Possession Triple-X

People wonder if superpowers make your life easier. Let me tell you, the more you can do, the more ways you can get fucked.

Sorry, let me rephrase. The more ways you can get in trouble.

But, yeah, sex. That’s a big part of how I get into trouble, too.

Take tonight, for instance. I’m working a job, undercover as a hot piece of ass at LUX NIGHTCLUB on Sunset. My assignment? To swipe a certain black duffel bag full of untraceable diamonds from a Russian mobster’s private lounge.

I’ve got my best come-nail-me jeans zipped halfway up my thighs, but all I want is to get the damn bag and get out of here, before whatever force inside me snuggles down and takes root.

Yeah, you heard me. I can hijack people, puppeteer their bodies, but if I hang out inside too long… I start sliding into second personality territory.

Which is a big, fat no.

My real body is still back at my apartment, subdued by an experimental cocktail of horse tranquilizers and stolen antibiotics. I tried heroin once, but I didn’t much care for being filthy and stealing Christmas presents for my mother all year round.

Plus, if I let my body get too far gone, it dies—and I die along with it. My consciousness returns only to my original form. It acts as a fail-safe. You might be surprised how many comatose grandmas with elephantine toes have been rejuvenated by me hijacking their meat prison for half an hour while I escape the cops.

And right now… I’m getting a little off-schedule. Too much time in my hot honey trap.

Stretching, I push my arms over my head and tousle my waist-length brown hair, pretending to flirt with the bartender. The tips of my nipples almost peek above the edges of my crop top, drawing the attention of a dozen men—and women—but none more so than the woman standing guard on the catwalk.

She’s been watching me over the rim of her rocks glass all night, but she plays it cool, only giving me a touch of her attention at once. Her hair is vanilla-blonde, checked into a bun, but damn does it shine when she walks under the spotlights. She’s got hips wide enough to support survivors of the Titanic and big brown tits that would be just as effective as airbags as they are for titty jobs—if she ever felt the need to crash a car.

She’s a cop. You can see it in the incredulous way she scans the clubgoers, her badge-shaped purse, and the hard lines around her lips. But she’s not on duty. She’s out for some good, dirty fun… And I’m guessing from her haircut and snug pencil skirt, she’s more than ready for a little hands-on experience.

Especially from another woman. I’m talking about me. In case you haven’t guessed yet, I’m currently a girl. Until I grow bored and jump into the body of a man, anyway.

Right now, Miss Vice is trying to decide whether I’m on the menu, too.

When I put my arms down and wink, you better believe I’ve got her undivided attention.

Good. I need to keep her focused on me.

Who needs superpowers, anyway? Applying lipstick in the middle of a dance floor is like bat signals to horny women—

“You remind me of my ex-wife. However, I never thought about her making those faces in the bedroom,” a deep voice cracks to my right. “In all fairness, she did have a beard.”

A ripple travels along my skin. The only thing I can count on in this job is a shit ton of horny strangers, but I can feel the spotlight shifting.

The stage perform- er, a tattooed hunk in skintight leather pants, fingerless gloves, and a shirt as white as teeth. His blue eyes are more icy than winter in Antarctica, but I don’t think he’s checking me out for a hot night on the tiles. No…he’s trying to decide if I’m as bright as I seem or if I have dangerous levels of sunshine squirreled away inside.

I notice cigarette smoke behind his right ear, but it’s not burning just yet. No, he’s focusing hard on the hot women who constitute the rest of the audience—which has absolutely nothing to do with the eager way they mouthing curses at his guitar solo. They’re reading the music of his pants.

I twist my ass on the barstool and press my palms together in a prayerful pose, using two fingers to indicate I’ll join him on stage in a minute. We don’t need to talk before I bone him to the best of his abilities. He’s got three plates of chilled cucumber soup with straws spun into stars of wonder, and the tick-tick-tick of his tongue tells me he’s ready to put our vaporizers together and make a cannabis cocktail.

Or maybe he suspects I just spent half the night chasing Russian balls. All I know is I’m not the only one dealing with supernatural interference tonight. Its presence is so palpable in the air; the disco ball is trembling on the ceiling.

An invisible hand gives my soul a shake. If I do things right tonight, I can possess one of the objects of my sexual desire and use them to drag my body to safety on a chariot made of orgasms.

The glow of Vice and her badge-shaped purse lights up the dark corner of the club. Tattooed Rockstar Leader is playing a song called “The Boner of Destiny” for the second time. There’s no reason for us not to get tipsy on adrenaline and screw like rabbits.

On the other hand, there’s something in the air that feels…wrong. The