White Elephant

Slender brown women with doe-like eyes, fair maidens with round faces and rounder breasts, Asian girls with Western hair but an Eastern sway. Some were thin, some curvy, some shy, some wanton. Clark felt hard-pressed to favor them all with the long, loving attention each deserved as they walked the runway, posed in the midst of the admiring crowd, and then strutted back from whence they’d came.

A few wore the sarongs of the designer’s native Thailand, but most had on bikinis.

From where Clark was situated, the models filed slowly past him. He and Ororo stood, all but fawning, as hip after hip swayed past them: some jiggling lasciviously, some bouncing happily, some rolling seductively, and a few roiling like ships on a stormy sea.

“Normally I’d say that none of them can hold a candle to you,” Clark admitted. “But I have to be honest, you have a few rivals.”

“At least tell me they’re black,” Ororo teased.

“Some.”

“Mari Jiwe McCabe?”

Clark recognized the name and the face that went with it. That and the body. She was indeed Ororo’s equal, if a little lighter in her caramel-flavored complexion.

“There’s no overstating her beauty,” he confessed. “Though I’d say the same for you, of course.”

Ororo looked over the procession of thighs going past. Ripe, sleek, quivering—golden brown and creamy white and gleaming bronze. Thighs to dream about on cold winter nights or balmy summer days, to squeeze and rub and most especially open.

“There’s something to be said for competition,” Ororo allowed. “But at a certain point, it’s a waste. Suffice to say that one is at the zenith. Instead of bothering with whether someone else is weaker or stronger, we must think of what can be done with this power.”

Clark straightened his glasses. “I’m afraid I don’t follow… I can certainly see how you’d prefer to use your prowess instead of quibbling over just how powerful it is, but when it comes to beauty…”

“You don’t think beauty is as effectual?” Ororo asked. “Mr. Kent, you strike me as a man of conviction. You could not be forced to go against your mores by any amount of force.”

Clark chuckled nervously. “Well, I’d like to think so, but insisting on it feels too much like boasting.”

“And what if I told you that I wished to see you alone? Or, not alone, but with only Mari Jiwe for company? And while we won’t use any superpowers on you, we surely intend to use all of our combined beauty to get everything we want.”

Clark’s mouth felt quite dry. He was glad he’d brought along a bottle of water to the catwalk. “Well, I, uh, that surely is… that’s one bold statement, Ms. Munroe…”

“Please, call me Ororo. Or even Ro, if you should suddenly feel incapable of too many syllables.”

“Ororo,” Clark said, trying out the name and self-evidently finding it pleasing. “I, ah, don’t believe you and Mari… Ms. McCabe would have agreed on that ahead of time…”

“There was no need. I gave her a look. She gave me a look. We both like your look, Mr. Kent. And now that Mari is finished displaying the swimwear she was contracted to showcase, it’s time for the reception. Which would you rather receive, Clark—cheap champagne and defrosted hor de’vours or I, Mari, and an empty dressing room?”

Clark finally managed a sparkling smile. “Well, Ororo, since you’re newly arrived in Metropolis, I do feel obliged to make you feel as welcome as can be.”

“That’s good. Because Mari is visiting Metropolis for the first time too and I know we both want you to make us feel very, very welcome.”

***

“Did you bring me a good boy?” Mari purred the moment Ororo and Clark stepped inside her dressing room. She’d been mixing daiquiris—three of them were ready.

She’d put on a silk blouse over her bikini; the material molded as tightly to her firm breasts as the bikini top underneath.

Ororo handled introductions: it was obvious she knew Mari well, though she was just as comfortable socializing with Clark. Perhaps Mari had once been another of her fast friends. And to think, if they hadn’t been given seats next to each other—Ororo because she’d contributed a few designs to the fashion line, Clark because he was covering the society beat until Perry had calmed down from his last blow-up—there might never have been this connection that now felt warm as childhood friends.

“Take the blouse off,” Ororo told Mari. “Foreplay takes long enough when we’re not putting on more clothes.”

Mari hesitated. She looked at Ororo and she looked at Clark, trying to decide if she wanted to give in so soon. They didn’t do anything to ply her. Clark was too polite and Ororo was too confident—she knew Mari wanted this and she would only want it more the longer she went without it.

Finally, Mari set down her drink and started unbuttoning the blouse. She did not seem to rush, but in no time at all it was draped over a chair. Her pink lace bra seemed too small for her full breasts, but still it held tightly to their contours, like a flower’s blossoming petals.

Clark gazed at her breasts, aware that he was admiring them even more zealously than when she’d walked the runway, but unable to stop himself. He watched as Ororo lifted a hand and ran a fingertip over a bra cup, sampling the lace pattern that dared to imply it was prettier than Mari’s bare flesh.

“I think skin alone would be prettier,” Ororo intoned. “And if you look pretty for us, who knows what we’ll do?”

Licking suddenly dry lips, Mari shook with a shudder running through her body in response to Ororo’s insinuating words. She unhooked her bikini top and shucked it away from herself. Her breasts quivered jubilantly as she straightened, pulling her shoulders back to best display herself in an instinctive bit of posing from her work as a model.

“My God,” Clark breathed—usually not one to comment on a woman’s appearance, but unable to hold back at the sight of Mari’s stunning beauty.

Ororo saw the lust in Mari’s eyes; her own clit was throbbing. Having Mari bared like this, while she and Clark were still fully dressed, could only be described as intoxicating.

“If you like that,” Ororo said, handing her drink to Clark, “wait until you see this.”

Her eyes hooded, Ororo favored Mari with a smile. She took a cylinder of lipstick from her purse, uncapped it, screwed up the red glare of make-up, and went to work on Mari’s nipples.

Curling one hand under the slope of Mari’s breast, Ororo lifted it infinitesimally higher than it perked up on its own. She dabbed the nipple, carefully painting it a fiery crimson. Then she did the other tit, again using not much lipstick, but managing to impart a soft glow with the few dabs of lacquer she did bestow.

Mari’s breasts were even more eye-catching now than they had been. She looked down at them in pride, then gave Ororo a teasing look, as if daring her to try out the new creation.

“Lean forward, my lovely one,” Ororo said. “Show Clark how real you are.”

Mari was obviously abashed, but she hunched her shoulders and bent at the waist to dangle her breasts like a pair of church bells. Ororo reached out with both hands and lightly weighted the duo in her palms. It was obvious from how Mari’s bust shifted that she didn’t owe her awe-inspiring chest to any surgical enhancement.

Ororo gave Clark a pleased smile that told him she just couldn’t wait to see him enjoy this new toy.

“Do they meet your high standards?” she cooed. “Or are mine the only ones that will do?”

Clark laughed unexpectedly. “If they’re good enough for you to touch, how could I turn my nose up at them?”

Ororo laughed herself, and thumbed Mari’s nipples to thrill her a little for making herself available to them. “I think Clark likes your smile,” she told Mari, making her flicker between respectfully paying attention to the weather witch and fully enjoying the touches that were delighting her. “Your mouth… if you want him to put it there, I think you’d have a good time. But if you want it somewhere else, I think it’s only fair he sees where, yes?”

Breath gushing between parted lips, her eyes too nervous to meet theirs, Mari lowered her panties down to her knees. When Clark saw that her pubic hair had been shorn down to fully reveal the spectrum between pink and brown that made up her groin, he couldn’t help but let out a whistle.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Ororo sighed. “Everyone expects me to have at least a little white down there. But how delectable is seeing Mari with nothing down there but skin? Wet… skin…”

There’s more,” Mari breathed, aroused herself, by making the spectacle, not witnessing it.

She turned around and showed off her ass. Garter belt and stockings—both a vibrant pink that looked like errant paint from an art project—made a steamy frame for her plump buttocks. When she turned back around, it only took one more look at her to compel Ororo to speak.

“Play with yourself,” she ordered her willing victim.