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It's been weeks, so many weeks, since the hostage thing. It's been a small eternity. But Ariel can't just let it go. It's not exactly as if anyone was expecting her to; she was held in the museum for hours, a gun to her head for needing to water the floor, and the only thing keeping her clinging to life Stella's hand layered on top of hers, clutching her privates. When it was over, there was nothing. There was a void in place of a judicial process and not one cop cared about a statement. What the fuck good would a statement do? Superman had swept in and saved the day, smashed the windows and held the bad guys back while shouting some sincere but bare-minimum reassurances at the women he'd rescued, and the aftermath was all up to Stella.
Ariel's bladder hadn't actually released 'till after a full hour of hyperventilated breaths and terrified sobbing that she'd never go again, that her bladder would simply pop right inside her pelvis and she'd be as good as dead. Not even the magic of all the Metropolis doctors combined, not every last piece of their Krypto tech, could cure the hell of her locked-up state, It was only the constant, velvety murmur of Stella's voice, her hand rubbing at the small of her back and her lips pressing over and over again against her clitoris, knowing the only kind of release Ariel would be capable of for a long while yet would be incontinence, more specifically the orgasmic kind. Coming in an employee bathroom with the imprint of a barrel still reddening her temple was the final nail in the coffin of Ariel's delusion of a normal life, a respectable existence to mingle and chat with the other curators about in their interminable galas. But it was something, if not better by any objective measure, truer. She had lived a mess throughout her formative years, so why should they have formed her into a coherent, mundane person? The abuse hadn't been polite. How could it, why should it, mold her into the perfect model of politeness?
So she'd gone off the deep end instead. She'd just gone mad. Plain crazy. Not quite shrieking-in-the-patrons'-faces-crazy but close enough. Certainly shrieking in Stella's face, ripping her clothes off and wailing on the floor type of crazy. The kind Stella was more than happy to tolerate, by some grace of God that remained an ever-elusive mystery to Ariel.
She took to pissing herself. Prodigiously. Constantly. Out in public, though only in out-of-way date spots, in dimly lit restaurant booths and bar corners. Stella kept smiling like a maniac. Stella was a maniac. Stella was a maniac for loving her at all. Stella lapped it up. Stella knelt under the sticky mahogany, hiked up her ridiculous pencil skirt and lapped it all up. Stella was insane like that. Only Stella loved like this. No one else ever will.
Stella sucked her, sometimes. Stella did it a lot, actually. Stella would not be caught dead on a week where her woman's orgasms fell under three digits. The other museum employees talked. Her employees talked. There was not one disciplinary meeting. She didn't have the time. And it wouldn't be appropriate to get eaten out under the table, not with someone present. With a closed office door, it was a different story. Exceptions could be made. Superman would understand. Superman loved women. Superman would want a woman like Ariel, already through with Hell, to be happy. Superman would want her to have this orgasm. Superman would want it to have five successors. Or maybe Superman was gay, he never cared, the only person in the world who had to care was Stella, the only person in the world who would ever get pleasure like this was Ariel. Take that, dad. Ariel. A person. A loved one. A wife, a wife-to-be. Everything you wouldn't let mom be. Stella proposed from under the table. It was everything she could've ever imagined it to be. It was everything. There'd be no party. Only Stella tied down to the bed and forced to endure her facesitting. The way God'd always intended. The way life was always supposed to be.
The metaphors were all fucked. What the fuck was a firework to Stella's mouth? What explosion had anything to give her that the nerves of her body did not grant in abundance? She was spoilt rotten by the sensations of pure, uncomplex, perfect sex. It didn't need poetics to be the best damn thing she'd felt in her miserable, repressed existence. The museum was a piece of shit, Superman was a man she could punch in the face if he interrupted a millisecond of this. She would've said every last one of her employees could get fucked but they couldn't, actually. That's 'cause Ariel was a perfect, blessed angel. Stella's guardian angel, Stella's patron saint. Maybe the other way 'round. What the fuck did any of it matter with her mouth on Ariel, with her fingers carding through coarseness of her mound? And what the fuck exactly did anything in the world matter when she had a CLIT? The rest of the world mattered very much for the ephemeral moment that the pressure filled taut her abdomen but there was no longer more than mere milliseconds of the sensation. Stella made a world of holding cease existing the moment she stepped in. Biological imperative, yes, but also a choice of the consciousness to desire propriety was beneath her and cleanliness above her. One man was enough playing God for one city. Let Ariel Dickenson be a mere mortal. Let Ariel Dickenson piss herself thirty-seven times a day out of sheer love for her girlfriend. Let Ariel Dickenson, God and false one alike help her, desire things for herself, not the statue. The Kryptonite shard was very beautiful, should not have been capitalized and would never, ever love her back. What horror to contend with. What liberation. What world-saving lesbianism!