No one knows what it’s like

to be the bad man

to be the sad man

--Pete Townsend

The fourth man enters at precisely 1155 am. I look around to see if the guards are paying attention. Though the bank is crowded and noisy, and the new arrival and the three others ignore one another from widely separated parts of the big room, they stand out somehow. They all look like they’ve got withdrawals on their minds.

Big ones.

The last especially: he’s built along the lines of the Incredible Hulk, with a face to match. The woman he stands behind in a teller’s line tries too hard to ignore him. He looms over her like a big rig behind a motorcycle at a traffic light.

The clock ticks away towards noon. I wonder if I’m the only one who knows what’s about to happen.

Apparently so, because when 12 o’clock strikes and the four men pull out huge automatics and fire them into the air, filling the room with thunder and smoke, it actually takes a couple of seconds for everyone to obey a bellowed instruction and hit the floor.

Which is quickly littered with backs.

Leaving me the only one standing.

“Freeze, m’th’f’ka!” the Hulk yells. I can barely hear him over the sudden echoing clangor of the alarm.

But I freeze anyway. It’s my usual reaction when suddenly the sole object of the attentions of howitzer-sized handguns. Three out of four, anyway—one of the robbers walks about separating the guards (also prone) from their weapons.

The quartet doesn’t seem surprised by the clamorous ringing or the crash of the steel security doors dropping over the main entrance sealing us in. They don’t even hurry as they go about their business. The Hulk stands next to me with his cannon pointed more or less at my left ear while the others rifle the tellers’ drawers. The alarm bell dies away.

“We thought we was gonna hafta pick a special hostage,” he grins at me, talking too loudly (like he really wants everyone to hear him, the dope). “Thanks for volunteerin’!”

Now I hear approaching sirens through the steel doors. Lots of them. Somehow, I don’t feel comforted.

Any more than the crooks seem alarmed, let alone nervous. If anything they look impatient—one keeps checking his watch.

I keep forgetting about all the people lying on the floor. They don’t seem as important as the gun tickling my ear or the huge smiling gargoyle that holds it. The phone on one of the desks in the back rings loudly and the big black dude, who’s standing right next to it, answers.

All I catch of the conversation is “hostages” and “serious” and “don’t wanna see.”

The Hulk takes me by the back of my collar and walks me to the main doors as Tattoos move to the rear with one of the security guards. We stare at the steel shutters for a moment, then, magically, they’re raised. We stand there showing both hostage (moi) and cannon-like gat at hostage’s head to the assemblage of uniforms outside. But they’re already getting into the cars and pulling away, one by one.

“Workin’ like a charm so far,” the Hulk says. From the room behind us come murmurs of assent.

We watch the cops depart. Is it just my hopeful imagination, or are they giving up too easily? Leaving so quickly that there must be Something Else Going On? An Ace about to drop into this particular Hole?

If so, I wish to hell it would hurry up and drop.

As though echoing my thought, the big black robber yells “What’s takin’ ‘em so long??” and is immediately bombarded with “Shut the fuck up, stupid!” from all his cohorts.

I’m not the only antsy one here.

“Ex-excuse me?” a female voice pipes up.

Everyone spins as though at a gunshot. A hand is raised from the midst of all the prone customers. Hesitantly, a woman lifts herself to her knees as though hoisted up by both arms extended stiffly skyward.

“What the fuck?” says the Hulk.

“Uh—excuse me,” the blonde stammers, “I’m very sorry to bother you, but, well, uh, my—my daughter has to go to the, the bathroom very bad.”

“I really do,” comes another meek voice, muffled by the floor.

“Shut up lady!” A loud hiss from one of the backs around her. “You’ll get us all killed!”

“Please, she, well, she has this bladder problem ….”

“Oh shit!” says the black dude in disgust. It’s almost funny to see such a big tough guy grossed out.

“Pleeeeeeease ….” From the daughter, sounding frantic.

“Stand up bitch.”

The woman gets to her feet. The Hulk is more observant than his buddies—even dressed down in conservative street clothes she’s spectacular: well over 6 feet in tall heels, boobs like trembling watermelon filling a canvas jacket to bursting, a lavish pair of asscheeks that bulge out against the loose slacks, stretching them taut.

“Oh mama!!” The black dude speaks for all.

“Please ….” The big blonde squirms under the crooks’ avid gaze. She’s damned good-looking, too, despite face-covering dark glasses so huge they make her look like something out of “The Fly.”

“What’ll you do if we let your daughter pee?” the Hulk asks.

The question takes the tall beauty by surprise. “Why, I, that is ….” She swallows. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She isn’t a very good liar.

“Will you suck dick?”

Suddenly she’s very still and wary. With a wink to his cohorts, the Hulk continues, “See, we got no problem with your little bitch flooding this room. It’ll stink, but what doesn’t?

“So let’s talk quid pro quo here, Tits. You want something for your kid, and we want something from you.”

“Fuckin’ A, bubba!” from one of the others, whose body is a tapesty of tattoos.

“Mom,” the daughter pipes up from the floor. “Don’t. It isn’t worth it.”

“I have to,” the big woman grits back at her, in a hard edgy voice that sounds like someone else.

“Oh, you don’t have to,” the Hulk smiles. “If we beat on the little cunt enough, she’ll do the suckin’.”

“N-no,” the blonde pleads, suddenly much more alarmed. A long still pause, then her broad shoulders slump and those titanic boobs seem to droop to below her waist in massively jiggling resignation. “Which ones do you want me to suck?”

In a very different tone: dull, resigned, let’s-get-it-over-with, like you might hear from a hooker who isn’t going to make a penny on the deal. And I notice the plural, as though she just assumes there’ll be more than one.

The Hulk goes with it, grinning big and nasty. “Why not all of us?”

You’d expect an average everyday All-American Mom to be grossed out, but she just nods matter-of-factly.

“You and the bitch.”

No further reaction. The Hulk’s grin is positively ferocious.

He gestures to all the backs littering the floor. “Maybe you two can do a few of these patrons too—to make up for all this inconvenience. We could make it a drinking contest—see which of you swallows the most cum.”

She just looks at him, eyes blank. He chuckles. “Naw, I’m just kiddin’. It’d be fun, but we don’t have time.”

Suddenly he pulls me to him and yanks my pants down! “Let’s start with this jeeter.”

The general reaction is typical when my underpants follow the jeans to the floor: “Hey!” “Lookit that thing!” “This I gotta see!”

My cock gets a reaction from the big blonde—she stares and licks her lips nervously. Even her daughter, still face down on the floor, turns her head for a peek. The single blue eye visible through the tangle of golden tresses widens.

All right, I won’t be coy. As a lady friend of mine put it the first time she saw Rufus (old Saxon for ‘redhead’): “When they handed out dicks you must’ve gotten back in line a whole bunch of times!”

“You think you can cram all that in?” The Hulk smiles.

“Head for head!” Tattoos laughs.

You can almost see the Amazonian beauty trying to think fast. She isn’t very good at it. “But—she, she needs my help in there. I have to—”

“She sure does—but it’ll be out here. The longer he lasts, the longer your kid has in the head. So take yer time with that thing.”

The black dude: “Get movin’ bitch.”

They both obey. Sharing a glance of mutual misery, mother helps daughter to her feet, which brings another round of cheers from the quartet of crooks. The girl is her mother’s daughter in more ways than just hair color: a sturdily-built hardbody, shorter than her mother but with almost the same monumental proportions. Despite being dressed in baggy coveralls (with high heels poking out below) and a windbreaker zipped to her throat, it’s obvious she’s built like a couple of brick shithouses, both of them on her chest. They fill the oversize jacket out as far as it can go—not as big as her mom’s but looking bigger because she’s almost a foot shorter. The teen bombshell seems to be all basketball-sized boobs and long strong legs.

Nervy, too: she shakes that big solid ass of hers for all eyes as she half-walks, half-skips into the bathroom. The black dude follows her and starts to go in but she says something that makes him blush (!). He waits outside the door, looking truculent.

Now all eyes turn to the blonde who sashays over and gives me a long hard look as she squats down before me. The overwhelming proximity of her ponderous pontoons provokes Rufus into a sluggish show of interest in the proceedings. She stares at him with disgust mixed with (maybe my imagination) anticipation. He gets very polarized reactions from women—some take him as a feast, some as a challenge, some an ordeal and some just take one look and it’s “Not in my pussy, you don’t!”

This one, now. She takes him matter-of-factly, doesn’t even try to encircle his turgid girth with her fingers (only one woman has been able to, a pianist with a 13-note span). Just cradles him in her palm and lifts him to her luscious lips. He immediately starts to wake the rest of the way up. Despite his size it doesn’t take much (a nurse wondered how I can remain conscious with all the extra blood it must take to get him going). And the way the hunkered blonde Amazon’s humongous tits spread around her thighs and spill over her knees like soft jacketed dirigibles provides more than enough.

She sticks her tongue out, and it just keeps on coming. She has the Rufus of tongues! Ever the gentleman, he grows to meet it. She fondles his heavy balls with hands that are strong and warm and experienced. They seem to know what to do all by themselves—her attention is bent more towards the bathroom door. As she runs her tongue along Rufus’s wrist-thick shaft and brings him to full rigid attention (making the jism in his balls start to boil in record time and the rest of me shiver), she keeps glancing over that way.

By now every eye, both of those standing and most of those prone, is on her performance, and she’s totally aware of this. The room is dead quiet as she stretches her lips around Rufus’s big swollen head till they all but disappear, then has to shift forward onto her knees to stuff that peach-sized knob into her mouth.

There isn’t a soft dick in the house.

-2-

The softest things are my knees as she leans in to take first one inch of stiff meat in between those plush straining lips, and another, then two more, and finally, with a pause for breath (through her nose, she sure as hell can’t breathe through her mouth any more), still two inches more!

I admit it: I’m impressed—her mouth seems to be bigger inside than out. Every other male in the room is impressed too—very visibly. A few of the customer/hostage/voyeurs have to turn onto their sides.

The colossal-chested Center of Attention isn’t even blushing as she pulls her head back and Rufus sliiides out of her mouth again, smeared with lipstick and saliva and zillions of little electrical charges that zap to every part of the rest of me.

As (taking a deeeep breath) she makes inch after inch of the curving bowsprit projecting from under my shirttails disappear into her face again, the big blonde turns her eyes up to mine. And—kneeling there before me, mind you, lips stretched taut around my colossal cock and maybe six of my 15 inches (“no brag, just fact”) sticking out of her face—damned if there isn’t a gleam of challenge and even mastery in them!

Like she knows exactly what’s really going on, and it doesn’t matter!

And before I can do anything about it—you can imagine what that would’ve been—

The bathroom door is blown from its hinges as though by dynamite, flattening the black dude, who like everyone else is totally focussed on the blonde’s incredible oral performance—

And over him hurtles a yellow-caped human cannonball!

I get a quick glimpse of long emerald-sheathed legs and huge red-vested tits (as red as her hair) before green-gauntleted hands begin tossing things all around the room that explode in blinding flashes and ear-splitting (but harmless) bangs and fill the air with dense choking smoke!

The confusion and chaos is instantaneous. The customers on the floor stampede like cattle for the exit, totally overwhelming the crooks who, half blind and the rest deaf, are confused enough as it is. Through the smoke I see one of the crooks reach out and snag a woman as she races past. He claps a gun to her head

but the Amazonian apparition doesn’t even pause—landing lightly as a thistle she rockets up again before the black dude and Tattoos can squeeze off a shot. As though launched from a catapult, her awesomely voluptuous body arcs through the smoke-filled air—away from the hostage-holding crook! But a green-gloved hand flashes again and sends a batarang whirling out over the robbers

filling the air with lightning! Like a tiny spinning storm cloud, the ‘rang sends bolts of electricity stabbing down, targeting the crooks’ guns, belt buckles, all the metal on them. Through the smoke I hear yells and guns hitting the floor and the woman comes racing past me for the exit.

To show you how complete the confusion is, mine included, I haven’t even noticed that those warm soft lips have left Rufus. But suddenly there he is, bobbing naked and gleaming and lipstick-smeared before me, and we’re both alone.

When he’s like this I know better than to try to tuck him back in—zippers are totally ineffective. So I just leave him out to watch the action with me.

By now the customers have fled and the steel security shutters lowered again, leaving Rufe and me sealed in here with the crooks, the fabulous-bodied female fireball, and a lot of smoke and noise and yells. Yells of pain and surprise and frustration.

When the smoke starts to clear I see the Hulk swinging and this Teen Wonder dodging. It’s like a bear trying to swat a gazelle. He throws punch after punch that only fan the wisps of smoke drifting between them while she shows off by not moving from directly before him. Finally he seems to connect but she’s only falling back onto her shoulder blades to bring up long powerful thighbooted legs and box his ears stunningly with her ankles. When he slumps over her, the masked Teen Amazon plants spikeheeled feet in his gut, takes him by the collar and with a laugh throws him over her—right into the black dude and Tattoos who were trying to sneak up behind!

It’s a ballet choreographed by John Woo and cast by Russ Meyer, the kind of fast vicious gymnastic violence Jackie Chan only dreams of.

Suddenly someone is next to me—out of the corner of my eye I see two someones, in fact: the size of watermelon, swaying heavily at my shoulder. I glance over and Savage Fury is attached to them: a towering monumentally voluptuous vision of titanic tits and super-pulchritude, all of it bulging and jiggling around a “costume” of leather straps more suitable to flossing. Somehow the cowl, shoulder-length gloves and thighboots only make the majestic rest of her even more naked.

And believe me: there’s enough ‘naked’ standing there for three normal women. In her boots’ 6-inch spikes, Savage Fury towers over my 5’9” by a full head. Those double dirigibles of hers float at just about my shoulder, and I can hardly resist nudging one to watch it shimmy and maybe find out how something that big can stick out that far.

But I resist. Even if I hadn’t seen her juggle cars and shotput a pick-up truck two blocks, this super-Amazon’s got shoulders like a fullback and those long gloves are packed with muscle clear to her fingertips.

Besides, I’ve already had those luscious lips of hers around Rufus when she was a blonde in mufti—who could ask for anything more?

Well, maybe that she doesn’t hold it against me. Or maybe that she does, who knows?

Her teenaged tit-queen sidekick bounds about amongst the three remaining bank robbers like a ball among jacks. The big black guy swings and for his effort gets a kick in the face that lays him out; Tattoos lunges at her, only to be used as a vaulting horse to leapfrog over into the Hulk. The Teen Titan takes him full in the face with her crotch and flattens him.

“Aren’t you going to help her?” I ask.

The Cowled Crusader smiles. “Does Robin look like she needs help?”

So that’s who she is. You might not have seen the new Robin yet, she only replaced the old one (the guy) last year when he was promoted to Nightwing. Finally convinced a lot of people I know that maybe Bats was neither gay nor completely bats. The official word puts her age at 18 but my own estimate shaves a year or 2 off that, despite those bowling ball jugs and a body that won’t quit. I don’t know what she’s doing on this side of the country; the Valley is a long way from Gotham in a lot of ways. But I’m definitely glad she’s here, and not only because she’s a gorgeous mega-stacked little honey.

Who right now squats on the prone Hulk’s face rubbing her mounded (and wet) G-string into his mouth and nose, smearing them with juice. By the small moaning noises she makes and the way her gauntleted hands tweak the thumb-sized nipples protruding stiffly through the crimson top (a vest-like affair filled to overflowing with heaving young titfat, barely held together by a pair of filigree chains taut as violin strings), this dominant sort of thing obviously turns her on to the max.

She isn’t the only one. Rufus, that kinky dog, is showing renewed interest in the proceedings.

And Savage Fury, chuckling at her titan-titted teen partner’s sexy antics, notices. She licks her lips as he starts to rise again. “Nice, uh, dick,” she comments, and actually pinkens.

“Sorry about, uh, before,” I reply.

“It’s alright,” she says. “It wasn’t your idea.”

“But to be honest, I did enjoy it.”

“Well, I guess that’s okay. I mean, you couldn’t help it and all, and if I have to give you head to distract those creeps, I guess I’d rather you liked it than not.”

Loving it, I lead her on: “There aren’t many who can take as much of him in as you did.”

Her plush gleaming mouth quirks. In all the confusion, not only has she had time to get into costume (a matter of a few moments to shuck loose outer clothes, pull cowl over head and slide arms into long gloves) but she’s also freshened her lipstick.

“I get a lot of practice.”

The admission doesn’t seem to embarrass her at all. I don’t see how it could, just a week ago on ‘Hard Copy’:

Matter-of-factly, as though comparing tooth pastes, Fury goes on: “Yours was a stretch, but at least he tasted better than most. Occasionally it’s nice to do one that’s worth the effort.”

Rufus loves that. He’s such an egotist. He perks right up to full attention.

She takes a deep chest-lifting breath that bulges her milkblimps out on both sides of the thin straps till they’re all but engulfed in that burgeoning pink blubber. “In fact, when this is over ….”

She never finishes. Suddenly, like a stone over a pond, the Hulk comes skipping across the polished floor and caroms off Savage Fury (she doesn’t even shuffle her spikeheeled feet) right into me! I go down like the Scarecrow with his stuffings knocked out and the Hulk continues on to fetch up against a pillar, where he takes on the appearance of a large pile of rumpled clothing.

“Ooops, sorry!” Robin calls from across the room with a giggle. “Guess I’ll have to take a spare on that frame!”

At her feet, Tattoos moans and stirs. She kicks him viciously in the head and he returns to Slumberland.

Savage Fury leans down to me with an indulgent smile and puts out a leatherclad hand. I reflect on how if she pulls just a little too hard I could end up either as a grease spot on the ceiling, or in orbit.

But that’s not why I hesitate. I want to savor the Moment. There’s so impossibly, jigglingly much of her hovering over me! Swaying over my face like vast roseate clouds, Fury’s stupendous boobs obscure everything behind them but the gleaming top of her cowled head and the crimson froth of cunt hair that spills from the V-juncture of straps at her mounded much-used pussy.

I guess The Cowled Crusader would figure it only natural for someone in my position to cop a feel of those monstrous mamms. I mean, there they are—bigger than life and several times as luscious. So I guess it isn’t surprising that her smile only widens when I reach up and, instead of taking the proffered gloved hand, grab ahold of the gargantuan milkbag sagging massively around its strap practically in my face.

I’m reminded of a pink elephant with a big brown belly-button (an “outie”) straddling a very narrow hammock.

I like to think the titan-titted super-tease expects to be groped, maybe even wants it. And an odd resonance as my hand obligingly fondles this ponderously pendent jello-pumpkin (“odd” considering how its owner dresses and acts): she has an air of nervous excitement, of forbidden fruit being tasted, as though she thinks she’s getting away with something because she wears that cowl.

So I guess I’m not the only one savoring a Moment. And because I know how much anticipation enhances ultimate fulfillment, I take an extra few seconds to revel in the silken feel of this legendary mega-mammary.

But sadly (for the Cowled Crusader at least), anticipation can be prolonged only so far ….

Fury’s action-hardened teats stick out like rigid fingers against the taut massively overburdened thongs. I touch one with my thumb. It’s like pushing a button—she takes a sharp inbreath and her masked eyes start to glaze. The crimson-thatched pussy so brutally plundered so often by so many scumbags blossoms like a pink flower around its V-straps and damned if a long drip of cum doesn’t drool forth!

Obviously, all this action and violence turns The Cowled Crusader on even more than Robin.

A leather-sheathed hand reaches for rigid curving Rufus, who is only too eager. But he’ll have to do what he hates most: wait.

Because the Moment has FINALLY arrived.

But the delay makes it all the more delightful to watch Savage Fury’s masked eyes widen in surprise

when my hand, suddenly Hardened to steel, clenches in her titanic tit, crushing that ponderous pendent pontoon.

Those exquisite orbs’ sexual glaze vanishes into shock as they stare at

my fingers disappearing in all that doughy blubber

(so soft and yielding as it blushes red, so warm, so tender).

Her moist opulent lips part in indignant protest, only to gape instead around an astonished squawk of pain

when I pull her down to me by that humongously melony handle!

Rufus almost pops right there. I tell him to hang on, the worst is yet to come.

The expression on her gorgeous cowled face, caught between a grimace and a squeal, is so bewildered and wounded that I’m forced to smash a Hardened fist into the middle of it, squarely on that pert little nose of hers.

She jerks back with a yelp, then bleats nasally when I jerk her down and punch her beautiful face again. Straightens pulling me up with her, stretching that stupendous clenched milkbag out like an enormous sausage.

“Fury!” a girlish voice cries behind us.

I don’t even have to aim. Approaching heels rap like gunshots on the polished parquet floor as I fall backwards stuffing a foot into Savage Fury’s belly—and listen to the song of her helpless howl as The Cowled Crusader goes hurtling over me

right into the oncoming Girl Wonder. I hear them collide in a duet of thuds and squeals.

(Anticipation, for just a sweet second)

before I turn to look at a colorful jumble of boulderous boobs, crimson hair and burgeoning flesh. Savage Fury and Robin lie entwined like lovers, Fury’s cowled head buried face-down between the Teen Titan’s titanic scarlet-vested tits and her gapingly exposed pussy mashed against Robin’s domino’d face.

The Girl Wonder’s nose just parts Fury’s heavy slack fucklips. It looks so comfortable there that I have to wonder if this is the first time.

And me without a camera.

—3—

But Fury is up again like a shot. Ever the considerate host, she takes a moment to help her stunned teen partner up (Robin sags back against a marble pillar, one gauntleted hand to her forehead) before charging back at me with murder in her masked eye.

Like most superwomen (sorry, it’s true, they’re much worse than the men), she talks too much. “I don’t know who the hell you are, you bastard, but—”

I try to look scared as she rushes up like a leatherclad Amazonian freight train with two gigantic joggling headlights (which have GOT be glued into those narrow straps). I shift my eyes looking for a way out, actually start to run for the door but pause before a pillar as though frozen in terror. Eyes blazing, she growls in blood-thirsty anticipation and lunges at me

I’m too scared to move

Her plush lips curl in a ferocious grin as she leaps the last 20 feet

And then Savage Fury crouches dazed at my feet, gloved hands clutching her cowled head. The yard-thick marble column behind me is split from base to ceiling, the fractures radiating from a point just in back of my belly button. I hadn’t even considered: if Fury had just charged right into me, she'd have snapped that column like a twig and maybe brought more than a little of the ceiling down. Not a problem for her or me, but the guys ….

I can’t show that flash of fear, so:

“Olé!” I yell.

I can almost hear the elephant-uddered super-bimbo’s frazzled mind obsessing on the obvious:

How right she is.

But suddenly I’m really pissed! Forget dropping the ceiling, if she had slammed into me, which she fully expected to do, she’d have fucking killed me! That’s what bothers me most about this whole nouveau supergirl thing: they’re mostly a bunch of goddam amateurs. Goes for a lot of the guys too. Of course, if Savage Fury was a pro this would be a lot chancier and I probably wouldn’t even try it. You have to consider both edges of the sword.

Moaning, the Monumental Mammazon pushes herself up to gloved hands and thighbooted knees. Gives her cowled head a shake. Even angry, I can appreciate the way Fury’s colossally swaying milkbags balloon out on both sides of her big ribcage, almost touching the floor beneath her. So can Rufus, bobbing around before me like a bowsprit—I still haven’t put him away and he’s getting impatient.

Sorry old pal, foreplay isn’t over yet.

But I’m impatient too, so I take Fury by the crimson ponytail erupting from the back of her cowl. She winces and reaches up to grab my hands (hers so warm and strong in their leather gloves). I let her feel the iron strength of my Hardened and unbreakable grip, before I start slamming her head into the pillar (“unh—oohh—agh!!”) cracking it even more, till plaster showers down from the ceiling and her hands drop away from mine to dangle uselessly.

“What’s the matter, Supertits??” I hear myself yelling as I hammer her beautiful masked face into the pillar again and again, and she fills the air with frantic yelps and squeals of pain. “Losing your touch? You didn’t smash me clear through this thing like you wanted!”

Alright, I guess sometimes I lose it a little too.

But I cheer right up again when Robin, finished with the mere mortals, comes charging towards me. From behind their mask her grim eyes promise oceans of pain and abuse, personally and sincerely delivered.

I like candor in a foe. It makes my job satisfaction complete. Besides, as hard as I’ve been slamming her head into the pillar—not nearly as hard as if I had real super-strength—Fury has regained enough of her marbles to make that cowled noggin impossible to move, at least for me. That fucking super-strength of hers ….

“You—you leave her alone!” the red-headed masked bombshell cries, long thighbooted legs flashing green as she bears down on me.

“Okay.” As though it didn’t matter any more, I let go of Fury’s scarlet topknot and The Cowled Crusader slumps face down to the floor. Her monstrous boobs hump her back up, make her look like she’s lying on two bolsters.

Before giving Robin my full attention, and to try to keep Fury from rejoining the fray too soon, I fetch her leatherclad head a brutal Hardened kick that rolls the Masked Mammazon over and over humpty-bumpty on those meaty watermelons to sprawl on her back, leather-sheathed arms and legs outflung, chest-boulders finally sagging out of their straps all the way to the floor at her sides, like half-inflated beachballs.

I guarantee it: you have to see tits like hers to believe ‘em! And even then ….

As I turn to face the enraged Girl Wonder, I’m hoping she won’t try the same stunt Savage Fury did, and end the fight prematurely. This one I want to savor—I like ‘em young, impetuous and overconfident. As long as they have everything else, which Robin does, in over-abundance.

But I do have to hand it to the bubble-busted bird-brain: she’s fast. A lot faster than her overblown partner. I’m looking right at her and still don’t see the green-gauntleted right she launches at my jaw. Doesn’t matter, of course. And I relish the wide-eyed look of astonishment that opens up that lovely young face when her fist passes right through my head!

I don’t want her to stop just yet, I’m enjoying the way these immense young boobs bounce and shimmy in their tautly chained red vest. So I give her my most insolent grin—that grows bigger and more provoking at each bullet-fast follow-up that goes right through my jaw and stomach. Not to mention the thighbooted spin-kick that seems to sink ankle-deep into Rufus but might as well be kicking the air.

Finally Robin Gets The Picture and stops (not even panting!). “All right,” she says grimly. I guess she only giggles when she’s grinding her pussy into some helpless beaten schmuck’s face. “I can’t touch you. But then you can’t—UNHHH!!”

I show her I can when my left hand flicks out to slam an iron-hard slap across Robin’s gorgeous masked face that almost knocks her from her spikeheeled feet. Recovering instantly despite evident shock (and a nice trickle of blood from the corner of that pouty little mouth, it’s nice to hit someone and make a difference) the titan-titted Teen Titan laces a machinegun-like pair of gauntleted straight jabs to my face—with the same stunning lack of results as before!

This time I reach out and give one of her enormous udders an insolent squeeze through its bulgingly overloaded vest. The big redhead gasps in outrage and grabs my hand as the fingers sink into awesomely abundant titflesh. I let her—so she, like Savage Fury, can feel the strength of my Hardened grip. The soft warm blubber swells up from the crimson vest as my fist tightens implacably on that gigantic jug. Her pixieish features twist in pain, gloved fingers scrabbling frantically and uselessly at my hand. Finally, groaning, she sinks to her leather-sheathed knees before me.

Right where we want her.

Harder than ever and increasingly insistent, Rufus bobs about in her masked face. Robin grimaces in disgust and turns away. I jerk her back by the hair, then slap my (if I may be immodest on his behalf) baseball bat of a buddy across her mouth a few times. She squeaks girlishly and cringes.

Teasingly, I take Rufus and rub his plum-sized head across her sweet bloodied tight-zipped lips. She starts to bring up a big-gloved fist so I clench my hand in her soft mammoth milkbag to remind her who’s got ahold of whom by what. Her lips unzip in a wracking groan

And then like a speeding monster-titted locomotive Savage Fury piles into me from behind!

Fortunately for me, though she tiptoes (not easy in heels as high as hers, the kinky bitch) I get just barely enough warning from the creak of her leather thighboots. So I can make what she slams into about as soft and yielding as the side of a battleship. Even so, she hits hard enough to knock me over

Right onto The Girl Wonder, slamming her head to the floor and driving Rufus into her mouth like a fat salami of a spike! She chokes on his bulbous lip-stretching head (about all that will fit) and her eyes all but leap from their mask, as though forced out by air pressure.

“MPPFFF!!”

Savage Fury pulls me up by my collar (I become instantly sympathetic to puppies and kittens everywhere) and mouth-impaled Robin comes with me. Rufus has grown so large in the warm wet oven of her mouth that his head is stuck behind her teeth—which (to give her credit) she’s tried to use but found about as useful as chewing on steel pipe. As she is hauled up she grips his rigid wrist-thick shaft with both gauntleted hands—plenty of room there though her greenclad fingertips can’t begin to touch around his girth.

Then Fury slams me to the floor again, and Robin beneath me, driving my gigantic joint even farther into the masked Teen Titan’s mouth!

“GLLLGGGHH!!” she comments, nose-breathing wildly.

The Cowled Crusader has me in a full nelson, armgloved hands locked behind my head, so she can’t see what’s going on underneath. While not taking any damage worth note, Yours Truly can barely keep it together with Savage Fury’s elephantine doughy chest-hulks mashed massively against his back and his dick trapped in the choking Girl Wonder’s hot moist mouth.

Briefly, I wonder if these two superbitches could have planned this somehow. I’ve heard that after losing a fight Savage Fury has turned more than one gangrape around and fucked and sucked her attackers right into the slammer.

But then she forces me to my knees (doesn’t take much, at that moment all my rigidity sticks out between my legs) and slams Robin’s head against the floor again, plunging Rufus in another few inches, till he bulges out her neck like she’s trying to do a sword-swallowing act with a kielbasa!

“KUKKH!” Gorgeous young face stains deep red as bulging masked eyes cross comically on the massive member filling her mouth.

By now she’s too weak to pull Rufus out—he’s jammed so far down her throat that he cuts off all air (“ggg—kkk—mmp!”).

-4-

And then I go and make things worse for the poor strangling supergirl (it’s what I do best) by fighting back against her ponderous-pontooned partner. My legs have no strength left in them at all—blame Rufus, by now he’s in control of everything below the equator. So all I can do when Fury shifts position behind me to clamp her super-powerful leather-sheathed arms around my neck (obviously surprised that she can’t snap that neck like a twig), is bow my head down so over its top she can finally see what she’s making me do to her poor teen co-worker. Who, masked face now the color of her massively overloaded vest, has been reduced to flopping helplessly about at Rufus’s end like a magnificent harpooned fish.

Fury freezes in shock. “Robin!” she cries. “Migod—!”

While that Amazon amateur gapes in horror, I slam a Hardened elbow back into her belly. She gasps and her stranglehold loosens a bit, so I start pistoning my elbow in her muscular gut again and again. She goes “UNH-OOFF-GUKHH!!” but hangs on, and actually starts to lift me up again—and mouth-impaled Robin with me!

The red-headed red-faced bird-bitch’s eyes look like they’re about to leap right out of their mask. “MMMMPPPFFF!!”

“Let-her-go!” Fury grunts. “Get that—nnnhh!!—dick out of her mouth, you—!”

Right, like I could even if I wanted to with those musclebound arms clamped around my neck. Like I said about amateurs ….

But Fury and I are at a stalemate—she’s too strong for me to break her neck hold and I’m too Hard (in every possible way) for her to hurt. So I continue to pound her gut, and use the only other weapons left to me: Rufus and Robin.

The limp numbly choking Girl Wonder, green-gauntleted arms twitching as she fades from lack of oxygen, has been lifted almost to her thighbooted knees on my curving iron-hard cock. I swing my hips around and slam her head into the pillar and she isn’t too far gone to yelp, if dimly.

“Hey!” Savage Fury cries behind me.

I use Rufus to swing Robin’s head into the column again (“glmpff!!”) and again (“gggh!!”). Good thing she has such a thick leonine mane (big hair being almost as mandatory for modern supergirls as big tits) or she’d be unconscious by now, instead of just on her way.

Well, maybe not such a good thing.

But it is without a doubt the weirdest fight I’ve ever had—I’d be laughing my ass off if I could. Every time I elbow Fury in her belly, she grunts and jerks me around so my dick bashes mouth-impaled Robin into the pillar like an Amazonian fish on a spit, choking and gagging helplessly. Which makes Rufus happy but is one helluva distraction for the rest of me. And every time she involuntarily head-slams her titan-titted teen partner, The Cowled Crusader lets out a squeal of dismay and tries to bash my skull into the pillar, which only results in another head crack for Robin. And so on and so on, and shoobee-doobee-doo.

All I have to do is resist the increasingly frantic Cowled Crusader’s super-strong choke hold, and let her do all the work.

To quote The Great One: how suh-weet it is!

Then two things happen at once. Fury gets so anxious for her choking semi-conscious partner and so tired of me elbow-pounding her gut that she finally lets go so she can use her gloved fists on me, which is what I’ve been angling for. The problem is that Rufus (with his usual worst-possible timing and precious little notice) picks that moment to blast his load down Robin’s throat, so forcefully that creamy goo not only gushes up around her taut-stretched lips but even squirts out her nose!

Well, he needed the relief, poor guy. He does put up with a lot from me. He only wants one thing out of life and my plans and schemes always seem to be getting in the way.

Usually a mouth-hosing like this results in a very entertaining cough-gag-and-splutter show. But this time all that jizz not only drowns out what few tatters of consciousness remain but literally blows Robin off Rufus to sprawl on her back, mammoth red-vested tits rising to stupefying heights and gorgeous young face covered in cum. More bubbles up from her luscious slack mouth like a creamy artesian well.

Leaving me shaking from one intense orgasm and Savage Fury madder than ever. “She’s just a child!” she screams, spinning me around.

A thousand possible rejoinders spring to mind, covering all spectra of wit and emotion, but what comes out is: “Hey don’t blame me, I didn’t invite her to this party. I was saving all that for your mouth.”

Okay, so maybe there was no proper response. But jeez, some people got no sensayuma ay-tall. The beautiful face under her cowl flames deep red and with an enraged cry she swings at my jaw.

That gloved fist, able to hole battleship armor, passes right through my head.

She stares, then tries again: a looping leather-sheathed balloon of a right that I could duck easily but don’t bother.

Same result.

She pauses to evaluate the situation. Can’t have that, so when Robin chooses that moment to stir and cough up a big load of cum all over my shoes, I casually kick her gorgeous masked face, rolling The Girl Wonder over onto her side with a bubbling cry and spatter of bloody jism.

Savage Fury goes wild! She aims a kick squarely at dangling dripping Rufus, and if it had connected he probably would’ve ended up cornholing the Hubble Telescope. But instead that spikeheeled foot sinks right into my crotch

And (as I Solidify that part of me) sticks in there!

Fury goggles. And it’s a sight worth goggling at: her thighbooted leg projects from my groin like some bizarre cock in a black leather condom, which just happens to have this mega-mammaried micro-costumed Amazon attached!

Unexpectedly unbalanced in many ways, the startled Cowled Crusader hops about on her free leg, totally unable to comprehend what’s going on. She stares at the long powerful gam imbedded in my groin. I feel her wiggle her toes in the boot—a cold sensation, like an icicle tickling my bowels.

She can even see Rufus, hanging from her ankle like some weird bootheel. It all looks like poor special effects.

Fury hops toward the cracked pillar so she can have something to hold onto while she tries to pull her leg free. But I don’t let her. Hardening so my weight goes up to a ton or two (increased density equals increased mass equals increased weight), I move away from the column. Super-strong though she is, all she’s got for traction is one boot and one spike-heel so she’s forced to skip after me. I’m enjoying the way her boulderous boobs bounce around like pumpkins of flan. She notices and frowns, blushing deeply. Even clutches her gigantic jello-hulks to still their massive joggling.

It’s beyond me how anyone with a body like hers “dressed” like this can still blush. But I find it strangely endearing.

Less endearing is the way she leans forward over that outstretched booted leg and, balancing precariously on her single 5-inch spike, starts to throw clumsy punches at me.

“Let (unh!) go of my (unh!) leg, you—” Teeth clenched, grunting with each swing.

Backing up to keep her hopping after me off-balance, I let her punches pass right through me as long as she goes for my head. But the first armgloved shot she aims at my trunk—

And her right arm is stuck in my gut, halfway to its leather-sheathed elbow!

“Born and bred in de briar patch,” I smile, and start whistling “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah.” Without paying a penny in royalties to The Mouse—am I a Master Villain or what?

Now The Cowled Crusader is in a real fix: teetering on one stiletto heel and bent way over with one shoulder-gloved arm stuck in my belly. Titanic tits hanging and jouncing on both sides of that thighbooted leg, she looks like she’s doing some kind of ballet exercise.

And even in that precarious position, she keeps swinging her free arm, so hard she grunts with the effort! You simply have to admire her persistence, if not intelligence. Because it does no good, of course—every swing passes right through me. But all the effort is giving her lavishly overstuffed body a sheen of sweat that covers considerably more than her costume and is verry sexy.

Right through her spikeheeled foot, Rufus starts to come up again. He doesn’t care how insubstantial he is, he knows a Good Thing when I see it.

So it’s time to bring foreplay to a close and get down to the business at hand. I’ve been enjoying myself so much that I’ve ignored everything else—including the cops, who’ll be returning all too soon as soon as they realize that their Ace in the Hole has turned into a Joker. Or maybe a Harlequin? Nyuk nyuk.

And only one thing will keep los puercos off my back long enough for me to finish what I’ve started.

There ain’t no going back now.

Even if I wanted to.

Which I don’t.

Would you?

What I thought, you sick bastard.

-5-

Doubled-over, one-legged Savage Fury hops about after me swinging frantically at the phantom who’s solid enough to hold her leg and arm captive, so I take her cowled head by a fistful of scarlet ponytail and jerk it back. Her masked eyes lase a glare of splendid helpless hatred up into mine—until I slam her face down onto her own booted kneecap.

“UNHHH!!”

Pull it up again. “You motherfuuUGGGH!!” quoth The Masked Mammazon as I bash her face onto her own hard knee again.

And again!

Fury still swings, a little groggily now, so I finally let her connect.

And I must admit: though my jaw is at its Hardest, I actually feel the blow—like a fly bumping against my cheek. Fury’s reaction is somewhat stronger: she bawls in pain and I release her trapped hand from my gut so she can clutch the wounded one. And her red-faced expression is so agonized, so wide-open and vulnerable (plus she’s momentarily off-balance), that I can’t resist.

I just have to smash my Hardened fist right into the middle of it.

The Thighbooted Thunderbolt jerks back with a nasal scream, her free leg flies up and down she thumps on her big bare ass. But not a drop of blood from her pert nose. At least she can’t push herself up again because of the leather-sheathed leg still trapped in my crotch!

(BTW: if you’re not already doing it, from now on just assume that whenever I hit Savage Fury with anything personal—fist, foot, elbow, left nut—it’s Hardened. Otherwise this story would be mostly concerned with crunching bone and screaming and jumping around and hospitals and anesthetics and the like. And I would most assuredly be dictating it. You can also assume that whatever I hit her with doesn’t hurt the big bitch nearly enough, whatever noises she may make. I suspect they were mostly from annoyance and/or embarrassment.)

So I drag her kicking and flailing around a bit first (speaking of embarrassment) before I let that long powerful gam loose, but as Savage Fury scrambles to her spikeheeled feet I step in and lay her out with a left (see above). And like I said earlier about persistence unleavened by intelligence—she immediately starts up again! I let her get partway up before leaning over to slam a right across that gorgeous face of hers, and down she goes once more.

I haul her up by the ponytail. Fury moans and struggles—but doesn’t try to hit me. Even when I slap her masked face back and forth making her squeak, she clenches her gloved fists but keeps them at her sides.

So she can learn, if only the Hard way. Pun intended.

But the lesson is far from over. I’m only getting started.

I throw the towering titan-titted Avenging Amazon back against the already cracked column. She just leans there, face screwed tight with pain, elephantine udders swaying and shimmying, and doesn’t even try to escape. I move into her till my chest almost touches her thumb-sized teats—still a fair distance away from the rest of her. The pillar shakes and plaster rains from the ceiling as I start sinking short brutal hooks into her belly. She doubles forward convulsively over my pistoning fists (“unh—huh—ooof—guhh!!”), eyes bulging and drool exploding from her luscious lips all over my shoulder.

But still no blood. I’m hitting her with fists Hard enough to pound through steel plate and still no blood. So I go for other fluids.

I slam my knee up into Fury’s squishy mounded cunt—which has long since swallowed the V-juncture of her costume. That finally hurts the way I want it to—her beautiful face clenches and she collapses against me. Her shoulder-sheathed arms go around me in a desperate embrace, monstrous doughy milkbags spreading out over my chest and their hot sweaty masses swelling out around my sides. She actually sits on Rufus, like a kid straddling a tree branch. His rigid curving shaft (oh yeah, he’s ready again) juust parts her plump swollen fucklips.

Sorry bud, I tell him, business before pleasure this time.

Which is only partly true, since this business is a real pleasure.

I bring my arms down over those gigantic side-ballooning jugs of hers, mashing them against my side and wringing a shrill squeal from Fury’s bloodied lips. They engulf my elbows like soggy watermelons of blubber. She stares up at me in mute appeal and anguish, so I slam my forehead down into her masked face knocking her head back against the pillar with a crack! that echoes in the big room like a gunshot. Her thighbooted legs start to give way.

But as good as her massive soft mamms feel clamped to my sides, I can’t wait for the Masked Mammazon to hit the floor. In just that short time she might recover enough to do what I’ve been working my ass off to keep her from doing, which is fuck me up good, as opposed to just fucking me.

So I have to hammer her to it.

Blow after iron-fisted blow crashes down, driving the yelping bleating superwoman to her leather-sheathed knees before me.

I slam her face into my kneecap a few times, just to hear her cry out. Tears streaming from under her mask mix with drool to soak my pants. But I’m getting tired—actually I’ve been getting tired for some time but adrenaline and pure raging testosterone have bouyed me up. Now even those potent stimulants are running thin.

But like I said before about problems and solutions. Fury’s pain-dimmed eyes widen at something behind me—and I just have barely enough time to prepare before the indefatigable Robin comes diving in! She hurtles right through me, and her fist in its steel-reinforced gauntlet blasts the Masked Mammazon’s jaw slamming her cowled head into the column again

Which, having absorbed considerable punishment in the past few minutes (is that all??), finally gives it up.

Prudently, I step back as it crashes down in great floor-shaking chunks, bringing quite a bit of the ceiling with it.

And when the dust clears, all that’s visible of Savage Fury are her thighbooted legs and great bare ass sticking out from under a big pile of marble blocks and rubble.

For a frozen moment, Robin stares with horrified masked eyes then spins to me, swinging those stupefying tits of hers into perfect position for a double boob-bash. As her fist passes through my head (is there a non-learning clause in superheroines’ contracts?) a partly Hardened right plows wrist-deep into her left mega-milkbag dropping her perfect plush mouth wide open, then the follow-up smashes her right chest-hulk flat—or as flat as possible, it spreads out over her ribcage to about the size of a serving tray. The Teen Titan’s lips go slack and rubbery around a wretched groan and she drops to her booted knees bawling, big-gauntleted hands clutching those colossal mashed mountains.

Unbelievable: enormous as those piers of hers are and as commandingly as they dominate her waterfront, the sweet young thing’s obviously never had them punched before.

Which can mean only one thing:

There’s a lot of catching-up to do.

-6-

First things first, however ….

When I take the halves of her bulgingly overloaded crimson vest she grabs my hands and murmurs “N-no, please ….” Much as I appreciate a supergirl with not only spirit but politesse, I’m getting testy. So I club The Girl Wonder’s beautiful sweaty face to the left, then backhand it to the right making her yelp with each brutal slap and splashing more blood around.

A couple more of those and she slumps, then, sniffling (and blushing!), lets me tear her vest open. And even having had Savage Fury’s impossibly huge tits joggle and shake in my face, I am impressed at the resulting explosion of prime milkfat. Robin’s mammoth young melons seem to take forever to settle down. Or “out”, since unlike Fury’s ponderous pumpkins which, when unstrapped, sweep the ground before her as she walks, the Teen Titan’s magnificent milkbags project straight ahead, their big pink nipples truly like headlights.

The redheaded Amazon stares up at me, masked eyes bright with unshed tears and the tatters of defiance. I reach down for those jiggle-blimps and squeeeze them hard, till my fingers disappear to the second knuckle in all that doughy tit-blubber—and the tears come rolling down her cheeks. Robin’s whoppers are notably firmer than Fury’s milk-monsters, though not nearly as heavy.

“Please ….” The Girl Wonder whimpers again.

Music to my shell-like ears.

“Boss.” The Hulk comes up. Needless to say, he isn’t looking at me. He jerks a thumb toward the front doors. “Cops are back.”

“Shit.” What I get for enjoying myself too much.

I look around. He and Tattoos (whose real name is Gerald) are the only ones still up and about—this kneeling teen Mammazon did too thorough a job on the rest. Even though that was part of the plan, I slam her masked face into my knee a few times. More blood spatters, more squeals blurted.

I’ve found that operations, like gambling, have a momentum, and the secret to success in both is to read that momentum accurately. When you have momentum, solutions tend to present themselves—one simply must recognize and capitalize.

Case in point:

Robin, crimson mane clenched in my fist, stares at Rufus bobbing about in her bloodied face (both undoubtedly wondering when he would be stuffed back into that sweet mouth of hers).

“Boss,” the Hulk begins, licking his lips, “you promised—”

When we all jump at a floor-shaking thump from behind us!

The Cowled Crusader wasn’t as unconscious as I thought. Ignored by all, she’s actually managed (with some difficulty) to lift herself to gloved hands and boot-sheathed knees amidst all that massive debris and crawl out from under it! The crash was caused by a couple of pieces of the column that must have weighed a ton each rolling off her broad back.

And even at the risk of derailing the scene, I have to interject here that Savage Fury on all fours is an impressive sight, especially viewed head-on. Even with her arms at full extension, her gargantuan boobs hang down almost to the floor and crowd between those muscular leather-sheathed limbs like two enormously fat ladies trying to squeeze through a doorway.

Gerald later assured me the view from behind was almost as spectacular: Fury’s awesome asscheeks are almost as jello-quivery than her titanic tits, made all the more so by the narrow strap that separates them and almost covers her asshole then dives underneath into the dark-furred opulence of her pussy. Which its V covers in much the way a vase covers a flower. A very small vase and an opulent scarlet flower that with remarkably little encouragement blooms into big gleaming petals.

And now, back to our story ….

If Fury had any sense, she’d play possum, because there’s no way any of us could get to her under all that stone. Without any real super-strength despite what I can do Hardened, I could chip the rock away with a Hardened hand, but that would take an hour or more—and an hour or more is something we don’t have. But like I said about more good intentions than smarts ….

So here we have a problem and a solution. The problem is, Savage Fury is too powerful to be controlled with brute force, since she has more than everyone in this room combined—indeed, more than everyone on this block combined. This is hammered home yet again when Tattoos, obviously with something other than self-preservation in mind, takes position in front of the dazed double-dirigibled dynamo and yanks out a huge and very erect cock. He takes the crawling stunned Cowled Crusader (who up till that moment hasn’t noticed him) by a fistful of ponytail and jerks her head up, then rams her lush mouth down onto his great rigid organ (“grpfff!!”).

Fury is so out-of-it that she automatically starts to suck that enormous dick—like I said about good instincts—and for a moment her leathern head bobs up and down onto his rampant dong and the only sounds are moist slurpings and Tattoos going “Yeah, oh yeah!”

For that moment, I’m envious. How many non-super types have had their dicks sucked by Savage Fury, even dazed and confused? Not even me, and I arranged this party.

Envy is fleeting. And it’s such a small thing: Fury gives her cowled head a little toss of annoyance, the slightest little flip as though to get an errant hair out of her cock-stuffed face

And Tattoos goes flying! His body arcs through the air, all the way across the big room—and the only thing that keeps him from becoming a Rorschach ink blot on the wall is a banner stretched between two pillars proclaiming low interest rates. It catches him, stretches almost to the breaking point but holds—then dumps him to the floor on his stupid lard ass, out cold and bruised but unbroken.

Again, I have to fight the urge to laugh uproariously. Life can be such slapstick. One must simply remember to be entertained.

What worries me most right now are the cops. They can’t do anything against me personally, though it would be inconvenient if they saw my face. But this gang took awhile to round up and I’d rather not lose ‘em. And I’m far from finished with these two gorgeous elephant-uddered super-idiots yet.

All we need here is more time ….

I take Robin by a massive young tit and pull her squealing to her spikeheeled feet. To make her tractible I bury my fist in the Teen Titan’s trim gut then slap her gasping grimace sideways. Her leather-sheathed knees buckle and she dangles from my fist like the catch of the day.

“Catch!” I throw The Girl Wonder over to the Hulk. She slides across the polished floor on her belly and fetches up at his feet. I’ll give the redheaded Amazon credit here: even beaten badly, she makes a credible try at jumping up. But the Hulk stomps down on her gauntleted hand, grinds gloved fingers under his boot.

Robin wails.

And Savage Fury actually makes a stumbling attempt at rescuing her! Doggedly, she heads for the Hulk with an armgloved fist cocked to knock him into orbit. Weakened and battered though she is, she could do it.

Except that I’m waiting behind a column and as she totters past I swing my knee (Hardened of course) out into her belly doubling her over (“oooolghh!!”) with an explosion of spittle from those plush lips. I follow up with an iron elbow slammed down across the back of her cowled head (“unnhh!!”) dropping the Masked Mammazon to her boot-sheathed knees, gloved arms crossed over her gut. And finally I kick that great naked ass of hers (“oooo!!”) with an upward arc that sends her blundering pell-mell to a group of desks where she collapses over one, crushing it to splinters beneath her.

The desk phone, fortuitously, ends up engulfed between the gargantuan chest whoppers that balloon out to her sides like crushed bolsters. Muffled under all that shimmying blubber, I can barely hear the dial tone.

-7-

Sniffling, Fury holds the phone to her ear and squirms. I’m standing close enough to hear the ringing on the other end. Close enough because I’m right behind the towering Cowled Crusader, chest flush against her broad back, with Rufus buried to the hairy balls up her no-longer-puckered-and-doing-a-better-imitation-of-the-Holland-Tunnel asshole.

It took some ingenuity to get him there because she’s a lot tighter than I expected. Finally I had to stand against a marble pillar so Fury, gloved hands spreading her lavish cheeks apart, could literally back onto ol’ Rufe, grunting and groaning. The unexpected perk was, she did it without coercion, just assumed I’d whip her ass some more if she refused. So even though physically as good as ever, she was truly beaten. The big cowled cunt never even questioned why I needed her to impale her own asshole on Rufus instead of just slamming him in.

But that isn’t why she squirms as she listens to the phone ring—at least not the only reason. Damned if I’ll stand pressed against so much overpowering sweetly sweaty womanflesh with my eyes just at the level of her broad brawny shoulders and not take full advantage!

While we wait for the cops to pick up, one hand reaches around in front to squeeeze a mammoth milkbag till it’s engulfed in all that doughy milkfat while the other nestles securely between Fury’s muscular booted thighs, groping her slack-lipped sopping pussy and pinching its hard little clit—“little” only in comparison with the male penis, you understand. In female terms it’s as outsized as the monumental rest of her: almost half an inch fully erect, like the tip of my index finger.

None of this would mean much, because if Savage Fury wanted to she could still bring this whole building down around us, and walk away whistling. But she doesn’t, because being a heroine she can’t. If I stand on tip-toes (which shoves another inch or so of Rufus up Fury’s big ass, making her gasp and bite her plump lower lip) I can just peer over her bare sinewy shoulder to the reason why.

A single length of string is doing what anchor chain and hawser rope couldn’t—control Savage Fury. It’s the tenuous thread by which The Hulk and Tattoos hold Robin The Girl Wonder immobile and sweating, because it’s tied to the trigger of a .44 Magnum revolver jammed to the cylinder block in her sweet young pussy. Which is still so tight that the pistol stays there by itself despite all the cum drooling out around it.

Fondling, pinching, waiting, I’m struck by a thought. Can it be—?

With bulging eyes Robin stares down at the huge gun sticking out of her snatch and the cord that leads to the Hulk’s hand. Despite her own problems, the Teen Titan’s senior partner shares her absorption. Fury’s gloved hand has already pressed grooves into the phone she’s holding—she knows that one tug on that lanyard and Robin’s ripe snatch will become a ceiling fixture. And that’s the real reason she just squirms and moans when I squeeze this gigantic soft tit and grope her and tweak her finger-sized clit.

Finally one of the cops outside picks up.

“Let me talk to the chief,” Fury says, her voice tight.

I rise up on tip-toes and The Cowled Crusader stiffens as Rufus straightens another inch or so of her bowels. Hers is the first asshole I’ve ever been able to cram all of him into. Her cheeks against my crotch are soft, warm and greased with sweat.

“Relaaax,” I whisper into her ear, with a wet slurping lick.

She shivers, spectacularly. We’re talking the Richter scale here. Then the chief comes on the line and she’s all business.

“All clear, Fury?” he asks.

My two fingers shift their grip on her rigid clit. She swallows, takes a moment, then replies, “We cleaned ‘em up no sweat. Just a—a bunch of … nothing punks.”

Tattoos gives one of Robin’s big taut buns a resounding slap. She yelps.

“What was that?” the chief asks.

“Oh—ah—that’s, that’s why I called,” Fury says too quickly, but the chief doesn’t notice. She manages to toughen her voice, to a good imitation of real superheroine arrogance. “Robin and I are having … so much fun with these, these creeps”—she glances uneasily down at my fingers pinching her passion pearl, bites her lip when another digital pair squeeze a hard finger-sized teat—“that we’d like you and the rest of the boys to, to ….”

“… Hold off for awhile,” I whisper.

Squeezing her eyes shut which causes a single perfect tear to trickle down her sweaty cheek from under her mask, she repeats my words leadenly into the phone.

“I don’t know, Fury, it’s against procedures ….”

“I’ll let you know when we’re finished with them,” The Cowled Crusader breathes into the phone. It doesn’t melt, to my surprise. “We’re having such fun.”

I almost believe her sexy murmur, even with her staring at Robin, at Tattoos clamping the Teen Titan in a full Nelson while the Hulk fondles her fabulous firm tits. The Hulk takes the squirming moaning young Amazon’s monumental melons by their big pale nipples and pulls them out to enormous gleaming cones over a foot long, then lets them snap back to jiggle and jounce massively, chuckling at the big helpless redhead’s sobs. Fury swallows.

Tough shit bitch. You violated a basic rule of supering: unless you’re the Asshole of Steel, always pick a partner who’s at least as “super” as you. Then this could’ve been a skate.

I glance over at Robin and mark that down to maybe 80 times crazier.

“And besides,” The Cowled Crusader goes on, low and suggestive as though none of this is happening (you wouldn’t even know she was cumming like a waterfall into a puddle around her skyscraper heels). “If you let us play a little more, we might still be feeling playful later on. Just for you, of course.”

Suddenly I can hear the chief breathing on the other end. “Let me know when you want us to come in,” he says quickly.

I tell her what to reply and she does: “We’ll raise the security doors.”

Fury hangs up as few can: her gloved fist crushes the phone.

“Nice touch,” I say. “Do you and the chief get it on regularly? Is that why he gives all you superbitches free reign in this town?”

From her reaction, I’d guess they probably do, and she definitely doesn’t enjoy it. Sometimes the cost of doing business is paid in more than money.

“Who the fuck arrrrRRGGHHH!!” Fury throws her cowled head back with a yowl.

“Be nice,” I murmur in her ear, “and I’ll let this thing go.”

It’s an effort to hide my amazement: I’ve pulled her clit out a couple of inches. Anyone else would have been fucking unconscious from the pain—this Amazonian cunt has taken so much abuse that she’s become resistant!

“Please ….”

“Polite is good.” I smile.

That’s when I overplay my hand—should’ve known better from her tolerance of pain. But a promise is a promise.

“Boss ….” Tattoos all but whinnies, like a horse. “C’mon!”

Both he and the Hulk have enormous erections. Tattoos looks like he’s trying to buttfuck Robin right through his pants. The Teen Titan’s eyes behind their mask are huge and terrified. Reg, the big black dude, is on his feet now too. And on the prod like a bowsprit. As you can guess, I chose these guys not only for their criminal expertise.

Fury sees what’s coming, and says desperately, “N-no, wait. She’s … she’s just a child. Fuck me if you want.”

“If we want??” The Hulk says.

The room echoes with our roars of laughter. Savage Fury’s beautiful sweat-dripping face burns under its cowl. I find that so perfectly endearing.

I make sure I have a good grip on Fury’s rigid clit. But it’s getting slippery from all the cum slopping down her brawny thighs into their high boots.

“Sorry, Supertits,” I say. With way less than complete honesty (and apologies to Rufus, who disagrees most strenuously): “We’re all Trekkies here. You know—to go where no man has gone before.”

And from the startled look Fury gives me, I see I’m right—Robin The Girl Wonder is a virgin! All that body and hair and fresh young beauty, those pumpkin-sized tits and legs to her armpits—untasted, untested and untried!

It’s almost too good to be true.

But a promise is a promise, and I let her knock these poor slobs around to get them mad enough to Do Her Right. Sooo ….

I shrug. “She’s all yours, gentlemen.”

As Tattoos drops his pants, the Hulk steps in with a crashing right across Robin’s masked face (“unghh!!”) that would knock her on her big tight ass except for the left from the opposite side that smashes her the other way (“aggh!!”) and then (Tattoos being in position) the bludgeoning hook that buries in her trim muscular belly (“oolff!!”), doubling her forward with a blast of bloody spittle all over his shirt

driving her pert asshole back onto Tattoos’ big curving dick. It’s almost comical, the way the titan-titted Teen Wonder’s lovely young face opens up in astonishment at a kind of pain she’s never felt before. Her eyes widen till they almost fill her mask and those luscious lips gape, tongue standing out stiff as a diving board. The ragged squawk that bursts forth manages to combine horror and outrage in one shrill gasping bleat—the feeling is there but without enough breath to express it.

Tattoos wraps his big arms around the squalling ass-impaled young Amazon and the Hulk grabs her gigantic sloshing tits, squeezing them till the reddening milkfat swells out around his fingers and raising her howls of pain a whole ‘nother octave.

As they struggle and turn, I see the bawling Girl Wonder’s taut buttcheeks spread wide around about two inches of Tattoos’ huge dick.

“Robin!” Savage Fury suddenly cries, as though shaking herself out of a trance.

And, tearing her hard cum-slick clit from my fingers without even seeming to feel it, leaps to her partner’s aid! What I get for underestimating the big scantclad cow’s pain threshold—any other supergirl would’ve been on the floor. Justice Juggs or Ms. Americana, now (where do they get these names??)—if you’ve got them by the clit, well, they’re yours, body and soul (and what-all else).

Then of course comes the small problem of letting go.

Right now with Savage Fury in full charge towards my men, I have a split second to keep them from being slaughtered. Fury’s too strong to hold back let alone stop, and unfortunately the Hulk is far from the real thing. But I haven’t run out of tricks yet—so I use one of the more dangerous ones now. I Evoke, and Cast—

And, swinging an armgloved fist that would have splattered them all over the room, Fury passes right through the startled men! Then finds herself totally unable to stop and continues rocketing helplessly across the room

Until just as she’s about to disappear through the back wall (and I’m about to pass out from the strain because of that mofo inverse-square law), I remove what I Cast over her

And, suddenly solid, the bewildered boulder-chested Cowled Crusader slams headfirst into the equally solid (almost anyway) stone—so hard the whole building shakes and leathern head enwalls itself up to broad muscular shoulders!

Robin lets out a hopeless sob buried by a barrage of brutal slaps that rock her beautiful young face about. Then the Teen Titan shows she’s gotten a second wind (at least vocally), throwing her head back with a piercing squeal as the Hulk steps in and, tearing her cum-soaked G-string away, buries his prodigous penis in Robin’s sopping no-longer-quite-as-virginal-as-it-was-a-few-minutes-ago pussy.

“Hole in one!” he yells with his usual dead-eye for the obvious.

And lifts her thighbooted legs by the knees and begins to brutally fuck the bejesus out of the howling Girl Wonder. Tattoos, grinning fiercely, matches the Hulk’s rhythm up the masked teen Mammazon’s ass.

I waggle a finger as I trot past the diabolical double-dippers (sorry, I really get into this kind of writing). “Now now, boys, let’s be careful with our toys. Mustn’t break.”

The two power their big cocks up into the sobbing spectacularly sandwiched supergirl (like I said) so forcefully that she’s boosted skyward between them with each double thrust up her cunt and ass. Her anguished screams rise and drop in time: “nooOOOOpleeEEEEaaaAAAAgggGGGHH!!”

“Careful there fellows,” I add. “If they hear all that caterwauling outside ….”

The Hulk pauses and lets one of Robin’s boot-sheathed legs drop while he searches his jacket pockets and finally pulls out one of the many party favors we brought along: big and round and a bright red that perfectly matches her smeared lipstick. He gives the grunting giant-titted teen a chance to ogle it fearfully and tearfully before jamming it into her bloodied mouth (“NOOommpFF!!”).

Then goes back to pounding into her pussy while Tattoos, cock sheathed to the balls between the struggling Amazon’s hard gleaming buns, hums as he busies himself tying the straps behind her scarlet-maned head (“glggg! mmppf!”).

Stunned, the seemingly headless Savage Fury slumps half-kneeling against the wall, gigantic doughy tits mashed between her body and the cold stone and spread out against the wall like immense pink waterwings. Her leather-sheathed knees hover a few inches from the floor. Once she regains consciousness it won’t be very hard to pull her head out of the hole it’s made, and she’s the only one who can do it anyway. I could tug at the crimson ponytail trailing down her broad sinewy back till hell refrigerates and probably not even pull loose a hair.

So I get to work fast. Rufus has been screaming for attention for the longest time and I’m half inclined to let him do his thing, though fucking Savage Fury before she’s properly tenderized would be extraordinarily dangerous.

But then, so is beating that outsized bare ass of hers with a golf club—I haul my bag with me wherever I go, you can never tell when you might be able to get in a quick nine. And this course is only a 2-hole. First I take her dangling glove-sheathed arms and tie them across her back, wrists to elbows, with some extra-strong chain. That won’t hold her for more than a few seconds once she wakes up, but it should give me enough warning.

I hope. Ahh, that frisson of danger. So uncertain. So necessary.

Next I raise her maxi-butt into position, propping her lower body up with a sand wedge jammed under Fury’s pussy. That much-invaded pink cavern swallows the whole head with a slurp, sinking farther onto the shaft than I would have thought possible. Cum oozes down the grip and a muffled moan issues from the wall.

“Feel the ball! BE … the ball! N-n-n-n-n-nuhhh ….”

Now Fury’s awesome ass is in perfect position for some driving practice. The sweaty gleam off her resilient bare globes is dazzling, good thing I brought my shade. I assume The Position and address the ball (“Helloooo dere, ball!”) then give those great outthrust pillows a whack that resounds in the big room, so loudly it makes Tattoos and the Hulk glance over from their pleasure and give me a grinning thumbs up.

But time is a-wastin’ and that butt-whack has an unfortunate though not unexpected result: Fury moans and starts to move that big shimmying butt on the sand wedge, stirring it around in her gaping snatch so fresh cum drips down the shaft. Her swollen twat has swallowed about a foot of the grip and is getting a thorough reaming.

But I am such a tease. I even tease myself sometimes. I rub Rufus’s plum-sized (and by now almost plum-colored) head over her slack dangling fucklips and a shiver runs along the whole monumental length of that unbelievable body. I poke the head between them, just a bit, and a muffled groan issues from the wall above her muscular shoulders.

Out comes the sand wedge, with a long string of cum following it that widens the puddle between Fury’s spikeheels at the foot of those looong boots. I’d like to stick it up her asshole, so pert and puckered despite all the rigid meat that’s passed its way during her career, but there just isn’t any room. Not, anyway, after I sheathe Rufus to the balls in that slack bloated snatch of hers—a real first for him, he’s never been able to fit all the way into anyone before, even Justice Juggs. There’s just my gut and her big ass and Rufus’s fat veined shaft buried between and Omyomy something

else!

The most incredible tightness and wetness and warmth engulfing my best buddy, that spreads from my groin all through my body, at once making Rufus harder than he’s ever been and the rest of me soft as a melting candle!

And as I start to sloowly sliiide Rufus iiiin and ouuuut of Savage Fury, resisting every nerve that screams “Sock it to her!” because the point is not to wake her up too quickly—if that happens those chains won’t last 2 seconds—I begin to understand all of what I had considered “wild” stories about her. I start to see why so many criminals risk pain and punishment and even the slammer for a chance to nail this overblown oversexed superbitch. And why those who fail keep on trying despite getting beat up and incarcerated again and again.

Because unlike a lot of her super-Mammazonian friends, she lives all the way up to that over-the-top billing. Looking at (alright, ogling) that gorgeous face (what little you can see beneath her cowl) with its rich opulent ever-breathlessly-parted lips, and those colossal ever-joggling tits and wide womanly hips and loong powerful dancer’s legs, all of it costumed as a leather fetishist’s dream—it doesn’t seem possible she could be nearly as good a lay as she looks to be. The female equivalent of bread and coffee: never tastes as good as it smells.

Well brother, take it from an expert: there’d be no market at all for heroin or coke if bread and coffee was like Savage Fury. And they’d probably be just as illegal.

As, almost against my will, I start to fuck the bent-over ultra-bombshell a little faster, the gloved hands bound across her muscular back clench into fists, and I’m afraid I waited too long. But that’s all that happens, other than a muffled shuddery moan from within the wall. The muscular clench of Fury’s molten sopping cunt just seems to suck Rufus in and push him out again, like it’s eager to help.

Bet she hates that. Mostly.

And there’s something lulling and soothing about the rhythm and the heat and even the way her great buns shimmy and quiver that makes it difficult for me to control the thrusting pace. Again, I hark to the stories about her that I never quite believed: how she manages to regain her strength after getting the shit, cum and milk beaten and gangraped out of her. She ends up on the front page and the crooks end up in the hospital jail ward—I hear they’re going to name the max-security wing of Intensive Care after Fury because she’s given it so much business.

That image of The Cowled Crusader—smiling big for the cameras with her mammoth shaking tits so teasingly semi-covered, jism washed off and all bruises healed and those heavy available fucklips of hers tucked back into that miniscule V-bottom as neat as you please, like nothing ever happened—gives me just the angry energy and control I need.

Slap … slap … slap … SLAP—SLAP—SLAP-SLAP-SLAPSLAPSLAP!!

Gut smacking butt makes those fat cheeks shimmy and shake. Rufus plunges between them, faster and faster, an implacable bludgeoning machine drilling for cum, and pulling it up by the spoonful—tablespoon, that is. It slops down her brawny thighs into her hipboots and drips in long strings to the floor.

And this isn’t even an orgasm. It’s very important that she doesn’t have one yet—if she does, we’re in a LOT of trouble. To make this all work I need her teetering on the edge but not falling over.

The boys have Robin on her back in a sandwich, Tattoos underneath with his big cock buried up her asshole and his fists clenched in her massive jugs while Reg kneels between her thighbooted legs pumping his meat into her cunt and the Hulkster straddles The Girl Wonder’s neck to feed his huge dick into her sweet bloody mouth. She doesn’t appear to be in a biting mood. All I can hear are muffled grunts and sobs.

But now Savage Fury is finally waking up. The moans and gasps from within the wall are getting louder and more articulate and she’s moving her big ass more around Rufus’s pumping shaft. Keeping an eye on the chains that bind her leather-sheathed arms across her back, I pour it on (fear and friction can be an incredible synergy), till the slap of gut against butt sounds more like spanking than fucking. If she isn’t exactly where I want her when she regains full consciousness, even I might not escape.

Finally it happens: more from twitch than conscious effort, her gloved arms burst free of the chains (note to any would-be imitators as mentioned above: these are used to pull bulldozers and 18-wheelers out of ditches). I experience a moment of sharpest anxiety—a quick vision of my men splattered all over these nice clean walls—but her hands only grab her ponderously dangling pumpkins, to squeeze them and pull on their big stiff nipples.

Anxiety makes a brief stop at relief before heading to elation: it’s working!!

Now Rufus becomes the problem: he’s building to explosion too quickly. Not his fault, poor kid; he’s been teased for way too long and she’s waaay too hot, something I hadn’t counted on. But if he gives his “all” too soon allowing Fury to recover, this could shift very suddenly from pleasure to equally extreme pain. And I can’t afford to slow down and let him regroup, because just then Fury’s cowled head bursts free of its marble hole in a spray of rock!

“UNH—OOO—UHFF—GUHH!! You—bastardddDDHHH! NooooOOO!!”

The Masked Mammazon fights me as best she can. Gargantuan globes tossing about and sloshing and floundering like boulders of jello beneath her, she arches her back and splays gloved hands over the wall as though waiting to be frisked. She clenches her teeth against a groan, digs fingers into the smooth marble till it crumbles like stale cheese (anxiety makes a brief return at how easy she makes that look).

“D-damn yoooOOOOO!!” she cries. Her head hangs from her broad shoulders, jerking up with each Rufus power-thrust. “UGHH—OOOF—AAA—NOOOHH!!”

I’ll give Savage Fury this: she exceeds my hopes and doesn’t give up. By this time Justice Juggs and Batgirl had surrendered and were slamming their pussies back onto Rufus as energetically he was ramming into them. Ms. Americana was a voluptuous puddle of quivering meat on the floor. But not Fury. She hangs there, bent over, jerking and grunting and squealing and protesting as I plow her relentlessly.

But she also makes no move to pull herself off the gigantic joint pounding into her and into her.

So I have to do it. it was a week before Rufus fully forgave me, even with what followed.

Fury gasps out “You—you motherfuuUUGHHHH—!!” between clenched teeth. “Finish me off!!” She’s on the launching pad with the engines roaring but not quite able to lift off yet. Teetering at the edge, the brink, the abyss,

but I won’t let her fall over.

“Sorry … ducks,” I gasp back, not much more coherent if you want to know the truth. “Not part of th-the plan.”

“Damn youuuu,” she grits.

And then Savage Fury does what no one’s ever done. Instead of collapsing to the floor (the default setting) with both gloved hands working hard at her swollen dripping fuckfruit leaving herself wide open for anything she clenches both teeth and super-fists and starts to straighten and turn!

“Yowzah!” quoth I.

-8-

For the first time I start to wonder if the plan is going to work after all. I get scared. This is the crux of the whole plan, since she’s sure as hell not planning to give me a big wet kiss. Bent over slightly, sweat running from her towering awesomely-overblown body, she staggers toward me.

I let her pass through me, the rich odor of sweat and sex filling my nostrils, then before she can turn (like a bull with huge fat horns), I Harden my knee and smash it up into her gaping lust-bloated Rufus-tenderized snatch. It’s a long par and I’m going for the green in one so I give it everything I’ve got. The Cowled Crusader’s piercing shriek drowns out the meaty splat! and I know I’ve got my eagle.

The pussy is one part of the body that doesn’t care how super-strong the rest is. With enough stimulation—and this one’s had enough for a hundred women—it can be aroused to a point that pleasure can so easily become pain. Even if you’re Savage Fury and can juggle trucks.

But now if I don’t want to end up beyond the rough in the jungle with all my clubs busted (my very favorite driver in particular) I have to move fast. So I kick her in the super-sensitized cunt again, eliciting a splendid strangled howl of agony and splash of juices that soaks my knee.

Then again with the same result most satisfying, though this scream runs out of steam quickly. For the first time since this whole thing started the big bitch is really being hurt. Her entire Amazonian body has become one single tingling nerve and it’s my job to stimulate that nerve into complete overload.

She actually manages to take a clumsy roundhouse of a swing at me. I’m so startled I actually jump back and it chips stone out of a column. I slam my Hardened foot into her swollen snatch and she drops to her leather-sheathed knees with a groan, gloved hands finally joining together at her crotch, so I grab her big hard nipples and squeeeze those fingers in my own as hard as I can, pulling on them at the same time. All that issues from that ripe ragged mouth is a gassy bleat but her hands stay nestled between her great thighs.

All she can do is stare down at my fingers with huge teary masked eyes as she slumps to her knees before me. Throw her cowled head back with a shrill squeal when I twist her teats then spread her gigantic tits apart so I can rocket my knee up between them into her chin clacking her teeth and knocking her noggin back again.

Another boot to her booty and she’s all but paralyzed. But even with all this pain and pounding the big cowled cow persists in trying to fight back!! The small fact that she can’t doesn’t seem to have occurred to her. Or it’s just more of those bad habits.

And then the worst luck of all: she cums. The dyke which has been leaking for awhile now bursts and I’ve lost my race. I had that narrow window of extreme sensitization and I blew it.

So, turnabout being fair play, I am come unto my Last Gambit. Dragged kicking and screaming (metaphorically of course) to it by not only by necessity but by Rufus who is about to explode. And so I give him the break he so richly deserves for his patience: jerk the numb dazed Cowled Crusader around by her scarlet ponytail, slap her gorgeous face this way and that with my dick, then sheathe him between her lips as far as he will go (“gllmmpppfff!!”).

I love it: her masked eyes, which had been squeezed shut, snap open wider than wide and cross comically on the massive veined shaft buried in her mouth. Like it’s the first slab of manmeat that’s ever stretched those luscious lips and tickled her uvula with its head.

Like it’s even in the first tourney.

But it shows another of Savage Fury’s endearing traits: for all that she’s one tough vicious mega-bitch like Wonder Woman, also like the Amazon Princess she’s a Perpetual Virgin. She might get sort of used to being beaten and tied up, at least she’ll come to accept it as a road hazard, but every rape is as traumatic as the first one.

Virginity is after all a state of mind.

Of course, Rufus does more than just tickle Savage Fury’s throat, he plunges right in like a python diving down a hole, making her choke and turn a pleasant shade of cerise. Frantically, the Masked Mammazon wraps gloved fingers around the 6 inches or so of rampant meat still projecting from her mouth, about all even she can swallow in one gulp

but I never get to find out whether she’s going to try to pull him out or stroke him off, because that does it.

I grab her cowled head and Harden my upper body just in time. Fury of all people can read the signs and portents, she knows from much experience what’s about to happen, and she tries frantically to push me away

But it’s too late: Rufus finally gives his All, blows everything he’s been saving for the past few (FEW??) minutes into her mouth. Fury gags and struggles as gooey cream erupts from her tautly cock-stretched lips, but their seal around Rufus is so tight that that relief isn’t nearly enough. Unable to break my Hardened grip on her head, she tries to gulp down all the jism pouring down her convulsing throat—too late. When it squirts out her nose and her eyes roll up in their mask I know she’s finally finally FINALLY

finished.

Fury’s lips slip off Rufus (who’s already softening, finished as well) and the Avenging Amazon sprawls onto the floor. Her cowled head hits last with a knobbly rap and rolls sideways. Numbly, she coughs up the jism filling her slack fucked-out mouth into a pool on the tile.

Now, this is about the time you’re maybe wondering what’s happened to Robin The Girl Wonder during all this—and probably (sick bastard that you are) hoping it’s pretty nasty.

Not to worry.

In her own words (as taped later for permanent record, I love the conversations these super-bimbos have when they think they’re alone):

“Oh G-god, th-they were all, all over me! The huge cock in my mouth and the one plowing my pussy were like they were trying to bump heads in my stomach, and-and the salami up my butt felt like it was going to tear my asshole wide open! I-I tried to, you know, take control of the r— thing like you said, b-but every time I’d start to give him a blow job instead of just getting my face fucked, the big one ramming his dick into my mouth would start slapping me around, so hard I ended up swallowing as much blood as cum!”

Savage Fury: “Oh, you poor kid. Batman never warned you about this?” (Not especially sympathetic, though—more like ‘Well, what did you expect?’ with a soupcon of “Trust a man!”)

“I always wondered wh-what the first-first time would be like. But I thought with tits like these—I mean, they’re all-natural!—and, and there’d be one guy, maybe two, and they’d be sexy in that ‘bad-boy’ kind of way you know? And maybe I’d sort of let them, you know—”

“Beat you up? Hogtie you?”

“Well, of course not—I mean, not that exactly. But we’d fight, not as hard as I could—I mean, I wouldn’t beat the crap out of them or anything like with other crooks. And my vest would get torn open letting my tits hang out and flop and jiggle around so they couldn’t help groping me as we wrestle—”

“—Getting them all hot and bothered and interested more in fucking than fighting, I suppose.”

“Well … yeah, something like that, I guess. And we’d just kind of end up—doing It, you know. One in my pussy and the other in my mouth—”

“Their cocks, you mean.”

“And we’d make love like animals till there was just gallons of cum, all over the place! I’d have it in my hair and all over my tits and just everywhere! And I’d satisfy them so wonderfully that they wouldn’t even mind when the cops show up and take them to jail.”

“Uh huh.” I could just hear Savage Fury wondering how even at … uh, 18 … a girl with tits as enormous as Robin’s could be so innocent.

“B-but these—animals! I was, like, gagging on the dick in my mouth, and crying so hard my mascara ran all over! Did they care? They just laughed and fucked me harder!”

“Well, you did give them kind of a hard time before, darling.”

“And turnabout’s fair play!” Tattoos roared which as usual got everyone to laughing so hard they farted. I told them all to shut up so I could hear the bug and the Hulk crawled forward to open both the van’s front doors.

“So??” that outraged little-girly voice yammered on. “Whose side are you on, anyway? They were horrid to me! Beasts! The black one said they were going to beat me till even my dog wouldn’t recognize me, then fuck me till he wouldn’t want to do that either! And they all laughed some more! If that big d-dick hadn’t been crammed halfway down my throat, I’d have told them a thing or two.”

“Probably a good thing it was, then.”

“Now you’re being m-mean to me too! It isn’t enough that I got g-gangbanged six ways to Sunday till my, my pussy lips hang down to my knees and my asshole feels like it’s been b-blowtorched, it isn’t enough that I had to suh-swallow about a,a pint of cum and have another quart hosed all over the rest of me—”

“—Sweetheart. Robin. Dearest. Isn’t it enough that they didn’t kill you?”

“Kill me??!”

. . . . . .

“Th-they, I mean, they wouldn’t—”

A short but meaningful silence.

Then a suddenly-very-much-younger teenager bursts into tears. Her sobs almost drown out compassionate motherly sounds and a very sympathetic “awwww” and I wonder if Savage Fury hasn’t nipped a very promising career in the bud (or buds, as the case may be). Then after a few moments, The Girl Wonder’s wails become muffled, as though buried in a pair of somethings soft and huge and pillowy. The maternal sounds change to soft “ooo”s and “aaaah”s that are in no fucking way motherly.

Finally, we are there.

“Bossss??” the Hulk pleads.

“Not yet,” I say, turning the speaker off.

AND YOU THOUGHT IT WAS OVER

-9-

In the echoing quiet of the bank lobby, Savage Fury sprawls against the wall, kind of conscious but mostly not. Conscious enough to turn her cowled head sideways when she coughs up another mouthful of my children. All that goo slops over her chin and onto the gigantic jugs lolling at her sides like shimmying boulders of blubber. But not conscious enough to close her legs. Spread limply wide, those spectacular thighbooted gams open the sopping snatch between them till, gaping pinkly, it completely swallows the V-juncture of her costume.

Fury’s dull masked eyes jump from the foot I’ve planted on her heaving gut to Rufus, finally at rest (but not asleep, not yet) with his head hanging against my knee to Robin, who hangs almost to her green-sheathed knees. She’s held up by her crimson tresses like the Amazonian Catch of the Day by proud fishermen Reg and the Hulk. Her luscious young mouth filled with a ballgag even redder than her hair, the battered gargantuan-globed Girl Wonder leaks cum from every orifice. And something else that has inspired me to extend this tableau more than a bit past prudence.

But this could be too good to pass up. Because it looks like Robin forgot another basic rule of superheroines. Maybe two.

“You might as well just do it,” I tell Fury. “You’ll save everyone a lot of trouble.”

She shakes her cowled head violently, like a petulant child. Her gloved fists tighten.

From behind, Tattoos slams a cruel hook into Robin’s kidneys. The dangling Teen Titan groans into her mouthball and writhes, monstrous milkbags joggling. I wince, fully expecting my surprise to be ruined. But her self-control holds, for now.

With the hand not holding her by her hair, the Hulk jerks Robin’s face to him. He pulls the gag out and plants a big wet one right on her bloodied mouth. Grinds their lips together hard and throws in plenty of deeep wet gooey tongue.

“Mmmmf!” she comments. And then “Gllllgggh!” when he pops the beslobbered ball back in again, crams it behind her teeth.

“Aw, c’mon,” I tease The Cowled Crusader. “It’ll only get worse for her.” No teasing: “And you know damn well it’s all your fault.”

I’m not as relaxed as I appear. I’m all too aware of the those outside, cooling their flat-footed heels with incredible patience. Kinda makes me wonder what Fury does with or to the chief to make him so obedient. Probably just shakes these elephantine udders for him and smiles. I wish he could see her world-renowned whoppers now: covered with cum and sagging ponderously to her sides like pumpkins a month after Halloween.

The prudent part of me says to end this now and get the hell out. In fact it’s become something of a nag on the subject. But I hate to leave the back nine when I’m 3 under par and working on an eagle, just because it’s starting to rain.

“See, this was a trap, just like you planned. But the trap was for you.”

Now those gorgeous eyes are all on me.

“I’ve spent a lot of time studying you and setting this up. I know your patterns, and where you’d most likely show up. It wasn’t too hard to let word of this bank robbery get out.”

The Hulk dances Robin over by her hair like a marionette, her spikeheeled feet touching the floor about every 3 feet. It’s hard to tell which is making the Teen Titan cry harder: the pain or the humiliation. I take a fistful of scarlet ponytail and pull Fury up a little so that her masked face is just level with Robin’s crotch.

The Hulk and Tattoos position the whimpering Teen Thunderbolt before Savage Fury. Her slack crimson-thatched snatch is just at Fury’s nose, close enough to drip cum onto her chin. The Masked Mammazon stares at that swollen oozing fruit, then up at me. Her eyes are splendid with hatred.

“Lick it, bitch.” The line is expected of course, but I can barely deliver it with a straight face. What melodrama! What farce!

Fury hesitates, so I poke the shaft of my 3-iron between the muscular cheeks of Robin’s butt (noting that her cum-slimed asshole could be used as the 18^th hole at Pebble Beach) and give her a push, mashing cunt to mouth (“mmpff!”). The Teen Titan’s downcast look of fear and revulsion (she is innocent!) becomes something else when The Cowled Crusader’s tongue slips out to part The Girl Wonder’s heavy fucklips and delve between. A shiver runs the length of the Teen Titan’s strapping hardbody. It is one helluva tongue—just keeps sliding in and in like a gleaming pink tentacle. And Robin’s cunt blossoms around it like a fleshy flower.

I wait a minute or so until they’re both involved. Savage Fury licks Robin’s pussy and The Girl Wonder moans into her ballgag and squirms against her partner’s gorgeous face. And makes no effort to pull back.

Then, Rufus again hugely and strainingly ready, I step up behind Robin. Rufus does his bobbing bowsprit imitation. Tossing her scarlet-maned head about and moaning into her mouthball, the Teen Titan frantically fondles her own gigantic jugs, gloved fingers rolling and pinching their stiff teats. I pause to savor the sweet sweaty fragrance, sex and hairspray and a whiff of L’Air du Temps, and to appreciate over the shorter supergirl’s muscular shoulder, the massive sway and roll of her immense young tits.

The passionate writhing rocking Robin (fweep! Fweedle-de-deep!) is so far gone from Savage Fury’s expert cunt-licking that she doesn’t even notice when I slip the golf club shaft out of her well-lubed ass. But she definitely notices when I replace it with Rufus, rammed in between those taut toned cheeks of hers.

Hole in one. The hard way.

The big young redhead’s luscious mouth has to gape even wider than the fat mouthball filling it to let out the almost supersonic squeal generated by six inches of Rufus disappearing up her sundered coal chute in one driving totally non-lubed stroke.

Sooo tight, sooo hot!!

I take a fistful of gloriously crimson tresses and jerk her head back till her masked eyes, wide and white and bursting with tears, stare into mine.

I smile reassuringly into those wild pain-brimming orbs, and shove a couple more fat Rufus inches up her succulent ass. She makes a choking sound (“kukkh—kkkkh!!”), like he’s plugging her throat from the other end.

And finally it happens: the dam breaks.

I don’t know how she held it in for so long, Fury’s licking should have been enough by itself (couldn’t that colossal-titted Cowled Clod taste what was coming?). But all that self-control has done is raise the pressure till the final release is an explosion

Of urine!

It gushes down Savage Fury’s eager working tongue like a flume into her mouth, resulting in a sudden loss of all interest in her partner’s pussy and a preoccupation with choking and coughing and retching. The piss pours over the Monumental Mammazon’s masked face and onto her monstrous heaving mamms in a foul yellow waterfall, and all she can do is splutter and gag and thrash her cowled head about.

While Robin howls and befouls hapless flooded Savage Fury, I proceed to loosen up her teen-aged bowels, hauling Rufus out and plunging him back in again, with each bludgeoning stroke managing to bury him a little deeper betwixt her luscious muscular cheeks.

Bawling into her ballgag, magnificent body convulsing and arching till her gigantic young jugs flop and flounder wildly, the buttfucked Teen Titan tries like hell to stem the foul flood that splashes over her ponderous-pontooned partner’s lips and chin and everything else. But it’s no use—once a dam breaks, you can’t do anything till the reservoir empties.

“Too bad babe,” I whisper in her shell-like ear as Rufus and I straighten out a few more inches of her lower intestine. “You shoulda gone before we left.”

Fury’s comment: “Guhg … ulghhh … gukkkh!”

She tries weakly to push The Girl Wonder back. But her leather-gloved hands slip off Robin’s green vinyl thighboots, by now slick with all kinds of nasty fluids. They flop to the floor limply, as though all their super-strength has drained with the Teen Titan’s bladder.

And Rufus just keeps on keepin’ on, the “little” engine that could.

“Go! Go! Go! Go!”

The boys cheer me on, clapping and counting in time with each cheek-sundering thrust up squealing Robin’s ass. Nothing like team spirit to bring out the best in one.

She’s stopped screaming by now, can barely even squeak as I ram and ream her. Her gauntleted hands drop to her sides, so I reach around for the Teen Titan’s mammoth tits (though there’s plenty of room for her hands, mine and a lot more). Silken to the touch and dripping with sweat, they are much firmer than Fury’s (if not so enormous) and burning hot, as though each gargantuan guord is swollen with gallons of boiling water. When I squeeze them, the teen-aged Amazon groans raspingly.

Fury sprawls against the wall at Robin’s thighbooted feet like a half-drowned castaway, coughing weakly. Her young partner’s piss drips from her chin and broad shoulders and stupendously sagging chest pumpkins. She looks like she’s been bobbing for apples floating in urine.

Not a bad idea, actually. I pause to pull out my PDA and make a note of it. Robin slumps back against me, panting and drooling.

Suddenly, it’s all so easy. I’d be suspicious if deep-socketed Rufus wasn’t screaming for release. So I grab onto The Girl Wonder’s naked sweat-slick buns and go back to work. She can barely bleat by now. Rufus builds quickly this time, and as he explodes much-needed lubricant into her rectum (probably too late, she’ll be wincing every time she sits for days), I shove The Girl Wonder forward. Her crimson-maned head slams into the wall and she slumps off of Rufe to her boot-sheathed knees next to Savage Fury. Both masked bombshells are dazed, but conscious enough to grimace with disgust as I hose great squirts and gobs of creamy goo all over her masked face and that of her partner.

It feels like my guts and the rest of my insides are trying to follow all that cum. And suddenly I find myself being supported at both arms by the Hulk and Tattoos, and my knees are sturdy as washrags.

“Boss! Boss!” Tattoos is saying. “Are you all right?”

I gaze down at Savage Fury and Robin The Girl Wonder at my feet, beaten and fucked, splashed with piss and splattered with cum. Robin’s head nestles between the ponderous pillows of Fury’s tits, dwarfed by those heaving dripping chest-whoppers.

“I’m fine, boys. Just fine.” I manage to stand on my own—shakily.

“String ‘em up.”

-10-

“C’mon, c’mon, focus it!”

“Quit shovin’!”

Too many big men, too little van. I make a note to steal a Suburban next time—also to get a TV with a bigger screen. Finally I reach in over the Hulk’s shoulder and touch the tracking control button on the VCR.

“Perfect!”

“Thanks, boss.”

The picture is clear despite the two miles between the van and the transmitter and cameras.

“Good thing the VCRs was running all the time—them cops didn’t wait as long as we figgered.”

“The boss always tapes these things, newbie—I toldja to check out the liberry!”

“Well shit, I thought it was all, like, books ‘n’ crap.”

Roars of laughter from the old hands.

I stop the tape, freezing the steel doors in mid-collapse. The boys are immediately still. I start it again. It’s a rough cut from only one of the four cameras, I’ll do the final editing back at base. But we see most of what we want to. The camera’s motion sensor follows the action nicely.

It focuses on the SWAT team as they move into the bank lobby over the fallen security doors—cautiously at first, then freezing in amazement at what they behold. I don’t need a close-up of their crotches to know there’s a lot of sudden tightening and bulging going on. You can see it in the cops’ wide astounded eyes and gaping mouths when they numbly raise their face shields.

We don’t get to see what they’re staring at until the camera follows them to the center of the big room. I know what it is, of course—that’s all on another camera—but it’s a kick to see it on TV, with a fresh cast of onlookers. I wonder if other artistes get as big a kick as I do out of the way people gaze upon their works of art?

For there, hung in the exact center of the room, are mine: Savage Fury and Robin The Girl Wonder. Two perfect if somewhat overdeveloped bodies (like my knack for understatement?). The key to dealing with perfection is how to best display it, n’est pas?

The two whimpering Masked Mammazons, tied back-to-back, hang 20 feet off the floor from the central chandelier, suspended by regular plain old lampcord wrapped around and around Fury’s stupendous upstretched milkbags. The bank was thoughtful enough to provide the cherry picker that got them way up there, normally used to change the lightbulbs.

I mean, art should be hung where it will have the most effect, don’t you agree?

The cord has been pulled so tight by the heroines’ combined weight that it has totally disappeared into all that watermelony by-now-tautly-crimson titflesh. Fury’s mega-melons are being stretched out like stupendous sausages and their nipples, the color and ripeness of plums, point at the ceiling. The girls’ gloved wrists are tied to each others’ booted ankles in kind of a vertical hogtie. And for good measure, the biggest fattest dildos we could find are crammed into their luscious mouths and hammered so far down their throats they can’t help but make the most obnoxious gagging sounds, amplified by the bank’s cavernous acoustics.

Forgetting everything they’ve ever been taught about proper procedure (though I seriously doubt situations like this are covered in The Manual), the cops stand there dumbly.

They lick their lips at the two humongous humiliated heroines high overhead.

They rub their hands on their pants, then jerk them away to be clasped firmly behind.

They shift from foot to foot.

They do nothing to get the whimpering women down.

Robin is trying her damndest to be resolute and stoic, but her eyes show she’s acutely aware of the extra pain her weight is causing Savage Fury. The Cowled Crusader just hangs from her invulnerable distended milkbags, eyes closed, nose-breathing loudly (the microphone we planted in the flaring cuff of one of Robin’s gauntlets is very good). Drool runs from dildo-gagged mouth into the narrow crevice between skyward-pointing pontoons and down her belly, blending with the sweat and cum and piss puddling on the floor far beneath.

I can’t think of anything more degrading for two proud powerful Amazons than to be beaten and udderly (nyuk nyuk nyuk!) humiliated, then found tied like helpless masked pigs by the cops who both resent them and their amateurish interference and lust after their overblown near-naked bodies. If I could, I’d have done that instead. Not that I’m any big fan of cops, you understand. But at least they’re (more or less) pros, and trained to their job.

I could get to like this bunch. They don’t move until the chief shows up and, red-faced, orders his men to cut the two hapless super-victims down. The planted mike only picks up the outraged tone of his voice, not the words.

In a way, this is the best part of all. The nervous and rigidly tumescent cops circle the dangling whimpering wonder women, trying to keep their hands away from their tented crotches as they carry out the chief’s order. The way they pull back and wrinkle their noses when they smell what covers and drips from all that sumptuous tightly bound ultra-flesh gets a laugh from everyone crowded around the monitor. Believe me, it wasn’t nearly as much fun stringing those two giant-titted super-twits up as it should have been. And even the magnificent spectacle before us can’t overcome the growing awareness in the van that showers are going to be mandatory.

But the game isn’t over.

We are treated to one last bit of slapstick, when (as hoped) the cops are so preoccupied with all that naked quivering meat hanging before them—and its acrid smell—that they miss the intricate way in which The Girl Wonder and Cowled Crusader are inter-roped, especially their arms. Following the ever-noble Savage Fury’s head-jerks toward her magnificent teen partner, they first cut Robin free. Down she drops—only to swing out and under Fury, suspended by her back-twisted gauntleted wrists from the Masked Mammazon’s titanic and very very tightly noosed tits! The Teenaged Bombshell lets out a dildo-muffled shriek of pain as her sinewy arms are jerked up behind her, almost to the back of her head.

Fury harmonizes with Robin most earnestly, her sweaty stoic restraint shattered—supporting 150 extra pounds of squirming super-hardbody is one thing, but having that weight suddenly drop down is too much even for ultra-udders like hers. Throwing her cowled head back, she lets loose a dildo-gagged squeal that would do credit to a sow giving birth to a tractor.

The cops stare, frozen in place. Tac Ops never prepared them for this kind of situation. Unfortunately for the 2-voice chorus, Robin has been working at her knots—and I found later that her gauntlets are made of a very slippery material (except the palms)—so before her muscular shoulders dislocate from the weight on them, she manages to slip her gloved wrists out of the wires

And drop with a thud and a grunt to the cold marble floor. At least she lands on those massive pillows of hers so we are treated to one more shrill bleat. And a rousing cheer from the TV audience.

Just in the nick of time, too. Because that’s when the cops who aren’t totally absorbed in the little sado-bondage performance at center stage find the video cameras and turn them off.

Oh well, they’re cheap, and this bunch more than repaid their purchase price. I don’t steal everything.

But the button microphone hidden in Robin’s left gauntlet is still active. So now it’s time to do the final scene and bring the curtain down on this act of the mellerdrama.

-11-

“God, Fury, I am, like, so sorry ….”

“I told you, it’s all right.”

“I, I just couldn’t, y’know, control myself! That humongous dick of his was all tearing my asshole apart, and I mean, I guess it was just as well his men fucked me there first and loosened me a little or it would’ve—you know, really ripped me up—and, and I guess I should’ve gone before—”

“Let’s just drop it, OKAY?? It’s over and all I want to do now is take a shower for a week or two!”

Miserably: “Now you’re really mad at me.”

“I’M NOT MAD!!” Silence. Nothing but dull roaring and dim traffic sounds for awhile—she’s driving with the windows up and the air conditioner on full.

Fury finally breaks the silence. “It’s just that … look, I don’t mind so much talking about, you know, fighting and bondage and rape, because getting beat up and bound and gagged and fucked over and over happens sometimes, and built like we are and dressed like we are, well, you have to be prepared. It’s horrid being forced to suck 3 or 4 cocks and drink their cum, but not so much if she knows what to expect.”

A fuming pause. “Some things, though, are best just dealt with and forgotten. You know?”

“Like, uh, being peed on and having to drink it?”

“… Yeah. Yeah, I’d say that’s right at the top of the list.”

“Okay …. But, like, I am all so sorry.”

“Fine. Let’s get back to my place and shower this off. So we can stop smelling like toilets.”

“The cops said we could use their showers.”

“The cops want us to use a lot of their equipment, honey. Never fuck a cop, they lose all respect for you, and that isn’t much to start with. They think we’re shameless interfering super-sluts anyway.”

A moment of driving noise.

“… I don’t mind the way you smell.”

For a moment it looks like they’re actually going to lead us back to Savage Fury’s secret identity home. And I’m just turning the implications of that over—do we raid it and let her know I’m on to her secret, or can I make it the centerpiece of the rest of my Plan or do I care?—when Robin starts to sniffle.

Fury: “Hey now, girl.”

Sniffles quickly turn into sobs. Sounds like late reaction.

“C’mon now, was it all that bad, your first? It was only 3 guys, even if they were hung like horses. I thought you did pretty well.”

Suddenly I want to reach right through the listener/tracker and take that overblown underdressed bimbo by the throat. I want to scream “JESUS H CHRIST! SHE’S JUST A KID AND FOR HER FIRST TIME SHE TOOK DICKS IN HER TWAT, MOUTH, AND TWO UP HER ASS! IF IT WASN’T ‘ALL THAT BAD’ THEN WE WASTED A LOT OF TIME AND EFFORT!”

Though we did enjoy wasting it.

They pull off the street so Fury can comfort her distraught young partner. I quickly get a lock on their position: not too far away. I decide not to risk following these fabulous Mammazon Morons all the way across town, or wherever they might end up.

“Turn here,” I say, checking the direction finder.

“Hey boss,” Reg says from the driver seat up front. “This looks like it.”

The van slows. “No one around,” Tattoos says from the passenger seat.

Tall office buildings on both sides of the street. The time and place are perfect: an hour after lunch, even the stragglers back at their desks, and lots of underground parking to minimize foot traffic.

Following the signal, we dive down a ramp into a world of fluorescent-lit concrete and row upon row of cars. Down another ramp we arrive at the maintenance level, walls and ceilings lined with pipes and ducts, a scattering of trucks and vans,

And one beat-up station wagon, parked off in a dark corner near some dumpsters. The tracker is going crazy.

Through the glove-planted bug, a suddenly very much younger (if still awesomely endowed) teenager bursts into tears. Her sobs almost drown out compassionate motherly sounds and a very sympathetic “awwww” and I wonder if Savage Fury hasn’t nipped a very promising career in the bud (or buds, as the case may be). Then after a few moments, The Girl Wonder’s wails become muffled, as though buried in something soft and huge and pillowy. The maternal sounds change to soft “ooo”s and “aaaah”s that are in no fucking way motherly.

We pull up across the aisle behind the wagon. It isn’t exactly the Batmobile—it’s seen way more than its share of miles and the tires are almost bald. “Wash me” is scrawled across a rear window. But the tailgate window is clean enough to make out the two heads inside, one cowled and the other flamingly maned: touching, moving slightly against one another. From the speaker comes the sound of nose breathing and lips against lips, small sighs of contentment.

“Bosss??” the Hulk pleads.

“Not yet,” I say.

Robin’s voice, soft and breathy: “I like the way you taste, too.”

“This is— I mean, we shouldn’t ….” Fury sounds almost maidenly. Just two kids, necking in Dad’s station wagon.

Robin gives a throaty chuckle that, even through the bug’s tinny speaker, has Rufus stirring and muttering in his sleep. I can’t believe what I’m hearing:

That demure titan-titted teen slut is seducing The Cowled Crusader!

The idea of Fury commiting a felony—statutory rape (if my suspicions are correct)—entrances me. I have this image of Fury in a cell, those gargantuan milkbags bursting out of a prison uniform, getting piled on by a mob of bull dykes with dildos even bigger than Rufus.

Call me a wild, idealistic dreamer.

After another minute or two, there is movement inside the wagon and it rocks on bad shocks—one of them has scrambled into the rear, where the back seat is folded down to make one big cargo area. A moment later a leather-sheathed arm slowly opens the driver’s side door and a pair of 6-inch heels at the end of thighboots click to the floor. A cowled head pokes out, cautiously peers about. Doesn’t notice the new van parked against the far wall. Fury’s stupendous swaying boobs follow like dirigibles from a hangar, then the towering ultra-statuesque rest of her climbs out and straightens.

I can’t help it—I catch my breath. Even having just beaten the shit out of all that, there’s so monumentally much jiggling meat standing there that it boggles the mind! I zoom into her beautiful face: flushed and sweaty. Bruises have already healed (good, I like a clean slate to write on) and lipstick is smeared all over her mouth. Camera pans down to her colossal tits, zoooms in to close-up: more lipstick smeared all around her big hard nipples, of two different shades.

Fury leans back against the car and takes a deep blimp-lifting breath. I half expect her to rise gently from the floor. For a moment it looks like she’s going to get right back into the front seat. Then a green-gauntleted hand appears from the back window and takes The Cowled Crusader’s black-gloved one. A shiver runs from crimson topknot to spikeheeled feet. She sighs, and gives that vinylclad hand a gentle squeeze.

And when the door opens, she ducks down and climbs right in. Her bootheels and that great bare ass of hers stick out for a long moment; from the speaker come the sounds of preliminary lip-grindage. Then the rest of her is gone.

“Oh …. Oh yesssss ….” Too blurred with passion to be distinguishable.

“Bosssss????” the Hulk squeaks, so plaintively it almost breaks my heart.

“Patience, young Dwayne,” quoth I. “The moment is hard upon us.”

Hard upon him, too. And me, if it comes to that. Rufus, though initially cranky at being awakened at this unaccustomed hour, is not only stirring. He’s egg-beatering. This is going to set the record for marathons.

“Oh, oh yes, omigod, right there darlinngggggg ….”

Tattoos echoes the tinny groans.

After a few moments, the station wagon begins to creak and move a little, then quickly to rock. Rollings and tumblings are dimly visible through the rear window.

I realize that if I don’t kick this final act off now, these men will be too—ah—preoccupied with personal matters to be effective. It is exceptionally difficult to fight well when one’s pants are so uncomfortably tight, which is one reason I suppose that Savage Fury and her top-heavy super-bimbo friends wear such revealing (there’s that understatement again) outfits.

Then:

The van’s side door is yanked open and a sultry female voice says “Gentlemen.”

And in the forever-second it takes us to turn our big stupid rock-heads toward the open door, several gleaming things fly in. The Hulk actually makes a grab at one

But when it explodes gets only a fistful of

GAS!!!

To quote the great Dr. Praetorius: my only weakness.

Suddenly the van is filled with a thick cloud of toxic gas. Quick though I am to dematerialize (minimum density), I get a whiff of the noxious shit before I fall through the van’s wall to the outside.

I have to take a moment here to explain about immateriality. Sorry, we’ll get back to Our Story ASAP (oh, the suspense!). It’s my fail-safe mechanism because nothing can touch me, but of course I can’t touch anything else (with one exception, see below). Light and gravity affect me a little because I don’t float away, or rather the earth doesn’t float away from me, and I can see—dimly, everything’s black and white and blurred—and be seen. But I can’t breathe because of course air passes right through me and I through it. And I can’t hear because sound is a function of air (duh). So I can only stay immaterial for a few minutes before running out of good ol’ oxy, fainting, and becoming material again.

And it’s a real strain, especially if I’m carrying something (anything that touches me is within the field) or Casting the field around something else (you saw me do that before with Savage Fury). I sometimes get headaches from just carrying a bag of loot—a whole nother person or the equivalent can cause a skull-splitter. Which makes it a one-man escape module only.

So that’s why I’m running out on the guys. At maximum Hardness I still have to breathe and that gas is too fucking potent—just a sniff of it damn near knocks me out. Max Hard has its penalties too—if I don’t keep moving I start to sink into the ground, even rock and concrete crumble because my density makes me weigh tons and all that weight is focussed into the few square inches my feet occupy.

Fucking laws of physics. Don’t get me started.

So out I tumble (about fucking TIME you quite correctly scream) and re-instantly materialize to keep from falling through the floor. I cough, I wheeze, I gasp. I can’t do a damn thing about the loud violent sounds from inside the van. With all the banging and pounding, it sounds like someone is popping popcorn the size and weight of cannonballs in there. The van shakes and clangs and bongs and large bulges suddenly extrude the metal side from within.

I’m too hazed and phased to wonder who or what is doing this to my guys, the gas is spreading around now so I have to go immaterial again. I pass through the van, getting a quick glimpse of bloody mayhem

To where an Amazonian masked vision in crimson leather, wearing a little gas mask that only covers nose and mouth, is just finishing off the Hulk (whom she has by the balls) with a vicious head-butt. That pseudo-Bogie fedora of hers is steel-reinforced and it does the job on Hulk. He reels back to sprawl inside the van amidst the bloody ruins of Reg and Tattoos who, as the hipsters would say, are gone, man.

Real gone.

And because of the gas I can’t do a damn thing about it, except stand and watch.

Stalker sees me of course. Her lips are hidden behind the mask but I’m betting she’s all smiles. Stalker is one heroine who doesn’t talk too much, but even so I don’t want to hear it. And I do need to breathe. So I move back, outside the gas cloud.

I’m just at the up-ramp and re-materialized (cautiously) when Savage Fury and Robin get out of the station wagon and walk over to Stalker. Costumes notably un-disarranged and that milky white skin over all of Fury’s outrageous jiggling curves notably unbruised, as though it had never been touched. The Eternal Virgin, re-virginized. Robin wears some kind of bat-gasmask so Fury, unbothered by the gas cloud, is the only one with a visible grin.

“Hope you enjoyed our little radio play,” she smiles at me, a gloved hand on Robin’s shoulder.

“You mean that was all—”

“ACTINGGG!!” Robin crows through her mask, striking a pose.

“We had to distract you till Stalker could get down here,” Fury says. “And we knew what you like.”

“How’d she get here so fast?” I just have to ask, however much I hate to feed their gloating satisfaction.

“This’s my building,” Stalker says. “My offices are just upstairs.”

Gahhhhh ….

“I spotted the bug in Robin’s glove when we were tied up,” Fury goes on, without even a hint of embarrassment. “Silk uses the same kind and they don’t have much range, so I figured you’d follow us.”

“That’s how you knew?” Robin says in shock. “Then—then they—”

“Overheard everything.” I try to put as much of my own gloating into it as I can. It ain’t much.

It’s enough for The Girl Wonder, at least. She turns to Fury angrily. “You didn’t tell me!”

“Darling, they were listening,” Fury reminds her gently but firmly. “It was the only way I could think of to let Silk know what was going on without alerting them.”

Robin remains unmollified. Her super-stacked hardbody positively quivers with indignation that does wonderful things for her gigantic green-vested tits. It’s my only victory for the day and it’s thin stuff. What galls me is that I not only underestimated Fury’s strength, but her brains as well—kind of like betting into a pair of deuces that turns out to be 4 of a kind.

Alright, I guess my metaphor should be more generous, given the outcome:

Make it a pair of treys.

Then The Girl Blunder (sorry, couldn’t resist) almost sweetens the pot by starting after me with a snarled “You—!”

But Silk Stalker, that meddling bitch, is too fast—she grabs the enraged, outraged and generally deranged Teen Titan’s cape and jerks her back. Robin spins with a gauntleted right cross that Stalker ducks easily, then Savage Fury has the angry young Amazon by her collar and her thighbooted legs are kicking three feet off the ground. She continues to struggle and yell.

“I can hold you like this forever,” Fury says.

Silk adds, “The only thing protecting you and me from him is the gas.”

“B-But I—I took two dicks up my ass!” Robin protests. The lack of sympathy this elicits has a definite dampening effect on her exertions.

“Together?” Silk asks.

“Well … n-no.”

Silk and Fury share a look.

Robin just glares down at the watermelon-chested (what else?) detective. I think what’s really got her pissed off is that Stalker was able to handle my guys so easily. Heroinewise, she’s the only pro in the room right now, probably the only one in the city, and despite her not having any powers, the only one I’ve been afraid of. You can see why.

Robin settles down. There may be hope for her yet. I really would hate to see a pair of chest-whoppers like hers (and she’s still growing) get themselves wiped out.

Fury comes toward me. I’m starting to recover: in my head Jerry Lee Lewis sings “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On.” Robin, pouting prettily, hangs back with Silk Stalker. They talk in murmurs. After a moment Stalker has Robin smiling.

“I’d just like to know one thing,” Fury says, her own voice low.

I’m Hardened, just in case she wants more than talk. Okay, I know what your filthy sick perverse minds are thinking, and it ain’t necessarily so. At this moment Rufus wouldn’t be interested in The Cowled Crusader if she was stark naked and spreading herself wide open for him. I mean, with her big nipples peering around those narrow straps and that froth of crimson bush spilling over her V-bottom, she might as well be naked and spread.

But all she wants to do is talk. And what she says is: “Why?”

“Why what?” I ask.

“Why all that … back there?” She motions with her cowled head in the general direction of the bank.

“Hell, it was a bank robbery.”

She shakes her head, and a lot of other stuff too. Every motion she makes does that—a simple gesture will set her immense boobs to a shaking and quaking that can last for a minute or more. And she wonders why people never listen to her??

She shrugs. “There was a lot more money in at least 3 other banks in the area. The money wasn’t the point, was it?”

Jerry Lee goes silent.

She moves right up to me, so close those finger-sized nipples of hers almost touch my chest through their straps. The rest of her stands quite a bit farther back. It occurs that it might be a good idea to move back myself. I get these silly ideas sometimes.

“What was the point?” The merest whisper of a whisper. We are engulfed in a haze of sweat and sex and perfume and total utter femininity. Makes it a bit difficult to breathe.

“C’mon, there’s no way we can take you here and now.”

True enough, in fact I can feel the concrete starting to crumble beneath my feet, but that doesn’t seem important. The nearness of her is overpowering. I feel strange, disoriented, as though I just got here and don’t know what’s going on.

Fury smiles—teasing, provoking, knowing. I can’t believe that incredible mouth had just a few minutes before been stretched around both Rufus and a big damn dildo.

“It’s the only way I can get off any more,” I blurt out, handing her the final victory for the day. I guess she earned it.

“All that … was just about sex?” she asks.

“It’s an addiction kind of thing.” I listen to myself blab.

“So the robberies are just foreplay.” She shakes her head. “You poor bastard.”

Pity? Disgust? I can’t tell. I don’t want to know. I can’t stand it that she can be so calm and objective and all the rest just minutes after I’d beaten and raped the crap out of her. It’s like it never happened at all.

“We will stop you,” she assures me.

And damned if it isn’t a real effort to tear myself away! I get the hell out of there, through the back wall and out a service tunnel. Sirens approach from all directions and I take advantage of a bus that pulls up at the corner. I wonder how I’ll pay the fare till I notice I’m carrying the bag of loot.

Helluvan escape for a super-villain.

POST-COITAL DEPRESSION

-11-

I did get a slight consolation prize after all, a couple of days later when it was far too late. The cops impounded the van of course, not to mention the guys, but it was easy if painful to spring them, simply by Casting immateriality over them one by one and taking them out through the jail cell wall. Gave me a headache that lasted for a couple of days but good men are too hard to find. Besides, I owed them.

As soon as my head was clear again I hit the evidence room.

The cops also stripped the van of its audio-video equipment and I’ve no doubt were intensely disappointed that most of the recordings had been ruined by Silk Stalker’s gas. The only survivor was a back-up audio cassette left running after the gas attack, which I doubt the pigs even bothered to listen to. It included the car conversation between Savage Fury and Robin, and something else that went down just before the battery in the bug in Robin’s gauntlet went dead.

Just a snatch of conversation but it forced me to completely reassess The Cowled Crusader. I’d always said that her brains were between her legs and now I’m wondering if that’s the insult I thought it was.

Verbatim:

Silk Stalker’s voice—“… sure calm talking to that sonuvabitch. Looked like you were flirting with him. After what he did to you.”

Robin, accusingly—“To us!”

Fury takes a deep breath. There’s definitely a tremor in her voice that definitely wasn’t there when she was talking to me. Definitely.

“… Wasn’t easy. But I had to.”

Robin, plaintively—“Why did you even?”

I could hear Fury shrug. “It just seemed like the thing to do.”

Her usual incisive and erudite answer.

“He suure looked unhappy, he practically ran through that wall,” Stalker gloats. “I bet I know why.”

Robin—“Okay, you tell us.” Still hasn’t forgiven Stalker for showing her up. Hasn’t figured out how and probably won’t.

“Fury didn’t want him to think he’d won all the marbles, Robin. So she had to show him she just shrugged off all that crap, like ‘oh, were we fucking?’”

Fury—“I guess his pride was the only thing I could hurt.”

Silk chuckles, low and rich. “I think it was enough, babe.”

Now comes the consolation prize:

Fury makes a choked sound that I can’t make out.

Silk—“You gonna be all right?”

“I just want to get home and take a long long bath.” The recording goes to hell right there and I can’t tell if her façade has crumbled and she’s as miserable and distraught as I’d like.

Like I said, it ain’t much. But it’s all I’ve got. Fury was right, damn her. Without a brain in her head she figured out the part of me I can never Harden enough.

And I can’t help thinking about the police chief. That poor bastard.