The Chattel Girl

BY : tooshoes
Category: DC Verse Television > SuperGirl
Dragon prints: 1804
Disclaimer: I do not own Supergirl, nor the characters or any story elements from TV show. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter image:  https://www.mediafire.com/view/uryb1nwn1or9wum/BratNiedzwiedz_SG06.jpg/file


I don’t know what comes over me after Alex leaves my apartment. I had asked my sister to help me dress for my date, but then something breaks inside of me.

I don’t want to be a good girl, anymore. It's too hard!

I was a ball of self-hate, shame and doubt, and then, like flipping a switch, that part of me recedes like shadows fleeing from light, leaving only a bratty, shameless chattel girl in its place.

The brat had been getting stronger since I stopped taking the Kryptophen, and now, finally, she takes over the driver seat, making the "good" girl the passenger.

I know what I shouldn’t do, but I do it anyway.

I grab all the clothes that Alex picked out or even considered, and I throw them in the trash.

Then I choose clothes Alex would never, ever agree to-- clothes that the good girl wouldn’t even wear to the beach.

Alex told me that my miniskirt and blouse were too revealing to wear for my blind date, so I must top that.

I find nothing promising among my everyday clothes, so I raid my old school clothes for ideas.

I stumble upon a blue t-shirt the Danvers made me wear in the eighth grade. The emblem in the center of the shirt is the Kryptonian symbol for "chattel", which coincidentally looks like a fancy letter C. The Danvers would never let me forget my station in life, but today I feel a perverse pride in being the last chattel girl. I squeeze into the shirt and smile mischievously. The shirt is too small for me, now. I'll use it in a way the Danvers never intended. I cut out the midriff, turning it into a crop top with sleeves. My braless boobs bob with every step, and my nipples nearly pop through the fabric. It’s scandalous, mortifying even to consider, so it’s perfect.

For my bottom, I find a pair of red spankies that I had worn under my skirts in high school, and over my panties. I’m not sold on the spankies until I try them on without panties or a skirt. The tight briefs look like they are painted onto my ass, and the camel toe in the thin nylon crotch looks borderline illegal.

I see all kinds of warning signs ahead, but I don't hit the brakes.

Now for the make-up. Pink is usually my preferred color, but today I’m going for red – red lips, red briefs, red fingernails, and red nails to show off in my sandals.

I put my glasses away, and I apply my mascara. I usually wear only a touch, but my eyes shouldn’t play second fiddle to any other part of me. I make my lashes dark and lush and surrounded by a bronze shadow.

When I step back and see myself as a whole, I laugh. I look like one of Winn's action figures. I love it!

I wish I could stay in front of the mirror for another hour, reinventing myself, but I already know I’ll be late for my date, so after applying two sprays of perfume and popping an Altoid in my mouth, I’m ready to go.

I start filling up my purse with everything I need. My purse has always been my protection.

And that’s the problem.

It has to go.

But where will I put everything I need?

After much debate between the good girl and the brat, I finally decide I cannot do without my ID and some cash, or my date will fail before it begins. So I wrap my ID in two twenties and trap it in the left waistband of my briefs.

Finally, I put my glasses on the kitchen table and walk out the door, leaving the door unlocked.

Now I face the world with no armor, no pretense, nothing to fall back on, and I dare my fate to present itself.

The walk to the bar is short, but the sidewalks are busy this early at night, and every streetlight I walk under feels like a spotlight.

I catch several people stealing a glance at me, but they mind their business, which is disappointing. What does a rebellion matter if nobody cares?

But my first impression is wrong. They glance at me when I approach, and they stare at me when I walk away. I can hear them whispering.

Then I blush, and they stop pretending.

I see two men unloading a huge box from a truck. They stop laboring long enough to watch me walk past them. I flash them a smile and a wink, and they whistle and leer in response.

Now, I’m happy.

But I’m disappointed when I arrive at the sports bar called The Bleachers, because although I’m ten minutes late, the bar is nearly empty.

I ask the bartender if anyone was looking for me, but she replies that the bar only just opened for the night.

I sigh and sit down and order a glass of wine by name.

The bartender seems annoyed with me when she reminds me that this is a sports bar, and they only serve two kinds of wine: red and white.

My excitement for tonight wavers. I have no idea what I’m doing. The bartender doesn’t appear impressed by my new look; I guess she probably sees all types in her job. And one glass of wine costs almost half the money I brought with me.

So I sit alone at the bar, drinking slowly while watching a baseball game that features two teams I’ve never heard of.

Boredom quickly settles in, and I worry that my date has stood me up. What if he sent me a message? I didn’t even bring my phone.

But my spirits lift again when my date finally enters the bar.

He doesn’t recognize me at first, but he looks just like his photo, impeccably groomed in a perfectly tailored suit. I wave at him.

“Kara?” he asks as he approaches, pleasantly surprised.

I nod and stand to greet him. I smile shyly, although nothing else about me says shy.

He looks me over the way I was hoping he would, and he says, “Hi, I’m Bill.”

I feel like I have butterflies in my stomach, but I hold out my hand as I would during a job interview, saying, “Hi Bill.”

He takes my hand, but then he pulls me in closer and gives me a bear hug, catching me off guard. I’m keenly aware of how under-dressed I am, and I’m also wary of where his hands touch me, but he doesn’t push his luck.

Now, I’m the good girl again. The overly confident brat who stole my body and drove me here disappeared, leaving the real me defenseless and lost.

Bill sees the changing look on my face, and he apologizes. “I’m sorry, we are big huggers in my family.”

“Oh,” I say, smiling, while I make sure my shirt did not ride up when he almost lifted me off my feet. “That sounds nice. I wish my family were the hugging type.”

We sit down, and he looks at my almost empty wine glass. He seems pleased. “Ready for another?”

I smile and nod.

He waves at the bartender and orders, “two of whatever she’s drinking.”

I giggle, feeling impressed at how easily he handled that and how comfortable he seems in this environment.

The bartender empties the bottle in our glasses, and Bill immediately offers a toast: “To new friends.”

I smile and take a sip. I like him already. “So … you are in the stock market?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

He nods. “Yep, riding this bull market for now. Can’t be happier. And you work for a fashion magazine?”

I blink. “Well, CatCo is a media company, but it does a lot of fashion stuff, too.”

“Oh,” he nods, then gestures towards my clothes. “So that explains the fashion statement, huh?”

“Fashion statement?” I laugh, flattered by his characterization.

He nods. “Yes, I love how you cut the shirt with these slits on the side,” he says while boldly gliding his fingers along the edge of my shirt. “And these shorts are adorable,” he continues, and his hand sweeps over my hips, up my thigh, and settles on my knee.

I swallow, feeling my skin tingle, while I wait for his hand to move again.

Finally, he stops touching me, and his hand now lifts the glass of wine to his lips.

My face is burning, and my thighs are aching where he touched me.

And then he looks in my eyes and asks me something amazing: "Are you ready to live dangerously?"

I feel weak, and Rao help me, I lick my lips without thinking.

He inches his barstool closer to mine so that there is barely an inch between us.

“So,” he says almost in a whisper. “I know we planned to hang around here for a while, but it looks like it’s about to get busy, and I want to get to know you better.”

I smile and look down. When I came here, I acted like an aggressive driver who doesn’t care about consequences, but now I realize I had never upshifted from first gear.

When I don’t respond right away, he takes my hand in his and asks, “What do you say? Come to my place, and I’ll make you a delicious meal.”

I remember that one of his hobbies was cooking, so he might be serious about cooking that meal. But I can also see the hard-on he’s packing through the bar, so I know he’s serious about getting to know me better in a physical way.

“Okay,” I say, because that’s what I want, too. It’s what I’ve wanted all night. But this is all happening so fast. “Can I finish my drink first, though?” I suggest.

He makes a sour face then pushes me with a salesman’s smile: “I’ve got much better wines at home.”

“Mmm,” I purr in his ear, and I want to go, but I know everything will change when we walk out that door.

So I delay yet again. I lean back into him and try to distract him with, “Really, what kinds of wine?”

Apparently, I caught him in a lie, because he doesn’t have a ready answer. He doesn’t handle it well.

“Don’t you want to go with me?” he aggressively turns it around on me, pushing me into a corner. “Didn’t you tell me that you were into doing kinky, exciting stuff?”

I nod, but I don’t remember it that way. “I want to, but it’s not like I’m experienced.”

“So you lied,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s serious. “You are a tease.”

“No,” I say, bristling at the insult, and I want to prove him wrong.

Then he smiles at my reaction, “So, Kara, what kind of kinky stuff have you done?”

I look down, embarrassed. “Not much.”

“Okay, let’s go down the kinky checklist,” he insists on torturing me with a test. “Did you ever try bondage or S&M?”

I shake my head firmly.

“Anal?”

I shake my head, again.

“Fisting?”

“Asphyxiation?”

“Spanking?”

“Doggie style?”

“Cowgirl?”

“Blow-jobs at least?” he mocks.

I shake my head, feeling very embarrassed, and I wonder if he wants to do all of those things with me tonight.

“Kara, have you had any kind of sex at all?” he whispers and puts an arm behind my back. His hand comes around my other side and gently squeezes my boobs.

“No,” I reply, but I’m completely distracted, and I’m not sure I heard his question.

“Do you at least watch porn?” he continues rubbing it in, while his fingers pinch my nipple.

“No,” I reply without thinking, and then I gasp because his hand abruptly drops from my breasts to my thighs, and he is escalating fast.

“I don’t believe you,” he whispers in my ear, putting me even more off-balance.

“Sorry,” I confess, hating that he thinks I’m a liar. “I mean, I don’t touch myself very often.”

“I asked you about porn,” he rebukes.

“Sorry,” I apologize desperately.

He pushes on. “When was the last time you watched porn?”

I cover my mouth and don’t answer. I wonder if Winn's hentai count. Winn had quickly pushed me down the slippery slope from manga to hentai, and I'm really into them, now.

“Oh, your silence and your blush speak volumes,” he says, wearing the grin of victory.

I giggle and lean into him despite my humiliation – or maybe because of it.

He teases me some more, saying, “Next you’ll tell me you’ve never cum.”

I shake my head defensively, but the truth is that I haven’t cum for a very long time, and I really need to.

He moves his hand up my inner thigh until his fingers find the center of my sex. I'm as wet as one of the girls in the hentai, and my cotton briefs can't absorb it all.

"Wow," he whispers, amazed. I can’t move, and for a moment, he seems unable to speak. We stare in each other’s eyes for a long moment, when finally he commands, “We need to do something about this. Come with me to my place.”

“Okay.”

He pays for the wine, and we stand up together. We slink towards the door. He is as hard as I am wet, and neither of us wants witnesses to our sordid states.

But I am not ashamed. Not about this. I don’t care if this is unwise, or if we never see each other again. I don't care if he's the wrong person or even if I'm doing this for the wrong reason. I’ve wanted things to change for all of my life, and tonight, things are about to change. 

It seems like nothing can stop that now.

Then, en route to the exit, we walk by a huge television.

The baseball game has been interrupted by a local news update with the words “FLIGHT 237 ENGINE TROUBLE” jumping off the screen.

Flight. Trouble. Those two words penetrate through the haze of my semi-illiterate mind.

I stop walking despite an almost irresistible force urging me forward.

The sound on the TV is barely audible in the increasingly loud bar, but the words are clear to me:

“Shortly after take-off, Delta flight 237 from National City to Geneva is experiencing failures in multiple engines and is now losing altitude.”

Bill yanks my arm, and I begin to follow him to the door, trying to discredit what I just heard and saw. The anchor couldn’t possibly have said “Geneva.” I’m just being paranoid, or maybe it’s the coward in me trying to stay a virgin forever. What can I do about an out-of-control plane, anyway? I’m just a chattel girl, after all. But what if I do nothing? I'll never be able to forgive myself!

Once outside of the bar, Bill and I both look up to the sky, holding hands, and coincidentally the plane is flying directly overhead, leaving a trail of flames in its wake. It is loud and huge because it’s flying way too low. The crisis is so in my face that I can’t possibly ignore it.

“Alex,” I mutter. I have to save her, even if I don’t know how just yet.

I let go of Bill’s hand and say impolitely, “I have to go.”

“Wait?” he says, grabbing my arm roughly, holding me back. “You can’t leave now. We made a connection.”

I stare at him, bewildered that the tragedy overhead has no impact on him at all, then I pull away more forcefully and say, “I’m sorry, but this is important.”

Then I look up, kick off my sandals and run towards where the jet disappeared beyond the buildings.

I slow down for a brief moment when I hear Bill yelling to my back, “Fucking bitch!” at the top of his lungs.

Then I forget about him and sex and my many angsts completely, because I have more important things to think about – such as how the hell am I going to use powers I never used before.

The closest I’ve ever been to flying happened recently when I was late for work, and I hurried up the stairwell at CatCo while barely even touching the steps. I was in such a hurry to go up, I just started going that way without even using my feet. Maybe I can do the same thing now. I run faster and try to hop into the air, but nothing happens. I run even faster, and this time when I jump I nearly crash into a wall. I try again, ignoring dozens of potential witnesses, and this time when I jump, I shoot up above the skyline within a few seconds.

Now that I’m in the air, flying seems easy. I just point my body in a direction and will myself forward, and I move. I feel like I’m discovering a new muscle, but it’s a muscle I’ve never exercised. Everything seems slow up here – except the wind, which tosses me around like a hurricane.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

But I don’t have time to figure out how this all works. The plane has already circled around the city, and now it is coming back towards me.

I watch it pass, unsure what to do. When it roars by much faster than I expect, I turn to follow in a hurry, afraid that I won’t be able to keep up.

But I keep pace easily, and I fly up close behind it, looking for any opportunity to help.

That’s when one of the burning engines explodes off the plane’s wing and flies towards me like a projectile.

I’m too surprised to avoid it, and for a split second, I think I’m going to die, and it hurts like hell when the burning fuel and shrapnel hit me at two hundred miles per hour.

But when the pain passes, I realize that I’m okay, and strangely, now I believe this job might not be too big for me.

After the engine explodes, the plane begins a nosedive, so I grab onto the rudder in the back and try to pull the tail of the plane down, hoping to straighten its flight.

But the rudder rips off in my hand, and now the plane is not only diving; it is going into a spiral.

For one horrifying moment, I realize I made the situation worse, and I want to fly away in shame, but I don’t. I need to make this right.

I fly under the left wing and I grab the supports where the engine had once been. I apply less pressure this time when I try to counter the spin of the plane, and after several seconds, the plane stops spinning.

Then I fly under the cockpit and try to push the front of the plane up. I push gently at first, but a light touch has no effect. I push as hard as I can, and the plane budges but seems determined to crash. “No!” I cry out with an adrenaline rush. I grab the plane so hard that my fingers rip through the steel skin and I find a reserve of strength. I scream while I summon everything I have, and the plane levels out at less than a hundred meters above the river.

I feel about two seconds of relief, until I peek out from under the plane and see that we are heading straight for the Otto Binder bridge.

“Oh, come on!” I accuse the gods of cheating. I’ve never used my powers before, and this is the first test they give me?

I twist my body and part of the frame of the plane into a pretzel shape, trying to fly the plane sideways between the bridge’s suspender cables without immediately losing altitude.

I almost make it, but part of the right wing strikes the bridge and breaks free. The rest of the plane makes it through safely, but the plane is unbalanced now. I keep it as steady as I can as the plane falls onto the river, still at high speed. I let the water slow it down while I keep the plane’s nose up.

After several seconds, the plane finally comes to a stop. I look around anxiously, expecting that the plane will start sinking, but it doesn’t. Despite the damage I’ve done to the plane’s skin, it floats like a large boat.

I climb out on top of the wing and look back at the bridge, which looks fine.

I look at the plane, which appears to be mostly intact.

I look in the windows, and I see dozens of eyes looking back at me. I hear cheering on the other side of those windows. Phones and cameras are pointing at me. Finally, I see Alex standing among the crowd, trying to find a spot by the window.

Only then do I fully understand what I did. I actually saved the plane and my sister.

I had started tonight desperately looking for something wild and exciting, and I had almost settled for a one night stand with someone I didn’t care about, and who didn’t care about me. I never believed I deserved better.

Instead, I have realized a forbidden dream that is ten times more exciting. This is who I am, now. I have broken all of the rules and have done the impossible. The chattel girl is now a hero!

I look at myself, and I’m a complete mess. My hair and every inch of my body is covered in soot and burnt fuel. Most of my shirt has burnt off my body, but I can’t tell which parts are nude and which aren’t.

And I don’t fucking care.

A helicopter is already on the scene, and I look off in the distance where I see several boats moving quickly in this direction.

So I wave hello and goodbye to the people I’ve rescued, and I jump up into the sky.

I look briefly back at the crash site from far away. I look briefly back at my life.

Everything feels different, now. Everything feels new.

Now, I know how amazing it feels to be flying just for the fun of flying.

Now, is the beginning of many amazing things.

 



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