Her captors didn’t confide in her, of course, but after a few days Ms. Americana had two things figured out: Flag Girl had escaped — or was dead. And Betty had been taken off the job.

“Where’s Nurse Dyke?” MA asked one morning, when Bohner arrived to take her down to the recreation room for another session in sexual degradation.

“We’ve given her another assignment,” Bohner replied. “I’m afraid she had gotten too emotionally involved with you. I can assure you I don’t have that problem.” He grabbed MA’s arm and pushed her toward the doorway.

“Another assignment? Does it involve Flag Girl? Betty hates her.”

“No,” said Bohner, “it doesn’t involve your little pal. She’s safe and sound.”

MA could tell he was lying.

Perhaps because she had forced him to lie, Bohner was particularly nasty that day. He shoved the wand deep into her ass and turned the power to level nine. This was way beyond the pleasure zone. She screamed in agony. Then, for the first time since she had been taken captive, he fucked her himself. He did it slowly, in her pussy and from behind, while she was chained to the wall. The whole time he whispered hateful messages in her ear.

After he came, he said, “By God, I wish I could afford to kill you. I haven’t performed surgery since my residency, but I’d slice you open and take out every organ and line them up on a table. I’d turn you into a fucking anatomy lesson.”

Later, she was taken out on the veranda, to join Moulton and Tasher for lunch. She was so weak from the session with Bohner that her knees buckled and she landed face-first at Moulton’s feet.

“My dear, what’s the matter?” the old man said. “Here, let me help you up.”

MA ate little and said nothing during lunch. Afterward, when Ludwig had escorted MA from the table, Moulton said to Bohner, “I think you’re overdoing things. Ms. A is a beaten, defeated shell of her former self. There’s really nothing more to be gained by these sessions. I think it’s time to put her on the market.”

# # #

Ludwig had been instructed to handle MA with great care. No rough stuff. No rape. Not even consensual sex, in the unlikely event she asked for it.

Ordinarily, he followed orders with Prussian exactitude. But today he was very horny, and his charge’s vulnerability made her especially attractive to him. On the way back to her room, he pulled her aside and into Moulton’s study.

“How about a quickie?” he asked.

MA looked at him blankly.

“Come on, honey. If you don’t want to take off that sexy costume, just make a blow job.” He spoke in the cajoling tones of a man on a date, not someone guarding a defenseless captive.

“A blow job?” MA said. “Okay.” She knelt in front of him.

“Nice and slow,” he instructed, unzipping his pants and pulling out his prick.

She caressed the head of his prick with her tongue. Then she slid her mouth down his shaft. He moaned softly and rocked back and forth on his feet.

What happened next came too fast for him to prevent it. MA pulled her head back from his crotch and drove her fist into his scrotum. He gasped, clutched his balls and fell to the floor. A quick karate chop to his throat finished the job. He was out cold.

“How can a ‘quickie’ be ‘nice and slow,’ asshole?” she said in a low voice. She gave him a parting kick in the stomach, then went to the French windows. The study overlooked the Garden. She tried the handle on one of the windows. It was unlocked.

Where to next? She had tried the woods the last time she was free, and that hadn’t worked. A long, meandering driveway led to the front gate, but she knew the gate was guarded.

She’d try the Garden. Those strange structures might provide some good hiding places.

# # #

Moulton, normally the most cheerful of men, was in a sour mood. To lose one superheroine, because of a blunder by a colleague’s underling, was merely unfortunate. To lose a second, because of someone he had hired and trusted, was an outrage.

The only reason Betty and Ludwig weren’t chopped up and dumped into the marine tank was that ichthyologists who ran his aquarium told Moulton that so much red meat would be bad for the sharks. Moreover, Bohner argued that the Clinic always needed organs. So Betty and Ludwig were dispatched with fatal injuries consistent with a high-speed traffic accident, and their innards were dispersed among those who could put them to better use.

But while getting rid of these two incompetents brought Moulton a certain satisfaction, it didn’t bring back the two beauties who had brought him so much pleasure, and who had the potential to bring him so much money.

To make matters worse, that evening Taggart and the men who worked under him rebelled at his order that they search every square inch of the estate — including every bush and building in the Garden.

“With all due respect Mr. M,” said Taggart, “you can’t expect these boys to risk their lives uprooting all the freaks in the Garden — leastways, not unless they are authorized to shoot in their own defense.”

“No shooting,” shouted Moulton. “There will be no shooting. It cost a bloody fortune to create what you call ‘freaks,’ and I’ll not have them shot like so many possums and coons.”

“They’re bigger and more dangerous than possums and coons,” said Taggart’s sidekick, Lee. “You know that. You know what they’ve done to some of the girls you’ve sent into the Garden.”

Moulton couldn’t dispute that point. Some of his parties had gotten rather out of hand, and there had been a few “incidents,” as he called them. But it had all been worth it, to turn Bosch’s vision into a reality. What were the few lives of a few hookers compared with the opportunity to create great art?

“I’ll go myself in the morning, you bloody cowards,” Moulton said. “And I’ll go unarmed. They won’t hurt me. Without me, they wouldn’t exist, and I think they know that.”

Bohner, who had been silently listening to this conversation from a corner of the study, cleared his throat.

“Let’s all calm down and think this through, Mr. M,” he said. “We’ve already lost two very valuable commodities. But losing you would be a disaster — for the clinic, for all charities you support, for all of Delta-City.”

“Do you think I can be dissuaded with a little flattery, Richard?” said Moulton. “You are wrong. I will go into the Garden, and I will return with our two missing captives — or with their remains.”

Moulton was premature in mentioning “remains.” Ms. Americana and Flag Girl were still alive — and in the strangest predicament either had ever found herself in.

They were in an underground chamber over 100 feet below the Garden. For reasons she didn’t understand, Flag Girl was being treated as a goddess by the strange creatures that dwelled in and beneath the Garden. She sat on an alabaster throne on a low, circular stone platform, surrounded by a myriad of human-animal hybrids. They murmured and chirped in what to Flag Girl sounded like adulatory tones.

But MA, who had been captured by “Moulton’s monsters” soon after entering the Garden, was enjoying no such exalted status. She had quickly been incapacitated with fumes from an herb that grew only in the Garden. Then she was stripped and carried to the torch-lit, underground chamber. There, she was held aloft by dozens of hands, her arms and legs spread and her head and dark hair hanging down. Thus she was presented to Flag Girl, like some sort of sacrificial offering.

Flag Girl rose, stunned by the unexpected appearance of her mentor. She wanted to rush to MA’s side, to embrace and protect her. But something held her back. It was if the communal will of this band of monsters somehow controlled her actions.

Instead of coming to MA’s aid, she merely nodded, as if giving assent to some plan she and the group had earlier agreed on.

The chirps and murmurs became louder, and MA was passed from one group of outstretched hands to another, until she reached an arched doorway, beyond which the torchlight did not reach. Seven humans with pigs’ heads came out and carried her through the doorway.

# # #

As MA regained consciousness, her first sensations were intensely stimulating. Many tongues were licking her. Her entire body was being caressed by these soft, wet, undulating instruments of pleasure. Gravity seemed to have disappeared. She floated in the darkness. Her only contact with the environment was the licking of this multitude of tongues. Her breaths became more rapid and shallow and suddenly she came with a loud moan. The licking slowly ceased, and she lapsed into a post-orgasmic torpor.

After a while, she was roused by an excited flurry of voices. MA somehow sensed that the creatures the tongues belonged to had retreated — and that something huge and monstrous had arrived.

She felt a massive body with coarse hair press against her belly and breasts. Whatever it was had accomplices: Strong hands grabbed her ankles and pulled her legs apart. Suddenly, a huge, wet phallus entered her. She screamed and tried to wiggle free, but she was helpless. Gravity had returned, with a vengeance. She felt as if a ton of bristle-covered flesh was crushing her, even as the beast’s prick split her open.

Light appeared, the light of torches only a few feet from her. And now she got a glimpse of what was raping her. It was a gigantic feral pig. And two of the humans with pig heads held her ankles.

The beast on top of her humped vigorously, and she felt as if the force of its thrusts would destroy her. Then it gave a mighty grunt and began to withdraw. As it backed away, its saliva dripped on her belly and its semen on her legs. Its head was massive and ugly. It was a prehistoric carnivore, a member of the pig family but a hundred times more dangerous than any boar alive today. She tried to turn onto her belly and crawl away, but the pig men still held her ankles, and now they lifted her ass off the rocky floor so that her lower body was exposed to the boar.

The porcine monster paused, considering its next move. Its sex urge had been satisfied. Now another need, hunger, must be met. It lunged forward, and its jaws closed on MA’s pelvis. The tusks of its lower jaw dug into her buttocks and lower back, while the upper teeth sank into her belly. The pain was unbearable. MA’s vision faded, and the voices of the freaks became but a distant hum.

# # #

“Is she dead? She must be dead.”

The voice sounded like Flag Girl’s, but the tone was curiously detached.

Someone chirped in response.

“I see. Well, this is a most curious mating ritual. The beast was on the verge of biting her in half. Why spawn, if you’re going to destroy what carries your offspring?”

More chirping, and now it almost sounded like laughter.

MA opened her eyes, and sunlight flooded in. She was lying on a balcony made of pink stone. Flag Girl and several humans with animal heads stood around her.

“You’re awake,” said Flag Girl. “We were worried about you.”

We? Did she now identify with this flock of freaks?

MA tried to sit up, but a surge of pain sent her reeling back into unconsciousness.

When she came to, she was inside one of the pink structures, and the light from the window was fading.

“Be careful. Your abdominal muscles have been damaged,” Flag Girl said. “But the oldest and wisest of the birdmen has examined you and found you sound. The baby will survive, too.”

The baby! MA tried again to sit up, and again could not overcome the pain. She lay still, breathing heavily.

Flag Girl came and knelt beside her. “The pig would have eaten you, if I hadn’t arrived in time,” she said. “It has terrorized these creatures for years. They were offering you as a sacrifice, to placate the beast.”

“Why didn’t it kill me?” MA whispered.

“I shot it with a crossbow. The bolt hit right between its eyes.”

“Where did you get a crossbow?” MA asked.

“It was dropped by a hunter at one of Moulton’s parties a few years ago. These creatures, my friends, have treasured it as a religious icon but didn‘t know how to use it. They are grateful I killed the pig. It had eaten many of them.”

“You can . . . . you can talk with these . . . .”

“Yes, I’m beginning to understand them. And I think they understand me. I don’t know how. Their wise men said they have a legend that a child would come and lead them. They think I am that child.”

Despite her pain and confusion, MA smiled. “You’re an awfully well-endowed child.”

Flag Girl frowned. “You should be more respectful of me. I saved your life.”

“I’m sorry,” MA said softly.

Flag Girl’s face brightened. “And I killed Mr. Moulton. At least, I helped kill him.”

MA forced herself to sit up. “What? When did this happen?”

“This morning. He came into the Garden, and the birdmen and the fishwoman and the little people asked what they should do. I told them to capture him and bring him to me. And they did. But he got overexcited when he saw me, and he died.”

“Oh shit!” MA said. “Now they’ll come with guns and grenades and God-knows-what. They’ll come and destroy this place. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“But where will we go?” Flag Girl cried. “Where can these creatures go? They’ll be hunted and killed, or put in zoos. Or people like Bohner will do terrible experiments on them.”

“You can’t save them,” MA said. “We’ve got to save ourselves. We’ve got to escape before they come. Where is Moulton’s body?”

“We left it in the Garden — for the buzzards.”

“My God! Whatever possessed you . . . .” MA’s exclamation of surprise and disgust was cut short by shouting outside, followed by gun fire. They rushed to the window. MA had been right: Men with guns had arrived. They had already shot two birdmen. Now they were headed toward the building from which MA and Flag Girl were watching.

“We could give ourselves up,” said Flag Girl. “It’s us they want, not these creatures.”

“You’re wrong,” said MA. “Moulton was their protector, but I heard others — that security guard, Ludwig, and the fat one, Taggart — talk about how much they hated the ‘freaks.’ They want to kill them all. And now they’ll want to kill us, too. Or charge us with murder.”

“You forget, Brenda, they want to sell us as sex slaves. They won’t kill us.”

“So you’d rather end up a sex slave?”

Their quarrel was cut short by the sound of scuffling below. Then a shot was fired, and they heard a strange sound. It was the dying call of a birdman.

Seconds later, the door burst open, and MA and Flag Girl found themselves facing the shotguns of two of Moulton’s security guards.

“Put you hands behind your heads and turn around,” the bigger of the two guards shouted. MA and Flag Girl did as commanded. Someone grabbed MA’s hands, pulled them down behind her and snapped on handcuffs.

“Take her outside,” said the big guard. “I’ll be out shortly. Me and blondie are going to have some fun first.”

Flag Girl spun around and assumed a martial arts position. “I warn you,” she said. The guard laughed and smashed the butt of his gun into her face.

# # #

MA and Flag Girl were taken to the concrete-block building that served as security headquarters. There they were beaten and repeatedly raped before being hauled back to the mansion and dropped at Bohner’s feet.

“You girls look as though things have been going badly,” he said. “Well, get used to it. Things are definitely going to go downhill from here. Mr. Moulton is dead. I’m sure you already knew that. In fact, I plan to tell Commissioner Stepford that you two planned his murder and used those freaks to carry it out. What I’ve got to decide — along with Stepford and others who have a financial stake in you — is whether to prosecute you or carry out our original plan.”

Flag Girl struggled to her knees and looked up at him. “What about the creatures in the Garden?” she asked.

“Taggart’s men have killed every one they could find. There were fewer than we expected. Taggart thinks they may have an underground bunker. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“No,” Flag Girl lied. Bohner looked down on her coldly, then kicked her in the groin.

“I’m not sure you’re as dumb as you seem, but it really doesn’t make any difference. Your pals, the birdbrains and the fishcunts, will soon be extinct. And I suspect you will, too. If we decide to prosecute, you’ll end up in prison, where a lot of 250-pound dykes will be delighted to see you. You put some of them behind bars. I figure you two would be lucky to last a week.” Now it was MA trying to get up. Bohner kicked her in the side, and she rolled over, groaning in agony.

“The other option, awarding you to the highest bidder, would also probably be a death sentence,” he continued. “Oh, the buyer wouldn’t kill you right away — not after laying out millions for you. But eventually he, or she, would grow bored. Sex slaves, even slaves as beautiful as you two, are, after all, only toys. And we all know how children tire of their toys and love to smash them. My guess is that you would be tortured for days, maybe weeks, then snuffed in front of movie and video cameras. The film and tape would, of course, have excellent production values and might fully recoup whatever was paid for you.”

Bohner had been so occupied with his grisly scenario that he had paid no attention to his intended audience. Now, he looked down and sighed. Both women were unconscious.

“What should we do with them, Doc?” Taggart asked.

“Well, it looks like you’ve already had quite a bit of fun at their expense. I have no objections to gang rape, but I’m worried you and your boys will do permanent damage. Flag Slut has a nasty bump on her forehead. I want to have a look at that. After that, bring them upstairs. Tasher and I will take care of them.”

Taggart thought this over, then said, “With all due respect, Doc, I think me and boys will hold on to these girls. With Mr. Moulton dead and us not having pensions or 401k plans, I figure these girls are our financial security.”

Now it was Bohner’s turn to do some thinking. He pursed his lips and rubbed his chin. Taggart had men with guns. All he and Tasher had were hypodermics. The imbalance of power was obvious.

“Of course,” said Bohner. “Do whatever you want with them, but remember, if you kill or disfigure them, they’re worthless.”

“Sure, Doc,” said Taggart. “I understand. Me and the boys just want a piece of the action. We’ll have our fun with them for a few days while you’re arranging your auction, or whatever. Then you can draw up papers making us partners — junior partners, so to speak. We don’t expect no more than, say, 10 or 15 percent of the gross.”

“Very reasonable,” said Bohner, “but I will, of course, have to consult the other members of the syndicate. And Mr. Moulton’s estate will have to be settled. I believe he intended to leave most of his wealth to the Clinic, but we’ll have to wait until we see his final will. Then, of course, there will have to be a coroner’s investigation. I suggest we all agree that he died peacefully, the way he would have wanted — walking in his Garden.”

“Yeah, that sounds fine,” said Taggart. “You handle all that. We’ll make sure our stories jibe. Meantime, we’ll keep the cunts.”

Bohner’s acquiescence was purely a tactical move. He had no intention of giving up without a fight. Minutes after his conversation with Taggart, he used his cell phone to call Stepford in Delta-City. He explained the situation tersely.

“An interesting challenge,” said Stepford. “I think we can handle it. This fellow Taggart has how many men?”

“No more than a dozen.”

“And their arms?”

“Shotguns. Semi-automatic pistols. I think I saw a submachine gun or two.”

“What about body armor?”

“I don’t think they have any,” said Bohner.

“Good. Our SWAT team can handle this. Since it’s outside the city, I’ll need to get authorization from the county commissioners. That shouldn’t be a problem. They’re all in Moulton’s pocket.”

“Yes,” said Bohner, “but Moulton’s dead.”

“The commissioners don’t know that. In fact, Moulton’s death will give us cover for this operation. I’ll announce after we’ve taken out Taggart and his men that they were responsible for Moulton’s death. I’ll say you and Moulton were being held hostage at the estate, but you managed to make a secret call on your cell phone.”

“Which led to the rescue mission?”

“Exactly,” said Stepford. “We’ll just have to made sure none of Moulton’s security detail survives.”

“And that our twin treasures aren’t harmed.”

“Oh, right, the girls,” said Stepford. “I had nearly forgotten about them. I’ll instruct our boys to be very, very careful. And discreet. Now, where are the girls being held?”

Bohner explained the layout of the estate, and how to reach the security headquarters. “I’m pretty sure that’s where they are,” he said.

# # #

But Bohner was wrong. MA and Flag Girl were not at the security headquarters. Taggart and his men were bored with headquarters and decided it was time for rape alfresco. They forced the women to march into the woods. After a while, they came to a clearing with redwood picnic tables and benches. They started with MA. She was bent face down on one of the tables, and six men took turns fucking her from behind. Taggart himself used a different approach. He took of his thick leather belt, with its heavy brass buckle, and beat her bare ass until it was a mass of welts. Then he used the ribbed handle of a two-foot-long police baton to rape her.

Flag Girl had the cleanup detail — sucking the dicks of the men after they had fucked her mentor. Taggart made her lick the baton clean.

“All that talk about some magic wand,” said his partner, Lee, “but it seems to me that the old-fashioned ways are best. What do you think, honey?”

Flag Girl turned her tear-stained face away.

“She don’t seem very friendly,” said Taggart. He slipped the tip of the baton under her chin and forced her to raise her face to them.

“My friend here was talking to you, bitch.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I heard him.”

“Then answer, cunt,” Lee shouted. He grabbed Taggart’s baton and started beating her.

Taggart pulled him back. “Watch it. These girls are gonna make us rich. You can fuck ’em all you want, but like the Doc said, no permanent damage.”

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Lee. “But I sure would like to finish this one off. There’s something about her drives me wild.”

MA, who had been lying face-down in the grass, managed to get up onto her hands and knees. One of the men took this as a signal that she was ready for more abuse. He kicked her over, onto her side, then knelt and slid his hand into her pussy. “Hot damn,” he said. “This one’s wet again.” He turned her onto her back, spread her legs, and fucked her while gnawing on her ear.

“Control yourselves,” Taggart yelled. “You boys are going into some kind of goddam frenzy. You get carried away, and we’re not going to have anything to sell but a couple of beat-up whores.”

He was right. The men seemed to have gone berserk. They punched and kicked the two battered super heroines, then began fighting each other.

Taggart pulled out his nine-millimeter pistol and fired it twice in the air.

It got the attention of his subordinates, but not in the way he wanted. The one who had been fucking MA rolled off of her and reached for his holster, which he had placed on a bench.

Taggart shot him in the chest before he could reach his gun.

# # #

This display of leadership by intimidation — actually, by homicide — did nothing to boost morale among the remaining members of Moulton’s security force. They didn’t know, of course, that they would shortly face a far more serious threat than internal dissension.

Taggart, for all his impulsiveness, had enough sense to figure out that Bohner was probably up to no good — and that the doc had important connections back in Delta-City. Still, he didn’t expect what hit them at 2 o’clock in the morning: a full SWAT team that used a battering ram to smash into the security building, a stun grenade that left everyone, including MA and Flag Girl, dazed and temporarily deafened, and enough tear gas to leave a fair-sized town weeping uncontrollably.

Not one of Taggart’s men had enough time to squeeze off a round. Taggart himself took a load of Number Two shot in the chest and died instantly. Lee dove under a cot. He was dragged out by two cops wearing full body armor and gas masks. They dispatched him with a bullet in the back.

The other seven men in the building died similar deaths. MA, stumbling through the tear gas, found herself staring at the business end of a twelve gauge shotgun, but the officer holding it quickly called out, “Follow me.”

Flag Girl, who was in worse shape, was grabbed and thrown over the shoulder of a burly cop, who hurried outside. She was choking from the gas, and the EMT who checked her out yelled, “Get her to the chopper fast. She may not make it.”

Someone threw a blanket over MA’s shoulders. It was all she was wearing when an officer came up to her and said, “Looks like we saved your ass, hot stuff.” He pulled off his helmet. It was Sam, the blond haired cop who had set her up for the beating and rape at police headquarters what seemed like ages ago.

“Yeah, thanks,” she said in a low voice.

“Hey, guys,” said Sam. “Believe it or not, this sorry piece of shit is Ms. Americana. Yeah, the same hot-shot bitch who was always making us look bad. Only this time, she ain’t the one nailing the bad guys. Looks like they nailed her — over and over.”

MA looked around for Sam’s commanding officer. She just wanted someone to shut him up and get her out of here.

An older officer with a salt-and-pepper mustache came up to her. “I’m Captain Bacon,” he said. She sighed with relief.

Then he added, “You’re under arrest for the murder of Charles Moulton.”

# # #

Bohner entered Stepford’s office unannounced. A good-looking blonde secretary was on her knees in front of him, and he was fumbling with his zipper.

“What the hell do you mean, barging in like this?” he yelled.

“And what the hell do you mean, fucking up a multi-million-dollar deal?” Bohner yelled back.

The secretary wiped her lips, closed her blouse and hurried out.

“We had a plan,” Bohner said, lowering his voice. “Your cops were going to rush in, dispatch Moulton’s security guards, blame them for Moulton’s murder, then turn the bitches over to us. Now you’ve charged Ms. Assfuck and Flag Tits with murder. How can we auction them off when they’re in jail?”

“Money has its uses,” said Stepford, “but political power is the ultimate turn-on. Consider this: ‘Security guards turn on their employer’ — interesting, but not much of a story. But ‘Ms. Americana and Flag Girl involved in murder of billionaire’ — now that’s a story.”

He waved a copy of the Daily Democrat. Under a banner headline proclaiming Moulton’s murder was a four-column picture of MA and Flag Girl, their heads bowed, as if in shame, flanked by two of Delta-City’s finest.

“The TV has been even better. I was great — subdued but firm, announcing sadly that these two superheroines had gone bad and expressing regret we hadn’t gotten to Moulton’s estate before they and Taggart murdered him.”

“You’ll never make this stick,” Bohner said angrily.

“Of course I will. Moulton’s security guys are all dead. Except for you and this guy Tasher, there are no witnesses to contradict my story about how all this happened. And I think I can count on you two not to fuck things up, since my version leaves you in the clear.”

“You’re forgetting the two bitches. They’ll say they had nothing to do with Moulton’s death. Hell, I don’t know how the old man actually died, but I’m damned sure neither these two nor Taggart and his bunch were responsible.”

Stepford smiled. “The two bitches won’t protest their innocence. At least, Flag Girl won’t. We’ve already got a confession from her.”

Bohner appeared shaken. “What did she say?”

“Oh, it made no sense — something about creatures with human bodies and animal heads. The important thing is that she says she was involved in Moulton’s murder. In fact, she says she feels real bad about it.”

“Was her lawyer present when she said this?”

“No, and I know what you’re thinking: The confession would never be admitted in court. Well, it doesn’t have to be. I intend to win in the court of public opinion. I think the bitches are going to the pen. But if they aren’t convicted, I’ll blame the judge and legal technicalities. The important thing is that Don Stepford and his cops brought the jugs to justice. Has a nice ring, doesn’t it?”

# # #

Things didn’t get any better when Moulton’s lawyer read his will. He called Bohner with the bad news: Not a dime for the Clinic.

Not a dime for any other charity, or for Moulton’s nieces and nephews.

The whole goddam estate, $2.6 billion worth, went to Marietta Boudreaux, the sexy little housemaid who Bohner remembered serving drinks and food. Uncle Sam would get an enormous cut, of course, but the little French tart would still pocket at least a billion.

He wished he had been nicer to her while staying at Moulton’s. He tried to recall if he had ever said a pleasant word to her during the six weeks he was there. No, not a one. He had complimented her once in a comment to the old man, but she was out of earshot.

He thought about how her lace panties showed under her short black skirt when she bent over to serve Moulton his croissant. Funny, he thought, he had spent weeks looking at and abusing two beautiful women, mostly while they were naked, yet the sexiest thing he could remember was Marietta’s behind in lace panties. A strange thing, the human psyche.

A darker side of the human psyche was on display at the women’s unit of the County Corrections Center.

There, warden Hilda Heftig ran the show. She stood just over six feet tall and weighed 315 pounds. She could bench-press 280 — or break a man’s back, or a woman’s, with a single blow. Thirteen lawsuits had been filed against the corrections center because of her violent temper, but the county had managed to shell out less than half a million. The county commissioners considered this a bargain. “She makes sure the worst of them never land back on the streets,” Commissioner O’Riley boasted. “It’s rough justice, but goddamit, it works.”

Hilda was delighted to have MA and Flag Girl in her charge. At their first meeting, she was all smiles.

“I’ve heard so much about you over the years,” she said, sitting behind a desk of polished blond wood. “I never expected to meet you, especially not under these circumstances. We’ll try to make your stay here as comfortable as possible. After all, you’re being held here pending trial. It’s not as if you’ve been convicted.”

She got up with surprising agility for someone so big and put her huge arms around the women’s shoulders. “If you behave yourselves, we can all be friends,” she said. Then her face darkened, and her embrace got painfully right. “But if you fuck with me, you’ll never walk out of here. You’ll be carried out on a slab.”

“We’ll behave,” Flag Girl said in a small, frightened voice.

“Good,” Hilda said, releasing her. She turned to MA. “Do I have your word on it, too?” she asked.

“Go fuck yourself, lard-ass,” MA hissed.

Hilda’s face was expressionless, as if she were calculating a proper response. “Sam said you were a dummkopf,” she said quietly.

“Sam?”

“Yeah, my nephew, Sam Stern. He’s a cop. I think you’ve met him. He said you were a pretty good fuck.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” said MA. “At least there’s no need to wade through twenty inches of fat to get to my good parts.

Without a word, Hilda grabbed MA’s throat with one hand and her crotch with the other, raised her over her head and sent her sailing into a bookcase at the far wall of the office.

MA bounced off and collapsed on the floor, and a shower of books and plaques fell on top of her.

Hilda slammed her fist down on a buzzer on her desk. “Come get these schlampen,” she barked. The door opened and four jail matrons, all of them bigger than MA and Flag Girl, entered. “Soften them up for me,” Hilda said, as they dragged MA across the floor. “I’ll come by for a visit this evening.”

# # #

Sam was Hilda’s favorite nephew. They shared a taste for the sadistic. Hilda’s was more or less the meat-and-potatoes approach: violent outbursts, beating, kicking, banging heads against walls. Sam was more refined. He could bash in a face or kick a groin, if that’s what the situation called for. But he preferred an element of psychological abuse, as well. With MA now under Hilda’s thumb, he saw an opportunity for exquisitely cruel mischief.

# # #

After three nights of beating up the two super heroines in their cells, Hilda decided it was time for the rest of the jail staff, and a select group of inmates, to enjoy the show. Sam encouraged her. “You’ve shown the cunts who’s boss,” he said. “Now you can show everyone at the jail how you can kick the asses of two sluts who were supposed to be real tough gals. When you humiliate them in front of a crowd, everyone in that audience is going to say, ‘I will never, ever mess with Hilda Heftig. She is the baddest of the bad.’ ”

The venue for this humiliation was the gym in the women’s detention center. It wasn’t as big and well equipped as the gym in the men’s jail, and this irritated Hilda, who considered filing a federal lawsuit over the issue. In the end, she was persuaded that getting the feds involved in the operation of this corrections center could backfire.

A square wrestling mat had been placed on the concrete floor, and three inmates crouched along each side. Their job would be to grab whoever was thrown off the mat and push them back in. The rest of the audience, about 75 strong, sat in bleachers.

Hilda entered the gym wearing a silk kimono Sam had bought from a Sumo wrestler in Japan. There were scattered cheers. Then a door at the opposite end of the gym opened, and MA and Flag Girl entered, accompanied by four jail matrons. The two superheroines wore the costumes they had made famous, but the cockiness they always displayed on TV and in newspaper photos was gone. Their faces were red and puffy, and they seemed scared. The loud chorus of boos that greeted them did nothing to lift their spirits.

The matrons escorted them to the edge of the mat, then retreated.

Hilda, who had been waving to friends in the crowd, turned to face her victims. Flag Girl, thoroughly dispirited, looked down. MA tried to match the giant woman’s glare, but she, too, finally lowered her eyes.

Hilda laughed, then said, “I hope you like my outfit.”

She slowly removed her kimono. Beneath it, she wore black leather shorts and a matching leather halter.

And, around her right thigh, MA’s belt.

MA gasped. The only means of her deliverance was now attached to her executioner. It was a cruel joke. She scanned the bleachers. Yes, he was sitting there, a sadistic smile on his face. The bastard!

The clang of a bell brought her back to the situation at hand. Hilda came forward with arms spread, as if ready to scoop both MA and Flag Girl into a fatal hug. MA moved to the left, expecting Flag Girl to move in the opposite direction. But Flag Girl was frozen with fear. Hilda wrapped her arms around her, pinning her arms to her side. Then she squeezed. Flag Girl looked up at Hilda’s face, inches from hers. “Please, no,” she said as the breath was forced out of her. But Hilda kept up the pressure. Flag Girl’s face turned bright red, and her eyes rolled back. Hilda released her, but only to lift her over her head like a trophy of war, then slam her to the mat.

MA chose this moment to lunge for the belt. Hilda was expecting the move and stepped aside. The superheroine landed on the floor, the impact cushioned by her magnificent tits. But nothing cushioned Hilda’s knee, which landed in the small of MA’s back. MA gave something between a grunt and a yelp as most of Hilda’s 315 pounds smashed into her.

The huge woman grabbed two handfuls of MA’s thick black hair and pulled her head up and back. MA was bent in a way humans weren’t meant to bend, her lower body lying flat on the mat, her upper body perpendicular to the floor. The crowd loved it, and one inmate instantly tried to organize a betting pool on which would give first: MA’s hair or her spine.

Luckily for MA, her hair was the weak link. Two fistfuls of it were ripped out, causing Hilda to topple over backward. MA grabbed her head and sobbed from the pain, but she recognized that this might be her one and only opportunity to get the upper hand. She scrambled over to Hilda and grabbed the belt with one hand, while slipping the other behind Hilda’s thigh to release the buckle. Hilda struggled to sit up, but MA was too quick. The belt was hers. She rolled away from Hilda and snapped it around her waist.

When she leaped to her feet to face her mountainous foe, she did so with energy and confidence she hadn’t felt in months. Hilda reached for her, but MA stepped aside and landed a karate chop to her kidneys. Hilda staggered. A kick to the back of her right knee sent her toppling onto the mat.

The crowd was confused. There were scattered boos, but also some cheers. Hilda struggled to her feet, enraged. She charged, but MA jumped aside, and Hilda’s momentum carried her into the crowd. Inmates and matrons scrambled to get out of the way. MA was enjoying herself. After the long ordeal she had been through since losing her belt, this was a moment to be savored. She turned to scan the bleachers, looking for Sam. He was there, glaring at her. She smiled and gave him the bird.

But when she faced Hilda again, her smile disappeared.

Hilda had Flag Girl in her grip. Her left forearm across the little blonde’s throat. Her right hand was behind her head.

“If you take one step closer, I’ll break the little slut’s neck,” Hilda said.

“Let her go,” MA said. “You’re finished. The best you can do now is quit before you face a charge of Murder One.”

Hilda began pushing Flag Girl’s head forward, bending it down over her forearm. The gym fell silent.

“You’ll hear the crack,” Hilda said. “I’ve heard it many times. It’s not something you’ll ever forget — especially since it’s your friend’s neck.”

“What do you want?” MA asked.

“The belt, take if off.”

“Never. If I took it off, you’d kill her anyway, then me.”

“Perhaps. But if you don’t take it off, I will kill the little slut for sure.”

Flag Girl’s body began shaking. Even if Hilda didn’t break her neck, the grip on her was choking her to death.

MA slid her hands behind her back. “Put her down, and I’ll remove the belt,” she said.

“No,” said Hilda, “remove the belt and I’ll put her down.”

MA looked at Flag Girl, and her eyes filled with tears. She pressed the tiny button that released the buckle and let the belt fall to the floor. An inmate quickly scooped it up.

“A deal’s a deal,” Hilda said with a smile. She let Flag Girl fall to the floor and moved toward MA.

Two matrons grabbed MA from behind.

“Let her go,” Hilda ordered. “I don’t need any help. I’m going to finish off this troublesome bitch once and for all.”

MA closed her eyes and prayed. Let death come quickly, she implored. A face appeared to her, a woman’s face, radiant and beautiful. It is not yet time for you to die, the woman said. Be brave. Go and do battle with evil.

MA’s communion with this heavenly protectress was interrupted by a terrific blow to her gut. She groaned and fell to her knees. Hilda followed up with a blow to the back of MA’s neck, sending her face-forward onto the mat.

Hilda stood over her prostrate foe. “How should she die?” she called to the audience. “Stomp her,” one inmate called out. “Body-slam her,” yelled another.

Sam had left the bleachers and was now at the edge of the mat. “Sit on her face,” he shouted.

“Yes, yes, very good!” cried Hilda. She slipped one foot under MA’s belly and rolled her over, onto her back. MA’s eyes were shut and her mouth hung open. Clearly, she was finished, as far as this fight was concerned. The only question was how soon her life would be finished, too.

Hilda squatted a few inches above her face, then sat down suddenly.

“She done gone,” an inmate called out merrily. And sure enough, MA’s head, neck and upper chest had completely disappeared beneath Hilda’s huge behind.

Hilda smiled and shifted her weight several times, getting comfortable for a long stay.

Sam started counting, “One-thousand-one, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three . . . .” Others took it up. Soon everyone was counting the seconds that MA’s face had been buried under a mass of blubber.

At “one-thousand-eighty-five,” Hilda gestured to her nephew. He walked over to her and grabbed one hand. A matron grabbed the other, and they pulled with all their strength. Hilda rose slowly, like a sunken ship being pulled to the surface.

Everyone leaned forward to get the first glimpse of MA. Those who expected her face to be contorted from her futile effort to breathe were disappointed. She looked almost peaceful. Hilda was among the disappointed. She kicked MA’s body, unconvinced that she was really dead. The kick produced no reaction.

Hilda shrugged and turned to accept the congratulations of her fans. Several women stepped on MA to get to her. A matron with a digital camera decided Flag Girl and MA together, one lifeless, the other senseless, would make a great picture. Flag Girl was lifted up and dumped on top of MA.

“Say, Hilda,” called the woman with the camera. “How about a picture of the conquering hero?”

Hilda walked over, planted a big foot atop the superheroines’ bodies and flexed her biceps. She was having a wonderful time.

The celebration shifted to the far end of the gym, where refreshments were being served. MA and Flag Girl were forgotten, except by Sam, who walked over to them, sipping punch from a paper cup. “You really were a stupid cunt,” he said, looking down at MA. “Your belt was your only protection, and you gave it up — twice. And they say blondes are dumb.” He tilted the cup, poured the last of his punch on MA’s upturned face and walked away.

So no one was there to see the shudder that ran through MA’s body. No one saw her eyelids flutter. No one saw her tongue slip out and lick the drops of punch from her upper lip.

And no one saw her push Flag Girl off of her.

MA reflexively blew the stale air out of her lungs and inhaled deeply. The color returned to her cheeks. Her eyes were open now, looking up at the rafters. She was trying to remember where she was and how she got there.

The belt. That was the key. Briefly tonight, she had had the belt, and it had given her the power to confront and defeat someone more than twice her size. But she had surrendered it . . . . why? She heard a moan. She raised her head and looked to her left. Flag Girl lay next to her, hurt but alive.

That was why she had surrendered the belt. To save Flag Girl.

Slowly, painfully, MA sat up. She was weak and dizzy but determined to get up and find her belt. And if she couldn’t find it, she would resume battle with Hilda anyway. She would prevail — or die trying.

She got to her feet, but she began swaying and sank to the floor. She lay quietly for a minute, then tried again. Hands and knees. Then one knee raised and her foot planted on the floor. Then a tremendous effort to push up her body and get the other leg under her. And again the dizziness, the swaying.

But this time she didn’t fall. She stepped over Flag Girl and looked along the edge of the mat, searching for her belt. No luck. She scanned the floor in front of the bleachers. Not there either. Soon, someone would notice her, and Hilda would return to finish the job. This time the behemoth would make damned sure she killed her.

“Ms. Americana,” a soft voice called out.

MA turned, trying to prepare herself mentally for renewed battle. A young black inmate stood before her.

“I think this belongs to you,” she said, handing the belt to MA.

At that moment, Sam called out from across the room, “Hold it! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He was running toward them.

MA placed the belt around her waist, reached in back and snapped the buckle shut, just as Sam dove at her. The energy field deflected him and he skidded across the floor.

Now it was Hilda who noticed MA’s revival. Her attack was completely in character — frontal and massive. MA made a move so quick and subtle that onlookers later disagreed vehemently on precisely what she had done. The end result, though, was clear enough. Hilda soared into the air and landed on top of Sam with a mighty thud that shook the gym.

MA scooped up Flag Girl and carried her to an adjoining office. She picked up a phone and punched “0.”

“Get a medical team up to the gym right away,” she said. “I’ve got a friend who’s hurt — and your warden and her nephew aren’t in very good shape, either.”

Marietta was busy arranging calla lillies in the most commodious of the seven guest rooms in the main house of Moulton’s estate. It was to be the new nursery. She sang softly in French as she worked. Two housemaids stood ready to help, but they were mostly for companionship. While Marietta was quite content to give orders when it came to most household chores, flower arranging was something she trusted to no one but herself.

“When will the baby arrive?” asked one of the maids, a plump blonde girl of 19.

“Very, very soon. Perhaps tomorrow,” said Marietta, placing a vase full of calla lilies on a marble-topped dresser. “Mees Americana is very . . . . how do you say it?”

“Very round, Mademoiselle,” said the blonde housemaid. The three women burst into laughter.

“And very ripe,” said the second housemaid, a tall, gawky redhead. More laughter.

At that moment, MA entered the room, and beneath her loose white robe, she was, indeed, very round and very ripe. The housemaids looked embarrassed at being overheard, but MA smiled benignly. Marietta rushed up and kissed her.

“The room is so lovely,” MA said.

“But of course,” said Marietta. “Everything must be perfect for the bé bé — and for the mama, aussi.”

MA placed her hand on her bulging belly and said, “You are very kind. I wish I could help you but I . . . well, I feel like my time is coming.”

“The bé bé , he is arrive?” Marietta cried.

MA sat in a straight-backed chair next to the crib. “I think he is arrive,” she said, grimacing.

# # #

A midwife from a nearby town was called in, and as an extra precaution, Dr. Foley, the veterinarian who took care of Moulton’s livestock, was also on hand. Everyone knew, from the sonogram done in Delta-City, that this would be a difficult birth, but MA was determined to avoid the Clinic, and Marietta had graciously offered her home and hospitality.

The small infirmary in the east wing of the big house served as the delivery room. MA was in labor for over six hours. Marietta was there, standing nervously against the wall and eager to help, if called on. Flag Girl was too frightened to witness the birth. She was sure something would go horribly wrong.

In fact, it went very smoothly, once the moment came. MA had been lightly sedated but was conscious as the midwife told her to “push, that’s it, push, just a little more.”

Then the midwife bent between MA’s legs and came up with — a nine-pound, three-ounce piglet.

“It’s a boy,” she called out.

Dr. Foley looked over her shoulder. “And he’s a handsome little devil,” he said, admiringly.

Marietta, no longer able to restrain herself, rushed to MA’s side and squeezed her hand. “You were so brave,” she said.

MA smiled weakly. “Let me see my baby,” she whispered.

The midwife had wrapped the piglet in a cotton blanket. She gently lowered it into MA’s arms.

MA looked into its little, still closed eyes. “A face only a mother could love,” she said softly. Then she looked up at the others and laughed through the tears.

# # #

Donald Stepford and Hilda Heftig were indicted by the same grand jury — he for false imprisonment, perjury and obstruction of justice, she for assault and battery. Later, the feds added a civil rights charge against Hilda, who insisted she had been framed by a sexist power structure.

Stepford was convicted on all charges and sentenced to 20 years in the state pen. Hilda never stood trial. She choked to death on a piece of roast pork while in the women’s corrections unit she once had ruled with an iron hand. Her nephew Sam, who suffered six broken ribs when Hilda landed on him, was fired in a sweeping police department shakeup. He and Fred Malins opened a private detective agency — and vowed to get even one day with Ms. Americana.

Thanks to his connections with the rich and powerful, Dr. Bohner was never formally charged with a crime. MA and Flag Girl testified before the grand jury about his role in kidnapping and sexually abusing them, and the jury even saw taped sessions of him raping both women with the Magyar’s wand. But the jury foreman, a large, gregarious Irishman who ran an auto body shop, persuaded a majority of his fellow jurors that, from the look on the superheroines’ faces, it was clear that both women enjoyed every minute of their “torture.”

# # #

The wand, like everything else at Moulton’s estate, came into the possession of Marietta. She had known nothing of how it was used on MA and Flag Girl and was shocked when she discovered the videotapes. But shock wasn’t her only reaction. She had to admit to herself that she found the images, and the moans of the victims, sexually stimulating.

Later, when MA had recovered from delivering Pascal, Marietta hesitantly broached the subject of this powerful instrument of ecstatic torture.

“You know where it is?” MA asked.

“Oui. I keep it locked up.”

MA tried to control her emotions. “Can I see it?” she asked.

Marietta brought her downstairs, to the room where she and Flag Girl had suffered such terrible abuse. She opened a closet, knelt and twisted the dial of a combination lock on a small safe. Then she rose and held out the wand.

“Would you like to hold it?” she asked.

MA stiffened. “Yes. I guess I must.” She took it in her hands. It was heavy. She touched the silvery sphere at the end. There was no sensation. She looked at the base. There was a small dial with an arrow. It pointed to “off.” She turned it to level one and brushed the sphere across her forearm. It produced a pleasant tingle — and a flood of memories.

“Will you use it on me?” Marietta asked shyly. “I would like to feel what you felt . . . . at least a little.”

“Yes,” MA said. “Where would you like me to touch you?”

Marietta opened her blouse and displayed a lovely pair of breasts. “Here and here,” she said, pointing to her nipples.

It was the start of something neither of them could control. At the very first session, after having her breasts caressed by the wand, Marietta insisted on being chained to a big padded X and raped. She shrieked and squealed, all in French. MA understood only a few words, but she knew precisely what Marietta was experiencing.

Two days later, Flag Girl was invited to join, and she and Marietta teamed up to send spasms of pleasure through MA’s body.

Then it was Flag Girl’s turn, and that was the most exciting and exhausting session of all.

In the geometry of sex, there are no equilateral triangles. Consciously or unconsciously, two always pair up against one. Flag Girl was the one. Before long, only she was chained, or placed in stirrups, or bent over a table and raped. She came to expect it. And MA and Marietta came to see it as part of the natural order of things, like Pascal‘s rambunctious romps through the house. Flag Girl’s status, never very secure because of her invincible stupidity, now slipped to a level below that even of the house servants.

She became an object, something on which to vent one’s anger and frustrations, to indulge one’s lust, or simply to exercise power. Her weak brain and sensual, hyper-responsive body made her irresistible yet expendable.

She became, in short, a sex slave.

THE END