Fertility Crisis 2

It was an effort not to let his mind wander from the tedious work of double-checking all the fine details of such an advanced system, but if there was one thing Scott had in spades, it was discipline. He could thank Apokolips for that. And however boring this little duty of his might be, at least he was making it harder for the forces of evil, like Apokolips, to work their will.

Motherbox’s X-ray spotlight found a wire with telltale signs of being nibbled on by rats. Exactly the sort of thing that could cause a short in the system later on down the line. Dropping his toolkit, Scott set to work unscrewing the wall panel.

He allowed himself a smile. It was an irony of ironies how endeavoring to keep a place free of Apokoliptian malevolence meant the same slavish zeal as Darkseid demanded from his acolytes. Still, there was no comparison between dying for Darkseid and living to work, however dully, for the benefit of friends like Oberon and someone as lovely, as charming, as beautiful and noble as—

“There you ARE!” Barda’s always strong voice became a roar as she spotted him, then her whole mien relaxed.

She slouched a little. Her hands undid the belt of her trenchcoat and she spun about the excess length of fabric. Slow footsteps brought her closer to Scott, while her strong-jawed face managed a transformation into absolute femininity. Her sloe-eyed expression was one Scott doubted many would credit to Barda, but once they’d seen it, he imagined most anyone would be as attracted as he was to the Female Fury.

Well, almost.

“Hey Barda,” Scott said, giving her a smile. There was no need to fake it, despite the dryness of the work. It was another little cosmic irony, but he was more gratified to find an error and fix it than he would’ve been to go over his work and find it perfect. “What’s up? Did I forget to bring my lunch to work with me? I don’t remember forgetting it…”

“Your boxed lunch? That’s not the box I want you to eat, Scott.”

Scott’s brow furrowed in confusion. Then his expression brightened. “Oh, you want me to finish off the tamales in the blue Tupperware container. Yeah, I don’t know why we’re letting those practically spoil, they taste great! I guess we were saving them for Oberon—”

“I was saving this for you, Scott,” Barda said, her passionate whisper most unlike the orders she’d once given to her subordinates.

Hands faintly trembling, she opened up her trenchcoat to show Scott the strapless bra and thong which were all she had on.

“Wow!” Scott cried, fumbling his screwdriver in his excitement. He barely registered where it landed. “Is that your new costume? It looks great! Even better than the old red one!”

Barda’s teeth ground together. “No, Scott. It’s not a costume. It’s lingerie. It’s for you.”

“But I don’t think it will fit.”

“Scott!” Barda cried, allowing herself up to her full height as she stalked the length of the basement to loom over her husband. “Are you paying any attention at all?”

Scott held up his hands. “Sorry, sorry. I’ve been spending too much time with the guys. It does look amazing. I’m flattered. Honored. Let me get out of these overalls, get a shower—hey, as long as we’re in Paris, I can take you to the Eiffel Tower! We can eat French bread! Or, as they call it here, bread!”

Barda grabbed his shoulder before he could turn away. She held him fast. “Scott, did you know we’re the only ones on our block that are still fertile? Not the Finkensteins. Not the Romanos. Just the Frees.”

“That’s too bad,” Scott said. “Still, most of them have already had kids. What would they be doing in the suburbs other—”

Barda gave him a shake. “No, Scott, it’s incredible! I alone have a potent husband! A husband who can breed me! A husband who can not only care for me physically, financially, emotionally, but tend to my sexual needs as well! Do you know what that means?”

Scott thought about it: “We should become Instagram influencers?”

“No! It means I am the wife supreme! The perfect mate to the perfect man! Where all others have fallen into disgrace and disorder, I alone have perfectly performed my wifely duties!”

Scott rightly assumed this would be a bad time to remind Barda why he raced to get to the coffee maker in the morning before she could.

“We must celebrate this,” Barda continued, her face flushed, her breath coming fast to her lungs. Her breasts rose and fell vigorously, testing the bounds of her bra. “You, my majestic, perfect husband! My lord and master! I am your slave! Use my body for your pleasure! All of me belongs to your exquisite dominance! My sex! My mouth! My breasts! Even my most forbidden of openings!” Just to clarify, here Barda brought a hand down to violently slap her own taut ass. “Enjoy yourself!”

“Absolutely,” Scott nodded. “Just let me get this wire sorted out, then we can—”

“NOW, SCOTT! DOMINATE ME RIGHT NOW!”

“Alright! Okay!” Scott agreed meekly. He undid the straps of his overalls. Then paused: “So I didn’t forget my lunch?”

By now, Barda was lying on her back, her open coat the only bedsheets she needed. “SCOTT, I AM YOUR SUBMISSIVE BITCH!”

Scott hurriedly returned to undressing. “Yes, dear.”

“Your plaything! Your whore! Your cum dumpster! Your—” Barda noticed Scott hopping on one foot as he pulled off his socks. “SCOTT! HURRY!”

“Coming, dear.”

Barda threw her head back, putting a small divot in the concrete floor. “Your cockholster!”

***

I am too hot to not be able to win, Dinah Lance thought to herself. And it was true. She was tall and graceful, with long, tawny limbs that were anything but gawky. Her arms were like chiseled oaks, firm with muscle but not breaking the supple curvature of her lean body, while her legs tapered lushly from toned things to small, delicate feet.

Once, fishnet stockings and high heels had drawn even further attention to her 42-inch legs, making her a sex symbol. As if her leather leotard, low-cut and hardly obscured by her equally leather jacket, did not already display her enough to dominate the wet dreams of any who saw her. Throw in the long blonde Disney Princess tresses and she gave even Wonder Woman a run for her fan mail.

And with no Tamaranian DNA, no Amazon ancestry—not even whatever Power Girl’s deal was.

Only it seemed like every conversation she had was her heels and her fishnets. How kinky they were. How impractical they were. How wasn’t it so weird that she dressed up in the same thing that her mom had worn in the JSA and it was lingerie?

Well, she’d give them that last one. But never mind how impractical all the men were with their countless straps, pouches, capes, cowls, and spikes—which suddenly seemed as widespread in recent years as that Elsa song after Frozen came out.

And never mind how so many women wore less than her, or more fetishistic things, or had clearly gotten an obscene amount of plastic surgery (Power Girl).

No, the fishnets, they were a bridge too far.

So Dinah changed her costume. It was loose, it was all-concealing, and it had an actual canary on it. Just the thing to shut up all her critics.

Only now they had the audacity to call her costume ugly.

She’d hoped that going to France to drop in on the JLE and take the temperature of the team would get her away from such rank stupidity. Europeans were so progressive, after all. Well-suited to appreciate her new, fashion-forward costume.

And what did she get instead?

Quelle mocheté ces vêtements!

C'est un thon!

T'as vu ta gueule?

Even being called a belle jeune fille did not spare her from mal habillée n'est pas présentable.