Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, NonConsensual, Mind Control, Superhero, Oral Sex, .
Desc: Science Fiction Sex Story: First Session - With no evil, what is the role of good? That's the question that has driven Isaac Mason to therapy. As the superhero Opticus, he has nearly eliminated crime. Or has he? A new evil suddenly appears, presenting Isaac with his most difficult challenge yet.
"So you're an unemployed superhero."
She charged into the waiting room clutching the summary I had filled out a few minutes before. Her body was vibrating in a manner that gave off a faintly unhealthy glow in the ultraviolet spectrum. It wouldn't have looked that bad if she hadn't been wearing a tailored black suit and didn't have a complexion the color of café crème. Maybe if she'd been more of a spring or a summer.
It seemed pretty clear to me that she had already decided that I was her ticket to an article in the next issue of Nutball Quarterly. After that, maybe an assistant professorship at the local college and then a fellowship at Harvard. She was intelligent enough to see the nervousness in my face, though, even if the dark glasses hid my eyes. She tucked a lock of her long hair behind her ear and made an effort to control her excitement.
She stopped before me with an apologetic smile.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mason. That was extraordinarily unprofessional, wasn't it? I'm Vanessa McDowell."
I stood and shook the hand she extended.
"Isaac Mason, Doctor McDowell."
"It's nice to meet you. Please come back to my office. Would you like to take my arm?"
"I'll just follow you," I said.
She gave me a brief, puzzled nod and led the way down the hallway. When she stood in front me I had admired her face and its beautiful admixture of Caucasian and African-American genes. From behind I enjoyed the way that her two-inch heels emphasized the well-toned muscles of her calves.
Her office was tastefully appointed in earth tones designed to put the therapied — nutballs like myself — at ease. Dark wooden bookcases were filled with tomes by various Ph.D.'s and M.Ed.'s. Her desk occupied the far wall, devoid of anything by which the therapist might expose her own personality, God forbid. There was a couch on the right hand wall with a chair beside it. The left hand wall had two wing chairs.
As she turned to me, I realized that her face had never lost the puzzled expression it had gained in the waiting room.
"I like to encourage my patients to sit wherever they feel most comfortable, Mr. Mason. There is a couch on your right and two chairs on your left."
I was tempted to choose the chair by the couch just to see where she would sit. Instead I selected one of the wing chairs. She took the other, crossing one of her lovely brown legs over the other. She seemed at a loss to know how to begin.
"I understood that I was supposed to be completely honest with you, Doctor."
"Well, naturally. Of course."
"And you thought I was blind."
She looked at my dark glasses and glanced down at the form again.
"But you are an unemployed superhero?"
"And your superhero identity?"
I raised an eyebrow to mirror hers. We sat there for a while, looking at each other like two birds in a frozen mating dance.
"I wasn't aware that there was more than the one," I finally said.
"Ah, so you're Octopus."
"Opticus," I said sharply. "I'm sorry, Doctor. I didn't mean to be short with you. I'm called Opticus."
My name had been a sore spot ever since I publicly asserted my superism. I had uncovered the attempted embezzlement of the city's entire budget and left the evildoers tied up on the steps of the police station.
"I am Opticus," I had announced.
"City Saved by Octopus," ran the headline in the Morning Star.
In retrospect, one of the other names I had been toying with — Lightman, Visionary, Spectrum — might have been better. That's what I got for waiting until after I had finished college and decided that a fancy Latinized name was the way to go. Of course, "City Saved by Rectum" would have been a lot worse.
She had been speaking while I recovered from my fit of pique.
"I apologize again, Doctor," I said. "Sometimes I sort of space out a little bit. You were saying?"
"Simply that you were eager to ensure that I didn't credit my belief that you were blind. But also eager that I credit your belief that you are Opticus."
"You want a trick," I said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You want me to perform a parlor trick. To do something super. Otherwise you'll never do me the courtesy of crediting anything I say."
"Mr. Mason, you have to understand that my practice..."
Her voice tailed off and I decided to save her the trouble of categorizing me.
"Brings you in contact with nutballs? I understand that. And to give you credit, you have figured out the heart of my problem. It's not so much being a superhero, though."
I waved a finger at a candle that sat on the bookcase and it flickered into flame.
"It's the unemployment. I seem to have done myself out of a job, Doctor."
She stared at the candle for a moment and then burst into laughter. She laughed at herself at first before laughing at me.
"Surely not," she said as she realized that I was not laughing with her. "There was a murder in this morning's paper."
It was my turn to laugh, or at least to chuckle.
"With all due respect, Doctor, that was a homicide. I can't prevent all homicides. You'll find, though, that the FBI statistics on first-degree murders — the ones people plan out in advance — are way down. Almost down to nothing, in fact."
She looked off into the distance. For reasons that weren't apparent to me, the FBI hadn't chosen to publicize those statistics in a while. But she was probably thinking that she hadn't read about any murders in our fair city for quite a while now.
"And this is your doing?" she finally asked.
"I'm all ears," she said.
At least for another thirty-five minutes, I told myself. After that, her ears were probably entitled to time-and-a-half.