Joining the League, Part 3

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So the third installment has arrived! Hope you like it. If you need to catch up with the rest of Nick’s adventures you can read the previous sections of the story by clicking the 1 or 2 link in the sidebar or the link to nifty archive in ‘Other Writings.’ Thanks, as always for reading, and give me your reaction in the comments.

My first thought when I entered the conference room where I was to formally meet my new teammates was, ‘I jerked off in here.’ By some act of divine providence and out of the dozens and dozens of conference rooms in the SLA main branch, somehow this was the one they’d reserved. The group’s leader, Zash, sat where I first sat and had his hands folded on the table exactly where I had wiped the spooge off my hands. Thumb, the group’s extreme horticulturalist sat where Justin had been, while the third member, Stream, sat crossed legged at the table’s far end. I tried valiantly to put masturbation out of my mind.

“Hello again,” I said generally, in as sunny a voice as I could muster.

Thumb made a noise of greeting that was amiable, but noncommittal. Stream was in the middle of a huge yawn, but managed to throw a peace sign in my general direction. Zash smiled and stood. He extended a hand across the table and I reached over to shake it.

“It’s good to officially meet you, Nick. Welcome to The Checkers,” Zash said.

“The what?” I asked. That couldn’t be the name of the group, could it? Team names were cool like The Firebolts, or the Maximums, or even the Slick Samurai.

Zash shrugged. “My predecessor, the original leader of this group had a thing for j-pop. There’s this band…look, it doesn’t matter. We’re the Checkers and it’s a ton of paperwork to change the name. Anyway, take a seat.”

We both sat and Zash continued. “This is Akma, codename Thumb, she runs support on most of our operations. You got a chance to see a bit of what she can do on our last mission, right?” I nodded. “Well she can also ping the location of any plant life in a half-mile radius, that might not seem like a big deal but since that includes moss and algae she can sometimes get pretty detailed mapping of locations. Definitely comes in handy.”

“She’s also a great cook. Her nasi goreng will make you want to fuck yourself,” Stream offered.

Akma rolled her eyes, but a smile played at the corner of her mouth. Zash gave Stream a look and opened his hands as if to ask ‘what the fuck?’ then continued his introductions, “and this non sequitur machine is Devon, aka Stream. One of about four aquakinetics in the Northern Hemisphere and certainly the most combat-oriented. He comes from quite a pedigree of people with abilities so he’s something of a wunderkind. Along with me he rounds out the hand-to-hand portion of our team, but he can also go mid-range if need be. He also has a secondary ability of being able to consume pretty much any food put in front of him. It’s a little disturbing.”

Devon smiled his radiant smile. He had the laid-back look of a surfer, his long hair was wavy, bottle blond, and half-fried from chemicals and sun. He was probably the youngest of them judging from looks alone, probably in his mid-twenties like me, but I’d seen him fight: there was more behind those ice blue eyes than the casual observer would credit him with. Maybe that was the point.

“And I’m Zashir, or Zash. Where I’m from we don’t hide behind — er, sorry, we prefer not to use codenames, so I decided to honor that tradition. My power relates to the conservation and utilization of force and velocity. It’s primarily defensive, so I tend to be where the action is fiercest—”

“He’s a glorified bullet sponge,” Akma suggested. Zash frowned, so she added, “a handsome bullet sponge.”

And he was handsome, albeit in a different way than Devon’s SoCal vibe. He had a sandy complexion and dark eyes, his hair was short, curly and thick. It helped that he was dressed sharply in a tailored gray suit, but he had this lanky, wiry body and an almost regal bearing so you got the sense that he’d look good in almost anything. He noticed me staring and so I smiled awkwardly.

“So that’s our team. It’s a totally new configuration of an older group and we’ve only been together for a few months now, so I’d say we’re still figuring each other out to an extent, so you shouldn’t feel like you’ve been dropped into something that doesn’t have a place for you. The notes on your intake process suggests that your powers could make all the difference and we’ve been lobbying for a second support for almost as long as we’ve been a team.

“So in terms of the nitty gritty stuff, we have group training three times a week, our residence is in Emerald Hill, one of the designated SLA residence zones. It’s pretty nice, the lake has robotic fish which is weird, but ok I suppose. Anyway, you don’t have to live there if you don’t want. It’s totally up to you.”

“And that’s that. So, any questions?” Zash asked.

“Just one so far,” I said, “The Checkers? Really?”

And then my teammates loudly and sincerely booed me. It was about as good a first meeting as I could have expected.


The next day we had a mixer. Someone with the clearance to boss us around decided it would be good if some of the younger hero teams operating under SLA jurisdiction did a little mingling. So Zashir, Akma, Devon, and I met up at around three in the afternoon right outside the SLA headquarters to be picked up and whisked away to the secret location of the meeting.

I, being the newbie, arrived way earlier than necessary dressed in semi-formal attire that I was afraid I hadn’t ironed properly. It was a new outfit from a pricey boutique in the city. I decided to treat myself to some designer clothes for two reasons: because my exercise regimen over the last few weeks had trimmed my waistline admirably and because my first paycheck had two more zeroes in it than I had been expecting. The fitted shirt was dark red, almost black in certain light, which I thought (or the woman who sold it to me thought) would offset my hazel eyes and usually unruly (today slightly tamed) brown hair. The slacks were gray and a little tighter than I was used to, but fuck if they didn’t look great on my ass.

Devon showed up next wearing light blue pants with an extremely slim fit and a vest over a collared shirt with rolled sleeves. A neat little straw hat was cocked recklessly on his head, though his long hair was pulled back into a tasteful knot.

He lifted his hat to me as he approached and whistled. “Don’t you clean up nice, Sex Drive?”

“I was thinking the same about you,” I said, and then added, “Sex Drive?”

He chuckled. “Don’t like it? I thought about it on the way over. You’re going to need a name and your powers are particularly perverse. So.” He opened his hands and cocked his head theatrically. “Sex Drive.”

I guess the look on my face gave my reaction away, because he smirked and shrugged. “Sleep on it. Maybe it’ll grow on you.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t take advice from someone whose moniker brings piss to mind,” I replied.

He howled at that one. “Piss? You are a pervert, aren’t you? Most people think of a rushing river and the manly virility that that suggests.”

“Only people who haven’t met you, I promise,” said a new voice.

We both looked over at Akma who approached slowly, but perfectly poised in a pair of red and black wedges and a short, swirly black dress. Her makeup was light though and her hair was all playful curls. She looked nothing like the goddess of flora she embodied in her green-and-gray robes. She just looked like an attractive, well-dressed woman. Suddenly I felt glad that I had bought new clothes.

“You look great,” I said without entirely meaning to.

She smiled, the first I seen that wasn’t coy or restrained. “Thank you, Nick.” She turned to Devon and raised an eyebrow. “Glad someone knows how to speak to a lady.”

Devon scratched his ear and faked a yawn. “I just don’t want you to get any ideas about us. I’m kind of a hot commodity, if you haven’t noticed, and it’s a bad idea to lead your teammates on.”

Akma’s retort was lost in the shuffle as Zashir arrived, dressed again to the nines, this time in a darker suit than the day before. A few moments later the limo arrived and we piled in and set out for the party. The limo’s route took us through the heart of the city and then out into the hills surrounding it. I watched through the window as crowded urban development turned into acres of manicured lawns. When we arrived, Zashir took one look at the building we had parked in front of and nodded, as if to confirm whatever ghost conversation he’d been having with himself.

“This is The Virtue’s home,” he said. “I don’t know if he’ll be here, but we’ll be on our best behaviors tonight just in case.”

The Virtue was one of the first heroes. His exploits had been played on the radio in serialized segments as his legend grew from fighting crime in his scuzzy neighborhood to becoming a goodwill ambassador of the nation. His daughter, Europa, was the one who had established the SLA. Despite the fact that she had no powers of her own, she made it her life-long goal to protect the rights of those who did and ensure their safety against a sometimes envious public. Even as Europa Evers approached her mid seventies and her father over a century, she was still CEO of the SLA and meeting either of them would have definitely qualified for buying a suit.

As we got out of the limo and began the walk down the long path to the residence, Akma spoke what was on all of our minds. “Europa Evers and the fucking Virtue? I knew I should have worn pearls.”

Devon made a gesture with his hand when Zashir wasn’t looking and a band of colored liquid slithered out from beneath the sleeve of his shirt and pooled into his palm, he then raised his hand to him mouth and drank it. He caught me looking and winked. “Didn’t know if they’d have booze at this thing, thought I’d bring reinforcements.”

Suddenly I was starting to see the benefits of being an aquakinetic.

The mixer was already in full swing when we arrived. There was the gentle buzz of conversation and at least forty or so people filled the main hall. Some were well dressed, others less so, and one notable cluster of people were wearing outfits that I can only describe as punk. Akma politely (as politely as she gets anyway) explained that they were the Orthodoxy, a group of powered misfits with ties to the underground. Akma didn’t bother explaining exactly what the underground was before she walked off to mingle and/or pilfer the open bar.

I was left alone so I started introducing myself to people. After about a half-hour of this my head started to spin a little and I met more people than I could possibly keep track of, so I took a seat in a tucked away corner with a bottle of tonic water. After just a few minutes of solitude, I was approached by a young man, maybe in his early twenties. He had a parakeet perched on his shoulder.

“Hi,” he said.


“You must be the new guy. Nick, right?”

“Yep. I’m Nick, the new guy. And you are?”

“Owen,” he said, then shifted the subject. “You’re not having fun. Not your scene?”

“I’m ok, just a little burnt out on remembering names and pseudonyms and powers and teams. It’s overwhelming, I haven’t been at this too long.”

“I would say it gets easier, but it just gets different.”

“Yeah? What team are you on?”

“None. For now anyway.”

Owen looked at me then like he was trying to decide something. Ultimately he said, “Do you want to disappear for a bit? Go somewhere quieter.”

I looked over at Zashir who was talking to an older woman with a severe up-do and a silver pant suit. I couldn’t find Devon, but Akma was leaning against a pillar while some blond with a super-white teeth talked at her.

I thought about going back to it and introducing myself to yet another round of people I was bound to forget.

“Yeah, that sounds great actually. Let’s go.”

Owen lead the way down one of the residence’s massive halls. At one point I thought we would be stopped by a pair of guards blocking further entry into the building’s recesses, but when they saw Owen, they just stepped aside. As we continued, I broached the subject.

“You seem to have some pull here. Who are you exactly?” I asked.

“I’m a friend of the family,” was all he offered.

We traveled down a few more hallways and then came to a door that he pushed open and invited me in. It was a modest room with a queen-sized bed, a vanity and an adjoining bathroom. So nondescript that it was almost like a hotel room.

I looked at Owen, who was still standing by the door, and noticed something.

“Your parakeet is gone.”

“She’s patrolling. So I’ll know if we’re about to be disturbed.”


Owen took a deep breath and bit his lower lip. After a few seconds he exhaled. “Do you find me attractive?”

To be honest I hadn’t thought about it. He was alright looking, cute even, but not necessarily my type. Not that I even had a type. But if I had a type, I’m not sure it would have included him.

“Look, Owen, I don’t want to get —”

He grinned. “You don’t, do you?”

“I don’t want to make this weird,” I said.

He shook his head. “No, no, no. I’m sorry, look, I’m an empath. More specifically, I’m…a broadcaster. I kind of emit my feelings to those around me. I’d wondered, because of what you can do, if you’d be resistant to it. At least the desire part of it.”

“So you can make people do what you want too?”

“Well, yeah, literally. They do what I want, not always what I want them to do though. It’s one of the harder powers to get a handle on, at least that’s what I hear.” Then suddenly he asked. “Are you sure you don’t feel anything?”

But now that he had mentioned it, I was starting to feel something. It feel like the first rumblings of arousal, but it felt unusual, almost detached. It was as if I was watching an interactive movie of someone else’s horniness. I know I’m doing a shitty job of describing this, but how would you if you were suddenly invaded by someone else’s desire?

“Are you doing this purposefully?” I asked, trying to ignore my growing hard on.

“I just wanted to see if it would work on you, if I turned it up a little. How does it feel?”

“Like you’re trying to push me. Quit it or I’ll push back.”

His grin widened. “Oh yeah? Take your best shot.”

I suspect that if I were in my right mind, I wouldn’t have. But the feeling of his desire twisting in me was distracting. My nipples were so hard that even the light pressure of my shirt brushing against them was maddening. There was no room left for my cock to grow so it was pressed up against the inside of my pants. And I was aware that this was being done to me, that I was being compelled, and that made me a little reckless. I gave a hard pheromone push at Owen and he yelped then collapsed against the door.

His face instantly flushed. His breathing shallow. I only had a a few seconds to consider what I had done before the feeling struck me. And I learned a valuable lesson: never magnify the emotions of a broadcasting empath. What I felt after jacking up Owen’s sex drive was like a star burst inside my junk. Well, a pleasurable star, not a burning ball of gas. I couldn’t see straight, I certainly couldn’t think straight.

I attacked him without thinking about it. I pushed him up against the door and kissed him so hard my lips hurt. We were around the same height so with our bodies pressed together, my erection pushed against his and I ground my hips into him. He groaned and I felt the rush of satisfaction go through both of us like a closed circuit. I hadn’t even realized that I was still pushing him, that I couldn’t stop. Like a fist on a live wire, I couldn’t let go.

I pressed my dick against his harder, thrusting faster and wanting to undress us both but never quite finding the state of mind to do it. I wanted to fuck him on the floor, to push inside him and fill him up. I could feel that he wanted it too, that he badly wanted me to do it too. But what we’d created, the closed circuit of our powers amplifying each other, made us slaves to whatever felt good at that moment.

I felt that Owen was starting to approach orgasm and I could feel my own coming up as well. The feelings were distinct, but intertwined. I could feel exactly how it felt for him, exactly what turned him on the most and that, of course, turned me on more. I tried to take my cock out of my expensive new pants, but I was locked in too hard to do anything but continue thrusting my hips, grinding my cock through my pants into Owen’s own clothed dick.

He started cumming, flooding his khakis with jizz and I followed him shortly after. With my mouth on his, we both moaned into each other, feeling the desperate vibrations ringing through our bodies. It was profound. And it was exhausting.

When it was over we both collapsed onto the ground. Two twitching messes with freshly stained pants. I could feel involuntary contractions in my stomach that suggested I might have overextended my powers a little and Owen had a hand to his forehead, moaning as if it were about to split open. I had no idea whether my own headache was actually my own or a kind of sympathetic echo. Fucking empaths.

I don’t know when I became aware that there was a bird shrieking, but when I mentioned it to Owen his eyes went wide. I don’t know if there was much either of us could do though in the state we were in to stop what happened next. The door opened (hitting Owen in the leg) and the woman who had been talking to Zashir earlier, the woman with the severe up-do and the silver pant suit, whose arched eyebrow I can see clearly even in my dreams, was standing in the doorway looking down on us. Europa Evers, CEO of the SLA, caught me with a long, wide trail of cum soaking the leg of my gray pants…

…and all of my teammates were standing behind her in the hallway.

“You must be Nicolas,” she said icily. “When you’re finished with my nephew, I urge you to clean up that wetspot and meet us in the game room. I have something I wish to discuss with your team.”

“Yes, m’am,” I said, because what the fuck else would you say in that situation?

Then she closed the door and my superhero name became Wetspot.

Fucking empaths.


5 responses to “Joining the League, Part 3”

  1. Ingonyama says:

    I got a good chortle out of this one. Welcome to the Checkers, Wetspot! Hope you survive the experience!

    Seriously, though, there’s something about the collision of pheromone powers and empathy that just seems so freaking scorching.

    • Benji Bright says:

      Right? I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks that there’s something kind of hot about that pair up. 😀

      I hope he survives too, but something tells me it definitely won’t be easy for him.


  2. jimboylan says:

    “Checkers” is an ice hockey term, the plural of a player who deliberately crashes into a player on an opposing team. While it may not be a very noble term, I don’t think that it’s wise to consider it weak or sissy. When used for a Superhero Team, it could suggest “Enforcers”.

    Is “Wet Spot” going to be a publicly known name?

    • Benji Bright says:

      I like that idea. I didn’t think of the hockey term, but that totally makes sense. I’ve tried to suggest that the team, though relatively new to superheroics, is pretty competent. I don’t tend to think of them as weak at all, though I suppose we’ll see in further chapters what public perception of them is like.

      As to the publicness of the name — we’ll see. 😛

    • Ingonyama says:

      I thought of government “Checks and Balances” from Social Studies right off the bat.

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About the Author

My nom de plume is Benji Bright and I’m an erotica writer. I write the kind of smut that I like to read: hot, whimsical, occasionally thoughtful, and sometimes just plain silly. Outside of writing I’m a film buff, a music lover, and an RPG addict. Also I’m a real person: so feel free to contact me.

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