Foreword:

Wonder Woman, as a comic book character, has been around for almost seventy years.  In that time she has gone through many changes, so much so that it is often difficult for people to remember what powers she’s had at various stages of her existence.  That being the case, this Wonder Woman, my Wonder Woman, must be considered your typical alternate universe superheroine.  She has the strength of ten men, heals rapidly, flies an invisible plane, fights while wearing high-heeled boots, and has a major rack.  Think of her as being like the Lynda Carter version, updated for the twenty-first century.

So please accept this Wonder Woman for who she is.  Goodness knows I would, or at least I would after the good doctor is finished with her.

Enjoy,

BK

Wonder Woman vs. Doctor Tits: Part One

by Big Kahuna

1

"Geez, Frankie, I don’t know about this.”

“What’s to know?” asked the fat man without interest, as he wiped his sunglasses on a leg of his pants.

“Geez, Frankie,” the blonde whined quietly, almost a whisper, “well...dont'cha think my boobs are big enough already?”

Frankie looked around the waiting room, then turned his attention back to the stacked young woman.  “How many times have I told you, baby,” he whispered, none too silently, “tits sell!  Listen, honey,” he continued, as though he delivered this speech on a weekly basis, “this ain’t me or you we’re talking about here, this is America, and America loves tits.  The bigger the better!  Now me, I love your cans just the way they are.  They're just perfect!  But we can't kid ourselves; as big and beautiful as your hooters are, they're gonna need to be bigger if we're gonna make you tops in the adult entertainment business."

"But, Frankie, you said my natural beauty alone was gonna make me a star!" she bleated, trying to steer the subject away from her already considerable endowments.

"It will, honey, it will,” he crooned with a practiced tone, “we just gotta help nature along, is all.  That's why we're here, ain't we?  Do you think I'd let some second-rate hack anywhere near these beauties?" he said, leaning in and surreptitiously cupping one of her heavy DD's.

"Frankie, please...!" she whispered, gently pushing his hand from the oversized gland.  The blonde felt nervous being in such well-appointed surroundings; the chair in which she was sitting had probably set this doctor back more than she would get in a month, making the amateurish videos she'd been doing before Frankie had ‘discovered’ her.  "Is he really that good?" she asked, allowing herself to be convinced.

"That good?  Baby, this guy is the King of Tits.  Why, he could stuff a couple of beanbag chairs in Keira Knightley’s chest, and even she wouldn't be able to tell they wasn't her very own.  An’ if you knew how much this consultation was runnin’ me, you wouldn’t have any doubts as to just how good this guy is." 

"I know, Frankie, but..." the blonde gulped, "triple-H?"

"I know it seems like an awful lot to carry around, doll, and I suppose they will be.  But what would you rather have: the chest you got now and being cornholed by a bunch of hairy, pot-bellied dagoes for burger money, or a big, beautiful pair of juggs that’ll be worshipped by rich fuckers while you drink champagne and dance on a ship in the Caribbean?  Trust me, little darling, Frankie knows what's best."

"Mr. Smith," the nurse called out, "Doctor will see you now."

The fat man stood up, turned slightly and held out his hand to the pretty, leggy, over-developed blonde, "You comin’, baby-doll?"

She hesitated for the barest fraction of a second, then smiled slightly, put her hand in his, and allowed herself to be pulled to a standing position.

"You made the smart choice, sweetheart," Frankie said with a wink.  “With my brains and your new, giant tits, we're gonna be stinking rich, I promise ya."

*    *    *    *    *    *

Wonder Woman was fuming. 

It was only four o’clock in the afternoon and she was thoroughly exhausted, frustrated, and wrung-out, and the horrible, soul-killing dialogue that had emanated from the other side of the highly polished planter had just put the proverbial cherry on the sundae of her day.  She sat, arms folded under perfect breasts, one flawless leg crossed over the other, while a red and white stiletto heel beat out an angry rhythm.

In a long, some might say too long, career of crime fighting she had come up against some of the most brutal, vicious and, quite literally, inhuman monsters that could be conceived, and she had defeated them all.  But try as she might, she simply could not get around the nurse who would not let her see Doctor without an appointment.  It appeared to matter not at all that she was on official business.  She had been treated like some neurotic suburban housewife with a few wrinkles and too much money.  She had known from the outset that this was a battle she would be unable to win, so she chose the most secluded spot in the waiting room she could find to wait until Doctor finished with his scheduled patients, and could come down from on high to commune with her.

She tried drawing upon the deep wells of Amazon patience, but they were eluding her.  She felt like an utter fool for having barged in dressed in her Wonder Woman regalia, and felt strangely exposed and vulnerable in this setting.  "I just bet my presence here will end up in the National Enquirer," she muttered.

You really should have known better, she berated herself.  You believed that these people would just simply drop whatever they might be doing to cater to your needs just because you are who you are.  To be fair it did work with the first two doctors, didn't it?  But not this one.  No, this one is going to make you work for it.

"Stop it!" she spat, surprised that she had spoken aloud. But it was true, the first two doctors, and their staffs, had been only too happy to answer any questions she put to them.  At first she thought she might conduct her interviews as her alter ego, Diana Prince, but this case, she found, was making her behave rashly, forcing lapses in judgment that only a rookie would make.

But why? she found herself thinking.  What is it, specifically, that is setting me off? 

It wasn't that it was an exhaustive case, though, in fact, the investigation was only hours old and who knew where it might possibly lead or how long it could take?  Neither were the crimes horribly violent.  There were only three victims, so far, and none of them had been irreparably harmed.  There had been no blood, no deaths, no torture.

She was dancing around it, actively trying to avoid the inescapable and obvious conclusion that she was afraid to draw, afraid of what it might say about her.

It was the fact that these crimes had been committed solely against women.

You're evading, her conscience gently prodded.  Be honest.  She was being evasive and she knew it.  She had dealt with innumerable perverts and animals that had chosen to victimize women, and she had never behaved so rashly.  No, it wasn't that it was exclusively women, but rather a specific kind of woman.

The kind of woman she was.

All three victims had four things in common: they were all undeniably attractive, they were all between 5-feet 10-inches and 6-feet tall, raven-haired, and all three of them had large breasts.

News of the crimes had not yet been made public but Wonder Woman knew that it could not be suppressed much longer, and the assailant had been given the usual crude nicknames that those in investigative circles like to brand their quarry.  He had been dubbed The Booby Bandit, The Melon Felon, The Bosom Burglar, The Tit Thief, and perhaps most offensive of all, to Wonder Woman’s sensibilities, The Jugg Jacker, for there was one other commonality to all three victims – their breasts had been surgically excised.

“The removal of their breasts," she had been informed by CDI's Doctor Smith, “was done with great skill.  I doubt very much, after thorough examination, that there will be so much as a scar."

“No scars, my foot!" spat Wonder Woman, an angry tear rolling slowly toward one corner of her flawless mouth.  She had been in early this morning to interview the first victim and, if need be, to try and be of comfort to her using her Amazon healing skills.  But she had been of absolutely no comfort.  Diana had not even spoken a word before the poor woman saw her and screamed, “Get that balloon-titted cow away from me!" and then burst into hysterical tears. 

Diana had been completely taken aback.  Never in her entire life had her presence inspired horror.  She could perfectly well understand the poor woman’s response to her, but what she could not understand was why she had attempted to speak to a trauma victim, while in such admittedly provocative garb, when even the greenest of therapists would have strongly advised against it.

Diana did not try to talk with any of the other victims after that, and chose instead to use the other means available to her to try to get a handle on the perpetrator.  Since Dr. Smith believed that whoever was responsible must have been, at some time, a surgeon of extensive expertise she decided she might better direct her energies toward finding, or eliminating, possible suspects via direct inquiry.

“4:10 PM,” Diana grumbled, taking her cue from the elegant clock over the admitting nurse’s station.  Won’t Bambi, or Candy, or whatever her name is, be done today?  How long does it take to examine a pair of boobs, anyway?

It takes as long as it takes, and besides, it’s not really her boobs you’re worried about, is it?

The thought hit her with such stunning force she almost reeled in her chair.

It's me he wants, isn’t it?  He's hurting innocent women to get to me!  Oh, sweet Hera, it all fits!

She realized she was now doubled over in her chair, her hands unconsciously clutching her flawless, warm breasts through the bodice of her costume.  She quickly straightened back up, looking about the empty waiting room to make sure no one had seen her in such an unguarded and vulnerable fashion.

All her grown-up life Diana had carried a secret around with her, a secret she had kept even from herself.  She had never consciously admitted that her breasts were anything more than just another part of her, of no greater significance than a shoulder or kneecap, but now she knew.  Knew that her breasts were a source of pride, a testament to her femininity, her desirability and, to be gut-wrenchingly honest, a source of pleasure for her when the curtains were drawn or during her all-too infrequent trips to Paradise Island.

But why involve civilians? she wondered. Surely there must be other, better ways for him to try and get to me.  Hera only knows how many villains have tried to harm me, how many have tried, and succeeded, in capturing me, if only briefly, for their nefarious purposes.

Because it’s easy, she answered herself.  Because abducting an ordinary person is a piece of cake compared to a superheroine, because a superheroine is better able to fight back, and a superheroine, especially you, is very, very public.  Remember what Steve always says, ‘For everyone that...

“...doeth evil hateth the light’” a barely audible whisper. “Oh, sweet Hera.”

He’s driving me.  These poor women are being maimed in this particular fashion just to goad me into action, to draw me out!  And with a start, Diana realized that it was working.  She looked about her, frantic, expecting at any moment to be set upon by faceless goons, black-clad thugs bent on seizing her, capturing her, breaking her.

She began having trouble breathing; her heart started beating wildly.  This was, she knew, the onset of a full-blown anxiety attack, and she could feel the scream welling up in her throat.  She clutched the arms of the chair and clenched her jaw tightly until she could rally her Amazon training to abate the episode.

She closed her eyes and began humming to herself, a slow relaxing melody she had been taught when she was very young.  Agonizingly, Diana got herself under control.  Her breathing slowed and, gradually, her heartbeat began resuming a more normal rhythm.  She opened her eyes and took a deep breath, and found that she had crushed the maple arms of her chair into splinters.

This is too much, she thought, I’m in no fit state to interview anyone.  I’ve got to think this through.  Sweet Hera, how could I have been so stupid!  I’ve got to get out of here.  I’ll just have to tell Nurse Wretched ‘sorry but some other time.’

Diana stood up and strode to the reception desk, her long legs covering the distance quickly, confident that she was finally and completely in charge of her emotions and her actions.  The nurse/receptionist had just hung up the phone and turned to look up at her.”

“You have excellent timing, Miss. Doctor Titus will see you now.”

2

As Wonder Woman made her way down the hallway toward the doctor’s office, she couldn’t help being distracted by the numerous photographs that adorned the walls: all women, all beautiful, and all of them quite bosomy.

To give him credit, he was obviously good at what he was good at; very good in fact.  Diana looked, not only with a woman’s eye, but also with an Amazonian appreciation of feminine beauty, and found that she was unable to tell what, exactly, these women had had done to them.  They were, every last one of them, fantastically beautiful, but they all appeared naturally beautiful.  They had none of the artificial symmetry of Hollywood starlets, just a radiant, imperfect perfection.  The photographs, some in black and white, some in color, ranged from tasteful studio shots to quite daring boudoir photography, and even some full, but artistically done, nudes.

It is amazing, she marveled, what this man can do with a pair of boobs.

They were all big, in fact some of them were at least as large as her head, but every pair of breasts, no matter how large, was exactly suited to the woman.  One woman’s were high and perky; another’s were low-slung and pouting.

My, my, she thought, he really is the ‘King of Tits’, isn’t he?

She could not help but admire how each woman’s breasts accentuated their owner, how they were completely unique to her and her alone.  She also goggled at the sheer size of some of them.  One woman, a leggy redhead, was amazing; she was as skinny as a rail yet her boobs were easily the size of soccer balls.  When you looked at this woman, all you saw were tits.  By contrast, the picture next to hers, that of a lovely young brunette dressed in a red PVC corset, and whose boobs appeared to be about the same size as Diana’s, seemed small, almost subnormal, and she began to feel, for the first time in her life, strangely inadequate.  She looked over the expanse of her own cleavage and wondered...would another cup size, or even two, really be so bad?

Horror arose within her at the thought, followed quickly by self-loathing, and before she was even consciously aware of it, the irrational anger that had so recently abated returned in full measure.  “It is him,” she spat, “Titus and all his fellows who prey upon the insecurities of women, pitting us against each other, turning us into perverted sexual travesties of humanity!”  She inhaled sharply and drew herself up until she was almost painfully erect, her proud bosom pointing the way toward the door of Titus’s office.  “I am an Amazon, a warrior!  Not a busty plaything of rich men!”  She strode purposefully to the door and opened it.

She didn’t know what she was expecting, but she wasn’t expecting him.

A man stood before her, his broad back to her, and her first thought was...Apollo?  He was standing over a huge antique desk, powerful arms stretching down to touch the green baize surface of the blotter with long, elegant fingers that Diana would have expected to find on a world-class violinist.

At 6-feet 4-inches, he was a bit taller than Diana, which she found made her feel a little unsure of herself.  She was not used to being the smallest person in the room; she was also unaccustomed to being ignored.  “Um, Dr. Titus?” she ventured.

He wheeled about with the easy grace of a jungle cat, smiled and extended one of those perfectly manicured hands to her in greeting.

“Ah, Wonder Woman, it is my very great pleasure to meet you.”

His gentle baritone voice filled the warm room and seemed to flow through her, rather than around her, leaving her weak in the knees.  Diana had to actively stop herself from gasping as she took in the visage of this man.

He was quite simply the best looking man she had ever seen.  He had a devastating smile, which drew her gaze from his piercing grey eyes, and his white-blond hair, pulled back into a tight ponytail, reminded her of the spectacular sand beaches of Paradise Island.  

She found that he had taken her by the hand and was now bending over it in that queer European fashion that, while disconcerting, left her a little short of breath.  He straightened up to his full and considerable height and fixed her once again with his dazzling smile.  “Pictures do not do you justice, Wonder Woman.  I am humbled by your beauty.”

Diana stood there, momentarily unable to speak.  She had been told this innumerable times before, often with the exact same words, by men of all kinds who wanted to conquer her, to dominate her sexually (being hit upon is an occupational hazard if you’re a demi-Goddess in a bustier), but coming from this man it seemed somehow fresh, somehow sincere.  She looked up at him and thought, this must be how prey feels before the cobra strikes.

Get hold of yourself, Diana! she screamed inwardly.  He knows what his strengths are and he’s playing to all of them!  You are an Amazon warrior, not some bubble-headed bimbo destined to be a notch on this rogue’s bedpost.

“Th-thank you for seeing me on such short notice, uh, Doctor.”  She realized he was still holding her hand and hastily withdrew it.  Her hand felt strange to her and she found she didn’t know what to do with it.

“It is my pleasure, Wonder Woman, to be of any help to you that I can,” he said, still smiling.  “Please forgive me,” he said, fanning himself with a file folder, “but the air conditioning is not working properly. Old buildings,” he shrugged.  “I am, at heart, a preservationist, a trait which, I suppose, complements my chosen profession.”

The room was warm, uncomfortably so.  But Diana was unlikely to ever admit to weakness, and certainly not to someone she had just met.  “I’m perfectly fine, thank you, Doctor,” Diana fibbed.  “I was raised in a warm climate.”  Now why did I tell him that? Diana marveled; Wonder Woman’s origins were definitely classified information.

Just concentrate, Diana, and get through this!  But she was finding it difficult to concentrate: the oppressive heat of the room, the presence of this scoundrel who took money to turn women into mere objects, and the very real possibility that somewhere outside this room, or this building, someone was laying in wait for her, preparing to spring a trap.

She was awakened from her trance by the realization that Titus was staring at her.  Not at her breasts, as most men did, but at her face.  And it wasn’t the typical lecherous stare, or the curious stare, or even the juvenile I-get-to-see-the-big-boobies-up-close stare.  It was as if he were inspecting her, as one might examine a horse before buying it.

“Doctor…?”

“Pardon me, Wonder Woman,” he said, placing his index finger below her chin and gently steering her jaw first left, then right.  Diana started to protest, but resigned herself to putting up with it if she wanted to keep this man in a good humor.  He looked her over carefully, with the eyes of craftsman, which Diana found she liked even less than the honest lechery she was used to.

“Please forgive me,” he said, lowering his hand from her face, “but it is a habit, I suppose, unique to my profession.  We are forever trying to see if we can improve upon nature.  I confess I am disappointed.  There is nothing whatsoever in need of my skills,” he said almost dispiritedly.

“But please,” he continued in his soothing baritone, “it has been, I am sure, a long day for both of us.  Let us try and be comfortable and you can tell me why you have come in such urgency.”  He gestured toward a very comfortable looking green leather chair while he made his way around the large desk, never, Diana couldn’t help noticing, breaking eye contact with her.

Diana took her seat upon the proffered chair and immediately regretted it.  For one, the doctor was still standing which, Diana was well aware, put him in control of the interview and, secondly, it was the most comfortable chair she had ever sat in.  The butter-soft leather felt cool against the backs of her thighs, almost like bare skin, she found herself thinking, and to her horror, her mind flashed briefly back to the last time she had felt such cool and yielding softness against her flesh, months ago and many thousands of miles away.

Focus, Diana, she told herself.  In fifteen minutes you’ll be in an elevator and away from this place.  You can meditate, find your center, and once more become the hunter.

“May I offer you refreshment, Wonder Woman?” He gestured to a large crystal pitcher, “I drink only spring water or fruit juice, myself, but if you would like something stronger I keep my private office very well stocked for my special guests.  I am a firm believer in being prepared.”

“Water, thank you, Doctor.”  She was thirsty, and it had been a long day, but she nevertheless watched closely as he poured iced water into two large glasses and placed hers upon a leather coaster within easy reach of her.  Doctor or no, he was still an unknown quantity and who knew what kind of drugs he might have access to?  She had not lasted this long as a warrior through being foolhardy.

“Now, Wonder Woman,” he said, taking his seat, “how may I be of help to you?”

“Doctor Titus…” she began.

“Rex,” he interrupted with an airy wave of his broad hand, “please.  We are professional people, Wonder Woman.  Hiding behind such affectations does not become us.”  He smiled his dazzling smile again.  His teeth were so amazingly perfect and even, Diana noted, they were almost hypnotic.

This was not at all going as she wanted, she had to find some way to establish control. “Very well, um, Rex, I, um…” 

“Perhaps,” he interrupted again, “I might save you some time.  You wished to talk with me about Sylvia Bronson?”

He knows! she thought, using all her reserves to stifle the gasp that had threatened to escape her.  How can he know…?

“Wonder Woman,” he said with just the barest tinge of impatience, “please forgive my seeming immodesty, but I am eminent surgeon.  My clients are, for the most part, very well connected people and, as such, I hear a great many things.  Were you not also aware that Miss Bronson is a patient of mine?”

The shock on Diana’s face must have been readily apparent.  Sylvia Bronson, the third victim, a patient of Doctor Titus?

“You are surprised, are you not?  I am, of course, not at liberty to say just what work she has had done, but she exceeded even my rather high expectations.  Could you please inform her that I am at her disposal to correct whatever damage this monster has inflicted upon her?  I would even be happy to…”

He continued on in this vein, informing her that he would put all other considerations aside and that her restoration would be of the highest priority.  Despite his apparently caring demeanor he spoke, Diana judged, like an artist whose work had been vandalized.  She doubted that the doctor really cared about Ms. Bronson as a person, but rather as a sort of waxwork, a walking, breathing testament to his skill.

Diana did not like being caught unawares.  It made her feel amateurish and more than a little embarrassed.  She was also becoming painfully aware of the temperature of the room.  She could feel the backs of her thighs becoming slick with sweat against the cool leather of the chair.  She needed to think, to plan her next move, as she should have done before ever entering this man’s office.  More to give herself time than due to actual thirst, Diana took the glass from the coaster and drank from it.

She was hoping that her gesture didn’t seem too hasty when she felt several fat drops of the ice-cold water plop heavily on to her overheated right breast.  With a thrill of horror she felt her nipples involuntarily contract and harden within the confines of her bustier as the water flowed down into the yawning crevasse of her bosom.  Time slowed as she went into panic mode, such was her mortification.  She could feel every inch of the water’s journey as it made its way downward, like a flash flood coursing down a parched mountainside and, before she could get her bearings, felt her breasts erupt into gooseflesh, causing her nipples to further harden to almost diamond-hard points.

During those few milliseconds, all of Diana’s attentions were fixed solely on her big breasts, and her body, so very finely tuned, immediately set up echoes deep within her sex.  With an involuntary spasm of horror, she realized she was wet.

Oh, sweet Hera!  This can’t go on.  Please give me strength! 

With an almighty effort, Diana forced her mind back onto her surroundings.  The doctor was still talking, Diana was pleased to hear, which meant he hadn’t noticed her blunder.  She replaced the glass upon the coaster, surreptitiously wiping the moisture from her tit.  She was so focused on her actions, so fearful of yet another potentially embarrassing faux pas, she failed to notice the faint smile cross the doctor’s lips.

It was time to take charge.

“Thank you, Doctor, I will tell her of your gracious offer.”  Diana rose swiftly from the chair, and an immediate feeling of relief swept over her; she could feel this horrific scene would soon be drawing to a close.  “I know you are a busy man so I will be brief.”  Diana outlined all of the pertinent details of the attacks: the toxicological findings, physical layout of the crime scenes, probable attack scenarios, finishing with the physical and psychological profile of the unknown assailant.  She made sure to keep moving during her briefing, knowing that to stand still would be to invite more interruptions.

Diana could not help but feel a sense of relief; everything was finally going right.  She had delivered all of her information without a single bobble, and had not been interrupted once by the doctor.  But along with it came a feeling of utter exhaustion.  It had been, as the doctor rightly noted, a long day.

He sat, behind the large desk, his chair turned to face her, his feet resting on a little wheeled footstool, still fanning himself with the file folder.  “That is most impressive, Wonder Woman, the work of your bureau,” he said, his lips pursed thoughtfully.  “Please tell me, are you in complete agreement with their findings?  Do you honestly believe that this sick person was an abused child who is now lashing out at tall, dark-haired women in some sort of revenge fantasy?”

How odd, Diana mused, everyone seems to be of one mind on this investigation except for the two people in this room.  He knows something.  I must draw him out.

“No, Doctor, I have my own thoughts on this man and his motives.  I believe he’s after something…specific.  But you, Rex, are the first person I’ve met who is disputing the work of professional profilers.  Please, I’d like to hear your thoughts on this matter.”  She knew he would answer her; men like the doctor just loved to prove how smart they were.  The trick, she thought, stifling a yawn, will be to get him to shut up.

“You are very intelligent, Wonder Woman.  And you are correct in that this man wants something specific.  I should think it is obvious.  He wants you.”

Sweet Hera, Diana gasped inwardly, how can he know my very thoughts?

“And you believe so, too.  This man, who incidentally must be a surgeon of uncommon skill, is using these women to get you to come to him.  He counts upon your bureau’s stupidity and your vanity.  You are intelligent, Wonder Woman, but the man you seek is much more so.”

Diana inhaled sharply; her mind reeled.  Did Dr. Titus really know the identity of her suspect?  Or, could it be…Doctor Titus himself?  He was playing some kind of cat and mouse game with her, that much she knew.  If he had hurt those women, and if he was after her, why did he not attack her when she first arrived?  If he simply knew who this butcher was, then what was his game?  Everything hinged on her next question.  Her nerves were on edge and she feared she would be unable to speak without keeping her frustration and anger unnoticed.  

“Doctor Titus,” she said, her teeth almost gritted, “do you know who this man is?”

“Yes, Wonder Woman, I do,” he said, his broad smile becoming a taut leer.  “It is I.  The first part of my plan has succeeded.  I have brought you here, and in less than one minute you shall become my newest patient.”

Diana stood there, stock still, the late summer sun beating down on her long, tanned legs through the partially open window behind her.  She felt a little lightheaded from the heat, and her anger, combined with the frustration, weariness and the feeling that she’d acted an utter fool were quickly coalescing into a barely concealed rage.  “I’m afraid that is impossible, Doctor,” Diana said, hot fury seething just below the surface of her flawless skin, “you see, you’re not covered under our health plan.”

She exploded into action.  It was only ten feet to where the doctor sat, relaxed, his left arm still lounging upon the desk.  Exhausted though she might be, she knew this takedown would be only too easy.

She had never been more right.

She had covered less than half the distance to her quarry when she heard a pop from her left.  She instinctively whipped her head up toward the sound, bringing her left wrist up to deflect the missile with her silver bracelet, and saw a squashy something fly over her, mussing her hair.

Beanbags? she thought. Hah!  He will pay for underestimating an Amazon warrior.

She turned her head back to find the doctor kicking the little footstool in her direction, hoping to trip her up, which suited her fine.  Diana dived over it, arms outstretched, ready to take down this enemy of women and bring him to justice.  It was then that she felt the impact of something very large slam into her stomach from below, expelling the breath from her body, flipping her up and overturning her so that she landed on the desk, flat on her back directly in front of the still seated Doctor Titus, the backs of her knees hooking the sides of the heavy desk, stopping her forward motion.  She gasped reflexively, but at that moment the doctor, with a speed and sureness worthy of an Olympian, jammed a breathing mask over her nose and mouth.  She couldn’t help but take the sickly-sweet fumes directly into her lungs.  She fought back, though weakly, but within five seconds she was incoherent.  In another five her eyes fluttered, and in five more she was sound asleep.

Doctor Titus, breathing heavily and shaking slightly from the exertions of having overcome the world’s greatest superheroine, drew the elastic band of the mask over her head and secured it gently, having no wish to cause his newest patient unnecessary injury.  Primum non nocere, he thought.  First, do no harm.

He opened his left-hand desk drawer and withdrew a remote control.  He pressed a button and powerful fans in the ceiling whirred into operation.  Another press of a button and the windows on either end of the room rose noiselessly.  He consulted his watch and after half a minute got up from his chair.  He strode about the desk, stopping when he reached the spread legs of his unconscious captive and looked down upon the helpless superheroine.

“For the prepared mind, Wonder Woman,” he rasped, “nothing is impossible.”

And with that, he leaned forward and ripped her bodice apart, freeing her tanned globes from their confinement, and began squeezing and kneading them, much as a housewife judges melons at the supermarket.

3

Consciousness came in degrees.  She came to slowly, becoming dimly aware, moment by moment, that she was alive.  Her next realization was that her breasts hurt!

Sweet Hera! she thought.  What did he do to them?  Did he…?

Diana had no wish to advertise that she was awake, for experience had taught her that seconds, when dealing with an enemy, could matter greatly.  She cast her awareness over her body, trying to keep her breathing regular, so as not to betray her situation.  She concentrated on her chest first – had he done it?  Had he actually surgically removed her breasts?  She didn’t think so, considering how much they hurt.  It could be ‘phantom pain’, she supposed, as amputees sometimes complained of after the loss of a limb.  Well, if he had done it, she would learn to live with it.  Her breasts were, or had been, a part of her, not the totality.

The rest of her body felt completely normal.  She had no aches or pains to speak of, not even her stomach hurt from where that damn footstool had slammed into her.  How much time had passed?  Was she still in his office?  She inhaled slowly, concentrating on all her olfactory senses to determine each individual scent: she identified the doctor’s aftershave, mildew, and, most unexpectedly, beer.

“Good evening, Wonder Woman,” the baritone voice said, all amiability, “I am pleased that you are well, but I think you might discover more if you open your eyes.”

He stood before her, smiling his dazzling smile, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his white lab coat, and she looked around quickly, trying to gauge her circumstances, her assets and liabilities: she was reclining in a comfortable bed, her wrists and ankles bound by velvet-lined handcuffs, the stout chains of which had been welded to the gleaming tube steel of the bed frame, which she judged was probably titanium.  The space was large, possibly very large, considering the echo produced when the doctor had spoken his greeting.

She couldn’t help it, she had to know, had he done it?  Diana, inhibited by her shackles, and not caring a fig for the doctor’s presence, began bunching up the blue silk sheets with her hands, drawing them down from her creamy shoulders.

“They are there, Wonder Woman.  Your breasts are whole and perfect.”

She drew the sheets down only as far as necessary to verify that what he’d said was true.  Yes, her beautiful breasts were still there, sitting within the cups of her bodice.  The soreness was beginning to fade a little.  Hera, he must have mauled me pretty good!

“I am first and foremost a doctor, Wonder Woman, so you will not be surprised when I ask you how you are feeling.”

She looked up from her milky bosom.  She was now a captive, held who knew where, for who knew how long, awaiting who knew what sort of torture, and this bastard was asking her how she felt?  Diana, despite having just awakened, was tired.  Tired of cat-and-mouse games, tired of pointless banter with foul villains, and, though it was a word she had never spoken aloud, she knew it would be apropos here, she was tired of the bullshit.  She sat up, having no desire to look as though she accepted her role as either his patient or his lover, wanting only to know one thing, “Why?”

He chuckled warmly.  “You are a woman after my own heart, Wonder Woman; no games, no nonsense.  Firstly, I do apologize for having caused you injury in capturing you, and I also assure you that while you are my guest here I will not mishandle you.”

The soreness of her breasts gave lie to that statement, Diana thought, but she wasn’t interested in arguing with this man.  All she cared about was bringing him down and making him pay for his crimes.

“Secondly, power, money, or torture hold no fascination for me, nor do I have any wish to make a name for myself in the annals of crime.  My sole desire is, as it has ever been, beauty.  I wish to make to make the world a more beautiful place.”

“You’ve chosen a funny way of going about it, Doctor,” Diana said sardonically.

“You have no idea how much I regret doing what I have done.  My only defense is that I had no other choice…”

“I’ve met more than a few Nazis, Doctor.  You’d have made a good one.”

“I understand your anger, Wonder Woman, even your disdain.  But please understand that what I am doing, I am doing with the best of reasons.  I am doing it for the world.”

“Then I was wrong about what I said, about you being a Nazi.  You would have made a much better Hitler.”  Diana looked about the cavernous space.  It looked like a large, open factory floor, though only the immediate area was lit.  She could see what looked like some sort of manager’s office twenty feet to her right, and various bits of machinery off in the shadowed distance.  “So where are you holding me?  What is this place?”

“As to where we are, it would be unwise for me to say – you are, after all, a formidable woman.  As to what this place is, it was a brewery.  One of many, I’m afraid to say, that have gone by the wayside in these turbulent times of ours.  Yet another victim in a world fast growing used to cheapness and utility.”

If nothing else, Diana thought, he certainly loves the sound of his own voice.  

“Oh, and if you are expecting any friends to come to your rescue, I’m afraid that is quite unlikely.  The young actress in my waiting room before you, Constance is her name, is also a very able Wonder Woman impersonator.  She has made eight short films, loops, they’re called, using your likeness.  ‘You’ were seen leaving my office by no fewer than five people.  Your Colonel Trevor, himself, even phoned me, inquiring after you.  I am afraid to say that some time tomorrow a piece of your costume will be found in Arizona.

“But you wanted to know ‘why’.  Why I have captured you and brought you here.  I regret also that I cannot tell you, at least, not at this moment.”

In all truth, Diana didn’t really care why.  Psychos, like the doctor, sick men, always had their reasons for committing their particular crimes – from not being loved enough by Mommy to space aliens tampering with their brainwaves.  The reasons didn’t matter, only that justice be served and that the perpetrators be put where they could inflict no more harm upon the innocent; and if they could be cured, so much the better.

Diana began to worry, though.  The doctor had stopped talking, which was a bad sign.  She needed to keep him going, for experience had also taught her – the longer they talk, the longer you stay alive.

“I don’t know, Doctor.  I think it’s pretty obvious why you’ve brought me here,” she said looking up, and throwing her hair back defiantly.  “You have a certain preference for women with large breasts, and that you have become fixated on me because of mine…”

“Please pardon me for interrupting, Wonder Woman, but what you call a preference is, in reality, a passion.  I love big tits.  I always have.  I think it may stem from my birth.  Most people do not have clear recollections of their lives prior to the age of three.  I, however, am gifted in that I have an extraordinary memory.  I can remember very clearly my wet nurse, Magda, a young Romanian woman with extremely large breasts, placing that huge nipple into my mouth when I was not even one hour old.  We would often laugh together as she retold the tale many times during my youth, of how I latched on to that teat and would not let go, even when I was completely sated.

“I can still see it in my mind’s eye, so full, so round.  I remember its yielding firmness against my fingers, it’s clean smell, its warmth, and most importantly, it’s incredible size.  To a baby such as myself, Magda’s tit was immense, easily twice the size of my head, and that, perhaps more than anything else, was indelibly imprinted upon my mind.”

“Well, Doctor,” replied the bound superheroine despite herself, “that really is what I call too much information.”  But she’d got him monologuing, which, despite the creepiness of his story, was a good thing.  Now if she could only find some way of getting out of here.

Doctor Titus laughed.  “You are indeed the perfect woman, Wonder Woman.  I doubt that there has ever been a finer combination of beauty and brains, and with a sense of humor as well.”

“I’d say thank you, Doctor, if your manner weren’t so offensive.”  She was pushing him, she knew, but she’d found that a great many criminals, when pressured, showed more of their vulnerabilities.  The trick was not to push too hard, and run the risk of ending up like his former patients.  “Are you really a doctor?  I’ve never heard one speak so distastefully about a woman’s breasts.”

Titus smiled. “Now, now, Wonder Woman, you cannot claim to be offended by an insignificant three-letter word.  You who have fought Nazis, madmen, and criminals beyond count?  Tits are beauty in and of themselves.  They are the source of life and art.  In fact, it is ironic that I should be holding you in a brewery of all places.  After all, was it not Benjamin Franklin who said, ‘Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy?’”

“I’m sorry, Doctor, the irony is lost on me,” Diana said, surreptitiously looking about for something that might help her escape. 

“Have you never heard the song ‘Titties and Beer?’  No?” he asked as Diana shook her head, simultaneously rolling her eyes, an expression not lost on the doctor.  “Well, perhaps you are not a music fan.  As your Frank Zappa pointed out in his satirical composition, tits are of immense importance to males, as is their beer.  So important that a man would sell his soul to the devil for them.”

I see,” Diana replied, not seeing at all.  This man, lettered though he might be, was obviously insane, and apparently fixated on her boobs.  Well, he isn’t the first criminal to be captivated by my breasts, she thought, which means they will be the key to my survival, my escape, and his ultimate downfall.  His weakness will be his undoing.

Doctor Titus gave a small laugh.  “Very good, Wonder Woman, very good.  I truly doubt that you see, but I applaud your stratagem nonetheless.  But time is making fools of us, and we have a deadline to meet.”

The doctor pivoted his ponderous upper body around, reaching for something.  Wonder Woman fixed his back with her gaze, and began feeling a rising sense of panic.  Surely he isn’t going to…he can’t! she thought, her elegant hands automatically reaching up to protect her storied bosom, but hindered by the cumbersome restraints.  I must do something!  She watched, fearful, as he turned back around to face her, holding something in his large hands: something golden, something of hers.

“Your lasso, Wonder Woman,” he said smoothly in his deep voice.  “Much has been written on the Internet about its properties, so much so that no one seems to know what to believe.  I was hoping you might tell me, and save us both a great deal of time.”

“Oh, it’s really nothing special, Doctor,” Diana answered, relieved that he was not about to perform his demented surgery upon her, but unhappy all the same – if he found out about its powers, its incredible abilities, having her tits cut off would be the least of her worries.  My lasso…in the hands of a madman like the doctor?  Diana shuddered inwardly at the thought.  “It is just garden-variety rope, specially painted to complement my outfit,” she lied, hoping he would simply leave it at that.

“Really?” he said, his disbelief readily apparent in his tone.  “Then the rumors that this rope compels people to tell the truth, and even more remarkably, to force them to do the bidding of the holder, are entirely untrue?”

So he knows, she thought, her mind racing.  But now she saw her chance.  It would be risky, and it would involve having this repellant man actually touching her, but there were really no other options left to her,  “Magic rope, Doctor Titus?  Honestly, only people who believe in fairies and leprechauns would be gulled by such fantastic nonsense.”  Go time, Diana, she thought, now or never.  “It is just…just very strong rope I use to b-bind my captives, so that I may b-bring them to j-justice.”

And so saying, Diana dropped her head and started crying, loudly.  “Oh, p-please, Doctor Titus, please d-don’t cut off my t-titties.”  She began sobbing, taking in great lungfuls of air and, with the body control of an Amazon aided by the stress of her dire situation, actually began producing real tears, which flowed copiously, dripping from her high cheekbones and began splashing onto her milky breasts.  “Please, Rex, I-I’ll do anything.  I’ll b-be whatever y-you want me…to be.  Just d-don’t take away my b-beautiful boobies!”

She hated acting like this, like some weak, defenseless victim, and was thankful there was no one else present to witness this shameful display.  But it was working. Diana, though unable to see his face due to the fact she was keeping her own deliberately hidden, for fear her ruse might be discovered, could tell by his body language that he was no longer so sure of himself.  His big hands gripped her lasso tightly, and he shifted about as though unsure what to do next.  But he wasn’t moving.  She needed him to be closer to her if her plan was to work.

Diana began heaving her breasts within the confines of her bodice, trying to bring her silver dollar-sized areolae into view.  If she could do that, and if the doctor was as big a titman as he purported to be, she might be able to spring this trap.  After a good bit of shuddering and one very deep inhalation, her right nipple emerged over the top of the red and gold cup – and it was working!  He began moving towards her, hoping, perhaps, as they all did, to grab a little superheroine tit.  Tears and tits, Diana thought, men are such suckers.

Holding the lasso in his right hand, Doctor Titus reached out to stroke the exposed dug, which gleamed wetly in the harsh light, when Diana sprang into action.  With the speed of Hermes she shot her fettered left hand out to grab the rope, and gasped as both of her wrists were wrenched back, the metal cuffs clanking against the bed frame.  She tugged and pulled with all of her considerable might, grunting with an almost feral rage, but it was no use; she was completely helpless.

“Paramagnetism, Wonder Woman,” Doctor Titus said calmly, as he placed a loop of the lasso about her thrashing neck as one might a fiery, unbroken mare, “the more energy you expend, the stronger the binding force; expensive, yet effective.  I told you, I am a firm believer in being prepared.  Now, please be still.”

Diana ceased her frenzied movements and sat quietly, her breathing slowing, but her face nonetheless composed into a mask of pure hatred.  This is it, she thought, I am done for.  My breasts will adorn his wall, a grand trophy to be gaudily displayed.  And what of the rest of me?  Will he kill me?  Or will he release me, a defeated and disgraced warrior, to be pitied by a contemptuous world?

“Wonder Woman,” he said, his voice no longer light and pleasant, having taken on an almost somber quality, “all that will happen in this place in the next few days depends on what happens in the next few minutes, and this lasso is key.  I cannot hope to keep you bound the entire time, nor can I keep you sedated.  I need for you to be a compliant patient, otherwise all my considerable planning will be for naught.  I need to know unequivocally that this bit of rope really will keep you in check, and your recent theatrics prove you are a good actress, therefore I must compel you to do something that Wonder Woman would never, ever do, even if her very life hung in the balance.”

Oh, sweet Hera, Diana thought, trapped inside her own head, I am lost!

“Do not move, Wonder Woman.”  He reached into a pocket of his lab coat and withdrew a small case and opened it, revealing not a weapon, but rather a fine, sable makeup brush.  She sat, her face now as expressionless as a mannequin, while he applied color upon color to the vulnerable superheroine, turning her head first this way, then that.  He then produced a hairbrush, which he gently drew through her raven mane.

By the Gods, Diana thought, please don’t be what I think this is.

The doctor put his tools away, gently replaced her exposed breast back into its cup, and moved back to the foot of the bed, regaining his hold on the lasso.  He surveyed her, much as a sculptor might appraise his work, and smiled, apparently pleased.  “Tell me, Wonder Woman, can you see the clock above my head?”

“Yes,” she replied tonelessly.

“In approximately nine and one-half minutes your career as a superheroine will come to an end.”  He turned and wheeled in front of him a hospital tray stand, upon which sat a laptop computer.  He pulled a stool from beside him and sat upon it, whereupon he began maneuvering and clicking the mouse: lights began turning on, illuminating the space, and Diana watched in mute horror as her prison was revealed to her.

Theater-style lighting instruments hung above her, focused on the bed, casting a warm, diffuse light about the area.  Video cameras, one on either side of the doctor, pointed down at her, while just over his head a large flat-screen monitor descended into view, her image in widescreen hi-def LCD looking back at her.

She was now the Wonder Woman of every man’s dreams.  Her sable hair had been brushed back, but it now had a slightly wild look to it, as though she’d just rolled out of a very well used bed.  The doctor, it appeared, was also every bit as accomplished with a makeup brush as he was with a scalpel: he’d outlined her eyes, giving them a sultry look, and her eyeshadow had been perfectly blended, starting with a light plum graduated out to smoky gray.  Her cheekbones looked high and smooth, and the rest of her skin glowed with a sexual warmth of guaranteed ecstasy.

But it was her lips that outshone everything else: they looked fuller, puffier, and the color he’d applied was of the deepest scarlet, which he had finished off with a coat of gloss so that they positively glistened.  Diana was horrified at her new image; no one seeing those lips could argue that they had more than one function, and it wasn’t giving speeches at City Hall.

“Wonder Woman,” the doctor began in his rich baritone as he continued tapping keys, “a worldwide Internet audience is eagerly awaiting your debut.  It has been advertised for the last eighteen hours, and the site, which is based in a country quite unfriendly to the United States, shows that more than ten million visitors are logged in.  You are going to perform for them, and ultimately the world, in a manner you’ve certainly never envisioned.  In less than thirty minutes, people the world over will come to view you in a new light, and they will know you even more intimately than Paris, Britney, and Lindsay combined.  Again, I apologize, but it is essential if my project is to continue.”

Diana lay there, stunned.  She would do it.  She would do whatever he instructed, no matter how debasing, and she would do it to his satisfaction.  She shuddered inwardly.  He had but to say the words and Wonder Woman would be replaced by Wonder Slut, and no one would ever believe she hadn’t done it of her own free will.  He was moving towards her now, ready, she knew, to give the commands that would end her calling as a protector of the innocent, and her reputation as an Amazon warrior.

“Wonder Woman, when those cameras activate, you are going to perform for your audience.  You will touch yourself so as to bring about the greatest possible pleasure from your own body and for the delight of your viewers.”

He went on, describing in excruciating detail what she was going to do: what she could say, what she couldn’t say, with such attention to detail that Diana knew that he must have spent a considerable amount of time on the wording, thus giving him complete anonymity and security while ensuring her absolute spontaneity, resulting in a truly natural, unprompted, and unparalleled show.  He continued on, telling her that while she was his ‘guest’, she would not attack him, attempt escape, or accept help in escaping.

He removed the lasso from her neck, a smug smile playing across his broad face, stood up, and resumed his place at the foot of the bed, his fingers on the keyboard.  “Thirty seconds, Wonder Woman.”

Diana’s mind raced in circles, but could find no loophole in his instructions.  She was now programmed, like a machine, primed to perform whatever tasks were required of her.  All hope was lost.  Would Steve not come to her rescue?  Would no one?

“Ten seconds.”

A long career of public service, countless lives saved, justice done, and was this what she was going to be remembered for; being the world’s greatest whore?

“Five seconds…”

It was over, all over.  Her makeup was flawless, she was swathed in silk, and the bastard had even sculpted her nails and painted them to match her bee-stung lips.  She watched him as he counted down, hot tears beginning to well up behind her beautiful blue eyes.  He held up three fingers…two fingers…one.  Her restraints sprang open, the heavy chains pulling them out of sight.

It was showtime.

*    *    *    *    *    *

“Good evening,” Diana purred, addressing the camera as she never had before, “I’m just so thrilled to be able to be here tonight, and to have this opportunity to finally do what I’ve always wanted.  Yes, I am the real Wonder Woman, and I know this might seem to be a bit of a departure for me, but fighting crime can take a lot out of a girl, and sometimes a superheroine just has to blow off a little steam.”

She began caressing the rounded tops of her big tits, pursing her lips and moaning slightly.  “So let’s just lie back and get comfy, and let me…entertain you.”  Diana lay back and looked at her image in the big monitor.  She had to admit she had never looked hotter, but she had an audience now; she was here for them, and she knew what they wanted.  She continued stroking her fat boobs, her moans gaining volume.  It was then she noticed that her bodice was different.  Similar, yes, but this one had been meticulously constructed for a whole other purpose.  Diana, giving a lascivious smile and sultry wink to the camera, slid each elegant hand over her rounded juggs and down into the valley of her cleavage until they met at the junction of the specially made red and gold cups, grasped the material and pulled, detaching the cups from the bodice.  Her heavy tits, freed of their confinement, spilled out, giving the camera, which had zoomed in, an unprecedented close-up of the Wonder Twins.

The camera slowly pulled back, and Diana, sensing the needs of her unseen audience, began rolling, kneading, and squeezing her super boobs, moaning loudly as she threw her head back and began mashing her masses of titflesh together, her thighs convulsing beneath the silk sheets.

Hera, my pussy is so wet, Diana thought, wetter, indeed, than she could ever remember.  She was making people happy, she knew, which was a good thing.  How could she have ever thought that pornography was bad?  I must do more, she thought, as she began pulling on her puffy nipples, I must show them everything.  And with that she spread her quivering legs, and deftly kicked off the shiny blue top sheet, thus revealing her luscious lower half.

Diana was unsurprised to find that Rex had swapped her trademark blue, star-spangled bottoms for a pair that was certainly much better suited to her new vocation, not to mention the red silk bottom sheet atop which her hot ass was currently performing – his attention to detail really was most impressive.  The midnight blue panties were highly-cut and shockingly see-through, and had been made from some shimmery material, she saw, that made for an almost hypnotic effect when viewed up close, as the camera was now doing.  But more than all of this, was the lone decoration: a silver star, poised right over her sweet slit, that was the true attention grabber.

She gloried in her image on the wide screen.  This, she knew, playing with herself in front of millions of needful people, was vastly superior to beating up crooks in dark alleyways.  But she could do still more.  She began tracing each point of the star with one of her newly painted whore-length fingernails while rolling an engorged nipple between the fingers of her other hand.  It was when she reached the bottom of the star, and discovered that its silver point was ever so slightly raised, that her next move became apparent to her.  The Queen of Justice closed her eyes, bit her lower lip, and pulled up on the loose flap of material.  It rose up and off, revealing to the camera the world’s most desired pussy.

It was the stuff of dreams, the snatch of Princess Diana Themyscira, the gateway to Paradise.  The pink, puffy lips were softer than rose petals and smelled as sweetly, and were framed by a curtain of perfectly trimmed curls the color of deepest night, upon which clung tiny droplets of her nectar, so intoxicating that were a mortal man to sample them he would be forever in her thrall.  It is said that Helen of Troy was so beautiful that her face caused the launch of a thousand ships. Diana, better schooled in Greek theology than most, knew she was by no means Helen’s equal in terms of beauty, but was pretty sure she had probably just been responsible for the launch of several million ejaculations.

Diana squealed with delight, knowing that she had given them what they wanted.  Out of the corner of her eye she noticed something peeking out from beneath the rumpled blue silk sheet, something that could only enhance her performance: the bulbous head of a huge, pink dildo.  She extended a long leg out to it, and placing a delicately arched foot on it slid it to her.  She picked it up with both hands and brought it to her flawless lips and kissed it.

“Oh, thank you, Santa,” she cooed, placing the foot-long phallus between her big, heaving boobs, “I’ve always wanted a big cock for Christmas.”

Diana continued the stroking of her superlative cunt and the dildo fucking of her large funbags for several minutes.  Her body was on fire, every nerve-ending singing.  She wanted nothing more than to do this every minute of every day for the rest of her life.  But she also knew that this was not about her, it was about them: her audience, and she was well aware of the famous quote, ‘When you bring a cannon onstage, you have to fire it.’  Well, it’s not quite as big as a cannon, she thought, but it’ll do.

With agonizing slowness, Diana lowered the large fake dick down her sweating, heaving body until its head was poised at her glistening entrance.  As one hand grabbed a voluminous tit, the other slowly worked the long, fat dildo into her sopping hole.  She gasped and moaned and bucked as she fucked herself insensible, her long, beautiful legs spread wide, her ankles resting on the gleaming titanium rails.

“Oh, yes, fuck me, baby!” she cried, again and again, slamming the foot-long pole in and out of her super cunt, knowing that she was driving her audience every bit as wild as she was herself.  She could feel the orgasm building deep within her.  Her tits wobbled about her sweating ribcage, her thighs quivered with every repeated penetration of the plastic invader.

And then it was coming; she was cumming!  Diana screamed in superhuman ecstasy as her orgasm raced like fire across her overheated body.  She bucked her hips continually as she grunted, her consciousness all but lost amid the throes of her rapture.  For several minutes she rode wave upon wave of pure pleasure, her body trembling before the cameras, her mind desiring only the happiness of her audience.

She slowed her thrusting of the dildo and the kneading of her big tit as she came down from her climax, her breathing ragged.  She could see the doctor’s face, impassive, watching her every movement, as she removed the wetly gleaming phallus from her royal snatch.  It had been the performance of a lifetime; not even Pamela Anderson could have done it better.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” Diana rasped, barely able to speak, but desiring nonetheless to appear professional, “but I hope it’s soon.  I had a lovely time, and I hope that you did, too.  I can’t wait to be your super fuck-doll again.”  She smiled and raised a hand to wave at the camera, her fingers glistening with her juices, “Nighty-night.”

*    *    *    *    *    *

Doctor Titus surveyed the softly gasping woman lying upon the bed, the rise and fall of her magnificent chest, the incomparable body lying atop the red silk sheet under the professionally designed lighting.  She was magnificent, but in a few days time she would be ever more so.

“Wonder Woman,“ he said, his smile broader than ever as regained his feet, narrowly avoiding clipping his head on the suspended video monitor, “you were brilliant!  You, dare I say, even exceeded my very high expectations.”  Crossing his arms, he leaned against the gleaming bed rail to address his captive, entirely unworried that she would attack him or attempt to escape.  “I now know that your lasso does indeed work as it is rumored.  The real Wonder Woman would never have put on such a show otherwise.”

She lay there, continuing her soft gasping, her face turned from his, saying nothing.

“Wonder Woman…?”

Still gasping, she turned to face him, her eyes awash with tears.  “You unimaginable b-bastard,” she said, softly weeping, her beautifully applied mascara running down her face, “you’ve t-taken everything f-from me!”

“Wonder Woman, please,” Titus replied defensively, “listen to me…”

She sat up quickly, her breasts bouncing, her hard nipples echoing the anger within.  “All I’ve ever w-wanted to do was to help people, to protect them.  And you, a doctor, a man sworn to help people…you have turned me into the world’s b-biggest whore!”  She began sobbing even more, her mascara flowing freely.  Titus watched, entranced, as a rivulet reached the edge of her smooth jaw, welled up, and then dropped onto her left tit, whereupon it traveled downward, a black stream, turning quickly into a raging river in the Amazon’s increasing grief.

He hated tears, a defense against which no man could breach.  But there is a way, he realized, I now possess the means to get past this.  He didn’t want to do it, had sworn not to do it, but now that the power of the golden lasso was confirmed beyond doubt he felt he had little choice.  Just this once, he told himself, and then never again.  He reached his long arm back to the little table and retrieved the lasso with an effortless grace.  He swiftly drew the loop over the weeping superheroine’s ankle, “Wonder Woman, please stop crying.”

Her tears ceased immediately, but her look of stricken lament was still evident.  “I want you to listen to me, Wonder Woman.  None of it was real.”

“What…?” she asked, looking down into her lap, her pussy still agape after her self-inflicted onslaught.  “What do you mean?  Of course it was real.”

“No, I assure you it wasn’t.  It was just a test.”

“A test?” she responded, her voice sounding just a little stronger.  “What are you saying?”

“There was no audience, Wonder Woman, no website, no Internet.  The only people who saw your performance are sitting here in this disused brewery.  I needed to be sure, and I promise you I shall not put you through anything like that again, nor shall I use your lasso to modify your behavior.”

She raised a hand to wipe her eyes, thus smearing her artfully applied makeup even more.  “Nobody saw me?  Y-you mean…” she said, shakily “…I-I’m still Wonder Woman?”

“But of course you are,” he said, “and I intend that you should remain so.  In fact my whole project depends upon it.”

“Your project!” she spat, angrily pulling the satin top sheet back up to her shoulders to conceal her alabaster body.  “So now you’re going to cut off my tits and parade my disgraced, degraded figure to the world?”

“But my dear Wonder Woman,” he said, giving a small laugh and shaking his head, “I already have.”

4

She sat on the bed in stunned amazement, her hands protectively clutching her large, naked breasts.  “What are you saying?  That you have already operated on me?”

“Yes,” he replied smoothly, his smile broader than ever, “just eleven hours ago, and it went off without a hitch.  You have no idea how worried I was that all my theories about you would be wrong, and that your breasts would not grow back.  But my worries were baseless.  In less than an hour the incisions had fully healed, and within another three your body had replaced fully half of its breast tissue.  For the sake of posterity I have recorded your healing and regrowth using time-lapse photography.  Would you care to see it?”

“No thank you,” she replied, too astonished to be angry.  He had done it.  He had actually cut into her and taken bits of her for his own ends, and had apparently done so in order to test her body’s ability to heal itself.  But why my breasts? she wondered.  He could have cut off a finger or a toe.  Taken a chunk of muscle from my leg.  She remembered an instance, years ago, in which she had been captured by Nazi doctors hoping to impregnate her and turn her a brood mother, and thus create a new ‘master race’.  She didn’t know why, but Titus scared her more than the Nazis.

“Earlier this evening you asked me ‘why,’” he said, closely studying her shocked face.  He rose from the bed and crossed to the edge of the small lit area, turned and addressed her as though she was an intern he was leading on rounds, “Wonder Woman, what do you think of breast implants?”

“Well, I…” started Diana, still in a state of shock and being made even more confused by this sudden change of direction, “I, um, I don’t care for them.”

“Nor should you,” the doctor replied.  “Your breasts are loved and desired the world over.  But the vast majority of women are not quite so fortunate as you.  They wish to be beautiful, like you.  To be desired, as you are desired.”

“So you stick plastic bags in their chests and tell them they’re more desirable because of them?” Diana shot back, having recovered somewhat.  “True beauty comes from within, Doctor.”

Titus smiled.  “I couldn’t agree more, but inner beauty is difficult to see across a crowded room, nor does it increase beer sales.”  He raised a pale blond eyebrow, apparently pleased by his little joke.  “If it is any consolation I dislike implants myself.  They leak, they don’t feel real, and, most importantly, they give women an artificial feeling of desirability.  But that is about to change.  And you are going to help me with that change.

“Wonder Woman, I have developed a new method of breast implantation, one using natural human tissue.  It is an old idea, formerly quite dangerous, now made quite safe.  But there is a problem, you see…”

“…women don’t want to be turned into objects?” Diana offered.

“Hardly.  Breast implants are more popular than ever, despite all the negative press and the very real complications.  No, the problem here is one of money, or rather, the lack of it.  Did you know the average breast implant surgery today costs approximately $7,000?  My method, the Titus Method, can be done for as little as $500!  Add to that the fact that it is outpatient surgery, has extraordinarily little recovery time, and is one hundred percent safe makes it is a very large problem.

Diana found herself interested despite everything that had happened.  “I don’t understand, Doctor, if your method does all that you promise, it should be extremely popular.  You shouldn’t have to disfigure innocent women or resort to kidnapping public figures.”

He smiled a wry smile.  “Tell me, do you know who Nikola Tesla was?”

“Of course.  He was a scientist, credited with the development of alternating current.”

“Very good, Wonder Woman, you are indeed wonderful to talk to.  But he was much, much more than a scientist; he was a visionary!  It was his desire to make the world a better place, through the use of electricity delivered in its most elegant fashion.  And how was his work received?”  His handsome face now took on a most unpleasant visage, “He was maligned by Edison and his cronies, subjected to smear campaigns in which animals were horribly electrocuted, publicly, to discredit him, and prove the efficacy of direct current, the technology of the day.

“It will take approximately five to seven years for the FDA to approve my method, during which time my colleagues, butchers all, will hold up my research, doing all they can to discredit me, as thoroughly as was Tesla.”

“But Doctor,” Diana interjected quickly, “why would they do this if it is all that you say?”

“Money, Wonder Woman, they will do it because of money.  Breast implants are the cash cow of the cosmetic surgery business.  The Titus Method will render breast enhancement as a service barely more complicated than a manicure.  Just think of it, a woman can walk into a beauty salon with a weeks pay, and walk out a few hours later with the breasts of her dreams.”

“…with all of the royalties going to you, Doctor, making you one very rich man.”

“But I already am a very rich man.  The building in which I make my practice, I own that.  I also own the entirety of the block as well.  And in Manhattan, that is saying something.  It has never been about money for me, always beauty.  When I was growing up, my friends in boarding school used to make fun of my name, as well as my passion: Rex Titus, they would say – King of the Tits; they were more right than they knew.  And as I made my name in medicine, my fellow surgeons came to know me as ‘Doctor Tits.’”  Silly, I know, but there it is.”

Diana didn’t think it was silly; she thought it was downright sickening.  This man apparently had within his power the ability to transform every last woman in America, and by extension the world, into a 14-year old boy’s idea of beauty.  And she knew her own sex well enough to know that they would go along with it, they would be complicit in their own undoing, one cup size at a time.  “Very well, Doctor,” she said, revolted by the very real future she now saw before her, “I understand your problem, what I don’t understand is why you felt the need to kidnap me.  Do you think I can somehow influence the FDA to fast-track approval of your method, or threaten your colleagues to play nice?”

“I should think it is obvious, Wonder Woman – I require a champion.”

“You require…”

“Of course, and you, as the ultimate female role-model, are uniquely suited.  I can implant your breasts with your own tissue – liquefied and centrifuged – and your body will accept it.  Your own regenerative abilities will make getting a reduction pointless, thereby rendering you a living advertisement of my method.  And what could my colleagues, or the FDA, say were you to continue to fight crime looking like this?”

He pulled a remote control from the pocket of his lab coat and pointed it at the monitor.  Diana gasped, dropping the sheet, as she saw, in high-definition, a digitally enhanced image of herself in her characteristic pose: standing proudly with her hands on her hips, her tits the size of volleyballs.

5

Diana awakened as she had every morning for the past four days: with her chest on fire.  Doctor Titus, she had come to realize, was painstakingly thorough.  Every evening he would anesthetize her, a practice she could not prevent due to his possession of her lasso, and surgically harvest her breast tissue.  Every morning she would awaken, her newly regenerated breasts in considerable pain, which would take several hours to fade.

But despite the surgery she was well treated in all other respects.  She had the complete run of the lower level of the building, which she surmised must have been quite a large brewery.  She found and read all sorts of brochures having to do with the production of various ales and lagers, marveled at the size of the mash and lauter tuns, which were, so the doctor had informed her, ready to run were he to have the building exhibited to potential buyers.  She was allowed to watch television, which she hated, though she did keep up with the news.  Her absence had yet to be reported, which worried her, until she also realized that it, like the activities of the mysterious ‘Melon Felon’, must be being suppressed.

She was within his complete power, yet he never made a pass at her nor even looked at her lustfully, something she had come to expect from men, ever since having left Paradise Island.  He had given her a lovely silk robe to wear, as well as a closet full of informal day clothes.  She was well fed, and was also allowed to make her own food, a practice she preferred to ordering in.

The doctor, it turned out, was also a vegetarian, and was every bit as good a cook as she was.  He was a charming host and regretted her inability to eat after certain hours of the day due to her impending surgeries, but shared her discomfort by forgoing food during these times as well.

But though she could neither attack him nor attempt to escape, it did not mean she couldn’t argue with him.  “Please, Rex,” she implored him on the morning of the third day, “please don’t do this.”  She had begun using his given name, hoping that he might come to see her as a person, rather than as an object.  “Please allow me the choice of looking as I wish.  You want me to be a role-model for you, but how can I possibly be taken seriously with breasts like those?” she asked, pointing at the image on his laptop.

“Tell me, Wonder Woman,” he replied from across the table, smiling his dazzling smile, “would they take you seriously if you were flat-chested?”

“Well…” she responded, shrugging her shoulders, hating the fact that he was about to skewer her carefully thought-out argument in five seconds flat, “…yes, but…”

“And a large-chested heroine is somehow less deserving of the same respect as her smaller-breasted associate?”

“Of course not,” she replied, “but she will be perceived…”

“…as a bimbo, or a slut?  Tell me, Wonder Woman, do people perceive you that way?”

“Well…” she started again, but then decided to simply let it drop.  Despite it all he was right: perception was not reality.  Goodness knew how many times she’d been called the most horrid names: Wonder Juggs, Thunder Tits, and Supercunt – and that was just by the members of the press.  Doctor Titus, by comparison, had treated her relatively decently, with genuine human compassion and respect, not counting the kidnapping, battery, brainwashing, forced climax, and non-consensual surgeries.

And even if he was successful in turning her into a massive-boobed freak, it still didn’t change who she was.  People would see what they wished to see, whether she was as flat as a pancake, or had to carry her breasts around with her in a wheelbarrow.  The only perception that mattered in the long run was her own.

And it was today that her perceptions, and his theories, would be put to the test.

*    *    *    *    *    *

“Unnh!” Diana grunted, her breath coming in labored gasps.  Gods, she thought, how much deeper is he going to stick that thing inside me?

“Almost there, Wonder Woman.  Another two inches should do it…”  The implant tube was not terribly large, about the size of a man’s thumb, but she had never really thought of her bellybutton as an entrance.  “I apologize for any pain you are feeling, but your constitution is such that I am wary of giving you pain medication.  Anesthetizing you, I have found, is difficult enough.”

Diana concentrated through the pain, conquering it, as she felt the thick tube sliding up inside her.  She had never in all her life felt so helpless.  The banana-shaped chair in which was reclining, specially made for this procedure, was comfortable, but a prison nonetheless; the straps holding her down were not there to prevent her escaping, but simply to keep her still.  The hospital gown, a mere skirt, covered her lower body midway to her knees, leaving her chest and stomach bare, allowing him easy access to her navel, the site at which he would begin pumping his obscene goo into her, into her breasts.  The overt symbolism of his shoving a hose into her vulnerable opening was not lost on her, and she was quite sure the doctor was also every bit as aware, though she was unable to tell owing to the fact that he was wearing his usual baggy scrubs and lab coat.

Millimeter by millimeter, the doctor snaked the flexible tube into the non-consenting but powerless superheroine until finally he looked up and said, “You may relax now, Wonder Woman, it is in.  I am now inserting the feed tubes into the main line,” he said, for the benefit of both his patient, and for the video camera that was recording the procedure, “which will be quite a bit less painful.”  The doctor’s eyes were fixed solely upon the screen of his laptop, which showed the progression of the drinking straw-sized tubes through the main line and out into her large breasts.  “There,” he said, looking up at his sweating patient, “the tubes are now in place.  We are ready to, um…rock and roll.”

He smiled his broad smile, but Diana could see just the faintest hint of tiredness behind it.  He was pushing himself, she knew.  She suspected he was probably getting by on four hours sleep a night, possibly less.  An Amazon could do that, even for extended periods; mortals, however, could not – and this mortal was about to implant something in her.

“Is there anything you would like to say, Wonder Woman, before this historic event commences?”

There were a lot of things Diana wished to say at that moment, none of which would influence his actions.  She had tried silence, threats, wheedling (almost to the point of begging – something she as an Amazon princess and warrior could never forgive herself for), even promising that she would intercede with the FDA for him, provided he really could render his victims whole again, something that was the basis for any negotiation with him.  But all of her efforts had failed.  He was going to turn her into a walking pair of tits and there was nothing she could do about it.

“No?” the doctor confirmed, correctly reading his patient’s stony silence, “very well then, let us proceed.”

He pulled a remote control from the pocket of his lab coat and pointed it at the bound and vulnerable superheroine.  The comfortable chair rose upwards – suspended from the ceiling, Diana realized – and then began pitching forward until her famous breasts hung free of her body, perfectly perpendicular to the brewery floor, her erect nipples pointing downward.  He had thoughtfully, or coincidentally, raised her to a height that was proximate to her normal height, the pervasive tube dangling out of her like an obscene parody of an umbilical cord.  He turned a dial on the faceplate of the instrument that, Diana guessed, controlled the flow of her forcibly harvested and liquidized tissue into her breasts.  She watched the whitish substance flow upward through the tubes, subconsciously biting her full lips, dreading the moment at which she could no longer say her body was her property.  Diana closed her eyes as the liquid disappeared into her navel, feeling its warmth as it coursed its way deeper inside her, sensing its progress as it continued inexorably upward, bracing herself for the moment when they would erupt, spewing their gaudy contents into her supple, pouting breasts.

“Oh, please, I beg of you!” she cried.  “Do not do this!  Do…oooh,” she moaned, her thighs jumping involuntarily, “what…?”  It started with the merest trickle; Diana felt the warm liquid enter her breasts, and it felt good.  It was such an incredible sensation.  She felt the warmth of it gushing through her boobs, warming her, felt the first tiny hint of them expanding, becoming fuller, heavier.

“I’m sorry I could not warn you, Wonder Woman,” Doctor Titus said, his impish smile belying the truth of his words, “my earlier subjects informed me that the transfusion procedure is actually quite pleasurable, but I did not wish to contaminate my studies.”

Diana closed her eyes, not wishing to see Titus’s face, his delighted smile at her expense.  But in doing so she found herself being borne away upon the overwhelming pleasure caused by the filling and expansion of her breasts.  Despite herself she found her breath coming quicker as more and more of her tissue was restored to its place of origin, her excited nipples now almost painfully erect with the sensation of it.  Her pussy, no longer covered now that she was suspended in midair, was positively overflowing with her royal nectar, so much so that she could smell her sex upon the air.

She chanced a look, to see whether Titus was aware of what was going on behind the veil of insubstantial material blocking the view of her luscious entrance, but his eyes were again fixed on the computer screen, monitoring her progress.  But there was no mistaking that his nostrils were flared, taking in her heady perfume whether he was conscious of it or not.  She reflexively looked down, unable to stop herself, to see if he was having the typical male response to the pheromones she was undoubtedly putting out, only to find his crotch obscured by his lab coat, and Diana found herself horrified at the unbidden realization that she felt cheated by this.  She closed her eyes again, determined to look at nothing, fearing she might further debase herself in her own eyes.

With every gush of the viscous fluid into her breasts, another wave of unimaginable pleasure washed over her, and with every wave that washed over her she involuntarily gasped, clenching her thighs and buttocks against the imposed but nonetheless incredible sensations.  Her legs were bound slightly apart, and she could feel her engorged clitoris taking the air, almost beckoning someone to come over and give it a little tickle.  She tried desperately to rub her thighs together, to give herself some relief, but the straps were maddeningly unyielding   She so wanted to touch herself, to feel her growing boobs, to feel her hands upon her body, to feel anyone’s hands upon her body.  She called upon her Amazon training to help her fight the pleasure that was threatening to consume her, but it was no use.  Her pussy was on fire, her thighs clenched and convulsed, and she found herself wishing, for the first time in her life, that someone, some man, would fill her up, would fill her emptiness, would fuck her, cum inside her, and treat her like a real flesh and blood woman rather than a Goddess or a symbol.

She felt her orgasm building inside of her, with every spurt of fluid into her tits, and she found herself unable to think of anything else beyond her solitary pleasure.  Hera, she thought, her mind becoming completely frayed by the unceasing filling of her boobs, make him stop!  I will become a slave, his slave, the slavery all Amazons fear is their destiny should they traffic with Men.

But it was too late, she could feel her already large boobs growing heavier, expanding outward, downward, her nipples growing ever more sensitive as the pressure behind them increased.  Her fingers clawed the air frantically and her toes curled upwards.  She began to tremble as her entire body clenched, the monstrous orgasm bubbling just beneath the surface, a volcano about to explode…

And then it stopped.

Diana wrenched her eyes open, her breath coming in ragged gasps, sweat pouring off of her face as the wonderful warmth inside her breasts began to recede.  “What…what…” she started, unable to catch her breath, “what happened?  Why…did you…stop?”

“The transfusion process is complete, at least for today,” he replied distractedly, tapping the keyboard.  She grimaced as she felt the small feed tubes shifting inside of her, retracting.

“But…I was about to…” she started, “I…my breasts…”  She had been so unhinged by the abrupt loss of her pleasure that she had momentarily forgotten about her breasts.  She took a deep breath and looked slowly downward.

They weren’t huge.

“But…I thought…?”

“You thought they would be larger, Wonder Woman?  While we could undoubtedly continue until your breasts reach their target size, such enlargements are best done over multiple procedures.”

Multiple procedures? she thought.  Hera, once was bad enough!  Her larger breasts hung off of her, the skin stretched tightly over the new masses, her nipples still obscenely erect.  They’re so big, she marveled, and he’s not yet finished!  She goggled at the two cantaloupe-sized spheres that were now blocking her view of the room behind her.  They still felt quite warm, and despite her horror at this violation of her body, she could not deny that she so wanted to feel them, to squeeze them.  She settled for lightly jiggling the swollen mammaries, as much as her restraints would allow.  To her surprise they wobbled stiffly, like two flesh-colored bags of rice.  “They look…fake,” she said, unsure if she sounded disapproving, or disappointed.  “I thought they would look more…”

“…like breasts properly befitting a superheroine?” the doctor said, raising a pale eyebrow, “Do not worry, Wonder Woman, they will.  Your breasts are simply a little compressed at the moment.  They just need to be…broken in.”

“Broken in?” she repeated, not liking the sound of his words in the slightest.

“Yes, Wonder Woman,” he responded in a soothing tone, now gently sliding the bloody apparatus from the superbuxom superheroine’s stretched out navel, and depositing it a red biohazard bag, which he then set atop the breast-filling machine.  “The newly restored fat is still mostly liquid, and if not manipulated immediately will begin to pool in the bottoms of your breasts, causing them to look even more unnatural than they do now.”

“Which means that you get to spend the rest of the afternoon fondling my tits, Rex?” she replied dryly, raising her perfectly shaped raven-colored brow.

“That would hardly be professional, Wonder Woman, nor methodical,” he said, wiping the small amount of blood from her exploited opening and dressing it with a band-aid.  “I did do just that with my first patient, and the results were perfect.  But it is also a lengthy process, and my hands were so tired after two hours of massaging those big breasts I couldn’t hold a pen for a full day afterwards.”  He flexed his strong hands to further illustrate the point.  “No, such repetitious manual labor is best left to machines.“  And so saying, he slid his hand into the pocket of his lab coat and withdrew the remote control again, which he pointed at the suspended chair imprisoning the now bigger-boobed superheroine.  It moved smoothly upwards, stopping after only a few feet.

Titus pushed the breast-filling machine from him, which rolled silently out of her sight, took a few steps to his right and pulled into view another wheeled instrument, not much larger than a portable dishwasher, it’s function obvious considering the two circular, bowl-shaped depressions in its top.  The doctor positioned the machine directly beneath her hovering hooters, checking and rechecking that it lined up perfectly, and then stepped back.

“I know this device may appear somewhat frightening, Wonder Woman, but I assure you it will cause you no pain, quite the opposite in fact.  The man who built it for me, a rather earthy gentleman, christened it ‘The Titillator’, which is really quite an accurate name both for what it does, and the sensations it causes in the patient.”  He took from the pocket of his lab coat a Velcro strap, made from a stretchy fabric which he fastened to one side of the chair’s headrest, drawing it down and around the Amazon’s forehead and attaching it to the other side, fixing her head in place.  “This is also, I’m afraid, a rather lengthy procedure and I would rather minimize any discomfort to your neck or spine.”

She had been trussed up any number of times during her life – usually by someone trying to do her ill – but this was different; Doctor Titus wasn’t trying to harm her, far from it.  In his twisted mind he was trying to make her more beautiful, a statement of femininity and desirability.  If it wasn’t for the fact that he had harmed innocent women, kidnapped her, fattened up her tits, and was now about to subject her precious boobs to some sort of bizarre taffy-pulling machine, she would probably quite like him.

Diana was now forced to look down upon the machine; the cavities, she noted, appeared somewhat smaller than her almost spherical mounds, and found that her former feelings of near-ecstasy were quickly turning to something very like fear.

He pointed the remote control upwards again, and the banana-shaped chair began its descent.  As her tits neared the openings into which they would fit, Diana could feel the air flowing past her casabas and into the openings, and gave a small “yip” as her boobs made contact with the too-small circles, sealing the holes.  She felt incredible suction, could feel her already stiff nipples elongate slightly as the pressure built behind the twin blockages, and with an incredible ‘foop-foop’ felt her sizable funbags sucked into the machine.

“Ohh!” she gasped as her tits were drawn fully into the device, the suction dropping enough to maintain the seal with her chest wall, and then gasped again as she felt some sort of latex-like material being drawn about each of her breasts.  What felt like a warm, dense liquid began rising about her shrink-wrapped flesh melons, and Diana felt this was, despite her initial fear, really rather enjoyable.  Thus far, she thought, everything about the procedure would likely draw women customers in even if their breasts weren’t being inflated until they were as big as their heads.

“Ohh!” she repeated hoarsely, as something inside the chamber began making contact with her breasts, kneading them, mashing one into the other, like some sort of weird bread-making machine.  The viscous liquid caused her breasts to move in slow-motion, enhancing the incredible pleasure as several rollers? boxing gloves? mashed, pummeled, and caressed her tight juggs within the embrace of the warm, syrupy liquid.  Diana was unable to prevent the moans from escaping her dry lips as the Titillator mercilessly worked her defenseless boobs over and over and over again.

She could feel her breasts loosening now, felt the liquefied tissue sloshing around inside of her engorged tits, warmed now by the liquid in which they were immersed, and the longer the machine kneaded her helpless boobs, the warmer they became.  Diana slowly became aware that her breasts were responding to the device’s labors in a way she had never felt in her entire life.  She was now constantly moaning and whimpering as the warmth in both of her breasts began increasing, moving outward, growing in intensity, until she felt an answering echo deep within her now sopping cunt, which then spread up and down her entire body, as though the heat of a thousand suns were being unleashed within her.  This was an orgasm like no other, centered in both of her huge breasts, exploding throughout her body like a supernova.  Diana began howling as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed upon her, ripping a piercing scream from her throat as her finely tuned body convulsed within her bindings.

“OH, SWEET HERA!!!”

She thrashed about impotently as her orgasm consumed her, subsiding only after every nerve ending in her amazing body had fired again and again, leaving her physically spent but sending her spirit into a state of utter euphoria.

But the machine wasn’t done.  It continued its pre-preprogrammed onslaught on her helpless mammaries, remorselessly kneading the fulsome tits until another breast-centered orgasm overtook the beautiful superheroine, drowning her in incomprehensible pleasure, followed by another, and by another still.

“Please,” she croaked hoarsely after her fifth orgasm, unable to stop the tears forming in her beautiful blue eyes, “please, I-I can’t take any more.  Please…end this.”  She blinked, and her tears fell from her alabaster cheeks to impact upon the brown leather of the doctor’s shoes.

Doctor Titus stepped back quickly, removing a handkerchief from his shirt pocket.  He bent down and dabbed at the poor, beleaguered Amazon’s closed eyes, softly crooning, “Twenty minutes down, another ninety to go.  I promise I won’t leave you.”  And so saying, he produced another piece of fabric from the pocket of his lab coat.

“Mmph!” Diana cried, as the ball gag was inserted into her protesting mouth.  “”Whu…” she started, but was cut short as another monstrous climax began spreading through her, rendering her incapable of intelligible speech.

“Again, please forgive me, Wonder Woman, but you seem rather more susceptible to this part of the procedure than were my other subjects.  Rest assured I am monitoring you very closely,” and so saying, he retrieved the little black stool and sat down in front of the tit-squeezing machine, his clear grey eyes looking up into her distressed blue ones, his handkerchief at the ready.

She continued crying as her seventh and eighth orgasms ripped through her.  And as the twenty-third orgasm was ripped from her body, she realized in a haze of unexpected lucidity that he was going to pleasure her into insanity; he was going to break her, tame her, and she was unwillingly going to enjoy every minute of it.

6

Diana awoke the following morning pain-free after a night of dreamless sleep.  She had apparently blacked out as her forty-second orgasm rolled over her, and could only remember vague, hazy details of being unhooked and put to bed.  She now felt unaccountably good, wonderful, really, and put it down to post-orgasmic bliss.  She lay there, luxuriating in the feeling for a full five minutes before she realized that the lack of pain must also mean that Titus had not cut into her; that her breasts were whole and undamaged!

Her exquisite hands were resting on her flat belly.  It would be the shortest of journeys for them to find out whether her breasts had returned to normal, or whether Dr. Titus’s method would doom her to a life of being a crime-fighting pair of tits.  Well, she thought, they’re my breasts no matter how big they are.  I’ll go on regardless.  She bit her lip and drew her hands slowly upward.  They were there, all right, and they were huge.

Without pausing to think, she sat bolt upright in the bed, the sheets falling from her upper torso.  They were enormous!  She looked down her chest and saw her new breasts, which shone brightly in the light of the morning sun streaming through the tall windows, and found that her lap was completely hidden from her by the obstruction of her tits.  She looked about, trying to ascertain whether Titus was watching her from the shadows, or working at his computer.  The brewery floor was utterly silent; perhaps he was still asleep.  “You really did it, didn’t you, Rex?” she whispered to herself, looking back down at her wondrous bust.  “You pumped my boobs full of my own fat, and they’re not shrinking back to normal.”  She shook her head, mindful of the fact that this slight movement alone had set her bigger boobs to wobble about with greater vigor than she was used to.  “Well,” she sighed, when they finally came to rest, “I may as well get used to them.”

She looked about the space again, more than a little self-conscious, wondering what she should do first.  She looked downward again and smiled a small smile, a little giddy at the prospect of rediscovering her body at this stage of her life.  She shimmied her shoulders, causing her enlarged breasts to wobble about her chest quite naturally, all stiffness gone now, and giggled slightly as they slowly came to rest.  She looked about again, making triply sure she was alone and then cupped the huge tits in both of her hands.

“Mmmm,” she moaned slightly, unable to stop herself.  They felt absolutely real, and so much more sensitive than they had been before her enlargement.  The liquefied tissue had been fully absorbed and evenly distributed throughout her breasts without the slightest ripple or irregularity on their surface.  She marveled at how they felt and looked as she dug her fingers into her dugs.  There was no way that anyone could tell that these were not natural, God-given – or Gods-given – breasts.  She quickly got up from the bed, supremely uncaring whether she might be being watched, or possibly filmed, and ran to the full-length mirror hanging on the wall by the bathroom, holding her massive cans in her hands as she did so.

She posed, in all her glory, in front of the mirror.  They were the size of cantaloupes, big cantaloupes.  They were perfectly shaped; not quite circular, with the bottom halves slightly bigger than the tops.  They appeared to be exactly the same size and absolutely flawless.  Diana thrust her big boobs out before her, and then turned and stood in profile to see how much sooner they would enter a room before the rest of her.  She spread her fingers wide and squeezed the large masses together, gauging the incredible depth of her new cleavage, then she separated them, holding them far apart and letting them go, causing them to crash into one another, eliciting another giggle as she realized that they really were ‘knockers’ now, weren’t they?  She was unable to take her eyes off of their reflection; they were so wonderfully round and heavy, yet perky.  Soft, yet firm.  Her eyes were wide as she watched herself squeeze the enormous juggs, and then lightly pinch her big, pink nipples, suppressing an audible squeal as the pleasurable sensation hit her, making her acutely aware that she was still gloriously nude.  She retrieved and quickly put on her pink, high-heeled mules, the only things she had handy, so that she could get an idea of how she would look in her famous red boots.  She swiveled right, then left, imagining how her new boobs, or even the bigger ones he was going to force on her, would look in a new red and gold bustier.

“Sweet Hera,” she whispered to the woman in the mirror cradling her lovely breasts, “he really is the ‘King of Tits’, isn’t he?”

A loud ‘pop’ brought her from her reverie.  She turned quickly to see Titus entering the sunlit space, a bottle of champagne in one large hand, two crystal glasses in the other.

“Good morning, Wonder Woman,” he said brightly, his smile radiant, “and may I say that you look magnificent?”

Diana thought of running, to fetch a robe, or perhaps back underneath the bedclothes, after the shameful display the doctor had undoubtedly witnessed, but then thought, What would be the point?  He has seen every inch of me, new and old, recorded me playing with myself before a fictional audience, watched me cum until I passed out, and very likely observed me preening like some self-absorbed cheerleader.  I have no secrets before this man; at the very least I can try and retain my dignity.

“Thank you, Rex,” she said simply, not bothering to cover her nakedness.  “You are to be congratulated, I suppose.  Your method not only works, it even works on me, something I thought would be impossible.”

Titus smiled and began pouring the champagne into the glasses with a practiced hand.  “Please, Wonder Woman, I may not have breasts of my own, but I certainly know when a woman is in love with hers, as you most certainly are.  Let us be adults, let us be friends,” he said, proffering one of the crystal glasses.

Diana silently debated with herself whether or not to take it.  He had done what he had done, and there would be no undoing it.  Oh, the Gods could, if they wished to, intervene and restore her body, possibly turning the arrogant Doctor Tits into a spotted lizard for good measure.  But there would be no intervention, and most certainly not because of his arrogance but rather her own; he had banked on it and she had not disappointed him.  Her massive boobs were going to be the symbol of her arrogance, and she would have to bear the burden of it, of them, for the rest of her life and for all the world to gawp at.

But if a pair of giant tits was to be her cross to bear, then so be it.  She would use them, like her strength, speed, and dexterity, to her advantage: she owed her longevity and success not to her considerable physical attributes, but rather to her ability to adapt, and it was time to start adapting.

She moved forward and stretched her elegant arm out to take the glass, brushing one of his fingers ever so lightly with her own.  “Very well, Rex,” she said, lowering her voice just enough to give it a naturally husky quality.  “We are both adults, I think we can be friends.  What shall we drink to?”

“To you, Wonder Woman, the loveli…”

“Diana, Rex,” she said smoothly, making sure to look up at his face at all times.  “My name is Diana.  And please, may I make the toast?”

“Very well, Diana.  I would be honored.”

She raised her glass, perfectly catching the incoming sunlight and refracting it across the imposing landscape of her chest, creating a unique visual masterpiece.  She smiled slightly, noting the doctor was failing for the first time since she’d met him to look her squarely in the eyes.  She shifted the glass slightly, playing the shifting colors over her hilly terrain, and was pleased to note that Titus was certainly enthralled.  “To my tits.”

“To your tits,” he echoed, a little hoarsely, quickly swallowing the champagne.

He seemed at a loss for what to say next, and Diana remembered thinking the first day that her breasts would be his undoing, and a plan began taking shape in her mind.  It meant that she would have to drink a bit more, a danger for her, as she was very susceptible to champagne, the sole reason she never drank at receptions.  But it was a risk she would have to take if she didn’t want the media to start calling her ‘Watermelon Woman’.

All right, girls, let’s see if we can light a fire under ol’ Rexy.  “It’s a little ironic, don’t you think, Rex,” she teased, adding a little giggle, “your choice of glassware.  Someone once told me that this style of champagne glass is modeled on Marie Antoinette’s breasts.  I would think you of all people would go in for something a little more…bucket-like.”

“As…” he started, distracted by the fact that his captive was holding her half-full glass just under her very erect right nipple, the fizzing of the champagne the cause of the wonderful response, “as a matter of fact, the coupé style of, um, stemware was taken directly from a mould of her left breast.  Which, incidentally, is why, um, I never drink from flutes.”

Diana laughed, setting her big boobs a-jiggle, “Oh, Rex, you made a joke.”  She reached out and lightly clapped him on his broad chest while her laughter subsided.  He was watching her closely, apparently unable to speak.  It seemed to be working, she was setting him on edge; now if she could just find some way to exploit his weakness.  She was conscious of her every movement, much as if she were locked in combat with another warrior of equal skill.  She took another drink of champagne and, learning from her experience on the day of her capture, accidentally spilled a few drops on one of her big tits.  “Oh, pardon me,” she said, a little tipsily, “I’m not much of a drinker, Rex.  Would you have…?”  She held her arms out, as if to show she lacked for the means to clean up her little mess.

“I…uh,” he started, retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket, all the while staring at her wet, swaying tit, one of the drops having already coursed it’s way downward and was now clinging to her erect nipple, just waiting to be licked off.

“Thank you, Rex,” she said, her voice a little huskier than usual.  She wiped the bubbly from her tit, making sure to pull it a good deal sideways, and then letting go so that both of her breasts were set into motion.  Diana smiled, watching him watching her big, bobbling boobies.  She had to give him credit: most men would probably have fainted by now.

He managed to tear his gaze away from the large, wobbling masses to look into the infinite depths of her eyes.  She batted them lightly.  “Forgive me, Wond…um, Diana, but you seem to be taking this differently than I thought you would.”

“Well, Rex,” she said, sinuously stuffing his handkerchief back into his breast pocket, and then holding out her glass to be refilled, which he did, though a little clumsily, “I did think about crying, screaming at you, locking myself in the bathroom, etc., but the fact is…” she paused, taking a swig of the champagne and to make sure that his total attention was on her, “…you’re right.”  She turned, swinging her breasts and letting centrifugal force make the most of her action.  She faced the mirror, aware that from his vantage point he could see not only her luscious reflection, but also her superlative ass, which she highlighted by standing slightly spread-legged.  “I do love them.  I thought I wouldn’t but I do.”  She languidly reached up with her left hand and began stroking her right tit, squeezing it ever so lightly, knowing this was driving him wild – if she played this right, she would be out of here today.

She closed her eyes, more to help keep from betraying herself than due to any actual pleasure she might be feeling.  In truth, every brush of her thumb across her fat nipple sent sexual shockwaves through her, causing a visible shudder, making her wet, and she was afraid she might push him too far.  She was quite naked, and he could be inside her virgin pussy in as little as three quick movements, and there would be nothing she could do to stop him. 

“Rex, I-I’m not sure what’s happening to me.  Maybe I’m Stockholming or…or…” she stole the briefest of glances at him, ready to play her card.  She had already failed once at this sort of gambit with him, but she knew him better now, understood more of his ethics and his sense of honor: as he had banked on her arrogance and won, she was going to do the same thing…but with his cock.  “Oh, Rex, I-I…” she cried, looking at the reflection of his dumbstruck face in the mirror, dredging up every last bit of emotion and turmoil she’d lived through in the last few days, hoping for a Meryl Streep moment, “I love you!”

Diana was rewarded for her performance by the unmistakable thump of the heavy champagne bottle hitting the wooden floor.  His face showed a look appropriate to having been kicked in the head by a mule, but it was working; she needed to push harder.  She turned quickly, casting her empty glass away, and ran to him, leaping up, much as she had done ten thousand times before as a warrior, but this attack would not hurt him, though it would certainly destroy him.

He staggered back slightly as her long legs wrapped themselves around his narrow waist, her lithe arms embracing his barrel chest, her hands deftly running her fingers through his hair.  She mashed her big boobs into the hollow of his throat and pressed her full lips onto his, sliding her warm tongue into his surprised, unresisting mouth.

“Mmph!” he moaned, the sound muffled by the Amazon’s unrelenting kiss.  He reflexively put his strong arms about her, plastering her warm, squirming body to him.

She broke the kiss, but her lips continued to brush his as she spoke, “Fuck me, Rex!  Make me yours.  Put your cock in my aching cunt!  Fill me up, cum inside me!”  Diana was shocked by her own words, and even more so by the fact that her pussy actually was aching.  She could feel it practically gasping in the open air, wanting, expecting, needing to be filled up, and if the pulsating bulge pumping at her thigh was any indication, Rex certainly seemed to have the equipment to do it!

But she could not submit to him or to any man, for to do so would be to give up any claim to being an Amazon warrior.  And besides, her virginity belonged to Steve Trevor, a gift she was hoping to bestow when she was ready to let another take up the mantle.

But she knew, hoped, that Titus would not.  Despite everything else she was his patient, and his ethics precluded him from having sex with her; she was betting not only her virginity, but her very raison d’etre, on his honor.

“I-I want to,” he gasped.  “God, do ever I want to, Diana, but I…cannot.”

“Oh, please don’t say that, my love!” she said breathlessly, pressing her delicious flesh across his trembling body, trying to drive him to the brink, but not over,  “I need you inside me, Rex!”

“I cannot, Diana,” he gasped hoarsely, “I swore that I would not molest you while you were under my care.  I have done enough wrong already.  To do this would make me nothing more than a…a sociopath: my needs above all.”

He had refused her, as she had expected he would, but she noticed he hadn’t put her down yet.  She was more than a little aware that were he to lower his zipper, his rampant cock would enter her wetness without the slightest resistance.”

“I love you, Rex,” she whispered hungrily, one smooth hand caressing his cheek, “please, there must be some way we can be together, now, today!”  She took his face in both of her hands and kissed him lightly, running her tongue across his dry lips.  “Please, Rex, I want you inside me.  Fuck me, Rex.” 

“You…” he started, and Diana could tell her plan was working, he was off guard, practically shaking with the idea that he could have her in practically any way he wanted, but that he would have to make a choice: make love to her – an action barred by his sworn oath, deny himself – which she was going make a virtual impossibility, or he could let her go – perhaps with the unspoken promise that she would she would be his, body and soul; less than honest, but still honorable in light of being turned into a balloon-titted parody of a woman. “You are trying to…to trick me,” he said thickly, his hesitation obvious.

Diana rammed her tongue down his throat, eliciting a moan from him that told her he was weakening, but she needed him even more unsettled, and she knew what would do the trick.  She reached back around and grabbed his forearm, gently guiding it around to his Achilles’ heel.  She placed his strong hand on her very enlarged tit and, as expected, he lost no time in squeezing the mammoth dug.

Diana moaned audibly with every caress of her giant boob, shuddering whenever he flicked his thumb across her fat, engorged nipple, so much more sensitive than she remembered.  She continued her unrelenting onslaught of his mouth and could tell there was no way he could possibly think she was faking it, because in truth she wasn’t.  She could barely concentrate as he groped her, and she had to admit he really was an excellent kisser.  She could not remember someone ever having kissed her like this.  Steve was a decent enough kisser but he lacked the crazed passion of Doctor Titus, and her many trysts with her sister Amazons had always been of a more gentle, loving style of sex.  She found her body responding to him, almost as though it were on automatic pilot, more than ready to be plowed by this bull of a man.  Her nipples were almost painfully erect and every inch of her skin prickled, her thighs convulsed and she felt her pelvis involuntarily shifting, bucking like a bitch in…

By the Gods, no! Diana thought, her eyes opening wide, her mind suddenly snapping to coherence, I’m ovulating!

This was not possible; she couldn’t be ovulating now.  Diana, though a descendant of the Gods, was not so very different from mortal females, most especially when it came to reproduction.  She had her cycles, though on a much slower rhythm than mortal women, and they had always been faithful to the calendar, her ovulations coming just one day before the Summer Solstice, two months ago!

No, she thought, her tongue still laving the inside of the Titus’s mouth, I must be mistaken; I can’t possibly be ovulating.  But then Diana remembered: hormones.  Titus had bathed the liquefied breast tissue in the hormones of developing teenagers, thus ensuring it would adhere to the native tissue, and those hormones, now inside of her, must have somehow reset her biological clock, and must also be why she was as horny as a high-school girl.

I must stop this, she thought, her hips now positively humping him, he has only to release his seed inside of me and I will become pregnant!  All bets were off now; she could not continue with this stratagem.  If she’d misjudged him, driven him wild enough to actually take her despite his oath, something she would be unable to resist owing to her lasso, then it would be over: no more Wonder Woman – she would not even be able to return to Paradise Island.  She would be nothing more than a disgraced ex-superheroine with a big belly and even bigger tits.

She was brought out of her reverie by the sensation of movement.  He was turning, and plastered to him as she was, she was being taken along for the ride.  “Rex, honey,” she whispered, trying to maintain the right level of ardor without encouraging him further, “where are we going?”

“I made a promise, Diana,” he said softly, regret obvious in his tone, “I swore that I would not molest you while you are in my care, but you are more than I ever imagined and I must have you, as quickly as possible.”

Sweet Hera, no! she thought, I have driven him too far.  He is going to fuck me, make me his.

He stopped walking and began bending over, lowering her onto her back, her legs still clamped about his waist.  He kissed her again, gently, which she accepted, becoming resigned to her fate, a fate she had set in motion and was now powerless to resist.  And despite it all her heart was pumping madly; she could feel the heat coming from the python-like member pulsing near her sex, and her body was actually eager to be penetrated by him, to be fucked, to be conquered.

She closed her eyes as she felt her wrists being drawn downwards, felt stiff material being drawn about them, securing them.  She inhaled deeply and ground her hot ass into the upholstery as she realized he was going to bind her, something she had always gotten off on: it was a favorite pastime on Paradise Island.

But then she felt another strap being drawn across her, just below her heaving breasts.  Confusion washed over her as she realized where she must be.

“Rex…?”

“I’m sorry, it cannot be today, Diana,” he whispered, drawing the strap across her upper chest, locking her once again into the banana-shaped chair,  ”but the sooner I complete my project the sooner we can be together.”

“But, Rex,” she panted, her mind clumsily shifting back into high gear, seeing one last possible ray of hope, “if you let me go now, discharge me, I can be completely and utterly yours, today!  My breasts can wait, but my pussy wants you now, Rex.”  She continued panting, trying to heave her impressive bosom as much as the straps would allow.  “Please, Rex,” she cried plaintively, as he strapped in her lower body, “don’t make us wait.”

He moved upward, securing her forehead to the chair, locking her into place, and as he did so he looked into her eyes, into her infinite depths, and surged forward, sealing her mouth with a blazing kiss, thus stopping any further protestations.

She returned his kiss as passionately as he gave it, her every nerve ending on fire, hoping against hope that she could persuade him wordlessly.  And when she felt him pull away from her, she opened her mouth ready for one last try, only to feel the intrusive ball-gag being pressed into it for the second time in as many days.  “Mmph!” she cried impotently, looking up at her captor, her eyes eloquently saying what her lips could not.

“Diana, you are the most perfect woman ever to walk the face of this earth,” he said, reaching out his long arm and grabbing the coiled hose attached to the tit-filling machine, twelve inches of it protruding from his fist, pointing straight at her defenseless bellybutton, “Imagine how much more perfect you’ll be in three hours.”

7

The smoke rose in lazy spirals above the scarred wooden desk.  It had been ten years, almost to the day, since he’d had his last cigarette.  He closed his eyes, listening for any sign of movement in the darkened brewery, but heard nothing.  His patient was asleep in there, exhausted from countless mind-bending orgasms.

She loves me.

This could not be, it just couldn’t.  He remembered the scene quite clearly: seeing her standing before the mirror, dressed in nothing more than a pair of pumps and her queenly glory, achingly beautiful, telling him that she loved him.  Could it be a ploy?  Possibly, he’d been told that before, sometimes believing them, most times not.  He’d thought sure she was lying, trying to trick him, but then she practically raped him standing up, a veritable wildcat; sex incarnate.  Her lips might have been lying but her body most certainly had not.

Could she be suffering from Stockholm syndrome, developing feelings of dependency and loyalty?  She had said as much, which would explain not only her declarations of love but her very real passion as well.  So much to think about.

And what of my feelings?  Am I suffering from the obverse, Lima syndrome?  Am I becoming more sympathetic to my captive’s needs?  He took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling the bluish smoke.  No, not Lima syndrome, he thought, something much, much worse.

He stubbed out the cigarette in the heavy brass ashtray, watching as the embers slowly extinguished.  When the solution to his problem had come to him, only six months ago, it had seemed perfect.  Everyone in the world knew who Wonder Woman was, what she stood for, and if she was seen to have embodied the belief that breast enlargement, even somewhat extreme, was a good thing, then the world could move forward, beauty and desirability for all women would be attainable.

Months of meticulous planning, hundreds of thousands of dollars spent devising, creating, and installing the means for her capture: the subsonic chair – designed to cause an unconscious sexual arousal that would both retard her ability to remain focused, and to ensure that she would conduct their interview standing up; the double-walled gas piping to deliver the lighter-than-air gas that would fill the headspace of the room, not an anesthetic, but rather something that would maintain and increase her anger, thereby causing her to be even more off-balance; even the specially-made glassware that would cause her to spill the icy water on her exposed tit.

He rubbed his tired eyes and lit another cigarette, watching the smoke drifting sinuously upon the still air.  Yes, no detail had been too small, nothing had been left to chance, and when all was said and done he had executed his plans brilliantly.  He looked at the monitor showing her sleeping image, those magnificent breasts rising and falling in her orgasm-induced slumber; those magnificent breasts which, he had only this evening realized, had not been the goal of his project but rather the cause of it.

He could see her in his mind’s eye, suspended from the straps of the chair, her freshly completed breasts wobbling ponderously beneath her as she was raised up and off the tit-squeezing machine.  Her body shone of sweat, and her hair hung limply down to rest upon her creamy shoulders as he brought the chair to a more vertical position so that he could examine her; examine them.

The late afternoon sun beat lazily through the dust-streaked windows, catching the twin masses, wreathing them in a golden, almost holy light.  The beauty of those perfect tits struck him to his very core, and he found himself transported back more than three decades, to the to the very last time he had beheld such all-encompassing beauty:

“Oh, my Magda!”

He buried his face within their yielding softness, the tears coming fast and hot, sobbing as he remembered the day his father had sent her away.  He had cried that day, too, the day of his seventh birthday, when he stood clutching at his wet nurse’s pouting breasts, weeping until the elder Titus tore him away from her bosom and locked him in his room.  He screamed himself hoarse at the locked door, kicking it, then finally beating his fists against it until they were bloody.  He ran to his window and opened it, thinking to escape, to run away, to be with her, but there were no ledges beneath the lone window, and it was a twenty-foot drop to hard stone.  He actually considered throwing himself out of it, of ending his young life, such was the trauma of the loss of those comforting tits, but then he heard her voice upon the air, calling to him.

She sat in the back of the estate manager’s pickup, her meager belongings arrayed in cloth bags at her feet; a Gypsy to some but a queen to him.  She smiled up at him, but it was a pained smile, a melancholy smile that knew the depth of the little boy’s grief.  Her dark hair, long and wild, danced about her bare shoulders, and she brought her hands up to clutch at her massive breasts as if she, too, felt the loss of their impending separation.  The truck slipped into gear, and Magda, instinctively knowing what her charge needed, pulled down the front of her white cotton blouse, allowing him a final look at her milkers as she departed, the image of those huge, bouncing tits burned indelibly upon his psyche.

Titus immersed himself in the sensations of the unconscious superheroine’s mammaries, alternately crying for what he had lost and then giggling gleefully at what he had regained.  He stood there an unknowable time, caressing the heavy globes, stroking their rounded softness, basking in their warmth, so reminiscent of freshly baked cookies straight from the oven.

He stubbed his cigarette out angrily, knocking burning tobacco out of the ashtray to flare briefly upon the desk before dying.  He knew enough about psychology to know that he’d had what they call a breakthrough – the resurfacing of a painful memory suppressed, hidden away but driving his actions nonetheless.

“This changes nothing,” he said bitterly to the empty room, and then looked again at the sleeping superheroine on the monitor, the glow from it giving him a ghostly pallor.  Perhaps my motivations are driven more by my demons than by some altruistic desire to offer women a better, safer, and more natural choice, he thought, the middle finger of his right hand unconsciously tracing the curvature of his captive’s perfected mounds on the computer screen, a choice between settling for what Nature had given them or the freedom to live their dreams.

“But does it really matter what my motivations are?” he whispered to himself.  How many billions of dollars are spent on cosmetics each year?  How many more billions on perfume?  How much of a woman’s income is spent on hair care products, moisturizers, exfoliants, earrings, anklets, bellybutton jewelry, high heels, strappy sandals, push-up bras, miracle bras, teddies, g-strings, thongs, and all of it for the sole reason, despite having been liberated by their forward-thinking but often less than attractive spiritual sisters, so that they can look and feel desirable?

No, when all was said and done, it was not his feelings that mattered, but rather beauty, regardless of the philosophical natterings and nay-sayings of those who, by dint of the genetic crapshoot, just didn’t measure up.

As to any romantic feelings, what was it Lord Byron had said?  ‘Alas, the love of women!  It is known to be a lovely and a fearful thing.’  Well, maybe she loved him, and maybe she didn’t; the ways of women were often difficult to comprehend.  What mattered above all else was beauty, and beauty was something he did understand.

*    *    *    *    *    *

She crouched, hidden in the shadows, the double-doors ahead were all that stood between herself and freedom from the dingy brewery.  She could see light showing through the narrow gap between the heavy doors, and there was noise, movement; the shadows of men playing against a distant wall beyond.  Ten quick steps was all it would take.  She pounced.

She hit the oaken doors with her shoulder, sending them flying open.  Not wishing to be a target she leaped forward, seeing and then grasping a stout iron pole so that she could quickly spin about, ready to plant a pointy-toed boot into a fat stomach, or the heel of her hand into a surprised face.

But it was Diana that was surprised, for there was no one to fight.  The men were there, all right, a veritable sea of them, sitting at tables, lounging against walls, and all of them looking at her expectantly through the pall of cigarette smoke that hung in the air.

Oh, sweet Hera, she thought, what is this?  But Diana knew precisely what it was; it was time for her set.  She looked down to find that her trademark bustier was gone, her soccer ball-sized breasts shimmying unencumbered, long golden tassels swinging from them to the delight of the crowd.  She swung about on the gleaming pole, looking for a way out of this nightmare, but the stage had no exits, nor was she allowed to leave, as management was very strict about its dancers failing to perform for the required sixteen hours.  She searched in vain for an open doorway over the heads of the balding, fat men in the crowd while she ground her g-string clad pelvis up and down the stripper pole, but all she could see were huge images of herself on a multitude of big TV screens.

The crowd howled and cheered as her wondrous body, despite her wishes, continued gyrating on automatic pilot.  Diana found herself leaping and pirouetting about the stage, her body doing all sorts of immodest actions – actions that had seen performed over the course of her long life, but had never thought that she would actually be doing.

And as her body continued doing it, she began to realize that it wasn’t bad; it was kind of fun, actually.  The audience screamed in gratitude as she dropped down into a full split, her pendulous juggs wobbling to and fro, and she smiled back at them, warmly pleased that they appreciated her efforts.  Dancing was nothing new to her; she had done it often as a child on Paradise Island, and still did so as an adult, both at home, and whenever the opportunity was afforded after a long day at work, usually with some of the clerical staff from the CDI.  But clubbing was not the same as stripping.  Stripping, she realized, was the giving of oneself to others, and what calling could be nobler than that?

She mashed her big boobs together to the delight of her audience, then began hefting them up and down, shaking and shimmying them wildly in a manner she knew they would enjoy, which they did, cheering her on loudly, expressing their worship and adoration, not for deeds or acts of heroism, as was often the case, but for her.  She so loved this: being loved for herself, feeling a growing, warming sensation in her belly the longer she performed.  I must go all out for them, she thought, seeing her opportunity.  She didn’t know if she could do it, it being a highly advanced move, but surely she could apply her considerable warrior skills.  With a beaming smile to her audience, Diana turned her back to them, showing them her beautifully toned ass, and then executed a perfect front walkover, stopping as her naked back came to rest lightly against the stripper pole.  She locked her ankles securely about the cool metal and raised her arms from the floor.

She almost came in her g-string as the audience burst into enthusiastic applause, loving the image of her upside-down breasts bobbling in her face, the golden tassels swaying gently before her eyes.  But a subtle move of her arms told them she wasn’t finished, and Diana could tell from the instant hush that she had them completely in her thrall.  She took a deep breath, hoping she wouldn’t muff it, and jerked her right shoulder forward sharply, sending her right breast flying upward, quickly followed by the left, and then again and again, until her tassels were spinning in perfect circles, the audience on its feet, hooting and stamping, shouting to her that they loved her.

And through her wildly spinning breasts she saw him, standing at the back of the room, his dazzling smile shining like a beacon though the murky, smoky atmosphere.  He had made this possible, this unconditional love, this greater joy she now knew.  She quickly dismounted and regained her stiletto-heeled feet, turned and leaped from the stage, her cheering fans backing away from her in awe, giving her room to land.  She raced to him, planting her hungry mouth upon his, her pussy positively dripping as their tongues intertwined.  She reveled in the feeling of his strong, capable hands at her fat tits, massaging them, grasping them, squeezing them.

“Ow, Rex,” she said, giggling, “they’re not footballs.”

But the more they kissed, the rougher he became, gripping the huge mammaries, digging his strong fingers into them, “Ow, Rex, please,” she whined.  “Stop it!  Ow! OW! OW!!

*    *    *    *    *    *

“OWOWOW!” Diana cried, her hands clutching her breasts, her nightmare fading, as though being burned off by the sun streaming through the dusty windows.  For the second morning in a row she awoke with her breasts in great pain, the burning throbbing that signaled their recovery from total excision during the night.  Hera, she thought, how much more must I endure?  She lay awake for several minutes, massaging her oversized glands, humming to herself to try to assuage the terrible ache.

I am sorry, Wonder Woman, but I must make sure that your breasts will remain stable once I have discharged you.

And when will that be?

When I am satisfied that you are whole and well.  When I am assured that I have made no mistakes.  You are the world’s premiere superheroine; it would not do to have you less than perfect.

“’Perfect,’” she muttered, rising to a sitting position, her heavy milkers falling forward to hang pendulously from her chest, defying gravity.  She hefted them, wincing a little, but not finding them to be so painful that she couldn’t manage.  She swung her legs off the bed, as weary of being a patient as she was of the smell of beer in the air, and walked over to the mirror, as she had done every morning since her arrival, to assess her new appendages.  Yes, she supposed they were perfect, from his point of view.  She tenderly ran her hands over their immensity, involuntarily biting her lip as she brushed a nipple, marveling at their faultless symmetry.

Looking at her reflection she was reminded of the photographs in the doctor’s hallway, resigned to the fact that she would soon be reluctantly joining them, very likely the centerpiece, come to that.  Those women were perfect, too, and their perfection stemmed from, it pained her to admit, their enhanced breasts.

She wasn’t sure why she understood it so much better now than she had prior to her abduction – and she sometimes wondered if Titus might not be using her golden lasso on her without her knowledge, imposing his views upon her, programming her despite his sworn word – but the simple fact was that breasts defined a woman.  She had listened to any number of discussions, debates, arguments, and downright shrill screaming matches on the issue, but the logic was elegant and irrefutable: men do not have breasts.

“Go anywhere in the world, Wonder Woman,” the doctor had said, the day before he had begun inflating her boobs, “and note how many cultures, modern and primitive, where the depictions of women are on a par with Juggs magazine.  Totems, fertility dolls, sculptures, bas-reliefs, petroglyphs, even prehistoric cave drawings; women are depicted, not by a cleft between their legs, but by prominent, sometimes even cartoonish, breasts.”

And she had to admit he was right.  Ask a child, any child, male or female, to draw a picture of a woman, and nine times out of ten the image drawn will have hooters at least as big as her head.  Some people would cry, ‘that just shows the pervasive influence of the male dominated media, corporate behemoths that profit from the continued objectification of women,’ but if they stopped to compare the drawing made by that child to a fifty-thousand year-old cave painting, they would find them to be practically identical.

She gazed at her reflection, trying – and failing – to remember how they had looked only a week ago.  They did indeed define her, and those definitions were of beauty, femininity, and desirability.  Her new breasts flowed gracefully outward and downward, their weight and warmth comforting.  They fitted her perfectly, looking exactly the proper size.

“What will the women of America say when they see the new me,” she whispered, hefting a huge boob in each hand.  She had been actively avoiding thinking about the future, but now that it appeared that there was no going back to the Wonder Woman she used to be, she had only last evening begun pondering the road that that lay ahead.  Could she really continue as she had been; would she be accepted, taken seriously with these monster tits spilling out of her bustier?

She began imagining herself doing talk shows, chatting with Larry King, telling the tale of how she’d been abducted by the madman responsible for savaging those poor women, of how she had been grievously disfigured by him, and of how the phenomenal Doctor Titus had restored her beauty and had even improved upon it.  That was his explanation, at least.  “And how do I explain what happened to this mythical villain?” she’d asked.

“I leave that up to you, Wonder Woman.  Tell your Colonel Trevor you dropped him down a well, or hurled him out into space.  No one will think to question you.”

But he was wrong in that assertion, for Diana knew that once she left this brewery, her life would be nothing but questions.  If it were up to her she would remain mum on the subject of her chest; let people think what they would.  But over the last several days Diana had come to realize that just as she’d had no choice in the inflation of her boobs, she would also have no choice but to talk about them publicly, she would be forced to talk about them, because, as Frankie had preached in the doctor’s waiting room, ‘America loves tits!’ 

Oprah would want to know all about her new boobs: why she had chosen to go as big as she had, and was she making a bold statement that femininity and strength were not mutually exclusive?  She would of course compliment her on how perfectly they suited her, and the audience would clap and cheer her audacious makeover, and then they would all want to know about the miracle worker who had made her wondrous breasts possible.  Yes, there would be acceptance.

But there was a flip side to that coin: Letterman would make jokes, news commentators would comment, editorial after editorial would be written, and Hera only knew what Cosmo would have to say.  Oh, and then there would be the hue and cry from feminists, who never missed an opportunity to disparage her for wearing her familiar red, blue, and gold livery, and would now loudly deride her for choosing to look like a crime-fighting porn star.

They already say those things about you.  So what is the difference? her inner voice asked.

The difference, she knew, lay in the fact that she would not have a choice in how she presented herself, the doctor had seen to that.  Oh, she could thwart his plans by retiring; fly back to Paradise Island to live out her days as a disgraced warrior, a massive-uddered symbol to be pitied by her sister Amazons.  No, running home to Mama was not an option.

Or she could simply disappear, adopt another identity, possibly even become a stripper for real – her Amazon training would stand her well in that field – but she had no doubt that the doctor would use every means at his disposal to ensure that his ‘project’ remain in the public eye.  It had taken a driven and ruthless man to do the things he had done, and such a man was unlikely to leave something so unpredictable as another’s free will to chance.  No, he would use some means to continue controlling her once she was no longer his patient: perhaps the footage of her playing with herself, or more likely he’d use her golden lasso.  He would force her to continue being a public person, selling the benefits of her big boobs and plugging his method of natural breast enlargement, and she would remain his big-titted puppet until she could find a way out of this mess.

Footsteps in the distance signaled the impending arrival of her captor.  Diana quickly grabbed the waffle-knit terry robe from the armoire and put it on, no longer wishing to give the doctor any freebies.

“Good morning, Wonder Woman,” he said turning the corner into her impromptu living space, “how do you feel?”

“Fine, Doctor,” she replied, her tone neutral.

It had been this way since the morning following her aborted faux-seduction of him, their conversations almost perfunctory, and marked by a sort of sullen politeness.  She made no more romantic overtures toward him, and he for his part made no advances toward her.  He seemed different somehow, she thought, and she found herself a little miffed that her sexuality wasn’t setting him on edge as it would any normal man.  How she longed to be free of this place, to feel the warmth of the sun upon her skin, the wind in her hair.  She no longer cared if she was a giant-boobed freak, all she wanted was for this ordeal to be over.

“Remove your robe, please.”

She did so, letting it fall to the floor to pool at her feet, any concerns about modesty having long since been cast aside – but she would be damned if she was going to cavort about like some bimbo for his pleasure.  She looked sideways, toward the west wall of the brewery, while he examined her heavy, volleyball-sized breasts.  He poked and prodded them for several minutes, as methodical as ever, though never groping her.

“I am satisfied, Wonder Woman.”  He backed away a little and leaned against a steel girder and crossed his arms in front of his chest, “Tell me, what do you think of your breasts.”

“They’re flawless, Doctor,” she said with a slight iciness.  “Precisely as you wanted them to be.”

He understood her tone perfectly, and while he wished that she could understand their beauty as he did, understand the effect they had on those around them, he was not going to try and convince or cajole her.  It would be so easy, he’d thought from time to time, when her disdainful silences were almost more than he could bear, to use her lasso to make her love them, make her enjoy them to their fullest extent.  But he had sworn not to.  To do so would be to turn the most wondrous woman in the world into a robot, and while he knew there were people who wouldn’t hesitate to do so, it was not, as Americans so often say, his thing.

“Yes, Wonder Woman,” he sighed tiredly, “they are indeed flawless, and they are everything I hoped they would be.  You will be pleased to know that I have finished operating on you.  Your breasts are stable.”

Diana couldn’t believe it, was he actually about to set her free?  She was now acutely aware of her nudity, and regretted having disrobed so haughtily, for stooping now to pick it up would show weakness, and she had shown this man more than enough of that in her time here.  “What are you saying, Doctor?  Are you going to discharge me?”

“Yes,” he replied, a weary smile upon his face.  He left his perch by the girder and walked smoothly past her, picked up her robe, and redressed her.  “Yes, I will be discharging you, or I will once your breasts have completed one final test, which I foresee will be without issue.”

“A test?” she repeated, tying the belt of the robe about her trim waist.  “What do you mean,” she said, turning to face him, a wry smirk upon her face, “you have to taste them, or something?”

He chuckled lightly and sat on the edge of her unmade bed, “Not exactly, no.  But you are not far wrong.  No, Wonder Woman, I simply need to make sure that I have not impaired your ability to lactate.  A few days is all it should take, if that.”

“What?” she cried, gathering the robe about her neck.  “No, please, Doctor.  That won’t be necessary.”

“Please, Wonder Woman…Diana, I must make sure you are completely healthy before you return to your life and your career.”

Diana was incensed.  Wasn’t it enough that he had remade her body into something that more properly befitted a porn queen, but that he now wanted to milk her, like some sort of cow?  She called again upon her Amazon training, to still her rage.  He sat there patiently, watching her, his strong arms folded across his barrel chest.  She breathed deeply, trying to relax her body, feeling her expanded boobs rising and falling beneath the robe, gasping slightly as her nipples hardened when the scratchy material was drawn over them, unconsciously biting her lip as she felt an answering moistness between her thighs.

I am no longer the woman I used to be; he has changed me, she thought bitterly, but quite unexpectedly she began to wonder if he didn’t have a point.  She would, after all, put aside this life of adventure one day, and she had promised herself that when that day came she was going to do her level best to get pregnant.  To be a mother, she knew, was the greatest good there was, and though she had never admitted it to anyone, she had more than once fantasized about what it might be like to hold a newborn in her arms, to suckle at her swollen pap.  Despite her anger she had to admit he was right, she did need to know whether his tampering with her body might have damaged her.

“Very well, Doctor,” she sighed, pointedly not using his given name in kind, “it isn’t as though I have the power to refuse you anyway.  Let me make you a list of herbs.  You should be able…”

“That won’t be necessary, Wonder Woman.  I have already begun the process.  I injected you with a special hormone cocktail just about two hours ago.  You should begin lactating sometime later this evening, or perhaps early tomorrow morning.”

“You…injected…?” she started, her eyes wide, so astounded at his effrontery that she was unable to find words.

“Yes,” he replied simply.  “I know you are anxious to regain your freedom, as I am to put this matter behind me and move forward.  I apologize for not having informed you earlier, but…well…I did not relish the idea of a scene or a debate.”

“B-but you don’t know what those drugs will do to me!” she stammered.  “My metabolism is different from other women’s.  I’m not hu…”

“I understand your metabolism, Wonder Woman,” he broke in, his air wearily confident.  “Have I not managed to successfully anesthetize you?”

“But you’re a cosmetic surgeon!” she exclaimed, her arms now clutching her stupendous breasts and turning away from her captor as though to protect them from danger.  “What do you know about hormones?”

He got up from the bed and approached her back; her hair, still tousled from her slumber, smelled of wildflowers.  “I am not an endocrinologist, I admit that,” he said softly into her shell-like ear, “but you may rest assured that I am the world’s foremost authority on breasts and everything to do with them.”  And here his put his strong hands gently upon her shoulders, a gesture of comfort.  “I promise you, Diana, nothing will go wrong.  I am prepared for any eventuality.  After all, could you possibly be in better hands than those of Doctor Tits?”

END OF PART ONE

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