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KassandraOfSparta
Moon
- Joined
- Oct 24, 2023
Welcome to the electric pulse of New York City, a concrete jungle where the screech of taxis mixes with the distant buzz of Times Square and the low hum of subway trains. The air carries the scent of wet asphalt and hot dog carts, while the city's underbelly thrives with backroom deals and corporate power plays. Dominated by ApexCorp, a shadowy mega-corporation, NYC is a battleground of ambition and corruption, where superhumans stride among the masses, their actions shaping the narrative. Amid this vibrant chaos, life pulses with raw, unfiltered energy, setting the stage for stories yet to unfold.
Enter Victoria Steele, a force of nature forged in the heart of NYC's relentless streets. Known to the world as Astraea, she wields gravity like a weapon, bending reality with a flick of her wrist. A product of ApexCorp's brutal experiments, Victoria emerged from a lab with superhuman strength, an unquenchable spirit, and a charisma that commands both devotion and scandal. With Salma Hayek's sultry intensity as her essence, her life is a whirlwind of excess—addicted to the rush of high-grade cocaine and ecstasy, she lives on the edge, her four-digit body count a testament to her insatiable desires. Her wardrobe swings from her iconic red-and-blue, Superman-inspired suit to a barely buttoned white shirt and skin-tight jeans that leave little to the imagination, embodying raw, rebellious allure. A government enforcer for ApexCorp, she navigates the city's power games with a smirk, her sharp wit and unapologetic nature making her both a hero and an outcast. Beneath her bold exterior lies a haunted soul—scarred by her engineered origins, driven by a need for control, and fiercely protective of her son Aaron, despite their tangled history.
Stepping into her shadow is Aaron Steele, a son shaped by Victoria's chaotic legacy. Born from a fleeting affair with an unnamed ex-lover turned villain, Aaron inherited tech-based powers, controlling and upgrading machinery with a thought, a skill rooted in his father's dark genius. Now a key player at ApexCorp, he serves as the lead handler for superheroes, managing deployments and public perception with precision. Raised in Victoria's orbit, he's seen her world of debauchery—her drug-fueled parties, scandalous exploits, and unrestrained energy—leaving him with a mix of sharp intellect and a rebellious streak. Torn between admiration for his mother's fearless power and a drive to escape her shadow, Aaron navigates NYC's corporate battlefield with a cool head and a tech-enhanced edge, haunted by his villainous father and a mother who breaks every rule.
Starter:
The Morning After in Brooklyn, 07:49 AM. The air hangs heavy with the raw scent of last night's excess—cocaine dust on a battered table, the faint tang of sweat, and the musky aftermath of indulgence. Victoria Steele stirs on a worn mattress in a makeshift loft in Brooklyn, a gritty hideout reserved by Vince, her telekinetic supe friend, for his underground raves. The loft, surrounded by graffiti-covered warehouses and flickering neon, contrasts sharply with Manhattan's glitz, its walls stained with urban decay. Victoria's bare skin bears the night's intensity: sweat glistens, cum streaks her thighs and chest, and her dark hair falls in wild disarray. Vince lies sprawled on a broken couch, an ecstasy pill bottle tipped over beside him, the remnants of their chaos lingering.
Victoria groans, her head pounding from the drugs, her gravity powers flickering as a floating beer can crashes to the concrete floor. Last night replays in her mind: Vince pinning her mid-air with telekinesis during a frenzied dance under strobe lights, a crowd of supe lovers taking turns amid pulsing EDM, her moans blending with the city's distant hum. These Brooklyn raves are Vince's secret playground—raw, modern, and always ending with her as the star.
Morning light streams through cracked windows, casting harsh shadows on the mess. Her red-and-blue suit hangs on a rusty pipe, untouched, while a white shirt and jeans—worn with nothing underneath—lie crumpled on the floor. She staggers up, legs shaky, and snorts a quick line of cocaine from the table, the rush steadying her. The burn sharpens her focus, and she catches her reflection in a shattered mirror—curves outlined by grime, eyes bloodshot but defiant, Salma Hayek's fierce beauty shining through.
As she pulls on the white shirt, leaving it unbuttoned to reveal her bare skin, and slips into the jeans, the fabric clings to her hips, accentuating her form. She floats an inch off the ground, testing her powers, and a stack of crates topples as her control wavers. The ApexCorp comms device on the table buzzes, flashing Aaron's ID. She presses accept, the hologram revealing her son's stern face.
"Rough night, Mom?" Aaron says, his voice laced with exasperation. His eyes scan her disheveled state—the unbuttoned shirt, the stains on her skin—fully aware of her wild lifestyle. "Still wired?"
Victoria smirks, adjusting the shirt to flash more skin as she reaches for her suit, peeling off the jeans. "Wired? Just riding the high, kid," she replies, her voice husky with a modern edge. Aaron's knowledge of their complex past—those unspoken moments—hangs between them, but he's the one keeping ApexCorp's image clean, tracking crimes and deployments. "What's the crisis?"
"Wall Street Bank's under siege," Aaron snaps. "One of your exes, Uncle Sam, is leading it—vaults cracking open with his tech gadgets. ApexCorp's freaking out, they need someone now. You're closest. Can you handle it?"
She chuckles, snorting another line, the rush sharpening her focus. "Alright, I'll be there in two minutes. Tell the NYPD to hold the line." With a reckless laugh, she shrugs into the suit, zipping it halfway, and strides out of the loft, launching into the sky with a defiant grin.
Victoria soars above NYC's waking sprawl. The city unfolds beneath her—yellow cabs weaving through rain-slick streets, vendors shouting over the roar of early traffic, and the distant gleam of Wall Street Bank's towering facade. Her red-and-blue suit clings to her skin, half-zipped from her rushed dressing, the cocaine rush heightening her senses as her gravity powers keep her aloft. The high pulses through her veins, making the air shimmer faintly, a stray crate tumbling in her wake as she adjusts her flight path. Brooklyn's grit fades, replaced by Manhattan's urban pulse, drones buzzing overhead and the occasional supe patrol glancing her way, their stares lingering on her disheveled yet commanding form.
Wind whips through her wild hair as she nears the bank, its glass front shattered and smoking from the heist. Sirens blare below, and a crowd gathers, murmuring "Astraea" with a mix of awe and scandal. She smirks, the thrill of chaos fueling her, her mind flashing to Uncle Sam's tech-driven assault. Landing with a controlled thud on the pavement, her boots splash in a puddle, drawing eyes. Ahead stands Officer Ray Carter, a broad-shouldered man in a rumpled NYPD uniform, his familiar face etched with tension. An old ally from Victoria's early ApexCorp days, Ray once shared more than a drink with her during a quieter mission—those steamy nights of tangled sheets and stolen glances still simmer between them. His quiet respect now crackles with uneasy desire, his frame tense as he steps closer, cap tilted back to reveal eyes that linger too long.
"Victoria," Ray rasps, his voice low and thick, adjusting his cap as if to steady himself. "Been a minute… you look like hell—and damn, still a knockout." His gaze rakes over her half-zipped suit, the grime-streaked skin, the raw allure that pulls at him despite the chaos. She catches the heat in his stare, and a smirk tugs at her lips. "Those nights in the safehouse," he mutters, stepping closer, "you still owe me a round two—unless last night's party wore you out."
Victoria chuckles, floating an inch off the ground, her gravity powers humming as she leans in, voice husky. "Oh, Ray, I could outlast you even now—still dreaming of taking me down, huh?" The banter crackles with tension, their past flaring amidst the sirens, but she nods toward the bank. "Show me the situation."
He leads her to a set of monitors, his hand brushing hers as he points to a thermal scan. The screen reveals the inside—a dozen hostages huddled in a vault, their heat signatures faint, while Uncle Sam's tech-supes glow brighter, gadgets cracking open safes like toys. "Hostages, maybe a dozen," Ray says, his tone shifting to urgency, though his eyes flicker back to her. "Cops are outgunned. We've got five minutes before this blows up. Your move, Victoria."
Victoria's grin widens, the rush of drugs and desire fueling her as she studies the scan, ready to turn the chaos into her playground.
Welcome to this Twisted World of Supes, where NYC's gritty streets and ApexCorp's iron grip set the stage for a tale of power, desire, and rebellion. I'll embody Astraea, diving into her wild, unapologetic journey, while you, as the Game Master, bring to life every character who crosses her path—Ray, Uncle Sam, Aaron, and more—shaping their interactions with her relentless spirit. Join me in this gritty, sensual saga, where the lines blur between hero and villain, duty and debauchery. Let's craft a story that pushes boundaries while respecting them.
My kinks and limits for reference
Kinks: freeuse, ugly bastards, clothed sex, anal, doggystyle, reverse cowgirl, proneboned, outdoor/public, risky sex, beastility, size/age differences, contrast difference, stag/vixen dynamics, polygamy, big/hyper sizes, pimped out, fisting, DAP/DP/TP, cuckold, cheating, bisexual, prostitution, exhibitionism, incest, agegaps voyeurism, dry humping, hotdogging, lesbian, creampies, cumplay, cumflation, blowjobs/deepthroats, quickies, groups/gangbangs/orgies, toys, etc.
Limits: romance, humiliation/degradation, rape/non-con/dub-con, toilet stuffs, gore or vore.
Character References -
1. Monica Belluci
.
.
2. Salma Hayek
.
.
Enter Victoria Steele, a force of nature forged in the heart of NYC's relentless streets. Known to the world as Astraea, she wields gravity like a weapon, bending reality with a flick of her wrist. A product of ApexCorp's brutal experiments, Victoria emerged from a lab with superhuman strength, an unquenchable spirit, and a charisma that commands both devotion and scandal. With Salma Hayek's sultry intensity as her essence, her life is a whirlwind of excess—addicted to the rush of high-grade cocaine and ecstasy, she lives on the edge, her four-digit body count a testament to her insatiable desires. Her wardrobe swings from her iconic red-and-blue, Superman-inspired suit to a barely buttoned white shirt and skin-tight jeans that leave little to the imagination, embodying raw, rebellious allure. A government enforcer for ApexCorp, she navigates the city's power games with a smirk, her sharp wit and unapologetic nature making her both a hero and an outcast. Beneath her bold exterior lies a haunted soul—scarred by her engineered origins, driven by a need for control, and fiercely protective of her son Aaron, despite their tangled history.
Stepping into her shadow is Aaron Steele, a son shaped by Victoria's chaotic legacy. Born from a fleeting affair with an unnamed ex-lover turned villain, Aaron inherited tech-based powers, controlling and upgrading machinery with a thought, a skill rooted in his father's dark genius. Now a key player at ApexCorp, he serves as the lead handler for superheroes, managing deployments and public perception with precision. Raised in Victoria's orbit, he's seen her world of debauchery—her drug-fueled parties, scandalous exploits, and unrestrained energy—leaving him with a mix of sharp intellect and a rebellious streak. Torn between admiration for his mother's fearless power and a drive to escape her shadow, Aaron navigates NYC's corporate battlefield with a cool head and a tech-enhanced edge, haunted by his villainous father and a mother who breaks every rule.
Starter:
The Morning After in Brooklyn, 07:49 AM. The air hangs heavy with the raw scent of last night's excess—cocaine dust on a battered table, the faint tang of sweat, and the musky aftermath of indulgence. Victoria Steele stirs on a worn mattress in a makeshift loft in Brooklyn, a gritty hideout reserved by Vince, her telekinetic supe friend, for his underground raves. The loft, surrounded by graffiti-covered warehouses and flickering neon, contrasts sharply with Manhattan's glitz, its walls stained with urban decay. Victoria's bare skin bears the night's intensity: sweat glistens, cum streaks her thighs and chest, and her dark hair falls in wild disarray. Vince lies sprawled on a broken couch, an ecstasy pill bottle tipped over beside him, the remnants of their chaos lingering.
Victoria groans, her head pounding from the drugs, her gravity powers flickering as a floating beer can crashes to the concrete floor. Last night replays in her mind: Vince pinning her mid-air with telekinesis during a frenzied dance under strobe lights, a crowd of supe lovers taking turns amid pulsing EDM, her moans blending with the city's distant hum. These Brooklyn raves are Vince's secret playground—raw, modern, and always ending with her as the star.
Morning light streams through cracked windows, casting harsh shadows on the mess. Her red-and-blue suit hangs on a rusty pipe, untouched, while a white shirt and jeans—worn with nothing underneath—lie crumpled on the floor. She staggers up, legs shaky, and snorts a quick line of cocaine from the table, the rush steadying her. The burn sharpens her focus, and she catches her reflection in a shattered mirror—curves outlined by grime, eyes bloodshot but defiant, Salma Hayek's fierce beauty shining through.
As she pulls on the white shirt, leaving it unbuttoned to reveal her bare skin, and slips into the jeans, the fabric clings to her hips, accentuating her form. She floats an inch off the ground, testing her powers, and a stack of crates topples as her control wavers. The ApexCorp comms device on the table buzzes, flashing Aaron's ID. She presses accept, the hologram revealing her son's stern face.
"Rough night, Mom?" Aaron says, his voice laced with exasperation. His eyes scan her disheveled state—the unbuttoned shirt, the stains on her skin—fully aware of her wild lifestyle. "Still wired?"
Victoria smirks, adjusting the shirt to flash more skin as she reaches for her suit, peeling off the jeans. "Wired? Just riding the high, kid," she replies, her voice husky with a modern edge. Aaron's knowledge of their complex past—those unspoken moments—hangs between them, but he's the one keeping ApexCorp's image clean, tracking crimes and deployments. "What's the crisis?"
"Wall Street Bank's under siege," Aaron snaps. "One of your exes, Uncle Sam, is leading it—vaults cracking open with his tech gadgets. ApexCorp's freaking out, they need someone now. You're closest. Can you handle it?"
She chuckles, snorting another line, the rush sharpening her focus. "Alright, I'll be there in two minutes. Tell the NYPD to hold the line." With a reckless laugh, she shrugs into the suit, zipping it halfway, and strides out of the loft, launching into the sky with a defiant grin.
Victoria soars above NYC's waking sprawl. The city unfolds beneath her—yellow cabs weaving through rain-slick streets, vendors shouting over the roar of early traffic, and the distant gleam of Wall Street Bank's towering facade. Her red-and-blue suit clings to her skin, half-zipped from her rushed dressing, the cocaine rush heightening her senses as her gravity powers keep her aloft. The high pulses through her veins, making the air shimmer faintly, a stray crate tumbling in her wake as she adjusts her flight path. Brooklyn's grit fades, replaced by Manhattan's urban pulse, drones buzzing overhead and the occasional supe patrol glancing her way, their stares lingering on her disheveled yet commanding form.
Wind whips through her wild hair as she nears the bank, its glass front shattered and smoking from the heist. Sirens blare below, and a crowd gathers, murmuring "Astraea" with a mix of awe and scandal. She smirks, the thrill of chaos fueling her, her mind flashing to Uncle Sam's tech-driven assault. Landing with a controlled thud on the pavement, her boots splash in a puddle, drawing eyes. Ahead stands Officer Ray Carter, a broad-shouldered man in a rumpled NYPD uniform, his familiar face etched with tension. An old ally from Victoria's early ApexCorp days, Ray once shared more than a drink with her during a quieter mission—those steamy nights of tangled sheets and stolen glances still simmer between them. His quiet respect now crackles with uneasy desire, his frame tense as he steps closer, cap tilted back to reveal eyes that linger too long.
"Victoria," Ray rasps, his voice low and thick, adjusting his cap as if to steady himself. "Been a minute… you look like hell—and damn, still a knockout." His gaze rakes over her half-zipped suit, the grime-streaked skin, the raw allure that pulls at him despite the chaos. She catches the heat in his stare, and a smirk tugs at her lips. "Those nights in the safehouse," he mutters, stepping closer, "you still owe me a round two—unless last night's party wore you out."
Victoria chuckles, floating an inch off the ground, her gravity powers humming as she leans in, voice husky. "Oh, Ray, I could outlast you even now—still dreaming of taking me down, huh?" The banter crackles with tension, their past flaring amidst the sirens, but she nods toward the bank. "Show me the situation."
He leads her to a set of monitors, his hand brushing hers as he points to a thermal scan. The screen reveals the inside—a dozen hostages huddled in a vault, their heat signatures faint, while Uncle Sam's tech-supes glow brighter, gadgets cracking open safes like toys. "Hostages, maybe a dozen," Ray says, his tone shifting to urgency, though his eyes flicker back to her. "Cops are outgunned. We've got five minutes before this blows up. Your move, Victoria."
Victoria's grin widens, the rush of drugs and desire fueling her as she studies the scan, ready to turn the chaos into her playground.
Welcome to this Twisted World of Supes, where NYC's gritty streets and ApexCorp's iron grip set the stage for a tale of power, desire, and rebellion. I'll embody Astraea, diving into her wild, unapologetic journey, while you, as the Game Master, bring to life every character who crosses her path—Ray, Uncle Sam, Aaron, and more—shaping their interactions with her relentless spirit. Join me in this gritty, sensual saga, where the lines blur between hero and villain, duty and debauchery. Let's craft a story that pushes boundaries while respecting them.
My kinks and limits for reference
Kinks: freeuse, ugly bastards, clothed sex, anal, doggystyle, reverse cowgirl, proneboned, outdoor/public, risky sex, beastility, size/age differences, contrast difference, stag/vixen dynamics, polygamy, big/hyper sizes, pimped out, fisting, DAP/DP/TP, cuckold, cheating, bisexual, prostitution, exhibitionism, incest, agegaps voyeurism, dry humping, hotdogging, lesbian, creampies, cumplay, cumflation, blowjobs/deepthroats, quickies, groups/gangbangs/orgies, toys, etc.
Limits: romance, humiliation/degradation, rape/non-con/dub-con, toilet stuffs, gore or vore.
Character References -
1. Monica Belluci
.
.
2. Salma Hayek
.
.