. No. He’s a con man and prankster par excellence. He and his goofy East Indian boy-type sidekick, Rabindranath, have done pretty well for themselves in Gennett that way, if only in terms of notoriety. All the trouble they’ve caused me is immeasurable.

                 “CRACK!” I bellowed as I got to my feet in nothing flat. “You did this?”

                 “ ‘Course I did, babe,” he snapped in response.

                “How? You got him to do some sort of favour for you?”

                “Don’t be uncivilised, PB. I merely was responsible for overseeing the construction of this magnificent functioning example of artificial human life….”

                “Huh?”

                “I BUILT the thing, you idiot!”

                “Ah.”

                “Hey! What about me?”

                That last one was Rabindranath talking- nearly shrieking- in his unbroken boy voice. Even though I had no idea where he was at that moment. Crack, however, did. He moved over towards the body of the robot.

                 “Keep it down, Rab!” he said, sotto voce. “You’ll blow our cover!”

                 “You think I care?” was the loud response. “I’ve been stuck in here for, like, EVER!”

                 “Damn it!” Crack answered, louder this time. “PB’s gonna know if you don’t…”

                 “…know what…?” I demanded.

                 Suddenly, the robot burst open suddenly, via a hinged compartment, and Rabindranath burst out, clearly trying to make a break for it. No way that was happening! I grabbed Crack by the rattle at the end of his body, threw him around Rabindranath like a lasso, and pulled them back together in front of me.   

                 “All right, you two,” I said. “You will tell me what this is about, and you will tell me now. NO!” I cut them off when they tried to speak at the same time. “You both did this. You always do. So GIVE- unless you want me to smash you up!”

                 “I wouldn’t mind that at all,” Rabindranath cooed, since he has the hots for both PB and Barbara. (In both cases- EEEEEWWWWW!)

                  “Can it, Rab!” Crack ordered.

                 “Yes, sir,” was the meek response.

                 Crack then cleared his throat and spoke.

                 “PB,” he said, “you know full well that we’ve had our differences…”

                “Have we ever!” I snapped. “I do not know where to START with your….”

                “A-hem!” Rabindranath interrupted. “He’s trying to get to the point!”  

                “I’ll get to YOUR point if you don’t SHUT UP!” I warned him.

                 He shut up.

                 “May I go on?” Crack asked, rhetorically. I nodded.

                  “Well,” he said, “the end result was inevitable. We wanted revenge. You know how it is, PB. Pranksters don’t like having their balls cut by superheroes in public.”

                  “You don’t have balls,” I pointed out.

                  “He does.” Crack pointed to Rabindranth with his bottom half with a whip-like thrust. “For now, anyway. But I was using a metaphor. You know what one of those is, don’t you?”

                   “I’m not that dumb!” I responded.

                    “Anyway,” he continued, “in our line of doing things, the more elaborate a prank is, the better. And there’s nothing more elaborate than using a robot, baby!”

                   “Okay,” I said. “So where do…I mean, where does Barbara fit into this? I suspect that she’ll be as happy about this as I am- which I’m not!”

                    “I suspected she wouldn’t be,” Crack said. “In any event, I designed the robot, and Rab, as you can gather, was operating it when….”

                    “You LIAR!” Rabindranath exploded. “You always do this! You always take credit for every  idea that I….”

                    He stopped suddenly, when he noticed both Crack and I advancing, menacingly, towards him.

                    “I….think….I hear my mother calling me….” he stuttered, before he ran away, screaming, with his arms in the air.

                    When he was gone, I locked eyes with Crack again.

                    “Good thing he’s gone,” I said, “because I have something pertinent to ask you. Of an adult nature!”

                    “Lay it down, babe.”

                    “The robot gave…..Barbara…..quite a punch that night. And, even though you say Rabindranath was operating the robot, I don’t think he could have done me. He’s doesn’t really have much in the way of….equipment. Does he?”

                     “You’re right. I’ve seen his equipment.”

                      “So, who did it?”

                      “What are you talking about?”

                      “You know what I mean!”

                      “Fine. It was me.”

                      “What? You mean you were operating the….?”

                       “No. Rab was operating the thing the whole time. Except when the robot “did” Barbara.”

                      “Meaning?”

                      “Do you really want to know?”

                      “Yes!”

                      “For your own interest, or to tell her…?”

                     “Just tell me!”

                     “Okay. Lean in.”

                     I did.

                    “When Barbara was waiting in her bedroom,” he whispered, in a conspiratorial tone, “I got in the robot at crotch level. Then, once I’d figured she’d had enough foreplay, I put a dildo inside of her.”

                     “What?” I was justifiably outraged.

                    “Oh, yeah,” he added, nonchalantly. “Always wanted to know what a girl looks like on the inside. So I put a mini-cam on the dildo so I’d see it. We were fortunate enough to find Barbara when she was plastered and willing, and too stoned to realise that it was a robot and not a man that was “doing” her. You bunnies sure are gullible!

                     “The camera did some exploratory work- the best it could, considering the circumstances. Nothing special inside you, beside the way- just skin and muscle and all that other junk. Not like your curvaceous outside! The main reason the fucking took so long was that the dildo got stuck in there. The vaginal walls contracted around it, with these little teeth-like things biting it. At about that time, Barbara was shouting no mas, so I told Rab to get it out of there. Nothing serious. But it was totally WORTH it.”

                      “You…..****!” I shouted.

                     “We took the robot out for a couple more spins afterwards,” he continued, as if I hadn’t said anything. “Repeated that trick with Barbara at a whorehouse, and then did that robbery to see if we could get…”

                     I stopped him by grabbing him where his neck would be, choking him, and holding him tight.

                     “Get OUT of my SIGHT! UNDERSTAND?” I warned him, and then released him. “And if you and/or your faithful East Indian companion ever cross my path again, you will become DECEASED as quickly as I can MANAGE it!” 

                     “Sure we will,” he said, flippantly. “A supe’s only useful to the community if she’s got enemies to fight, PB. Got to let the best ones live if you want to stay in business. Remember that! And by the way: make sure to tell BARBARA that FLOYD sends his LOVE!”

                      As he slithered away, I was struck by a scary notion. By the way he uttered that last sentence, it was possibly- and likely- the case that my “secret” identity was, now, not nearly as “secret” as I imagined it once was.                  

                    

                          

                       

                                                                    

This story originally appeared in Dark Gothic Resurrected Magazine (2016).


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David Perlmutter

David Perlmutter writes history, criticism and speculative fiction when he can find the time to do so.

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