1) The following is a work of erotic fiction. Those under 18 (or whatever is the age of majority in your jurisdiction) should stop reading now.
2) This story contains characters and settings copyrighted by DC Comics. This story should be considered a parody of those characters and settings. It is also distributed free of charge and is a non-commercial enterprise; the author derives no profit from its distribution. No copyright infringement is intended.
3) This story contains depictions of sex as a healthy, non-degrading activity that consenting adults engage in for fun and pleasure. Those who prefer their depictions of sex to be debased should go find something else to read-this being the Internet, you shouldn’t have to look hard.
4) I’m no continuity buff, so for simplicity’s sake this story uses the TV show “Justice League” as its model, with bits and pieces picked up from the comics as I’m familiar with them. Please accept it as the best knowledge I had when the story was written.
5) Stories like this take time and effort to write. The chief reward an author receives for this labour is the knowledge that other people have found them good. If you enjoyed this story, or if you have constructive criticism, please drop the author a line at the link below and let him know. The more feedback he receives, the more likely it is he’ll keep writing new stories.
Most people think ‘Epicureanism’ means devotion to fine food. They’re wrong. Those with a slightly better education think it means devotion to pleasure of all sorts. They’re wrong too. Epicurus, the philosopher whom this school of thought is named after, taught that the pursuit of pleasure was the only appropriate goal of life; but he thought that there were higher and lower pleasures, and we should devote ourselves to the former. Dissolute, intemperate use of lower pleasures, like food, would dull us to higher ones, like philosophy. Even then, the higher pleasures should be taken sparingly, lest they-and we-become jaded, and spoiled.
I only met Wonder Woman three times. But because I’m an Epicurean, in this original sense of the term, the fact that I may never meet her again doesn’t trouble me. To expect more than what she’s given me already would spoil me indeed.
The first time was in Boston. I remember that whole period vividly, because it was an exciting time, in sharp contrast to everything that had gone before. Two years earlier I had been a grad student, living in a beat-up apartment next to a second-rate university in a third-rate town, slaving away at a dissertation I knew in my heart I would never finish. (It was an attempt to do a post-modern analysis of Euripides’ Aeschylean parodies. I don’t think the world is any poorer for its never being completed.) Bored and frustrated, I started a book about Greek drama and Greek philosophy, which discussed them both generally and tried to relate them to the problems of the contemporary world. It started as a hobby, but it quickly invaded time I should have been spending on my work. No surprise there; it was a lot more interesting, if I do say so myself. By the time it was finished, so was my funding and the patience of my advisor. I found myself kicked out of college, with nothing to show for my time there except my manuscript.
That was rock bottom for me. Without school and without a job, I sat in my apartment, trying to figure out what to do with my life. What saved me was that manuscript: I had sent it to one of the bigger American publishers of general-reader non-fiction, and to my surprise they picked it up. I got a sizeable check-sizeable enough to pay off all my outstanding loans-and what was even more exciting, a book tour. The publishers wanted me to travel around the country, the east coast mostly, promoting my book at different bookstores. My travel, my accommodation, my meals, would all be paid for, and all I had to do was talk about my book to interested audiences. So I found myself bouncing from city to city, in a whirlwind of lectures, interviews, and appointments. I was being treated like an important intellectual, a celebrity. Small wonder I remember that time so well.
Why was I, a first-time author of what should have been a niche book, being given such treatment? My timing was good. As the fates had it, my manuscript had crossed the publisher’s desk right after Wonder Woman made her public debut. The Justice League had just defeated the Martian invasion, and world attention was on them all, but particularly on her. She had never been seen before; she hailed from a secret island of Amazons, where men were not allowed; she seemed to have powers in the Superman class; and most importantly of all, she was drop-dead gorgeous. All of these things meant the public eye was on her, and she kept it there. Apparently, she had left her home of Themascyra -’Paradise Island’ - to be an ambassador for her people and a promoter of her way of life. So she was happy to talk to the media, and they were happy to talk to her. The result of all this was a sudden interest in all things having to do with Ancient Greece. My book arrived at just the right moment to catch that wave.
Boston was one of the earliest stops on my book tour, I think because it has so many colleges; the publishers wanted to reach as many potential readers as they could, and these days college students are one of the few groups with the time, money, and inclination to read non-fiction. I was only there for one day, regardless. It was a full one: radio interview in the morning, lunch meeting with a publisher’s rep, public lecture at Boston College in the afternoon, and then a book-signing at the LexBooks superstore in Cambridge. It was at the LexBooks that I met her for the first time.
I was sitting at a desk in the back of the store, a line of people snaking out away from me through the aisles. One at a time they approached, I signed a book for them, and made brief small talk-”nice to meet you, thanks for coming out,” and so forth. It had been a long day, and I was tired. I had only fifteen minutes more until the event ended and I could go back to the hotel, and I was counting the seconds. Then there was a commotion near the front of the store. I looked up with a frown; the line was parting, and there was a buzz of voices, everyone talking at once. Before I put together what was happening, the people in front of my table moved aside, and I saw her.
She was in her costume, with the star-spangled tights, the metal belt, the golden corset, the unbreakable bracelets, the tiara, the works. I’m sure you’ve seen images of her, but seeing her in the flesh has an impact that no reproduction can match. Believe it or not, it’s the eyes you notice first. Her gaze is firm, direct, intelligent; you look into those eyes and you know you’re in the presence of someone more than mortal. Only then do you take in the rest of her-that dark hair, falling down around her in waves; that perfect face, heart-shaped; that clear, tanned, skin; that stern expression. It gives you a shock, like stepping into a blizzard without a coat on. At least, that’s what it did for me.
She stood before me, and put out her hand. “I am Diana of Themascyra. I am pleased to meet you.” Her voice was a full, rich contralto.
Glassily, I shook her hand. “The pleasure is all mine.” Her grip was firm, but not painful. Later I remembered that this woman could tear steel with her bare hands; if I’d thought of that at the time, I might not have risked the handshake.
“I read your book with great interest. It pleases me to see that the wisdom of my ancestors still has friends. The more people learn about their ways, the more people will understand, I hope, the value those ways have for them today.”
“Certainly, certainly. That’s one of the points I wanted to make.” She asked me something else, and I replied with a stock answer. I’d already had a great deal of practice at talking about the book, and was able to speak at length about my intentions without concentrating on it. At the moment, I was concentrating on her. The shock of her presence was fading, and with it my attention was being drawn to parts other than her face. Her figure was stunning: her waist was so small I almost thought I could encircle it in my hands, but her shoulders were broad, her arms and legs long and muscular, and her chest… her chest was spectacular. Her corset had to be at least a 38DD, but it seemed tight, ready to burst, her breasts straining to escape. As I took her in, I felt my crotch tightening and my voice become rougher. I resisted the urge to stare at her cleavage, but it was hard. As we spoke, her eyes crinkled slightly, and the faintest of smiles tugged at her lips. Damn, I thought. She knows exactly what effect she’s having on me, and she doesn’t mind a bit. I guess that’s no surprise-why would she dress like that if she didn’t want to show off what she has?
We talked for a few minutes more, about what I can no longer recall, so entranced was I by her. The crowd had initially drawn back in awe; but slowly they began to press forward again. Diana saw it happening, and swiftly drew matters to a close.
“Thank you again.” She drew back slightly, and raised her voice. “I hope your book finds many readers.” With a dazzling smile, she turned and strode forward. The crowd drew back in spite of itself, and she was gone.
That was the first time. I never expected to see her again: she’d given her imprimatur, after a fashion, to my book, which was all she had wanted to achieve; I couldn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know; and she certainly wasn’t interested in me as a person. I was just a means to the end of spreading her message to ‘Patriarch’s World’, as she calls it. That didn’t bother me; I approved of the Amazon code, being a Hellenist as I am. What little help I could give her, I had given. Or so I thought.
The following day was a day off. My publishers had been pushing me pretty hard, doing New York, New Haven, Providence, and then Boston in four days straight, and each one full of events. They didn’t want me to burn out, and I didn’t want to either, so we had agreed that I’d take one day to be a tourist before catching a flight to Philadelphia and beginning the round of the mid-Atlantic states. Boston, of course, is a great place to be a tourist, what with its old buildings, universities, and museums. I planned to spend the day walking about and taking in the sights.
My plan was cut short. Just before one in the afternoon I was ambling through Stoddard Green. (The Green, if you’ve never been to Boston, is a nice big patch of park, with some trees for shade.) I had just finished a tour of the Fourth Congregational Church, and I was crossing the lawn, thinking about lunch, when my thoughts were interrupted by a loud, piercing noise. I turned around just in time to see the church burst asunder in a massive fireball.
The shock wave from the blast knocked me off my feet, and I lay on the ground, dazed. If I had dawdled even a little, I would be dead now, blown apart. I tried not to think about it as I staggered to my feet. I felt queerly doubled, or tripled. Part of me wondered why terrorists would choose this place to attack, for I naturally assumed that terrorists were behind it. I mean, it was a nice period piece, and Emerson had a pew there, but destroying that hardly seems worth the effort, I thought. Another part of me was checking to see if I was hurt at all, but I didn’t seem to be. Most of me was fighting off the urge to run away, to where it might be safe. If anyone had survived, they would need to be found and sustained until professional help might arrive; I had to stick around and give whatever assistance I could.
I had just turned toward the burning ruins of the church when another shockwave dashed me to the ground again. Rolling over, I saw that the statue in the center of the Green (I never found out of whom) had been reduced to a smoldering hunk of metal. What was going on here? I tried to stand, but couldn’t manage it. The wind had been knocked out of me.
From my new vantage point, I saw something I hadn’t seen before. On the other side of the path I had been walking on, about thirty feet away on a small rise, stood a man. He wasn’t running away, like all the other people I could see; but he would have been noteworthy anyway. He was wearing a long, purple robe with a pointed hat. He had a neat white beard, and was clutching a wooden staff. He looked like nothing so much as a wizard from a Hollywood movie. He could have stepped breathing from a commercial for one of those theme ‘medieval-times’ restaurants.
As I watched he raised his free hand and muttered something, then pointed at a stand of trees in the distance. From nowhere a bolt of fire sizzled out of his fingers and smashed into it; the trees exploded. The sap, I thought, as I stared, paralyzed. The sap superheated, became gaseous, and dramatically increased in volume, and the tree couldn’t contain it all. It’s funny how detached you can become at moments of crisis.
I had gotten my breath back, but I didn’t get up. He was too close to me. He hadn’t noticed me yet, but if I tried to run, he would. Then, if he wanted to hit me with one of his firebolts, he’d be able to. There was no way I could outrun magic spells. But you don’t believe in magic, I thought. My opinions on the subject seemed due for revision. I kept still and waited for help to arrive.
Right on cue, there was a flash in the sky. Wonder Woman sped into view, her costume glowing in the noonday sun. She was flying right towards the man in purple. She was incredibly fast; within moments she had arrived, hovering a few stories up. As fate had it, she was on the far side of the wizard from me; he turned to face her.
She stared down at him, fixing him with a deadly stare. She was a terrifying sight. The previous day she had been relaxed, but now she held a warrior’s stance; her legs and arms slightly bent, ready to strike. And this in mid-air! If I had been her enemy, I would have quailed. She spoke, her voice firm. “You! Vandal! I don’t know why you have chosen to damage this park, and I don’t care. Drop your staff and surrender yourself to me!”
The wizard’s voice was thin and reedy. He didn’t seem to raise his voice, but I could hear him plainly-another spell, I suppose. “Wonder Woman. You have come.” He cackled. “As I planned.”
He pointed at her and spoke. I could hear what he said, but it seemed just a bunch of nonsensical gibberish. Another bolt of fire sprang from his hand at Wonder Woman. With feline quickness she raised her arm and the bolt collided with the bracelet she wore on her left arm, ricocheting off into space. He tried again, but she deflected that bolt with her right. Now it was her turn; with blinding speed she grabbed the rope hanging at her side-her famous golden lasso-and in one quick motion cast the loop of it at him. She found her target; it seized him about his chest, pulling his arms in tight to his sides. He cursed, and struggled, but it was no use; he couldn’t get free. Silently, Wonder Woman descended and walked toward him, keeping both hands on the lariat.
I scrambled to my feet, as I thought the fight was over. I had only taken two steps toward them when I realized I was wrong. I heard the wizard speak again, a different spell this time, and his body seemed to bulge; he had turned himself into some sort of vapour. The lasso suddenly sagged and fell through his body to the ground. Wonder Woman was just as surprised as I was, which was bad; she wasn’t ready for his next move. Solidifying again, he pointed at her and spat out some guttural words. I didn’t see what he hit her with. It wasn’t a firebolt, because there was no explosion, but it did the trick; with a cry, she was knocked backwards, falling to the ground.
The wizard followed his last spell up with a string of them in whatever nasty language his magic used. Thanks to whatever charm was on his voice, I could hear them all. At his command, the earth twisted, and giant hands, made of the soil itself, sprang up, grabbing her arms and legs and pinning them to the ground. She was caught, spread-eagled, against the earth. With grunts and cries she tried to break free, but she couldn’t seem to do it; she had no leverage and the soil-hands appeared to be too strong.
The old man cackled as he shuffled toward her. “Wonder Woman. I knew you would come, if I provided the right bait.” His voice was high-pitched and fragile, like rustling paper. “I had expected more fight from you. You provided little sport.” All this destruction, I realized, had just been a trap to draw her out.
She had realized the same thing. “You would destroy all this, menace so many people, just for sport?” Her voice was thick with contempt. “So much power used to so little purpose. You demean yourself.”
He sneered. “Don’t flatter yourself, woman. This was not a mere lark. You have something I need.” With a groan-clearly audible because of the charm on his voice-he bent down and picked up her lasso where it had fallen. “I wanted this.”
He groaned again and leaned on his staff as he straightened up. “I am in need of certain artifacts. This was the easiest to acquire.” I couldn’t see his face, but his voice dripped satisfaction. “It will be much more useful in my hands than in yours.”
“Take it and be gone, magician. But beware; that lasso is mine, and I shall come for it.”
“No…. No, I don’t think so.” Hanging the lasso from his own belt, he pointed a finger at her. She struggled, but the soil-hands held her fast. He began to mutter something, but broke off in mid-phrase. “You… I… hurmmm. Perhaps there is something else you can give me.” His tone was lascivious. He chanted another charm, and more soil-hands sprang up. They grabbed at her corset and began to pull; the armour, already under tension, burst asunder. Her breasts bounced free.
“You are an animal.” Her voice was cold, but did not tremble. The soil-hands now pulled at her tights, tearing them off. I was too far off to get a good look, and wouldn’t have wanted to in any case. Seeing Wonder Woman humiliated was embarrassing, not exciting. The wizard was enjoying himself, though.
“Oh, my dear… you’re truly a sight. I haven’t had someone as fine as you in some time.” Dropping his staff, he began to fumble with his robes. “I’m going to enjoy this…”
All this time I had stood where I was, paralyzed with fear. All he had to do was turn his head and he would see me, and what would he do then? Strike me dead with some spell, in all likelihood, and perhaps the best I could hope for. His magic might be capable of all sorts of tortures or pains. At the moment, he was distracted by Wonder Woman’s nakedness; naturally, the thought occurred to me that now I could run and he’d never see me go. Another thought followed immediately after, namely how unworthy such flight would be. I had written a book extolling the Greeks for their belief in virtue, their insistence that how one lived was more important than how long or how pleasantly. Wonder Woman had put her life on the line to stop this villain; was I going to let her be raped, and probably killed, just to eke out another few decades of life? A life where I would have to live with my own cowardice and shame? I didn’t think so.
Slowly I began to walk toward the wizard. I walked, rather than ran; swift movement, I reckoned, might attract his attention. I didn’t know what I could do against a man who could throw fireballs, turn into smoke, or command the earth; probably nothing. Probably I would die here. But better an honorable death than a dishonorable life.
The wizard couldn’t see me, but Wonder Woman could. She spoke to the wizard, but I knew she was addressing me too.
“Don’t do this. You don’t know what dangers you are provoking. Whatever happens to me, I’ll survive, and in the end I’ll find victory. Stop now, and leave this place.”
