Written by conceptfan :: [Thursday, 01 June 2006 08:55] Last updated by ::
Milena's Diary - Part 9
AUTHOR'S NOTE: All of my stories have been written for an exclusively adult audience. They contain descriptions of violence, some of it of a sexual nature. They also include other sexually explicit depictions. They are in no way suitable for minors. Furthermore it is against the law in many parts of the world for this type of material to be read, either by minors or by minors and adults. Please make sure you are not acting contrary to local legislation before reading on and please do not read any further if you find this type of material offensive in any way. This is a work of fiction and any similarity between the characters and events depicted and any people/events in real-life, past or present, is purely co-incidence. A number of the characters and events portrayed are inspired by, or based upon, existing works of fiction. Although I have made every effort to keep plagiarism to a minimum, I must acknowledge a debt of thanks to the many artists and writers who have shared their talents with the public. I've released my stories to the public domain to make sure that as many people as possible who share my interest in this type of fiction can enjoy them. Please feel free to re-distribute them by whatever means you like, provided you respect the following points: (1) The stories will be re-distributed exactly as they are - unchanged and unedited. (2) No other person will claim authorship of any of these stories or any part of them. (3) The stories will not be distributed for profit, either on their own or as part of a group of other works. Lastly, thank you for your interest in this story. I hope you enjoy it!
Thursday 17th May 2001 - 4:10 am Well, I've had another incredible night.
After the wonderful big meal at Luigi's and especially the wine I'd enjoyed with it, I half-expected to feel sleepy. Certainly, before I met the genie, I would have been ready for bed. But instead I was full of energy, just as I have been every instant since my fantastic transformation. I strolled around my new house, checking out all the beautiful and expensive things I've "inherited" from Tony. It’s funny to think that it took him years to accumulate all those expensive and exclusive possessions and yet it took me just seconds to take it all from him. I suppose that's the difference between being very clever and very good at your "work" like T. and being "super" like me.
"Super" means everything is easy. Seemingly impossible physical tasks are now effortless. Things that used to take me ages now take me a fraction of a second. Places I couldn't go because they were too dangerous now hold no fear for me. People that I dared not cross because they were too strong or too powerful or too well-armed can now be swatted aside like insects with the most casual sweeps of my arm or sent spiralling into the air with just a gentle puff of my breath...
"Super" also means everything is better. My senses are so enhanced! I can see millions of shades of colour that were previously indistinguishable. In the dark. From amazing distances! I can smell every plant and flower within a kilometre. I can hear conversations and even heartbeats in the next street, even when I'm standing right next to the stereo playing at full volume. And as for my sense of taste! Every mouthful I ate at Luigi's seemed to convey a thousand subtle flavours, all appreciable both separately and as a glorious combination. And the wine was like nothing I've ever experienced.
Remembering those two bottles of wine I had drunk in the restaurant, I found myself walking downstairs into the lounge where my Uncle had his drinks cabinet. Of course, it's my drinks cabinet now, so I was perfectly entitled to snap the lock off with a fingernail, which is what I did when I couldn't find the key. The doors flew open, revealing a dazzling array of fine liqueurs from all over the world. For all his many faults, lack of taste was not something T. could ever be charged with.
I selected a particularly expensive-looking twenty-five year old Scottish Malt. The bottle was unopened, but I decided against removing the screw-cap. Instead I parted my lips and placed the top of the bottle inside my mouth. I bit down on the neck, the glass shattering immediately against my teeth. The power of my jaw muscles ground the sharp fragments into powder and I chewed on, crushing the top of the bottle and its cap to mush. The glass and metal shards weren't a patch on Luigi's for flavour, but I swallowed them as easily as I had my exquisite dinner.
I knew I didn't have to be careful of the broken glass as I brought the unorthodoxly-opened bottle up to my lips. Tilting my head back, I drank the whole litre of strong whisky in about ten seconds without moving the bottle until it was empty. It tasted terrific - so many subtle notes and flavours that I’d never noticed in whisky before - but it had absolutely no other effect on me. Not even a little bit of blurred vision. Nothing. I pulled another litre - of brandy this time - from the cabinet, chewed off the top and poured the contents down my throat. Still, I felt nothing.
I got through another four or five bottles in similar fashion before I got bored with the exercise. For all my fantastic new abilities I've discovered at least two things I can't do now that used to be no problem for me - putting on make-up and getting drunk. Thinking about it, that's a rather small price to pay for being “super”!
It was about quarter-to-one in the morning, and I'd been up for days, but I really wasn't interested in the idea of sleeping. I started wandering around the house, making it truly my own by re-arranging some of the furniture - not hard for someone as strong as I am. For instance, I picked up a three-seater sofa with one hand and carried it around as I wandered at my leisure from room to room, deciding where to place it. I did need two hands when I lifted a bookcase full of heavy-looking bound volumes, but that was purely to keep it straight so that all the books didn’t fall out…
I was thinking about finding a new location for T.'s - sorry, my - big, luxurious reclining chair when I heard the sound of the doorbell. I still haven't done anything about the busted front door, so I went immediately to see who was there before whoever it was ambled in by themselves. There, in the doorway stood a young man with short black hair and an attractively masculine face. He was wearing tight jeans and a T-shirt that appeared to have shrunk after he put it on, so that every muscle on his well-defined torso was clearly visible. I knew the size of those muscles was meaningless - I've got more strength in my little finger than there was in his whole body - but I have to admit, they did look good.
I smiled at him, and let him take his time as his eyes scanned the length of my body a couple of times. I didn't need super-powers to realise that whatever attraction I felt for him was being returned with interest. “Is there anything… else that you want?” I asked him, drawling the “else” in a particularly suggestive manner.
“Er…” he stumbled “Are you Milena?”
“It depends who wants to know.” I answered, seductively. Evidently, my efforts were not going to waste - a quick glance down at the crotch of his now overly-tight trousers told me as much.
“Um…” he began. Men! So articulate when they’re distracted… “I have a message for you.” he managed to say. He fumbled for an envelope which was sticking out of his hip pocket and extracted it, slightly crumpled, holding it out to me. I brushed his fingers as I took the letter, ensuring that the contact lasted quite a few seconds. Then I turned my back on him, placing the envelope on a side-table and walking into the house. Over my shoulder I called “So, are you going to stand there all day or are you coming in for a drink?”
He took the bait immediately, and walked into the house. I stopped and waited for him. He approached me and stopped about two paces short. I turned to face him. “Oops. I'm sorry.” I said, “I forgot that I don't have a drink to offer you. I've already finished it all. I hope you don't mind - we'll have to move straight to the sex.” His eyes nearly burst from his skull as he took in my words. I don't know if he was trying to come up with a reply, but I didn't really give him a chance as I closed the gap between us, put my arms around him gently and carefully pressed my lips against his.
When I broke off the kiss, I saw that his face was turning blue. I must've been squeezing him a little too tight or maybe the kiss was a bit strong. I relaxed my arms and took a step back as he gulped down as much air as he could. While he continued to refill his lungs, I reached down for the waist-band of his jeans. I didn't bother with unbuckling his belt or unfastening the buttons of his trousers. I merely used two fingers of each hand to carefully tear the thick leather and denim in half, peeling his tight jeans off his lower body like opening a banana.
His reaction to this was to shout “Hey!” and take a step backwards. Unfortunately for him, he wasn't completely free of his trousers when he took the step and he tripped and fell backwards. He would have landed on his compact rear on the hard, tiled floor if I hadn't moved quickly and caught that nice ass by placing my open left hand behind him. While he tried to get over the shock, I used the fingers of my free hand to rip away the remains of his jeans and his shoes.
The messenger boy then tried to stand up, so I used the palm cushioning his backside to scoop him completely off the ground and placed him with his muscular belly on my shoulder and the rest of him hanging either side of my body. With one hand pressing him gently against my shoulder to prevent him moving, I started to walk towards the stairs. He began pounding my stomach with his feet and my lower back with his fists but, of course, without so much as tickling me. “Save your energy,” I advised him, “You're going to need it.”
I was aware of his head bouncing against my back as I climbed the stairs, and thinking back, I did notice the pounding of his feet dying down, but I was too absorbed by the feel of his tight little backside to pay it much notice. It was only when I got into my bedroom and tossed him onto his back in the centre of the big bed that I saw he had passed out. His face was black and blue, and his nose bloodied and misshapen. It must've happened as I went upstairs, his head rising up and slamming against my harder-than-steel back with every step until the cumulative punishment had proven to be too much for him.
I almost screamed in frustration. I had been so looking forward to enjoying his compact, muscular body. Since I met the genie, what with my beautiful “new” body and the incredible things it can do, I feel hornier than ever before in my life. But every time I try and spend some “quality time” with a man, something goes wrong. I sat down on the bed next to his comatose form and carefully tore off his shirt. I stroked his lovely chest with the finger-tips of my left hand as my right found its own way under the waistband of my panties.
A couple of minutes later, once I had at least relieved some of the pressure within me, I removed my hand from my crotch and stood up. I picked up the almost naked young messenger. His unconscious body felt as light as a sheet of paper to me as I carried it downstairs, out of the house and across the drive before putting it down on the pavement outside. I glanced both ways down the street to make sure I hadn't been observed and then went back in.
Snatching up the envelope that the young man had brought, I ripped it open and pulled out the single-page hand-written note it contained.
“Dear Milena,” I read. “You may have heard of the terrible maritime accident that recently claimed the life of my father. As a result of his tragic passing, I have been forced to take on a number of new business responsibilities. I understand that you are in a similar position yourself, following your Uncle Tony's sudden and unexpected decision to emigrate. It would be mutually beneficial if we could meet to discuss these developments. As this needs to be done as soon and as discreetly as possible, I insist you to come to the bus station car park at one-thirty tonight. Yours sincerely, Toto Calucci.”
Toto Calucci! I instantly remembered the name as that of Filippo's son. I didn't like the tone of his note. It was the sort of thing that would have terrified the life out of me a week ago. The word “insist” said it all; it was a kind of code - either you come to the meeting or something bad will happen to you. Of course, threats don't work on me any more and I could have ignored the note completely, but I was curious to know what he wanted to discuss. The bus station garage in the middle of the night is a typical venue for this kind of meeting and although I should have been more suspicious, I wasn't.
I did consider the possibility that Toto knew more than he was letting on about what had happened to his father and that he was merely luring me out to get his revenge. Or rather to try and get his revenge. Naively, as it turned out, I didn't think Calucci Jr. would be able to rustle up more than a couple of guns. And what could a couple of guns do against me? Other than give me a little pleasure if aimed correctly. After a few moments' thought, I decided that I would attend the rendezvous. I thought that it might be interesting from a business point of view.
In fact, “interesting” turned out to be far too mild a word to describe the meeting. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Looking at the time on one of the beautiful and - naturally - expensive clocks I've recently "inherited" from my Uncle, I saw that it was already past one. If I had been planning to drive to the meeting, I would have needed to hurry. But as I was going to be travelling bird-style - but slightly faster - I had plenty of time to go upstairs and pick out an outfit. With the benefit of hindsight, I should have gone in just my invulnerable vest and panties, but I wasn't to know at the time. I’m superhuman. Not clairvoyant.
As it happened, I choose a pair of old jeans that I remembered as being quite tight the last time I wore them, which was before my transformation. Clearly, the genie's "adjustments" must have included a shrinking of my waist and a lengthening of my legs, because the trousers were loose and ended a little above my ankles. Making a mental note that I need to get hold of some new clothes, I compensated for the deficiencies of the jeans by adding a belt and fitting the bottom of the legs inside a pair of below-knee-length dark brown suede boots.
I had the opposite problem with the top I selected. It had been a fairly baggy T-shirt. Now it was straining at the seams as my chest, even though it was restrained by my vest, dramatically stretched out the red material. I checked myself out in the mirror. Considering the fact that the clothes barely fit me, I looked pretty stunning. Maybe not very business-like, but definitely very, very feminine.
When I thought it was time, I opened the big window of my new bedroom, lifted my feet off the floor, and floated on out. I flew slowly towards the bus station, partly to protect my clothes, which turned out to be a waste of time, and partly because I wasn't trying to be early. Toto could wait a minute or two for me, I thought. I'm not the sort of person who waits patiently for others. Not nowadays.
As I passed over the front of the deserted, closed-for-hours station, I caught a glimpse of the big digital clock that's mounted above the main entrance. "01:34" it read. Perfect!
I stayed in the air, continuing my flight-path over the main concourse of the station. Of course, unlike an aircraft, I’m silent in the air. And at night, I’m as good as invisible from the ground. So I could observe the scene down there, safe in the knowledge that I wasn’t going to be spotted.
There were four men standing in the middle of the concourse. Although I hadn’t seen Toto for years - well, since he was in his late teens - I was almost certain that I recognised him. But the other three were strangers to me. One of them, a tall, thin man, intrigued me. Even from that distance in the bad light, my marvellous vision revealed that he was dressed in a very expensive suit. Given his skinniness and the quality of his clothes, he was obviously not a run-of-the-mill hired thug. The remaining pair, however, with their more casual clothing and thick, squat bodies, could not have been anything other than rented muscle.
I paused in mid-air, hovering fifty feet above the quartet. Defying gravity so openly comes effortlessly to me now and I gave no thought to the feat. Instead, I concentrated on tuning my hearing into the conversation taking place below. Immediately, every syllable being spoken down there became crystal clear.
The tall man was speaking. I detected his thick American accent immediately. As well as his bad pronunciation, his overall command of our language was poor to say the least. I could only assume that he hadn’t spent much time this country.
“It is the one o'clock past five minutes." he said. "I said to you that she will not have come." The poor guy desperately needed some quiet time alone with a grammar book. I resisted the temptation to laugh at his crimes against the language as I didn’t want to announce my arrival. Yet.
"Relax,” said the man I thought was Toto. The sound of his voice was the final confirmation that I had correctly identified him. He sounded almost exactly like his father used to.
"She'll show.” Toto reassured the American. “She's playing a little game with us, making us wait. She thinks she's Tony Alto. Give the jumped-up broad another couple of minutes. She's probably been held up choosing what to wear. You know what dames are like!" he chuckled.
The American snorted in response. Then he resumed his one man assault on the language: "We are both knowing what they are saying that she has done. If the stories are not the lies, then I will say that this is not a subject of laughter. There is a lot of business in the stake here for you and also for me. And this woman Milena is the one that they say has already done much harm to us. We must be ending this situation tonight. Your men are knowing what they must do?"
I was intrigued. One thing was for sure, this was not going to be an everyday business meeting. I listened on.
"Cool it, John,” said Toto, “My men are the best."
"She has already killed good men, Toto,” the American pointed out. “Very good men.” What did that mean? Was that a reference to Fillipo?
Toto looked down at the ground. From his reaction to the American’s remarks, I could only assume that he did, indeed, know something about my role in his father’s demise. "That's why we aren't taking any chances,” Toto said, coldly. “I've pulled some very special strings for this one."
"I am hoping you are correct. These events are making me uncomfortable,” the tall man responded.
"Trust me.” Toto said, with palpable determination, “It'll be over soon. I have an ace up my sleeve."
If I was intrigued before, I was absolutely fascinated now. What on earth could that “ace” up Toto’s expensive silk sleeve be? Seeing that the conversation seemed to have reached a hiatus, I circled around the bus garage once more, checking to see if there was anyone else on the scene. I didn’t spot anyone. The clock now read “01:37”. I figured I’d made the men wait long enough for me. It was time to join them.
I didn’t want them to know about my ability to fly yet, so I descended silently, landing perfectly on my feet just outside a small side-entrance to the station that had been left open - presumably in my honour - and strolled confidently inside.
They were all facing away as I entered, so I called out "Good evening, gentlemen." As one, all four turned my way. With my superhuman senses I could follow the various reactions as they became aware of my beauty. The eight eyes widening. The gasps. The accelerating heartbeats. The shifting of legs trying to get comfortable in suddenly tighter trousers. I don't think I'll ever tire of seeing the effect of my appearance on men. I waited and watched as each of them drank me in, their gazes travelling the length of my body up and down and back again. Several times. They seemed especially fascinated by the contrast between my tiny narrow waist and the massive swell of my chest. Eventually, though, their eyes seemed to settle - predictably enough - on the small hint of the top of my cleavage that was visible above the neckline of my T-shirt.
"Milena? Is that you?" asked Toto, sounding confused. "You've changed!" he understated, dramatically.
"You don't know the half of it!" I told him, truthfully, with a smile that immediately set his heart-rate soaring. It was left to me to remind him why we were all there. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?" I asked.
"Ah, yes," Toto began. Apparently it was hard for him to take first his mind and then his eyes off my breasts. Finally, he achieved the feat, indicating the tall American with his hand. "Milena, this is John King, a business associate of my late father from the U.S." Then, he had to wrench his gaze away from me entirely to complete the introduction. "John, this is Tony Alto's niece, Milena".
John King's narrow grey eyes had not flickered away from my torso for an instant. Even as he reached for my hand, he seemed unable to look elsewhere. "I am having a big pleasure for meeting you." he said. I was polite enough not to laugh at his clumsy words as I let him take my hand between his wrinkled, bony thumb and forefinger and kiss it with his dry lips. The fact that he seized the opportunity for some close-range ogling did not escape me. It also took him just a little too long to release my hand and stand back again.
Once the American was done, Toto rounded off his introductions. I was right about the other two. Toto didn't bother with their names, merely describing them as "associates". They grunted in acknowledgement and continued to stare at my upper body as if neither of them had ever seen a woman before. Maybe that was partly true: neither of them had ever seen a woman quite like me before. I played with their obsession, putting my hands casually behind me and arching my back slightly, making my big breasts even more prominent. I had to stop when I heard the stitching of my T-shirt begin to fail. "Nice to meet you, boys." I said. They grunted their own pleasantries back, directing them, of course, at my chest.
That's also where the American addressed the question "Are really you the nephew of the Mr. Tony Alto?"
Toto couldn't hide his embarrassment at the appallingly worded enquiry. I saw him glance briefly skyward in exasperation. I just laughed. After all that staring at my breasts, King should have realised that I was a niece, not a nephew.
"Yes, I'm Tony's niece." I replied, still chuckling.
Toto turned to his colleague and gave him a harsh glance that presumably was intended to say "Leave the talking to me." The American seemed to miss the gesture, however, as he was still focussed on me. "Mr King is a long-standing business partner of your Uncle and of my-" he paused, mid-sentence, and fixed me with a piercing eyeball-to-eyeball stare. It was, frankly, refreshing to receive a man's gaze on my eyes rather than lower down my body. I think the look was supposed to scare me, but of course, nothing scares me anymore. No doubt, men twice Toto's size have been terrified by that stare. I merely returned the gaze calmly and let Toto finish his sentence: "-recently departed father."
Clearly Toto did, indeed, believe that I was responsible for Fillipo's death, but I continued the innocent act. Besides, I hadn't deliberately set out to kill his father. He just got in my way. So as far as I'm concerned, I am, genuinely, innocent. At least as far as Fillipo Calucci is concerned. "I was sorry to hear of his passing." I told the son, quietly, my eyes not flickering from his.
"Normally, under these circumstances, I would be talking to your Uncle," Toto went on, his stare intensifying. I pretended not to notice. "But it seems he's made other arrangements. Quite unexpectedly." The way he uttered those last two words, they came across as nothing short of a direct accusation. Toto was a master of this game and I was pretty new at it, but not for a moment did I feel at a disadvantage. Even if no-one else there realised it, I knew that I was totally in charge of the situation.
To demonstrate how unconcerned I was by Toto's fiery gaze, I turned away from him and addressed the tall American, speaking patronisingly slowly as I explained: "I'm running Mr. Alto's affairs now."
"So I hear." said Toto, coldly. "That's what we wanted to discuss with you."
"Well," I remarked, airily, "it must be pretty urgent if it couldn't wait until morning. So, what do you boys want?"
"We'd like to ask you a few questions," Toto answered. "About your Uncle's.... ah, retirement."
I gave him a big broad grin, folding my arms smugly under my chest, intentionally presenting my big, round breasts even more breath-takingly as a result. I caught Toto stealing a lightning glance at my bosoms whilst he was trying to stare me down and winked at him when he restored his gaze to my eyes. That little victory of my sexual power over his self-control provoked him into trying to gain the upper hand.
"Milena," he started, feigning a conciliatory tone, "it's late. We're both very busy people. I have to be up early in the morning to supervise a building project I've invested in." Then, almost as though he was attempting a one-man version of the old nice guy / bad guy interrogation routine, he changed tone before continuing: "I want to make sure that no… ‘impurities’ get mixed in with the concrete."
It was such a thinly-veiled threat, I almost rolled my eyes. I'd practically grown up on stories of people who had crossed the Carlucci family ending up inside support pillars for road-bridges. What Toto was really saying was that he was going to kill me if I didn't tell him what he wanted to know. It was a kind of code for "last warning". Needless to say I ignored it completely. I just kept smiling contentedly. The thought of being encased in concrete only served to amuse me as I considered ways in which my powers could serve me in such a situation.
I could tell that my failure to show fear was beginning to annoy Toto. The calm diminished in his voice and anger crept in as he replied. "Tell me what happened to Tony. And to my father!"
That was it. The moment that all semblance of polite respect evaporated and the meeting became a confrontation. I didn't raise my voice, but I wasn't exactly grinning anymore as I said "So, have you got any business propositions for me or did you get me out here in the middle of the night just so that your friends could stare at my tits?" Immediately, the two goons looked away, more than a little embarrassed. John King, however, did not remove his gaze. I could only assume that he hadn't understood the slang I'd used.
"Oh, I got a proposition, alright." said Toto, through slightly gritted teeth. "I propose that you got something on your Uncle. Something big. Big enough to blackmail him into taking early retirement. That's YOUR family's business. There's something else that bothers me a whole lot more: MY family's business."
"Well," I said, flippantly, "then perhaps you should go and sort out YOUR family's business rather than wasting your time trying to chatting me up."
That did it. One provocation too many. He'd lost most of his cool now. His eyes burned with anger and his words were clipped. He cut to the chase: "What do you know about my father's death?"
"Not much, Toto." I lied, with a shrug that caused my large heavy breasts to bounce spectacularly. My T-shirt only survived because it was protected by the incalculable restraining power of my thin, clingingly tight, magic vest. Once again, my body had succeeded in distracting Toto and I let him know that I had noticed by shaking my shoulders to cause another man-melting movement of my perfect mounds.
"You just can't help looking, can you Toto?" I teased him, beamingly smugly.
I claimed victory in the psych-battle as Toto, embarrassed by his inability not to check out my awesome curves, tried to claim the moral high ground and change the subject all at once. "Enough bullshit!" he shouted. He lowered his voice, struggling to keep a lid on his temper. "My men say you stole my father's boat. He was in a meeting with your Uncle when you showed up. They said something knocked them out. An hour later, my father has vanished without trace, Tony's getting picked up in a rowing boat by the coastguard and you're telling my father's bodyguards that the boat is yours. Then, the very next morning, the cops pulled my father's body out of the sea."
"That’s some story! And you believe a couple of hairy-knuckled oafs?" I asked.
Toto was almost trembling with fury as he nailed my frivolous defence. "I spoke to your Uncle, Milena. He told me everything." Confirmation at last! Toto knew. I could drop the pretence.
"I don't know what you did to your Uncle," Calucci Jr. went on, "but all of a sudden the great Tony Alto is chickenshit. He doesn't want anything to do with his business anymore. 'Leave her alone, Toto.' he tells me. 'There's nothing you can do about it.' All kinds of fairy-tales about you. But I'm not listening to a cracked-up has-been hiding out in a filthy motel because he's scared of a woman!"
"That's your mistake, Toto," I said. "You should have listened."
"The only mistake was the one you made when you killed my father!" Toto shouted again. The gloves were well-and-truly off now. He took a moment to regain control of himself once more. "You got a lot of nerve coming here, unprotected. Either you really are bullet-proof, or you're a complete idiot, and I know I what I'd put my money on." He chuckled at his own weak joke. The American glanced at him for a moment and then began laughing too, in a forced way which suggested he hadn't really understood and was trying to look as if he had.
"Why don't you find out?" I teased, "Or is that not a gun I can see in your trousers?" I couldn't help it. I was beginning to enjoy myself with Toto.
"Bitch!" he shouted. But I was right. It was a gun in his trousers. He whipped it out with well-practised speed. To me, the swift, expert movement seemed excruciatingly slow. I could have flown home, changed outfit and returned to the bus garage in the time it took Toto to point the pistol at the space between my eyes. The end of the barrel was only about two metres from my face. Unmissable range, even for a man choked with fury.
To say that I had plenty of time to grab the gun from him before he shot would be a massive understatement. I'm so fast these days that I had time to grab the bullet from the air after he pulled the trigger. But that would not have sent the right message. So instead, I tensed my muscles in the opposite way to when I fly to root myself to the spot and merely stood and waited for the shot to hit. Finally, the lump of lead reached my face and hit with a "ping!" sound. The tip of it pressed against the bridge of my nose, trying to burrow into my head but it couldn't even bruise my skin. The feeling was a bit like a single drop of light rain hitting my face. I couldn't see the bullet crumpling up against me because it was right between my eyes, but I could see it bouncing away once its momentum had been fully defeated. By then, it looked like a big, fat coin. I let it spin away and land a couple of meters to the side of me.
Toto, the American and the two goons turned to stare at the flattened slug. Then they looked back at me. Toto seemed to be studying my face, looking for signs of damage. Of course there were none. None whatsoever. I raised an eyebrow, as if to say "Did you just shoot me? Because I didn't really notice…"
I already knew that Toto was from the "Got a problem? Shoot it. Still got the problem? Shoot it again."-school. So, there was absolutely no surprise when he squeezed his trigger for a second time. Either he was even angrier now, or perhaps a little nervous. Something was making him shake. His aim the second time was a little off. Instead of hitting the space between my eyes, his shot flew - slowly - towards the exact centre of my right eyeball. I decided not to dodge it. I didn't even blink, despite the instinctive desire to do so. The bullet touched the surface of my eye. It didn't hurt. It didn't smart. It was a curious sensation that passed very briefly. Not pleasant, but far from uncomfortable. The vision in that eye remained perfect throughout.
My eyeballs must be very slightly elastic. Instead of crumpling up against the cover of my pupil, the thing bounced away from my eye only slightly squashed. It seemed to be travelling only slightly slower than it arrived. Toto was quite lucky. The ricocheting bullet whistled over his shoulder, close to his ear, moving fast enough to have killed him. He didn't seem to notice however, until it landed with a dull "Clang!" on the ground about twenty metres behind him. He whirled around in response to the sound, but I guess that, unlike me, he couldn't see its resting place in the dark. Quickly, he turned back to look at me. All the confident aggression had vanished from his features. He looked confused. And scared. I gave him a warm, smile, flashing my perfect teeth.
"What the fuck...?" Toto mumbled, staring. His jaw hung open as he tried to come to terms with what he had just witnessed. Meanwhile the American started to back nervously away from me. The two goons glanced uncertainly at their boss and then at me and then at each other. They obviously had no idea what to do. Fortunately for them, Toto was one of those men who always knew which course of action to take in a crisis: violence. He turned to the pair of muscle-heads. "Hit her!" he ordered.
They stepped towards me in unison. So lumbering! I briefly considered eliminating them from the equation before they could land their blows. It would have been so easy. But I couldn't resist letting them try and hurt me. Especially when I saw that they had made a fist each which they were intending to drive simultaneously into my belly. I held myself still and waited for their oversized knuckles to slam into my flat stomach. Both fists impacted on my T-shirt at the same time. The two goons' faces betrayed the fact that neither of them had held anything back from their punches, but to me it felt as if I'd been touched by the tip of a feather. It must have felt very different for the two men, however.
We all heard the "Crunch!" as the bones in their hands dissolved on contact with my abdomen. There is just no give there. Nothing but taut, flawless skin over remarkably solid, harder-than-diamond muscle. Two loud, masculine screams tore through the night as the fists, now hopelessly shattered , fell away. The men clutched their busted hands to their own bellies, doubling over with the agony and staggering backwards. They were too busy suffering in agony to notice the triumphant grin I was wearing.
Toto, however, did see my smile. "What kind of shit are you trying to pull here, bitch?" he asked, now - quite obviously - more than a little scared.
"Oh, that's nothing!" I told him, honestly. To prove the point, I went on: "Look what else I can do!" Stepping forward and reaching out, I grabbed one goon by the throat with each of my hands. At first, they were too wrapped up nursing their ruined fists to notice. But, unsurprisingly, when I gripped tight and hoisted the pair of them off the ground by stretching my arms overhead, they soon directed their attention my way. It's still a wonderful sight to see a big man - and these were very "big" men - dangling helplessly at the end of my slender arm. Two at once is an ever better sight. Particularly when contrasted with the complete lack of strain that I could feel in the muscles that were supporting all that weight.
The two men struggled to secure their release. They kicked at me, smashing their heavy shoes into my shins, but I felt next-to-nothing. Weary of trying to punch my stomach again, they tried slapping my face with their uninjured hands. The repeated strikes were too light to be considered as caresses, but I noticed, with delight, that each attempt caused their palms to become more and more bruised until, pretty soon, they were forced to abandon all attempts to hit me with their hands. Perhaps their toes were also bruising inside their shoes, because the futile kicking died down rapidly as well. In the end they were reduced to trying to bite my arms. I couldn't really feel the teeth closing about my flesh, but the presence of blood on my forearms - not mine, of course - and a couple of dislodged teeth, were evidence that they had really gone for it.
Nothing sticks to my skin and the crimson liquid dripped off, leaving my perfect flesh unmarked. Meanwhile the two goons appeared completely defeated, their hands and feet and mouths wounded. I don't know if they were too hurt to struggle any more or simply exhausted by their efforts, but they weren't even trying to get free any more. All their efforts had amounted to nothing more than waste of their time. Time that was, unbeknown to them, extremely precious.
For a moment, I just stood there, motionless, triumphantly holding up the two defeated thugs, letting them hang from my relaxed, but inescapable grasp. I noted Toto's shocked expression as he gawped at me and my stunning body and the demonstration of what it can do. I also overheard the American muttering something incomprehensible in English. My ears could clearly make out the sounds, but I never learnt more than three words of English in school, so I have no idea what he was saying. He was still, ridiculously slowly and extremely cautiously, trying to edge further from me.
An effortless bending of my arms brought the two goons towards me. I pulled their faces up close to mine, manoeuvring them as though they weighed a few grams rather than nearly two hundred kilos between them. "Say goodbye to Toto, boys,” I told them, cheerily. Then I opened my arms out straight once more, releasing the two men as I did so, the gentle movement of my slender arms enough to fling each man away from me with such force that both of them peaked over thirty meters up and neither landed less than two hundred meters away. They screamed as they flew, but the yells were cut off by the dull distant thuds of their final impacts.
Dusting my hands off theatrically, I turned to face Toto and placed them on my hips. He responded to the realisation that he had become my focus of attention by taking a nervous half-step backwards. I could see he was scared. Really scared. Of me. I was already beginning to think about what I was going to do with him, when, suddenly, he shouted "Now, men!"
Behind me, I heard the scraping sound of one of those metal roll-up garage doors being raised open. My first thought was that I should’ve expected him to stash a bunch of guys like that. Then I thought "Oh well, if I’m going to get another set of clothes ruined, at least these guys have probably brought some nice guns to give me some fun along the way."
I turned around to take a look and found myself face to face with a full-size, military tank! I was stunned by the sheer scale of it. Wider than a bus, and much taller than me, it did make me feel small for a fraction of a second. That feeling was very quickly replaced by a rush of excitement as I began to think about the unexpected opportunity to test my superpowers against such a mighty, imposing war machine.
I could not resist showing off my confidence. Over my shoulder I complimented Toto on his remarkable hospitality. “Wow, Toto! I'm impressed." I said. "Where did you get THAT from?”
“Mr. King and I have a lot of influential friends,” he boasted. “Perhaps you should have considered them as well before sticking your pretty nose into other people's business.”
I heard the huge vehicle’s engines firing up, their sheer power reverberating through the ground and introducing an element of self-doubt into my thoughts once again. And then, rumbling like an angry dragon, the tank started trundling forwards out of the garage where it had been hidden. It truly was huge. And it was heading right towards me. I must have looked so tiny in comparison with its massive, ever-nearing presence. For a moment, I considered taking to the air and getting the hell away from it as quickly as possible.
But I hesitated. Since my transformation I’d let more than one car crumple up against my skin after a high-speed collision without feeling any discomfort at all. The jet-planes I’d let crash into me at hundreds of miles an hour had been pretty big objects too. They hadn’t hurt me, even when they’d exploded on impact. In fact, nothing had managed to hurt me since my encounter with the genie. The more I thought about it, the less I feared the awesome war machine. And the more I became curious to test its mighty engines against my own power.
So instead of fleeing, I remained right where I was, letting the tank noisily approach. The cannon was pointed straight ahead, perfectly aligned with me. As it lumbered closer, I found myself staring at the huge, long steel cylinder protruding from the turret.
I didn’t have long to amuse myself thinking about what the giant tube reminded me of. A couple of loud metallic clanks inside the machine were followed by a big, bright, white flash of light at the end of the barrel. I knew exactly what was happening, but I still found myself catching my breath a moment later as the actual shell emerged amidst the smoke. It looked so large and heavy and I knew it had to be packed with explosives.
A split-second passed before rational thought kicked in. I thought back to all the high-powered bullets and grenades and air-to-air rockets that had tried and failed to hurt me. Not to mention the torpedo that I enjoyed at sea. So many delicious feelings! And the tank-shell floating apparently so slowly towards me as I watched it using my superhuman speed powers promised to be even more exciting than anything I’d already experienced.
I licked my lips in anticipation, bracing myself with my hands on my hips and my big, prominent chest thrust out. Then I used my flying abilities to anchor myself to the spot so that the shell wouldn’t knock me back.
It was heading towards my right shoulder and I made no effort whatsoever to duck under it as I could easily have done. I was right not to try and evade the missile. It struck me at the very top of my arm, with all the force and insistency of someone tapping me there with a finger to get my attention. Out of the corner of my eye I watched as for a few instants, the solid tip of the shell began to reshape itself around the invulnerable contours of my shoulder. Then, inevitably, it detonated.
The entire shell dissolved into a million small, red-hot, razor-sharp fragments. Many of them struck my chin and the side of my face, the myriad impacts feeling like a series of gentle touches. Still more shrapnel slammed downwards into the top portion of my chest, especially the upper curves of my right breast, before bouncing off. More pieces pinged away from the outer ridge of my right mound, the combined sensation like a lover’s firm caress. Within a fraction of a second my t-shirt was burnt and torn to shreds. But none of the steel fragments could mark my magic vest or the flawless skin beneath.
I pulled the few remaining scraps of T-shirt from my body and tossed them aside. I was confident I’d find a way to make Toto and his Yankee friend pay for it later. Over the noise of the rumbling tank engine, I could hear the two men shuffling behind me, clearly trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and me without attracting my attention. They’d failed in the second part of their task. With my superhuman hearing, I knew exactly where they were, even though my back was turned on them.
Returning my hands to my hips, I leant a little forward so that my breasts, now partly displayed as the T-shirt was gone and my invulnerable vest is fairly low-cut, were even more eye-catching. “Is that all you’ve got boys?” I called. I was still facing the tank, but the question was equally meant for Toto and the American, as well as the mysterious crew inside the vehicle.
My sensitive ears picked up the sound of Toto whispering to the American, as though he were answering my question: "I told the men, if the first round doesn't work, use the one with the black tip. It's supposed to be armour-piercing. It must be good - they cost thousands each."
It was all I could do not to rub my hands together with anticipatory glee when, moments later, I heard the same clanking noises inside the tank that I'd noticed just before the first round was fired. Once more I heard the bang of launch and calmly watched for the flash of light that followed. With my superhuman speed, I could observe at my leisure the cloud of smoke and, finally, the shell itself emerging from the end of the behemoth's barrel. To my delight, the tapered front end of the missile was, indeed, painted black. The "armour piercing" round!
The shell appeared to be floating gently towards me. Of course, in reality, it was actually rocketing at me, but I had all the time I needed to anticipate its trajectory. I calculated that it was on course to strike the upper right portion of my abdomen. So I bent forwards at the waist, leaning my upper body a little to the right. This had the double effect of increasing the amount of dramatic, firm cleavage I was displaying as well as aligning the centre of my magnificent chest with the black tip of the incoming explosive.
Finally, it reached me. I was perfectly positioned. The rounded end of the long, cylindrical warhead entered about two centimetres into the valley between my big, spherical breasts until the widening casing touched the inside of both of my mounds simultaneously. I lost myself in the sheer eroticism of the moment as the shell tried to bury itself in my deep cleavage, the super-dense nose of it nuzzling my breasts, pressing itself between them with hundreds of times more power than any man could summon.
Of course, the missile didn't get very far. My chest is far, far too firm to accommodate even a state-of-the-art, anti-tank rocket. Soon enough, the thing found it could push my heavy orbs apart no further. I looked down, watching as the front portion of the shell began to deform, the thick metal, designed to punch through military armour, proving utterly unable to dent my supposedly soft, womanly flesh. My breasts retained their perfect shape, defying the destructive power of the warhead as it started to crumple against my chest in complete defeat.
And that's when it detonated. A wave of searing heat burst over the top of my breasts, heating the surface of my mounds to thousands of degrees and sending tingles of pure delight through my torso. Then came the blast; a tremendous burst of explosive force which tore the thick metal casing of the shell into countless superheated fragments. Travelling at huge initial velocities, most of these fragments did not get far before they pressed into the unmoving, invulnerable flesh of my chest. Some of the pieces got deep into my cleavage, bouncing around between the two round walls of impenetrable flesh and caressing the sensitive inside curves of my breasts. Other pieces of shrapnel pinged from my chin and my nose, like a series of soft touches on my face, adding to the intense sensations from my chest. I threw my head back, moaning in the sheer delight of the thousands of simultaneous stimulations taking place over my body.
The feeling lasted long after the explosion was spent and my skin had cooled once more. In fact, I was still enjoying the afterglow of the delightful tingling in my chest when I heard the now familiar "Clank! Clank!" sound from within the tank, telling me that a third shell was being loaded. I reacted to the noise in an almost pavlovian way, a thrill of pure excitement ripping through me. After all, the previous two occasions that I'd heard the sound had ended with physical delight.
This time I decided to do something slightly different with the shell that - to me - seemed to drift out of the machine's cannon. Following its relatively slow - relative to me, that is - progress towards me, I lazily reached out with my right hand to catch it out of the air. It was moving at terrific speed, but I was so much faster still. I was careful, firstly not to bring the missile to too abrupt a stop and secondly not to crush its casing with the fingers I used to grip it. I didn't want it to explode until I was ready for it.
I managed to pluck the round out of the air successfully, without detonating it. I knew the thing had probably been quite heavy for the men who had loaded it inside the tank, but to me it felt weightless resting in my petite right hand. I lifted my arm, bringing the shell up to the shelf of my bosom. Then, I brought my free left hand up to the top of my chest. Extending two fingers, I plunged them deep into the dramatic valley of my cleavage and used them to prise my big, heavy breasts apart. My delicate-looking digits proved far more adept at separating my mounds then the previous tank-round had been and I continued to hold my cleavage open with those fingers as I used my right hand to ram the shell I'd just captured deep into the gap between my mounds.
Once I was satisfied that I had forced the missile as far as it could go into my cleavage, I removed the fingers that had levered my mounds away from each other. The superhuman firmness and elasticity of my chest immediately caused my chest to close together again, my womanly flesh unimpeded by the presence of a large tank-shell. My large, round breasts simply crushed the end of the rocket almost flat between them, the thick steel no match for their strength and power. There was nothing the shell could do against my chest. Nothing, except explode.
My breasts absorbed the vast bulk of the immense heat and energy of the blast. The crushed and now exploded casing had nowhere to go as it was already tightly wedged in my cleavage, so all the force of the detonation was spent on massaging my flawless mounds. It was all I could do not to scream with the sheer pleasure of it all. I felt ripples of delight flowing through my being and closed my eyes, hugging my breasts with my arms as I let the beautiful sensation fill my mind for an all-too-brief couple of seconds.
I let out a sigh as the feeling began to subside and let my hands fall to my sides once again. I looked down at the top of my chest, and saw smoke still rising from my tingling cleavage. Noticing a small piece of steel shrapnel that had been jammed between my breasts, I used a hand to pull it out and toss it casually away. Aside from that, there was no other sign of the recent explosions on my beautiful body. The flawless feminine flesh of my mounds was completely unmarked. There wasn't even a tiny smudge of soot anywhere to be seen.
I could not resist calling my thanks over my shoulder to the man who had unwittingly arranged for me to receive such a treat. "Oh Toto!" I enthused, "That was a lovely surprise!"
Toto didn't answer me. Craning my neck backwards, I was able to see him standing as if frozen to the spot. The shock of what he had just witnessed - me clearly enjoying myself as I absorbed the awesome destructive power of three successive shells, mostly with the big breasts that so fascinated him and his little entourage - had stunned him into silent inaction. That was amusing in itself, but by then I was fully in the mood for more fun.
I turned back to the tank itself, the smile on my face wider than ever. "Hey! In there!" I called out, hoping the crew could hear me, "You got any more of those nice party toys?"
Apparently, they didn't. Maybe Toto's budget had only stretched to three shells. Maybe he hadn't imagined, even for an instant, that anything could survive as much as three. As it happened, not only had I survived, but I was disappointed they didn't seem to have any more. Instead, they had a different trick planned for me. While I waited in vain for the clanking sound of another shell being loaded into the canon, the tank's engines roared and the enormous vehicle began to trundle forwards. It took a few seconds, during which the war machine steadily built up speed, for me to realise what was going on. They were going to try and run me down!
For the briefest moment, I felt a shiver of intimidation. The huge scale of the tank, the way it was accelerating, looming down on me and dwarfing my slender body, all made me wonder if I was safe standing in its path. But the memory of the trio of shells leaving me unscratched, not to mention all the other "big" and "powerful" things that I've seen crumpling uselessly against my invulnerable body, gave me confidence. And the thought that I might - just might - emerge as the physical superior in a test of strength with the mighty behemoth, filled me with anticipation. My mind was set. I decided to stand my ground and face the tank down. I put my hands defiantly on my shapely hips and thrust out my generous, proud chest, staring directly at the advancing machine.
In the harshly-lit-night-time bus garage, it was easy to think of the huge tank that shook the ground as it lumbered towards me, its powerful engines roaring, as some kind of dinosaur or mythical monster. In stature at least, it dominated me as it came close. By then, I was sure enough of my own abilities not to feel intimidated. But I couldn't help the brief sensation of unease as the open end of the thing's cannon, leading the way for the tank itself, passed over the crown of my head. It looked so big up close. So long and rigid, proudly extending from the turret. If the tank was a monster in my imagination, it was an indisputably male monster. And its rampant sex was looming, unchallenged, over my head.
It was time - in my mind anyway - for a display of feminine power. I raised my right hand, leaving the left still resting on my hip on the other side of my body, and, opening my fingers, reached up for the smooth wide steel cylinder passing above. Quickly, I closed my hand around it, gripping it with all four fingers on top of the tube and my thumb beneath. There was a tremendous, almost animal-like squeal, as the metal collapsed, feeling to me as though it were made of a single sheet of aluminium foil. I removed my hand straight away, and only then did I see that, in fact, the cannon was constructed from two-centimetre thick solid steel. Now, it was crushed flat about a third of the way from the end. As a weapon, I'd rendered it completely useless in a fraction of a second. I'd not even felt it resisting my pretty girl-fingers. I find myself grinning, thinking of the sound when I had squeezed - my "monster" screaming as I badly injured a very sensitive part of his body…
All the while I was daydreaming, the main body of the tank was almost upon me. I decided to - literally - grab the chance of a final bit of cannon-humiliation. This time, I grasped a little less tight, and instead of squashing the pipe flat, I gave it a sharp twist by turning my dainty but massively strong wrist. Screech! An ugly sound, but the ease with which I tore the bulk of the barrel clean away from the tank thrilled me. I was left holding the loose length of canon in my right hand. My left had not moved from its station on my hip, naturally. Casually, I tossed the two-meter cylinder over my shoulder. A second later, I heard a mighty crash followed by a prolonged rumble. It was almost loud enough to drown out the racket of the tank itself - now just centimetres from me. Without looking back, I knew from the sounds that I'd thrown the torn-off canon through a wall and probably another wall behind that.
I had other things to pre-occupy me, however. The tank actually picked up a little bit of extra speed after I'd unburdened it of its big gun and, roaring away with insistent fury, it came at me. Once again, I used the reverse technique to flying to hold myself in position, just as the gap between mighty war machine and me vanished. The motors in that thing were loud, alright, but nowhere near as loud as the "Clank!" of the front of the tank hitting my bare knees. I glanced down, but my view was obscured by my jutting chest. I could feel something pressing, not uncomfortably hard, into my kneecaps. And I could see the rest of the tank in front of me. The huge metal beast was shuddering. But it was not advancing. The engine-noise grew in pitch, the motors complaining of the strain they were being forced to exert. I could hear the pitter-patter of debris and see the rising cloud of dust being kicked up at the back of the treads on either side of the giant vehicle - signs that the tank was trying to move forwards. I was surprised by how easily my knees seemed to be holding out. I felt I could stand like that, holding thousands and thousands of horsepower at bay, all week.
And then I started to wonder. If cancelling out the huge tank's momentum and matching the power of its mighty engines came so easily to me, just how strong am I in comparison? The thought really grabbed me and I felt a rush of excitement as I considered how I might test myself against the war machine. I decided on the obvious first.
Letting my knees continue to take the "strain" of halting the vehicle's advance - although I could hardly call it that as it certainly didn't feel like "strain" - I placed the palms of my hands flat against the front of the tank. The strong vibrations I sensed in my finger tips were a reminder of the size and supposed power of the engines I was pitting myself against. The idea that I might overcome machinery on that scale spurred me into beginning my experimentations. Slowly, carefully, full of curiosity, I started to push the two hands touching the front of the behemoth away from me.
The result was breathtaking.
As I straightened my arms, the tank immediately moved back away from my knees. The whining of the engines, rising to a manic pitch and the increasing strength of the fountains of dirt and dust being thrown up at the rear of the huge thing were the only indications that it was trying to resist me. Before my transformation, I used to find three-quarters empty supermarket trolleys harder to push than this mass of military machinery that was actively fighting against me. It was almost effortless. I just calmly pressed the tank backwards - against the will of its controller - until it was at arm's length from me.
Delighted with what I had just proved, I removed my hands from the front of the vehicle. Immediately, without my dainty palms and slender arms to prevent it, the tank shot forwards at full speed. It managed less than a meter. Then it encountered my knees once again. Clank! Roar of engines. Spumes of dust at the back. But no forward movement. My knees, comfortably, held firm.
It was all going so well! And I was gaining ever more confidence in my powers with every passing second. Keen to keep experimenting, and remembering how easy it had been to force the monster back the first time, I thought I'd try it with just one arm. I chose my right - because I'm right-handed - so my left hand was superfluous. I put it on my hip. Then I positioned my right hand flush against the front of the tank. I was too excited to wait. I started to push. Again, the motors protested audibly. Again, the spraying of particles from the rear of the treads intensified. Again, the tank was forced backwards. I was surprised. I didn't expect the feat to be just as effortless with one hand as it had been with two. I looked down at my arm, its skin so smooth and flawless. So slim, so shapely. I glanced along its length to my petite hand. So feminine. And further on, to the massive machine that my arm was overpowering.
So strong… So amazingly, wonderfully, gloriously strong!
I held the thing back with my right hand for a few seconds until, mostly to prove to myself that the engines were indeed trying to work against me, I let my arm fall to my side. The monster sounded genuinely relieved as its was freed to surge forward. But of course, my knees were waiting for it. Once the tank reached them, the engines, for all their noise, were useless.
Of course, after that, I had to try the same trick with just my left hand. I don't know if my left is any weaker than my right now that I'm super, but I do know that when it comes to driving back dozens of tons of military hardware, there was no discernable difference between doing it with my right or my left. Whichever hand I used, I found it completely easy. I forced the tank to go backwards with my left arm, held it away from me for a while and then dropped my arm, letting the machine lurch forwards until it slammed hopelessly against my legs. My body felt so good, I was sure I could have repeated the exercise a hundred times without tiring.
But I wasn't in the mood for repetitions. By the sixth time I'd pushed the thing back, alternating using my left and right arms, I was getting bored. I decided to try something else. With the vehicle's forward movement prevented by my right hand, I experimentally began lifting my fingers off the front of it, one by one, and curling them into my palm until only my extended index finger was left pressing against the tank. No other part of my body was touching the mighty machine yet still it was not moving. I was holding it back, the engines fighting all the while, with nothing more than a single finger! My solitary digit was displaying more strength than a massive and deadly piece of military hardware. No wonder I felt awesome!
When I removed my finger, the tank advance on me once more. This time, instead of letting it "Clank!" into my knees, I held out the little finger of my left hand and waiting for the vehicle to hit that instead. I could feel the machine pushing against the tiny tip of that finger, but I never felt that my little digit was struggling to hold out. Never mind one arm, I was now showing my superiority over the tank with only my smallest finger. It looked so ridiculous, that tiny part of me keeping the huge device in check. It started me laughing. Laughing at the sheer ease of it.
By this point, any fear or respect I might have had for the monster had completely vanished. I was amusing myself by finding new ways to humiliate him. Playfully, without too much conscious thought on my part, I withdrew my fingertip and let the tank charge at me again. Before it got to me, however, I bent my right index finger behind my thumb and then flicked the face of the behemoth with it, just as I might have flicked a pea off the dinner table before I met the genie. But the tank was an awful lot bigger and heavier than any pea. My invulnerable fingernail made a mighty "Clang!" and put a deep, if small, dent in the vehicle's armour. Much more impressively, the armour and the entire machine it was attached to, responded to my casual flick by jumping twenty centimetres into the air and flying about twenty meters backwards. It landed with a massive crash that seemed to shake the earth.
The instant the tank's rotating treads made contact with the dusty ground, it began to jerk forwards again, building up speed as it prepared to make yet another attempt at flattening me. I waited with my finger at the ready to give it another flick, this time, as it were, on the volley. The "Clang!" was even louder this time, the dent in the thick metal all the more pronounced, and the tank's little flight - covering nearly forty meters and carrying the wheels a whole meter above the dirt at its peak - was spectacular. And I'd barely even felt the contact with my finger as it effortlessly tossed the gigantic monster away!
The thing made the whole bus station shudder as it crashed back down. A moment later, the treads had got a grip once more and it was speeding forwards at me, apparently a glutton for further punishment. I put my hands dominantly onto my hips, pushing out my big breasts in triumph, just laughing with delight at my total superiority and let the massive vehicle crash noisily but ineffectively into my knees. Several seconds passed while it pressed uselessly at me and I continued to chuckle. Then I heard a new, sharp metallic crunching sound from within the tank. It took me a moment to work out what it could be.
Of course! They were changing gear. Confirmation arrived a second later when the barely registerable pressure on my knees disappeared altogether and the vehicle started to reverse away from me. I wasn't sure if the crew were planning to pull back so that they could take yet another run at me or if they'd decided that they'd had enough and were trying to make an exit. Either way, I was not prepared to let them do it.
My initial reaction was to grab hold of the nearest part of the tank and see if I could just hold it still while its engines fought to pull away from me. But when I glanced down I saw there were no hand-holds in the flat armour-plate. Nowhere to grip. The only features in the metal plain were the dents made by my flicking finger a few moments before. I quickly realised that if I wanted to get a good hold of the monster, I was going to have to create my own grip-point.
I had no idea how thick the armour was when I punched it. I liked the huge "Bang!" as my hand hit and began to plough through the front of the tank. Encouraged by the noticeable, but hardly uncomfortable resistance my small fist met, I continued to drive my knuckles through the steel until I felt them emerging, unhindered, inside the belly of the beast. I'd buried my arm almost up to the elbow in solid metal. I know I could easily have punched a lot harder, but I didn't need to. Designed to withstand the deadliest and most advanced munitions, the wall of the machine had yielded like soft butter to my slender arm. I couldn't help the smile of satisfaction that spread across my face.
Now I had a perfectly-sized handle. I opened the fingers of the fist still within the tank and curled them around the inside edge of the new hole I'd installed. A crescendo of engine noises, rising in pitch, told of the motors’ latest struggles. I had succeeded, with very little effort, in halting the vehicle's movement for the umpteenth time. After a moment, an ever-taller column of dirt sprayed up either side of me where the treads, now working in reverse, were desperately attempting, and failing, to get any kind of grip that could challenge the strength of my arm. Little pieces of stone were kicked up at me by the futile efforts of the tracks, only to shatter to powder against my invulnerable body. But nothing could break my hold on the monster.
I started to bend my arm, a process which shortened the distance between the hand gripping the tank and my body. Aside from the crazy whine of motors and the frantic spewing of particles by the treads, I hardly noticed any extra resistance as I dragged the entire, massive machine towards me, completely at my leisure. When I relaxed my arm, the treads immediately re-established their grip on the ground and began to pull the tank away from me. Until, that is, my arm became straight again and any further movement was denied. Instead the engine-moaning and dirt-fountaining resumed anew.
Ignoring the protests of the beast, I began bending my arm once more, this time not only drawing the front of the tank towards me, but also, slowly, lifting my hand so that the near end of the treads rose about fifteen centimetres from the ground. Even though I was now supporting a considerable portion of the immense weight of the thing, my hand felt quite comfortable. So I continued to raise my arm, lifting the front of the machine higher and higher until the entire vehicle was at about a thirty-degree angle. Still the engines battled in vain to drag the tank away from me. I continued to resist their pull effortlessly.
Pondering what to do to the monster next, I decided on trying to slowly twist my tiny wrist whilst it was holding one end of the thing aloft. This time I did feel some strain in my muscles, but it passed after a second or two. Then I heard a resonating, low, groaning sound as I began to exert forces on the frame of the vehicle which its designers could never have anticipated. The creaking intensified and I took it as encouragement, continuing to turn my wrist until I saw the entire left side of the tank, tread and wheels and all, separate from the ground. It was so easy! The more I turned, the more the tank began to tilt. I kept going until the whole behemoth was almost on its side, only the rear right corner of it on terra firma. I would have expected my delicate-looking wrist to tire after exerting such awesome power, but I felt absolutely fine.
There was no doubt who had won the duel between me and the tank. All that was left for me to do at that point was to complete my long-since inevitable victory. With my right hand taking all the weight of the front of the vehicle now, I stretched that arm fully over my head, lifting the monster's nose another thirty centimetres into the air, and exposing quite a bit of the underneath of his belly to my gaze. I quickly spotted a section of chassis a little over a meter down that looked structurally secure and gripped it firmly with my left hand until I felt the steel deforming in my fist and loosened my grasp a little. I needed that bit of tank intact for what I wanted to do next.
Making sure that my left arm was ready to take the weight, I released the fingers of my right hand, and pulled them out of the hole I'd made. The monster groaned loudly as so much of its bulk shifted from being supported by one of my hands to the other, but the transition was easy enough. Immediately, I set about reaching with my freed right arm for another hand-hold, this time nearer the centre of the chassis. I found one that seemed ideal and secured my hand around it.
I was already holding up one end of the tank, so I calculated that all I needed to do to lift the whole behemoth completely off the road was to take the weight of the other end too. In terms of leverage, my right had was not best placed for the job. As I pressed upwards with it, I could feel the forces pushing back against me. But whereas I knew that those forces had a limit, my own strength feels utterly unlimited. The tank's frame almost screamed under the strain as I forced my will onto it, raising my right hand, lifting the far end of the monster into the air. To my delight, it seemed to become easier the more I straightened my arms above me until, triumphantly, I held both my arms over my head. And resting on them, the whole, mighty, shuddering tank, its treads still spinning uselessly.
I might have looked rather small beneath that monster, but I did not feel small. I felt powerful. Unopposable. I knew it was my slender arms and my beautiful body that was keeping the tank off the ground. The same tank whose main weapon had done no more than stimulate me before I'd casually disarmed it. The same tank whose engines I'd bested with a solitary finger. The tank that Toto had ordered in, especially in my honour. And here I was, holding it above my head like a weightlifter’s victory pose. The tank that, I can only assume, was supposed to have killed me. But there wasn't a scratch anywhere on my body. The only damage I'd sustained was to my clothes: my T-shirt had been destroyed and my jeans, which I was still wearing, were badly singed. My magic vest and my body itself were not even dirty.
As I paraded the tank above my head, I glanced down at the top of the shelf of my chest, looking at the smooth round curves of the upper portions of my breasts which were once more on display thanks to the low neckline of my vest. Even though these softest parts of my anatomy had absorbed the brunt of three exploding shells, there was not a scratch to be seen on my feminine mounds. Not even a bruise. Just flawless, beautifully rounded flesh. I realised that I and my cargo must have made for a remarkable sight. It would have been a shame if Toto and his American friend had missed it.
I'd been aware of them both shuffling around behind me whilst I'd been toying with the tank. I could follow the sounds of their respective heartbeats, even above the whine of the tank's engines, by occasionally tuning my super-hearing to them. Without having to keep visual track of the pair, I'd known where each of them was to within about a meter all the time. I'd heard them initially running from me when the tank had first emerged. I'd heard the American diving to the ground when the first shell had been fired at me. When I tossed the detached cannon behind me, and it crashed through a wall, I heard Toto's gasp of shock amongst the sounds of falling debris.
Now I could hear the two men, behind and to the left of me, slowly creeping, step by step. I think they were hoping to slip out of the garage unnoticed. But they were not doing a very good job of it. I could hear the fibres of their clothes rubbing together. I could hear the tiny sounds the soles of their shoes made each time they took a step. I could hear their pounding hearts. I could hear their rasping breathing, even though, no doubt, they were making every effort to be silent.
I decided to turn and face them. Of course I had to rotate carefully. Every tiny movement of my lithe body was matched by a huge movement of the massive tank still resting on my palms. The huge monster had no choice but to move through nearly one hundred and eighty degrees to finish facing the opposite direction. A couple of load creaks from the chassis I was supporting served as reminders of the scale of the task my arms were performing, but I managed to turn around completely without the tank, looming over my head, losing balance. Finally I stood facing the startled figures of Toto Carlucci and his foreign friend, both frozen mid-step on their way to the nearest exit, like rabbits paralysed in the headlamps of a car. The tank, its mammoth weight resting comfortably on my hands, had never turned so tight a circle!
I looked out, through the frame of my up-stretched, shapely arms, at the two men. They looked back at me, their eyes flickering between the mighty tank, my arms holding it aloft, and - of course - my chest. I tried to read the emotions on their faces. Fear was there, for sure. Also, shock - perhaps at being caught red-handed trying to make a getaway, perhaps at the whole notion of a woman lifting a tank. I could see, too, that they were both, understandably, more than a little in awe of me. And I couldn't help but notice the traces of lust revealed in their gazes, especially whenever they stole glances at my body. Despite everything that had happened in the previous minutes and despite the fact that they were face to face with a indestructible girl holding a tank aloft, they were still men. And despite the amazing strength that I demonstrated, I still am an exceptionally attractive woman these days.
Fillipo Calucci was no fool. His vast business empire had not been built on luck, but rather on Fillipo's sound judgment. When to buy, when to sell. When to attack, when to stand his ground. And when to cut his losses and get the hell out. Evidently, before his death, he had managed to pass some of this good sense on to his son. Toto, for all his shock both at what he'd watched me do to his tank and at finding himself caught in the act of trying to tiptoe out of the garage, and for all his obvious fascination with my upper-body, was still intelligent enough to realise that his best option was retreat. Now that Plan A - slip out quietly - had failed, he modified it slightly to create Plan B - run for it, regardless of how humiliating it might appear.
He looked at me, glanced briefly at the nearest open exit, turned for it and began to sprint. He was not exactly in the best of physical conditions, but it would not have mattered if he was the current Olympic 100-meter sprint champion. I was always going to be faster. Thousands of times faster. His cause was not helped by his colleague from overseas. The American, taking his cue from Toto - the language barrier not an issue when it comes to being afraid of me - started running in the same direction as the younger man. After a few, slow strides, the poor fellow was already gasping. My sensitive ears picked up on the rapid pounding of his pulse. I knew he wouldn't get very far.
For brief second, I weighed up my choices of action. The first option, letting both men go, was out of the question. Toto needed thanking in person for all the trouble he had gone to arranging the tank. The American deserved an opportunity to explain his presence, too. So I was definitely going after them. I considered chasing the pair whilst continuing to hold the massive military machine overhead. Whilst I didn't think the physical effort was beyond me, I was aware that carrying the monster would slow me down dramatically if I was to keep its precarious balance intact and not embarrassingly drop it. No, I realised, I was going to have to put the tank down to chase Toto and his friend. I hesitated before lowering the vehicle however. There was one more factor in the equation that needed to be taken into account: the tank-crew.
I knew that there were two of them in there. I'd heard their heartbeats from the start. I was pretty certain, from the noise of their breathing, that they were both men, although neither had said a word since our encounter began. What concerned me about them was that they were almost certainly Toto's men, rather than a regular military tank-crew drafted in for the day. If I know the Carlucci way - and I believe I do - Toto would have arranged for his own, most trusted staff to undergo training in operating a tank, rather than trusting a couple of random soldiers to follow his instructions. After all, would ordinary soldiers really agree to fire on a poor, defenceless girl like me? It's unlikely. But Toto's men would kill a woman without batting an eyelid.
The more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself that the crew of the monster were Toto's henchmen. As such, they deserved special thanks for their role in the evening's entertainment. Especially as one - or both - of them had fired three rounds at me, with the express intention of blowing me to bits. Not to mention the various futile attempts to run me over. If I put them and their vehicle down on the ground and went after their boss and his trans-Atlantic pal, there was a small chance the pair in the tank might manage to slip away before I got a chance to deal with them.
On the other hand, there wasn't any particular information that I was hoping they could provide. I had no special reason for not wanting them to escape, other than a desire not to let them go unpunished after trying to kill me. Meanwhile - very, very slowly - Toto and the American were running towards the exit sign. Carlucci Jr. had only about ten meters to go before he would be out of my sight. I made a snap decision. I needed to stop the two runners more than I needed to talk to the two guys inside the tank. I opted to block the exit with the most convenient exit-blocker to hand. One that was already actually in, or rather on, my hands. The men inside it would just have to take their chances.
Carefully, not wanting the massive machine to topple out off my palms, I drew my arms back a few centimetres. The subtle movement of my limbs might have passed unnoticed, were in not reflected and amplified by the tank which lurched backwards about half-a-meter over my head, its frame creaking in tired complaint, unaware that it would soon be put out of its misery.
I was cautious as I thrust my arms forward again, this time with increased speed. As the mighty vehicle shot forwards above me, I let the bottom of it move off the palms of my hands, carried by the momentum of my gentle toss. I was going for accuracy, rather than power. That's why I hardly put any extra lift into the throw, concentrating on driving the monster forwards towards the exit from the station concourse, rather than up into the air. The thing left my hands and flew dead straight. It was as well I didn't toss it with any real force, or it would surely have smashed right through the doorway and the rooms beyond and finished up some distance outside the garage. As it was, it only started to lose height after it had already travelled nearly twenty meters. Fortunately, its excessive weight and the lightness of my throw ensured that once the thing started to drop, it fell in an increasingly sharp curve.
If you have never seen a tank fly, then I recommend the experience. It really is quite a spectacular thing to observe, especially when you know that your own, slim body has provided the power for the flight. Toto stopped dead in his tracks, mid-run, and stared in open-mouthed disbelief as the entire oversized monster soared gracefully through the air. Had he continued to sprint, he probably would have ended up right in the descending behemoth's path. Instead it passed about thirty centimetres from him on its way down. I heard the American mutter something monosyllabic in English just before the back of the tank, which was leading the way, reached the exit doorway.
Of course, the military vehicle was wider than the opening, and the sides of the machine carved through the brickwork bordering the door as if it wasn't there. With a crash that made the entire building - and probably the surrounding area too - shake, the wheels finally touched down, half of it still on the concourse, the other half inside the corridor on the other side of the now much bigger and less geometric doorway. Bricks continued to rain down for a second as a cloud of thick dust billowed up from the rubble beneath the base of the tank, filling the air and making it difficult, even for me, to see for a few moments.
I was fairly sure that I had successfully blocked off the exit with the monster. I wasn't completely certain, because of the blinding dust however, if there was any space between the flank of the beast and the newly-widened door-frame. For an instant I was worried that Toto might have managed to slip through such a gap. To set my mind at ease, I listened carefully, ignoring the sounds of falling masonry and settling dust, scanning for heartbeats. The first I heard belonged to the American. I recognised the unhealthily rapid pounding immediately. The next beat I isolated sounded like Toto's, if a little faster. I kept listening, expecting to hear two more, but my superhuman ears detected nothing. Then, I heard a cough. I identified it immediately, without doubt, as belonging to Carlucci. So Toto and the American were definitely still inside the main concourse with me.
But there was no audible sign of the two-man tank crew. Curious, I strolled into the already receding dust-cloud. I could only see about a meter in front of myself, but the particles saturating the air didn't seem to irritate my eyes, even though thousands of them must've tried to settle on my irises. I guess dust won't stick to my eyes any more than make-up will stick to my face these days. Toto was still coughing, his lungs clearly less happy with the state of the atmosphere than my eyes, which meant I could pin-point his location with ease. Meanwhile I kept track of the American using the sound of his frantic heart-beat.
Soon, the familiar front of the tank loomed before me. I'd tossed it rear-first so it had actually flown backwards. That meant the hole I'd punched to get an initial grip on the thing was conveniently placed at waist height. I bent down and took a look inside using my ex-handhold as a fist-sized spy-hole.
It was dark in there. Whatever artificial lighting the crew had used before had cut out, presumably when the tank crashed down to earth after I threw it away. My enhanced eyesight had no trouble piecing the gloom however. I soon spotted what I was interested in. It seemed that the illumination circuits weren't all that had ceased functioning. The two men I had anticipated were there all right. I smelt their blood before I saw them. One had lost the top part of his head. I can only assume it had happened when he had bounced upwards and hit the ceiling. The other appeared to have become impaled, through the stomach, on some kind of lever. Neither was in any position to tell me if they were indeed, regular employees of Toto. I straightened up, away from the hole in the front of the tank. Nothing more to see there.
There was, however, more to see outside the tank. The cloud of dust was quickly settling so that visibility was returning to normal. I don't know if Toto and the American, lacking my superhuman eyesight, found things so clear, but I was able to see both men well once more. Toto had staggered backwards, away from the falling debris which had piled up as high as his shoulder. The other side of the mound of rubble leaned against the silenced tank. Behind him, a still intact portion of wall. It wasn't exactly how I'd intended to block his exit, but it was just as effective. He crouched, shivering, although the night was warm, turning his head from side to side, searching, I guess, for his colleague. Meanwhile the older man was about fifteen meters away from the smashed doorway, peering into the dust, trying to locate Toto. "Toto! Are you finding yourself near here?" he hissed out in his comical accent.
Carlucci coughed on some dust. "Toto, that noise is by you?" the American asked, nervously, his voice low. Did he seriously think I wouldn't be able to hear him?
"Yeah. It's me. Over here," Toto said in a loud whisper. There was no response. "John! Over here!" Toto repeated, slightly louder. I resisted the temptation to laugh.
"I go to you," the foreigner promised. I watched as he took a couple of steps in the vague direction of Toto before tripping on a piece of dislodged brick. A few seconds later, he clambered back to his feet, managed about six more strides and then fell down again. This time it took a little longer for him to regain his feet. He made it the rest of the way, eventually finding his target, without major incident.
"Have you seen the girl?" Toto whispered into his ear, once they were together. I was only about thirty meters away from them, but I would have heard every syllable of the "secret" exchange from a kilometre with my superhuman hearing.
"No. I believe that she is departed." the American whispered back.
"Did you see what she did.... to the tank?" murmured Toto.
"It is breaking my head with thinking about it!"
"Well, we have to think about it," Toto hushed. "My father will be avenged. One way or another, that bitch has to be stopped."
"You are having a plan what to do?" asked the tall man, still whispering.
"Not yet," confessed Toto. "First we need to get the hell out of here and then I can make some calls."
I decided that was as good a moment as any to interrupt the conversation. Striding towards the pair, my hands resting on my hips, a smug grin - which I could not help - on my face, I announced: "Sorry boys. I'm afraid I just can't let you walk out of here after all we've been through together." I was still approaching them as I finished the sentence. I could see them clearly through the dispersing dust cloud. From their perspective, I must have "appeared" in front of them from out of the gloom. Both of them gasped. Both stared as I came to a stop, just a meter from the two of them.
Inevitably, the American's staring settled onto my chest. Toto, to his credit, was managing to shoot the occasional glance at my face in between bouts of gazing on my unmissable womanly charms. "N... N... Now, M... Milena..." he stuttered, visibly shaking in terror. "We c-c-can t-talk. Do a d-d-deal..."
"Shut up, Toto." I told him, harshly, taking a step forwards. With my right hand I pushed him very, very gently in the centre of his torso, just enough to lift his feet a few centimetres from the ground as his body flew back a meter until it hit the wall behind him. The impact winded him, but probably didn't do much more damage than that. He managed to more-or-less keep his feet as he fought to breathe.
I turned to his colleague. "So, Mr. King," I began. His eyes did flicker briefly up to my face as I started to talk, but they soon returned to breast-watch duties. "What is your connection with the Carlucci family?"
"I... I am the friend..." he said, his expression an amusing mix of fear, confusion and lust.
"Oh, are you two boys an item?" I teased.
"I.. do not understand." he told my cleavage.
"Never mind." I said. "I think it's safe to assume that you prefer girls."
"I do not under-"
"Oh, this is getting boring!" I exclaimed.
"I.. I am sorry. I do not speak very much your language." he apologised, his eyes still glued to the exposed top portion of my chest.
"Then you're not much use to me, are you?" I pointed out, taking a step towards him.
He stumbled backwards, trying to maintain the distance between us. "Wait... Ah.... One minute.... Please..." he began to sound desperate as I continued to advance and he retreated clumsily until, inevitably, his back hit the wall. I kept on approaching until our noses were almost touching, and the prominent peaks of my big super-firm nipples were just centimetres from his rapidly rising and falling chest. He turned his head and shifted his weight onto one leg, as if preparing to make a dart to the side. I anticipated and blocked the move simply by leaning forwards, my hands still on my hips, and thrusting out my chest. My breasts made contact with his body and refused to yield to him, instead forcing him back against the wall, and pinning him in place.
Although I wasn't really putting any pressure on him, I could see that the guy was finding it hard to breathe as my big, heavy mounds squeezed his lungs. As a result, he was also finding it even harder than before to talk. "I.... cannot.... take.... air..... enough!"
"You should've thought about that before you started playing army with your friend Toto," I said.
"Please! I... have... pain..."
"Oh come on, I thought you liked my body. You've been staring at it all night." I told him.
"I.. do... not... under- Aggghhh!" I couldn't resist leaning in just a tiny bit further and looking down at my magnificent bust, its glorious rounded shape unaffected as it pressed into the American's supposedly much less yielding body. In fact, it was his hard, masculine ribcage that was deforming to accommodate my soft, feminine chest. I could feel his bones bending against my breasts. I could also feel a small, insistent pressure on my groin.
"See?" I said, "You DO like my body. It's given you a little erection, hasn't it, Mr. King?"
I could tell from the embarrassment in his eyes that he had understood. "Please!..... Stop!" he begged.
"Why?" I asked.
"I... have... much... friends.... here.... and... in.... America...." he wheezed. "Are... you... knowing... what... will... be.... happening... to... you... if... you... kill... me..?" It was obviously meant to be a threat. Under the circumstances, it didn't carry much weight with me. What were this Yankee’s friends going to do if I killed him? Send a tank after me?
"So what?" I said, with a genuine shrug of disinterest. The shrug turned out to be a bad move. For Mr. King. As I raised my shoulders. the movement of my body caused my large, weighty breasts to rise and become more prominent. A series of "Crunch!" sounds revealed that my temporarily expanding chest had compressed the American's torso beyond its ability to cope. My rising breasts must have crushed his upper ribs. And probably his lungs and quite a bit of muscle as well. I checked his face. A frozen look of surprise: eyes wide open, unblinking and dull, mouth open. A stream of blood appeared from the corner of his gaping mouth and poured down his chin. Some dripped on to the top of my chest, immediately running off my flawless skin, leaving not a trace behind.
I hadn't meant to kill him, but things happen. It was great to think that I'd ended a man's existence with the most casual of gestures, with my hands resting on my hips the whole time, my big mounds proving an extremely effective murder weapon. I stepped back. My breasts stayed as round as they had done all along. The foreigner's body retained its new, disturbingly concave, shape. Then it seemed to fold up on itself, finishing up in a heap at my feet. I was already turning my attention to Toto.
"Oh my god...." said Fillipo's son, feeling the wall behind him.
"So sorry about your friend," I smiled, making it clear that I wasn't, in any way, sorry. "Were you close?"
"W... w... wait!" Toto spluttered.
I was standing right in front of him now. "Are you going to offer me a deal, Toto?" I asked.
"P... p.... please don't kill me." he pleaded, tearfully.
I was just about to disregard his request completely and back-hand him into the next life when something - maybe it was my innate business sense - made me stop. Toto had just gained full control of the Carlucci empire. If he had inherited even half of his father's financial acumen, he could be a very useful... tool for me. The more I considered it, the more I knew I could make good use of him if I spared his life.
"Congratulations, Toto." I told him. "You've just become my business manager. Unless, that is, you'd rather join your American friend..."
"N... no.... I'll take the j... job.... Oh.... thank you! Thank you!" He was almost crying with relief.
"Ten o'clock tomorrow morning," I told him, "you will come round to my house with all the necessary paperwork to transfer your family's assets into my name. I'll give you further instructions afterwards."
"Ten o'clock! That's not enough time!" he protested.
"Fine," I said. "Forget the deal. Say 'goodbye' to the world, Toto." I raised my hand.
"OK. Ten o'clock. I'll be there! Please!"
"Good boy." I patronised. "Make sure you are. Otherwise, you know what will happen, don't you."
I turned away from him. To make absolutely sure he had the message, I left the bus station concourse by walking straight through an intact portion of brick wall, my invulnerable body smashing through the stone like a beautiful wrecking ball. Temporarily obscured from his view by the dust created by my exit, I soared up into the sky. From about fifty meters up, I looked down at the impressive sight of a big military tank imbedded in a wall, and smiled, proud of the knowledge that I had single-handedly overcome that tank, picked it up and thrown it with such spectacular results.
On the short flight home, I reflected on the night's events. All-in-all, it had been a pretty good meeting. As well as learning more about my powers - my strength and invulnerability are fantastic! - I’ve also gained a whole raft of new "enterprises" and someone competent to run them, along with all my uncle's ex-affairs. And all it cost me was a T-shirt.
Of course, I'll be taking the value of the shirt from Toto's earnings. And if he disagrees, well, I can get rid of him in a fraction of a second. Even he knows now that I can kill a man just by shrugging my shoulders.
Oh. it's so great being super! I wonder what I can do while I'm waiting for Toto to turn up at ten...
Conceptfan, Jun. 2006.