“You’ve done well, Mentor. The World Government is forever in your debt.”
It’s as cliched as sentence as the Mentor has ever heard in his Viewing Chamber, but he smiles instead and retains his manners, “Thank you, Madame President,” he stands up to give her a one-armed military salute, “I’m glad to have saved all those lives,” he says, and actually means it.
The World President returns his salute and her eyes seem to focus on something that he knows she can’t see beyond her Viewing Screen–technology that he created for the Government–before her image fades out of the crystalline room: but not after his sharp eyes see the flush developing on her neck.
Mentor sighs. He sits back in the Interface Chair in his crystalline Viewing Chamber and watches. He is no fool. Of course–if he were anyone else–some people would think he was considering how he looked. Mentor appreciates the irony of him thinking something to be a cliche given how he dresses.
He wears a skin-tight dark blue suit over all of his body except for his hands. Sometimes the media called his outfit spandex or leather, but neither is true. The truth is that Mentor created this suit himself: just as he did everything else in his Citadel. The suit itself encompasses his face: leaving only his eyes and the lower half of his face exposed. Techno-organic pale white tubes cover his suit: crossing each other, and running parallel across the suit. Sometimes they look like ivory vines or veins: other times like quivering worms or jagged alabaster lightning.
Once, the press gave him the moniker of the Glacier due to the admittedly tacky combination of deep blue and patterned streaks of white that made up his “costume,” as they put it. Some of the scientists that he allowed to examine it saw it for something much more complex: an engineered light polymer substance that adapted to the body’s physiological responses and altered them in a very intrinsically minute fashion. Among other theories, they believed that Mentor created the suit to protect himself. The media itself thought he made the costume to protect his identity.
What they didn’t realize that he made this clothing to protect the world from himself. What they didn’t see now is how the costume strains against the tensing of his body. Mentor can feel the heightened electro-magnetic power within his body’s outer harmonic course directly into his cells and mitochondria all the way back into the former general field that his form produced. The air around his head seems shallower, sharper, and clear. At the same time he can feel the pressure building in his head and neck.
He looks down at himself. The bulge in his pants, always relatively prominent, has increased. Mentor feels the pressure in his head and muscles drain away into his lower regions.
As a result, the noticeable almost archetypal bulge is now a raging and very prominent erection.
Under his suit, his own skin begins to flush at the thought of the World President with her golden hair, the laugh lines around her generous mouth, and the way her green eyes stare out unflinchingly into everyone she talks with: including his own. He imagines those eyes with their dignified crow’s feet looking up at him as she kneels down before him and that mouth …
His suit strains against his erect cock. He counts to five under his breath: willing the energy to build up inside him to dissipate all throughout the rest of his body. It takes a while. Mentor has spent years mastering the powers inside of him: his mind and body. He has to concentrate now. There are other nations, other peoples … other individuals that might need his help soon. He focuses his thoughts as he sits in the Interface Chair into the Viewing Chamber: to help visualize and gain details of what he needs to do next.
Usually it’s easy, but today something is different. His thoughts meander …
“Traak’ ennnta. Soc’lo. Soc’lo ceeen …”
His eyes flash open. Every facet of the Viewing Room is filled with different perspectives. He sees them on every conceivable angle: some of them in dimensions that normal eyes could not even begin to process. The green-skinned Velosian flesh-artist sensuously and simultaneously penetrates and engulfs her mate’s organs. Lithe, with three breasts, and long dark tendrils that looks like hair and moves like the erogenous organs that they are, Mentor knows–based on the knowledge passed down to him from the Citadel–that Velosian flesh-artists are phase-ambisexual beings that have mastered their natural physiology to give those they decide to grant their “gift” to something akin to a spiritual awakening … or at least a massively pleasant death.
But the art is watching how they move, the rhythm they create, and the pace. It is like a poem or song being created in fleshly desire and release. Unfortunately, Mentor knows that the Velosians are billions of light-years away and even with his advanced understanding of science–and his own powers–it would take too long to reach them … even if he wanted to.
“S’vas’seen …” the being in something between her female and somewhat masculine humanoid moans, “Thaka. Thaka … thaka!”
He has responsibilities. He has to protect this world, to guide it, to hone it, to prepare it for the rest of the Universe … to discipline himself, to hone himself to contain himself … Him, her lips, the pulsing, release … fuck …
Mentor shakes his head and doesn’t bother to look at the crystalline facets and their visualizations. Shame–old shame–fills him. He is losing control again. It’s been happening more and more as he gets older. He thought the worst of it was over in what his adopted people here on Earth called adolescence, but they lied or at least weren’t aware. Perhaps he is a late-bloomer, or just plain frustrated. He knows what he has to do now though.
“Interface,” Mentor says calmly, belying the fact that he is holding his painful erection in his hand, “activate Test Room. Duration … one hour.”
The floor in front of Mentor slides open. There is a hole glittering with internal circuitry and lighting. He stands up and gathers his internal energy. Mentor tenses his joints and leaps into the air … and slowly hovers down, down, down, into the luminescence, into the void … to the Test Room.
As he leaves, a dark shape steps out from behind the Interface Chair. It looks up at the fading images of penises in mouths and beckoning phase-ambisexual flesh-artists. A smirk moves on its face as it silently, and effortlessly leaps down before the floor closes again.
To be Continued …
Mentor flies down into the subterranean chamber. For a few moments, treacherous thoughts and bodily urges fade away as he loses himself into the experience of flight. He remembers the time, so long ago, when he first discovered that he could fly: that it was merely one of the gifts of the Ancients …
By the time his feet touch the hard floor, the freedom is gone, and the gravity of the rest of it comes back to him. But instead of making his urges fade, as sometimes these thoughts usually did, they only make the ache inside of him grow more powerful. He bunches his fingers together into gloved fists. Clenching. Releasing. Clenching. Releasing.
The lights of the Test Room activate slowly: revealing the inside of the chamber. Crystalline humanoid shapes in fine grey hybrid-silicon mesh and silvery wiring hover around. They are the only immaculate things about this chamber. There are holes in the glittering black walls, in the white floors, and scorch marks everywhere. Mentor shakes his head as he realizes that it wasn’t that long ago that he had been down here. Pieces still litter the floor. Some of the bodies are relatively fresh and whole as well.
The robots–created in crude facsimile of Mentor–do their work. Some of them are sealing the many holes in the walls. Others are using their hand-appendages to smooth out the cracks in the floor while more–still more–are melting down the pieces back into their base components for recycling.
“That’s enough, MentorBots,” one of his visitors had started to call them that, long ago when he still had visitors, and while the name was trite, it was certainly more personable than Synthetic Humanoid-Replicant Worker Units, “You’ve done good work. Please leave now.”
The MentorBots nod in unison and leave their creator by himself. He doesn’t want anyone to see this. Mentor walks past the forms on the floor. He muses to himself that if anyone else were down here, they would have definitely misinterpreted what they saw.
“Interface,” Mentor says, quietly, “Activate Prototype Thirteen.”
A slot in a scarred black wall opens like a dilated vaginal opening. She walks out. Mentor nods to himself even though his ears are ringing with his own rapid heart-beat. He watches her approach. Her skin is just as silvery as the others. This one had curves and no clothing. She regards him with blank dark eyes. Slowly, very slowly, Mentor raises a gloved hand and touches her face. She presses her cheek into his palm. The warmth of her synthetic skin–designed from genetically engineered rubber and heated by a bio-thermal core–feels pleasing to him. He hesitates: looking for an intelligence behind her gaze that does not exist by design.
So far, she is fine. But he knows that the real test has yet to come. The myth of Pygmalion and Galatea does not escape Mentor as he strips off his suit. He knows that his own body looks like: even knows more or less what it’s composed of. It looks like an ordinary human male body in relatively peak physical condition. He knows–based on his own research–that there are Playgirl Magazines that have already posted pictures on what they thought his body looked like: with his own permission of course. Mentor wonders, as he takes off his pants and his long hard cock flops out, just how maybe women have touched themselves thinking about him, imagining fantasies of flying with him, of him saving them, of touching them and being …
The pain of it only quickens his desire. All round him, the air seems to ripple as he moves without his suit. The walls begin to shake slightly. His Citadel has enough techno-organic absorption material to tolerate his naked presence. He approaches her again. Her form trembles, but otherwise holds its ground. Mentor smiles at that. He is barely controlling his aura now and that is the point of all of this. He ignores the past failures: the constructed bodies that crumbled near him, the artificial faces that dented and imploded with the touch of his hand … and the rest of them … some of them still littered around the enormous chamber.
When he touches her face with the naked palm of his hand and feels her–synthetic skin to flesh–he feels a giddiness and a hope that has trained himself to quell down. He bends down to kiss her, tentatively, and is pleased as his lips meet hers. Mentor then begins to envelop her lips with his own and hope that he didn’t destroy her face with the force. But she meets him. The lubricating moisture of her silk-lips arouses him further. Suddenly, Mentor can’t hold back anymore. He takes her, then and there: lifting her up and plunging himself into the slit between her legs.
It is warm and wet: engineered silk augmented with a shape-adaptive mould and great reservoirs of lubricant. He pumps into her. The air crackles around him and he still fucks her. He’s hoping this time. He’s hoping. Her skeleton is an interconnected titanium hybrid alloy and her skin is a reinforced genetically engineered rubber amalgam. He feels her silken insides squeeze and massage his swollen cock and a feeling begins to grow inside of him: something has not had enough. Mentor feels like he is about to let go …
Until he feels his cock meet air. Mentor looks at the facsimile of a woman in his arms. Her lower appendages have fallen off. The pressure of his hands on her upper appendages have snapped them off. His cock has broken through her wall and through the signal-wire of her spinal analogue. The bio-thermal core of her is already fading. But her face … he had been staring into her face, into her eyes, imagining the President, the countless other women in his life he had never been able to touch …
His eyes feel rough and gritty as he realizes that her eyes are burned empty sparking sockets on a melted plastic face with molten metal liquefying onto the floor. Mentor feels a scream beginning in his throat. His fist finds itself in the wall–as it sometimes does–creating a large hole and spider-web cracks spreading from its edges. Spider-webs, just like the lines on the President’s face, on a normal human’s palm, on eye-sockets and mouths that he could never touch …
Slowly, he places the remains of the robot female facsimile on the floor. The frustration inside of him hollows out into emptiness as it sometimes did when he managed to finish. But even then, there was never anything left.
Mentor wonders, distantly, if the people he helped save today would have looked at him differently if they realized that the very person who aided them in continuing their lives would never really know the joy of actual life himself: of feeling sun on naked skin, or the touch of a loved one, or the rush of pure, sweet, unfettered release … He wonders what they would think of him, some of the women who fantasized about him, who he knew fantasized about him–including the President–because of his latent telepathy: knowing he could never touch them the way they wanted him to, the way he wanted to–fully and completely–and how he has to resort to … to this … in this chamber far from anyone …
“Truth or dare time, hero!”
Before Mentor can react, and he can react faster than light, a shape drops from the ceiling, followed by a net …
And then there is only darkness.
To be Continued …
Light comes back to Mentor sooner than he thinks: but with it is a strange shadow.
“So that is what you look like without your … mask.”
For a man that can move faster than death, it takes Mentor a while to realize two things. First, he is wearing his tunic again and nothing else. Second, the shadow in front of him is a female. She squats there: her arms on her knees with something long and jagged placed across them. He makes out a slender silhouette of armour.
As an added bonus observation, he also notices that he is still entangled in a net but is still on the pockmarked floor of his Test Room. He tries to, and succeeds in rising to his feet but the net–which he realizes is a mesh of fine almost seamless glittering chain links–comes up with him. The metal is strangely warm on his skin: especially around the length of his semi-erect cock.
“The Chains of Hephaestus,” Mentor realizes suddenly, “And you have Hades’ Helmet as well?” His eyes narrow, “What the hell do you think you’re doing here, Scythia?”
It’s as though the shadows vanish from her as she lifts the dark-grey Corinthian helmet off of her head. The outline of her armour shines alternatively gold and bronze. There is a large shield strapped to her left arm and a long sharp object in her right hand that shines so brightly even he has to look away from it. But it’s her face that Mentor focuses on. Coils of curled black hair fall across the high cheekbones of her dusky, smirking face. Her dark eyes match her smile.
Mentor doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like this at all.
“I earned these artefacts through my own twelve … labours,” Scythia says, placing her helmet under one arm, “The Helmet’s how I was able to get past your pesky Citadel’s sensors and your own extra-sensory abilities … It masks more than sight, you know.
“As for why I’m here, I was just … curious to see just how the Man of Moderation spends his spare time.”
“You could have asked me at one of the Council meetings,” Mentor begins to feel his insides twist up, seeing her of all people, here, in this place.
“Yes,” she nods, “I could have. But I don’t think the Defender’s Alliance is the best place to have a discussion of that kind. And besides, even amongst us your party-manners are beyond impeccable. No, you’d never have told us–told me–about any of this there.”
“That’s because you have no right to be here!” Mentor feels his eyes begin to burn again as his voice booms through the Test Room.
“Oh,” Scythia blinks at him, “and why’s that exactly?”
“Because …” if he thought that she had been infuriating in the Defender’s Alliance Council meetings, she is somehow worse here, “Because it’s … it’s private!”
“Ah, I see,” she squats down again and picks up an object, “And by private, you mean you don’t want us to know about your serial-killer hobby?”
Mentor sees the remnants of one of the feminine robot heads. He knows that the composure he’s carefully crafted around his manners is already frayed to the breaking point, but this is too much even for him.
He sighs slowly, “They’re not human.
“Oh,” Scythia places the head back on the ground and puts her hands on her hips, “and so that makes it all right? You know, to have some celestial slave-girls that you can kill whenever …”
“Dammit, Scythia! They’re not even organic and you … you know that,” he shakes his head, “You’ve been watching this whole time haven’t you.”
This is too much for Mentor. Scythia has always tested his patience in some way: in challenging the status quo and “adventuring” into things that she had no business being in. The very fact that she took those artefacts from those extra-temporal beings that called themselves gods is bad enough. But to know that she was here, even as an imperfect shadow (having still been able to sense her presence through the Helmet’s shroud), watching him do what he did …
“So what are they, Man of Moderation?” she asks as though she didn’t hear his accusations.
He growls, “What do you think they are?” He turns away.
“I don’t know. This Alternate Earth has different practices than mine,” she tells him.
“Let me go,” he says.
“Excuse me?” Mentor tries to stalk towards her, “You have the gall to sneak into my Citadel, spy on me, and ask questions of something that isn’t even remotely your own business? I should call my MentorBots!”
She smiles her infuriating smile again, “Oh Mentor, you know I’d just destroy them. And I don’t think you’d want that. Besides, I’m curious,” she looks down the floor, “Just what are these anyway? SexBots?”
Mentor’s mouth opens and for the first time in his life, he finds himself closing it without a word. Scythia’s grin seems to broaden at the sight.
“So this is what the great Man of Moderation does in his spare time, huh? Making SexBots to get his cosmic-powered rocks off in. Gods, this Earth Dimension has some good phrases. I’m so glad I came here,” she shakes her head, “And I thought what Doctor Demento did with his robots was fucked up. Was all this what you were thinking about when we fought him together? How good all that hot pliant metal would be with Madame President’s face … or mine?”
“You …” Mentor grits his teeth, “you have no idea … what you’re talking about,” he wills his eyes to glow, “I’ll not say it again. Get out of here, Scythia. Now.”
Scythia shakes her head again, “No. You forget yourself, Mentor. You know what Hephaestus’ Chains do. They will contain you for as long as I leave them there. As long as I want them there. And they make you vulnerable: something I’ve … never really seen you as before,” a strange glint of light shimmers in her dark eyes, “Of course, that’s the point isn’t it? It’s like I’ve walked in on you jerking off. Gods, I love this Alternate World slang.”
Mentor’s eyes narrow, but he feels the energy in them die down, “What the fuck do you want, Scythia?”
Scythia says nothing. Instead, she walks towards him. Suddenly, her foot lashes out. Mentor flinches as the tip of the golden sandal–adorned with two white sets of feathers–stops a few metres away from his balls. Scythia holds the pose. The Chains softly clink together as her toe strokes the links covering his crotch. Mentor becomes very aware of the fact that unlike most people in this world, Scythia can actually match his regular strength: his strength with his suit on.
She can actually hurt him.
“You know, I’ve never heard you swear until now,” she says, “I want to know what these SexBots are really for. And I want to know like you’ve flown back in time and already told me. As in: yesterday.”
To Be Continued …
Scythia holds her foot under Mentor’s balls.
They are smooth and ridged under her toes. She can feel them contracting and she can almost imagine something pulsating inside of them.
She almost wishes her hands were free right now: like they were before she captured Mentor in her net. Curiosity overcame her, as it always did, when Mentor concluded the Council of the Defender’s Alliance. She knew that he would go back to his Citadel to give his report to the World President.
Many others, including their own Alliance, believed that Mentor had his own headquarters in the Sahara, or in orbit around the Moon, or even something as tacky as being deep in the Antarctic. But Scythia likes to watch Mentor. She likes to watch the glitter of passion beneath the stoic gaze of the man that is usually masked. For all of his usual politeness, there is a sense of distance around him: even among his fellow accelerated Defenders.
So she tracked him. Her Hermes Sandals allowed her to fly, even as Hades’ Helmet cloaked her to his Citadel’s psionic defences. She found him flying into the sky as a cloak wavered and a door appeared. That was how she found Mentor’s Hidden Citadel: hidden right in plain sight between Heaven and Earth.
It wasn’t even far from the Defenders’ Eyrie. So today, after their meeting and the forty-seventh defeat of the menace of Doctor Demento, she took a chance and followed him all the way into his Citadel. The Velosian flesh-artists in the Viewing Chamber were an interesting diversion for a time: along with the pornographic relations that Mentor wanted with Madame President. Scythia admits to herself that she shouldn’t mind the President showing a little more … gratitude for some of her services.
The sights certainly made Scythia wet enough. She’d been reaching under her iron kilt and circling her clit while tracing her other hand down her chest. Those people who liked to speak the phrase “more useless than nipples on a breastplate” were obviously unaware of the feeling of smooth warm metal and arching rounded points that made her mind quiver almost as much as her trembling, hungry pussy.
She was disappointed when Mentor left, still managing to smirk though she hadn’t met her climax, but what she found in the Testing Room more than made up for it. Watching him strip off his suit and take out the source of his very pronounced bulge was enough to make her start masturbating again. The fact that ended up fucking a SexBot just made her go over the edge as she silently, powerfully, came under her mystical cloak. Unfortunately, neither the SexBot nor Mentor had been so lucky.
He’d simply crushed the feminine robot: his pelvic thrusts destroying her lower and midsections. His eyes blazed too and beams of power seared through the façade of the robot. There was simply nothing else. The whole chamber had trembled at Mentor fucking: to the point where if not for Hermes’ Sandals, Scythia might have been knocked off balance in the dark.
Seeing that cock hanging there, dripping and hard and frustrated–looking at the flushed naked face of Mentor and the expression on it–made her act. Now he is here before her. Because of the nature of the Chains, he can’t get them off. The mere fact that he can even move under them is considerable enough but, in the end, it is his own power that the Chains are using against him: by virtue of what he is.
Still, the tip of her foot is under his balls.
Mentor struggles to speak. Scythia has to admit to herself that he has a nice face. With that ridiculous blue half-mask gone, she can see that he has square high cheekbones: like cliffs carved from rock. There is something very patrician about his features: even now with the set of his mouth and his narrowed grey eyes.
He tries to swipe away a strand of his black hair away from his face, but he stumbles a bit. She twitches her foot and he rigidly finds his balance.
“They are …” his face turns red, “They are … Release Valves.”
“Release Valves you say?” Scythia chuckles, “that is a good way of putting it.”
“That’s not funny,” Mentor growls.
“But it is, when you think about it,” she replies, “Continue.”
“The people I was descended from … the Kallipolitans. They were a race that existed in this galaxy before human kind. We had a special electro-magnetic energy field born in us. As we got older, the field would expand and strengthen our bodies. That is why I have the powers that I do. The problem … is that we have phases when our energies grow too powerful. Adolescence is the worst time,” Mentor winces, “it’s supposed to ease with age …”
“Is that what your suit and its ridiculous wires are for? To channel that energy?”
“To … take the edge off …”
“So essentially, what you’re saying,” Scythia fights the urge to look at Mentor’s well-endowed cock, “is that your suit milks you and when it can’t do that anymore you need to release your beast with some SexBot ‘Release Valves’ to keep yourself from going crazy like an animal in heat? Does that sound about right?”
Scythia does notice that his cock begin to swell even further.
“Shut up!” Mentor growls and looks away from her, “If you want to kill me, just use some damned Lead already!”
“But I don’t have any Lead, Mentor. And I don’t want to kill you.”
Scythia pauses. She might not have Mentor’s mind-reading abilities, but she can tell what his problem is and she knows that he knows that she knows. His cock–in length and aesthetics–would put some of the males of her own people to shame. She can more than imagine the stamina behind it, and the speeds that it was capable of. At that thought, a trail of warm wetness travels down her inner thigh.
“So tell me,” Scythia slowly licks her lips, “why is it that these ‘Valves’ for your magnificent sexual energy have to be in humanoid form?”
Mentor’s eyes flash. Scythia feels elated. She knows now that she has him. The fury she’s only seen hints of at Council meetings is now blazing full force. His lips are tight and his cheekbones stand out even more as he clenches his teeth. He says nothing. Nothing at all. But it’s more than fury. She has been in enough battles to read a man’s face. It’s a wide gamut of anger, shame, guilt, and even … sadness?
Scythia pauses for a few seconds: actually considering what she is doing for the first time. His reactions made her realize it: why he was always so distant, why he went out of his way to only be cordial, the legions of female admirers he ignored on Earth … What she saw earlier with the robot merely confirmed her suspicions about her compatriot, leader, and favourite person to annoy.
She realizes now, more than ever, that she has no regrets about what she has done … and what she is about to do.
“I’ll tell you what, Mentor,” she says, lowering her foot, “I’m going to take this Net off of you now. And here is what we’re going to do. I’m going to go to the rest of the Defenders and the media and let them know about your problem … if you don’t stop me.”
Somehow, Mentor’s eyes manage to widen even farther. She reaches out and sweeps the Net off of him.
Then Scythia places the Helm of Hades on her head and disappears.
To be Continued …
This is too much for Mentor. The humiliation of these past couple of moments and its resultant fury overwhelms everything: his association with Scythia, his promise to watch over the peoples of this world and the Galaxy, his own personal code to maintain his distance, even the ludicrousness of Scythia “tagging” him only to have him chase her … if that was what it is. It is all gone in this moment. This one moment.
He is about to leap into the air after her, to locate her even with the cloak of her acquired Helmet, when the ground explodes. It is quick. A blur of darkness above him and then a lightning bolt. He jumps out of the way in time as another bolt detonates where he had been standing … and another.
It’s enough to make him start thinking with his head again, his … real head. The bolts are self-replicating energy weapons: not unlike spears. But Mentor knows what they are. He remembers who his opponent is. Scythia came from another dimension where the ancient deities of the world existed: or still existed. She had left her original Amazonian Tribe to join the aggressive Scythian Nation that primarily ruled her world and with it came enough sense of self-entitlement to take whatever she wanted: with whatever means she could utilize to the fullest.
She is her plane’s idea of what a hero–or heroine–truly is.
Mentor knows that she has a wide variety of potentially deadly weapons on hand: had seen her use them. Desire’s Fletches, Plague of Light Arrows, the Helmet …
And Zeus’ Thunder-Bolts.
Mentor is through playing around. He puts a palm on one of the walls of the Test Room.
“Interface. Activate Zero-One Blade.”
His hand reaches for a metallic hilt forming out of the wall and pulls out a column of energy. It fluctuates between two extremes: a deep darkness and a brilliant white light. There is no middle ground. Zero-One is the weapon of his ancestors: one of last resort … even when his people had faced extinction. It eliminates and it creates. It’s that simple.
The Room is trembling now as robot body-parts scatter from the invisible force. Another Bolt comes for him. Mentor leaps up to meet it and sweeps the Blade upward. It collides with the energy blast and adds mass and matter to it … causing the Bolt to somehow calcify and fall useless to the ground.
Another Bolt crackles at him from the side. He swings the weapon elegantly–moving seamlessly–to parry it and remove its nature: making it dissipate into the air. As he continues to solidify and disintegrate the replicating weapon on all angles, he narrows his vision: focusing on the familiar harmonic of his opponent’s personal field. That is when he sees it.
She is a blur of darkness. Mentor knows that Scythia has made a mistake. The Citadel of the Kallipolitans is a psionic structure and while her Helmet might have gotten past the more conscious automated defences of the techno-organic edifice, the subconscious ones work just fine, and they relay the information to his own senses.
He remembers another artefact of hers. Hermes’ Sandals. Unlike Mentor, she requires the Sandals to fly. He knows that he has to move quickly: before she can use any of her other tricks.
Mentor flies into the air and grabs for the blurred outline of Scythia’s foot: the one she had on his balls not that long ago.
Scythia looks at the soaring, crackling form of Mentor and marvels at how beautiful and elegant he is: even though he’s technically fighting her without pants on.
Especially since he doesn’t have pants on … as was her intent.
She does not expect the hand wrapped around her foot however … nor the Sandal leaving it. Scythia begins to fall.
But before she does, she tilts to the side and manages to grab Mentor’s torso between her legs and squeezes her thighs–thighs that can crush sand into diamonds–together. Hard. They both begin to fall … and fight. Scythia and Mentor swirl through the air: her Bolt blocking his Zero-One–the latter of which in retrospect she realizes is a nice euphemism in itself–while punching and elbowing each other with their free hands.
Scythia feels her old Amazonian blood rushing through her. It is the greatest high she’s felt in a long time: the same her former Sisters must have felt when wrestling a man that was worthy of them. But her Scythian upbringing makes her exhilarated by the fight–by how she has provoked her opponent–and whatever outcome will be. She screams out her shrill war cry and thrashes around.
They crumple to the floor in a series of clashing energies, physical blows, spit, sweat, and pre-cum. He lands on top of her: slashing his weapon down hard enough knock her Bolt out of her hand. His eyes blaze, about to release their energies, when she raises her Shield into his face. With a curse, Mentor staggers back and Scythia manages to rise to her feet. She aches all over but her heart is beating fast. Very fast. Through a tongue that feels as thick as mud, she speaks.
“You know this Shield, Mentor. You wouldn’t strike it.”
Mentor is about to bring out his Zero-One Blade when he sees Scythia’s Shield. It is made up of shifting concentric circles, deceptively two-dimensional spheres, with images moving fluidly across them. There are men there, and women, and children, as well as animals and beings even he doesn’t know. He sees homes and trees and battles, as well as wine and laughter and acts of passion.
“Achilles’ Shield,” he states, and knows that she’s right. Even as humiliated as he is, Mentor will not destroy entire worlds: the very object that Scythia used to come to his own plane … one that ties back into hers.
He lowers his Blade.
Hades’ Helmet came off in their struggle. He can see Scythia again. Her hair is plastered across her face but she still smiles. Her breastplate with its almost lewd depictions of nipples is askew: revealing a round small breast underneath. She comes towards him and slowly lowers her Shield to the ground.
“You have honour when I humiliated you,” she says to him, “And you have conquered me as I’ve challenged you. You’ve passed the Rites of the Scythian People. I am beaten. Take your prize.”
She kneels down in front of him. Mentor feels the light-headedness of battle become a powerful, raging course of electro-magnetic fury and hormones. He feels himself grab the back of Scythia’s head: wrapping his fingers in her hair. It is surprisingly soft hair. She opens her mouth as he thrusts his cock into it.
The red haze in his head erases everything else. He thrusts into her mouth. He is plunging down the ridges of her throat. Mentor hears her gag and gargle, but she wraps his arms around him: like a supplicating enemy embracing his conqueror for mercy. Mentor might have felt shame once, but his mind is engulfed in the warm wet undulating throat that he is thrusting his cock into.
Salvia and cum dribble down Scythia’s chin even as his balls slap hard against its edge. But then he feels it. It’s beginning. Like the burning of a thousand suns, it grows inside of his prostate through squirming testicles, up his shaft. Reason and terror comes back to him now.
He tries to pull out, but finds Scythia’s arms hugging his legs in a crushing embrace. Her mouth is working hard. Her lips and throat are sucking him greedily. Mentor feels the build-up and wants to stop it even though he doesn’t. He has a horrible vision of seeing the back of Scythia’s head exploding: spraying blood, brains, and cum everywhere. The fact that she has lasted this long without being torn apart by him is more than a miracle. Mentor knows he should pull out but she won’t let go and he doesn’t want her to …
It is the hand on his back that changes it. It is on the base of his spine: on his buttocks. Even though it still has its gauntlet, her hand–and the mind behind it–reassures him: that it is ok. It is too late in either case.
A thousand suns blaze inside of Mentor’s very being as a long-denied orgasm erupts wetly, messily, and gloriously deep down into Scythia’s throat.
The Amazonian holds Mentor tightly as she feels his balls tighten and the long spear of him writhe. Scythia hadn’t come this far to back out now. She is powerful enough for his essence. She’s earned it … and it is hers now.
It is like swallowing molten fire. The salt of his cum scours her tongue and splashes deliciously in the back of her throat. She remembers her Scythian brothers taking their tribute on the battlefield, and in the bunks of their communal tents as she takes every drop of what she has earned in her battle today.
Scythia works her tongue along the cum and Mentor’s shaft and lets the liquid settle pleasantly–glowingly–in her belly. She keeps her mouth around him: feeling him shake and gradually relax into her embrace. The metal of the Man of Moderation has finally melted. Her hand strokes his back as she enjoys his fist in her hair: her scalp hurting in a very good way.
But the important thing is Mentor’s cock–her new spear–and the person attached to it. She holds on to both. To what she’s earned.
Mentor plunges into Scythia’s pussy from behind as they hover in the air. All he can think about right now is the simple joy of his cock stabbing into her soaked, ridged, pulsating hole.
“Conquer me!” Scythia shrieks, “take me! Take me!”
They writhe and struggle in midair until Scythia hovers on top of Mentor now. She feels his cock slip in and out–stretching her clitoris and its flesh into her pussy. Then his cock-head stabs into the spot inside of her wall and the two of them are covered in the explosive liquid that comes from it. Scythia shudders and screams as Mentor simultaneously explodes into her.
“That …” Mentor says after a while, “was the best role-play we’ve done so far.”
Scythia nods, her sweaty hair dripping on his costumed chest, “Even thinking those alternate thoughts was enough to make me cum … it was just like all those moons ago, when I first came here, but better.”
“I always wondered,” Mentor says, tracing her spine with one hand, “Why you chose me. You always were a bratty, wilful, pain in the ass.”
“And you were always a formal stoically repressed prick,” she chuckles, “And I wanted to see what would set you off.”
“Why not someone else … why not …” Mentor ponders, “Heavy Metal?”
“Heavy-Metal? Have you seen the size of his battle ships? Of his guns?” Scythia laughs, “If your ego is bigger than your head, then it is probably bigger than other attributes as well.”
“Maybe you should have been the philosopher of the two of us,” Mentor smiles.
Scythia smiles as well, “You know why I chose you, Mentor?”
Mentor shrugs, “Because I’m the only male in this dimension that can actually match you and not die?”
“No,” she says, stroking the side of his face with one gauntleted hand, “No, it’s because of your name.”
“Yes,” Mentor thinks back, “I told you about my people. They were the last survivors our System. We tried to adapt here: to guide the humans of this planet as they developed. I was the last one: the last guide.”
“Mentor,” she adds, “My plane also had a Mentor. He was in your Homer’s Odyssey too. He was the seeming that the goddess Athene put on to advise her favoured mortals.”
“Yes. He was a legend among my people too. I think what always astonished me about Mentor … was not that he was really a woman.”
“Thanks,” Mentor rolls his eyes.
“No,” she looks down on him, her dark eyes serious, “it’s that she had to take that form to protect her mortals: to keep the god’s true nature from destroying them while taking the time to advise and prepare them,” she smiles at Mentor, “that story suits you so well.”
“And to think …” Mentor says, “back in my early days, I used to call myself The Mediator.”
“Yes. Thank the gods you changed that,” Scythia slaps his chest, “now we just need to work on that tacky costume of yours.”
“Hey!” he holds her hands as she keeps play-slapping him for a while.
After a while, he gives her a rueful smile, “The last Kallipolitans left quite a legacy for me,” Mentor admits, “I hope I’m worthy of them.”
“You are more. There will be more.”
They kiss. Then they flip through the air together wrestling and happy: kissing and fucking. After a while they float and consider look up at the fathomless ceiling.
“Have you ever wondered why it is that another race like the Kallipolitans are so like human kind?”
“You mean, why it is we are so anatomically similar to humans?”
“Pretty much,” Scythia replies, “aside from not being able to have sex without killing them.”
“Well …” Mentor ponders, “I would answer … probably for the same reasons why there is an alternate reality where ancient mythologies and heroes still exist, and why we’ve allied to protect all worlds.”
“Fair enough,” Scythia rests her head against Mentor’s chest.
Suddenly, Mentor blinks, “Wait. What did you mean ‘There will be more?’”
Mentor continues, “My people have been gone for a long time. My parents, my brother … all gone for centuries now …”
Scythia grins wryly from her position on top of him, “I left the Amazonian Tribe for Scythia, it’s true. I renounced my name and took the name of the people that once conquered my Sisters: that made them. But I haven’t forgotten their ways. We only take the seed of those men worthy of us.”
Mentor blinks again. And again.
Scythia slaps his chest and laughs, “The fastest man alive but sometimes the slowest thinking.”
Mentor’s face flushes, but a broad smile beams from his face as he embraces Scythia. The two of them flip through the air in circles.
“Would you say Project Instant Gratification is a success?” Scythia drawls from where Mentor is holding her against his chest.
“No,” Mentor replies as he kisses her again, “Not by a long-shot. I think this is going to a project in progress or one very long-term mission.”