HARD TO HARD

As usual when he was home, Walt was watching the 6pm news. And as usual when it was his last evening home for awhile (tomorrow he’d be on the road again for 3 weeks in the PNW) he was looking forward to some special attention tonight. Paige always had something planned for these evenings, usually involving scented oils and special outfits that weren’t clothes. Lately she’d started introducing other things: toys like dildos and vibrators, and rope—that soft slippery kind of boat line—and leather cuffs. He wasn’t sure about a lot of that, a little too kinky for his tastes, but he was willing to give it a try if it turned her on.

His gorgeous wife was in the kitchen rattling pots and pans. Literally—making such a racket he could barely hear the TV. "Honey," he yelled, "couldja keep it down a bit?"

Silence, so sudden it echoed. She’d been in a Mood for a couple of days now: quiet and withdrawn, taking stuff way too seriously, happy then angry over nothing. It wasn’t her period and she didn’t want to talk about it anyway, so he’d been hoping she’d get over it by tonight. No such luck.

"What’s so interesting anyway?" Paige asked behind him.

He glanced back. She was in the doorway drying her hands with a dish towel.

"They’re announcing the award ceremony for Savage Fury. Only a week late."

"Oh."

The word dropped to the floor with a thud. Still that Mood, for no reason.

He patted the spot next to him on the couch. She paused, then came and sat, but didn’t relax. Even those titanic boobs of hers refused to jiggle in their enormous halter top. They just sat in her lap, spreading over her thighs like soft pink basketballs. Funny how Paige’s monstrous mammaries reflected her moods, he thought: sometimes they took a full minute to stop shimmying and shaking after she settled down, but other times they might as well have been made of plaster. And when she was really in the dumps, they sagged like bowling balls (16-pounders of course) attached to her chest.

Hoping for the best later on, he pretended not to notice her mood. "Well, you know how our mayor feels about all these superdupes, especially the women. All you have to do to end a news conference is ask about Justice Juggs or Savage Fury or Scarlet Dragon."

"He’s an uptight self-righteous asshole."

Paige never used words like ‘asshole.’ Something really had her going. But hey, if she didn’t want to talk about it he sure as hell wasn’t going to bring it up. Not after the way she’d flared at him the first time.

The evening looked less and less promising.

The mayor’s press secretary was at the podium, reading a prepared statement: "In honor of her inestimable service to the community in rescuing Jonathan Hard, one of this city’s great benefactors, and bringing to justice the entire Chain Gang, Savage Fury will receive the city’s highest commendation tomorrow at noon, on the steps of City Hall."

There was a flurry of questions from the gathered new media, all of which he pointedly ignored as he turned on his heel and left.

Walt snorted. "Gracious, it wasn’t."

Then Jonathan Hard himself stepped to the mike. Dressed to the nineties as usual, urbane and debonair, not a hair out of place or even sweating in the 90+ heat. The kind of guy Cary Grant played in the movies. Walt had to admire his style, and said so.

"I hear he’s the real reason for this—he told the mayor ‘no award, no bucks next election.’" Paige didn’t react. "Not to mention the way he’s been a one-man press corps for Savage Fury for the last week. Kinda makes you wonder if they’ve got something going on the side."

Paige squeezed his hand so tight he winced.

"I dunno, though—his wife Jennifer’s a stone fox too."

He looked over at his big gorgeous wife. She was staring off into space, face in shadow so all he could see were pearly teeth chewing her heavy lower lip. He almost asked her about it again, but caught himself.

"Y’know," he said, in one last desperate try at conversation (it really bothered him that she wouldn’t open up, and disturbed him to see her so pensive), "I’m kinda sorry I’ll be out of town tomorrow, I’d like to see that ceremony."

"Why?" she asked, almost snapped. "So you can ogle Savage Fury?"

He just smiled at her. "Now why would I do that when I have you to ogle?"

Could that be it? Could she be jealous of Savage Fury for some reason? Didn’t make sense, but who could figure women?

Paige stood suddenly and announced, "I’m going to bed."

Her flat leaden tone made Walt bite back a sharp pang of disappointment. He kept his mouth shut and eyes glued on the TV screen.

He heard her walk to the hallway, then pause.

He glanced back at her—and gaped. His placid gentle Amazonian wife stood there with an expression on her sweet face so hard and bitter that he wouldn’t have recognized her. He’d considered waiting a bit then following her into the bedroom, but gave that notion up on the spot.

And he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to know what was behind that look.

A couple of hours (and several beers) later, Walt had all but convinced himself that he hadn’t seen what he thought he had, that it had been a trick of the light. Sooo, after one more beer to make sure, he got up and crept down the hall to the bedroom.

The room was dark, Paige a shadowy sheet-covered form on the bed. She lay on her back as usual, head hidden by what looked in the darkness like a pair of pumpkins lolling about on her chest. They sagged massively to her sides, immense doughy hulks that all but buried her upper arms. In summer she was always getting heat rash above the elbows because of those sweaty milkbags.

Walt loved to watch his gorgeous wife asleep—sometimes he’d wake up in the middle of the night just to do that, and play with her boobs making her moan in her sleep. When she moved they’d roll around her chest like fuckin’ boulders of blubber, until she woke up and pulled him on top of her and they’d make love like crazed minks.

Paige groaned, and squirmed under the sheet. Her titanic tits sloshed like watermelons of jello.

Walt always wondered what amazing erotic dreams she had that made her so passionate. He wondered if he was in them.

Like always, she tries. Like always, she fails. The only escape is out the other end, after it’s over.

The only difference from dream to dream is where they begin. This one: in the middle, after the Chain Gang has picked up the ransom and Savage Fury has followed them to the boarded-up union hall where they’re holding their hostage, millionaire socialite Jonathan Hard ….

You’re in a playful mood, so for now you let them think they have you. Despite the Chain Gang’s heavily padded armor and helmets, and their lashing chains, you’ve efficiently and mercilessly beaten their numbers down to a mere half dozen. The rest lie about the large dark hall amidst their smashed and crumpled armor in various positions of bruised and bloodied repose.

You’ve been knocking these creeps around for an hour and you’re tired, but the adrenaline roars in your veins. You’re enjoying this chance to toy with the rest before you finish them off.

This time you’re going to teach these creeps what it means to dance with Savage Fury!

So when chains lash out you let them take you by your gloved wrists and haul you forward into a pillar with a grunt, gigantic soft tits spreading out to both sides of the column like pumpkins of pink flan being fucked by an enormous erect concrete cock. Your shoulder-sheathed arms are jerked around to embrace the pillar then the Gangers, racing about on in-line skates, start circling you in opposite directions. In just a few moments, they’ve wound the heavy chains around and around your scantclad awesomely overblown body till you and the column are cocooned in steel links.

Not worried, in fact amused, you take the moment to catch your breath and check on the hostage. Jonathan Hard sits in a corner tied to a chair. He’s okay so far—in fact watching the battle closely—but when you focus your super-eyes on his watch, you see it’s almost time to get home and fix dinner for Walt. Which makes it time to unwrap yourself and wrap up these creeps!

Chains lash your lavish bare buttcheeks and you let out an embarrassed squeak, but your struggles only rattle the links swathing you from titanic tits to boot-sheathed knees. The over-confident Gangers laugh and move in—which is exactly what you want them to do.

Like a hungry lioness watching jackals approach, you try not to appear too eager but can’t help a small smile. You’re going to show off a bit for Jonathan Hard, maybe it’ll make him extra-generous with a reward. Lord knows, you don’t do this for money (sometimes it’s hard to tell exactly why you do it), but being a superheroine is an expensive hobby and a few extra bucks always help.

Then they start to touch and stroke you, fondle your gargantuan boobs and give your meaty bare butt a few slaps, and the smile goes.

"Dibs on ‘er bazongas!"

"I get this fat shakin’ ass!"

"Hey, you had her up the ass last time! It’s my turn!"

You struggle in earnest with the chains. They’re much stronger than you expected. "You—you—motherfffllghhh!!"

"Shaddap, Supertits." Filthy underpants are stuffed into your luscious mouth till your cheeks bulge out. You gag on the piss that soaks them.

"Mmmpff! Gglpff!!" Outraged, you shake your cowled head about and strain at the chains hugging you to the pillar.

"All right all right, I’ll start with her mouth again—but I get her ass second!"

The lead Ganger plays to their hostage audience. "C’mon guys, we draw straws like usual to see who gets Savage Fury’s tits, who gets up her ass, who gets into her snatch. Like always, everyone else just has to fight over her mouth. The rest are shit out of luck till sloppy seconds and thirds. Maybe we’ll even let our guest have a piece of her."

He grins under his helmet. "Believe it, Mr. Zillionaire: fucking this overblown superbitch is worth the ransom all by itself—‘Savage’ Fury’s one of the reasons we stay in the biz, right guys?"

"Hey, don’t forget Justice Juggs and the rest."

"I said ‘one’ of the reasons."

Now they’re all playing to Jonathan Hard. And you hate it. "Yeah, but you know how gooshy and squishy her fuckhole gets after an hour or so of ballin’. She cums so much it’s like stickin’ yer dick into a swamp!"

"And this time let’s leave the gag in—I get so tired of all that yelpin’ and squealin’ when 2 or 3 of us are doin’ her at once."

"Hey, she won’t be makin’ no noise nohow with what I’m gonna stick in ‘er mouth! I’m gonna fuck her all the way to her goddam appendix and drown her with my wad!"

Mock resignation: "He always says that …."

Helpless and thoroughly humiliated in front of the man you were supposed to be rescuing, you can’t help blushing furiously at their casual chatter (it doesn’t help that it’s mostly true). Jonathan Hard just stares. Grunting audibly now into the foul urine-soaked gag, you work harder at the chains cocooning your awesomely voluptuous super-body. But they swathe you so tightly they barely rattle.

The Gang leader tsks. "Now, is that polite? We go to all the trouble of having these chains specially forged, just for her, and she’s tryin’ to break ‘em!"

Another pipes up: "Well c’mon, have some empathy—how would you feel if you was bein’ mortified in front of the guy you’re s’posed to rescue?"

"Looks like Supertits here needs the rescuin’!"

"AGAIN!!" Much coarse laughter.

As you strain grimly at the bonds and fight back tears of helpless rage, an opaque helmet with a grinning mouth beneath shoves right up to your sweating beet-red masked face. Rough fingers pinch the stiff thumb-sized teats of the stupendous milkblimps ballooning around the column. "Naw, what she needs is a big hard dick."

"Six big hard dicks."

"Like always!"

And out they pop from the armor: rampant and ready as always. The smallest the size of a banana. Happens every darned time—you keep having to remind yourself that one of the reasons you wear (well, sort of) this silly excuse for a costume is that it’s so much easier to beat up crooks when they’re hampered by big crotch-bulging hard-ons. Those third arms really get in their way—almost as much as these gigantic tits always get in yours. Trouble is, all too often they get in your way too, and other places as well.

Warm breath in your ear, as a callused hand caresses a bulging bare asscheek: "And you can keep on strugglin’ all you like, Mighty Cow—we tested these chains between a pair of 18-wheelers, and they couldn’t pull one of ‘em apart!"

"Awww, we’re makin’ her cry!"

Your tears of rage and effort finally spill out from under your mask. Teeth clenched around the loathsome mouth-filling rag (squeezing out piss to dribble down your throat), you strain at the impossibly strong chains, till sweat and trim super-powerful muscle pop out all over the vast stretches of smooth creamy skin left bare by your micro-costume. Bad enough being humiliated and degraded in private, but to be bound and gagged and groped and mortified before an audience—!

And to top the humiliation off: you’re at full strength—a little tired but you haven’t been soaked or gassed or anything!

Wearing a single big nasty grin under their helmets, the Chain Gang moves in. You aren’t quite preoccupied enough with your bonds to suppress a whimper of fear—just a small one—into the awful-tasting rag.

The roar of laughter makes you realize miserably that those words came out as a very audible wail of protest.

Two of the scumbags go to work on your gargantuan tits, ease their tautly and barely restraining straps aside to knead and squash the watermelon-sized hulks against the column between, then lean down to take the big stiff nipples in their teeth and bite—hard. Masked eyes squeezing shut, you groan helplessly around the vile mouth-filling underpants.

A hand worms its way between your hip-booted thighs through two coils of the chain to grope your pussy, already swollen and wet with battle-lust. A finger insinuates itself into that creaming snatch, making you stiffen with a gagged moan and writhe against the column.

"See, Mr. Zillionaire? She loves it!"

Every sinew burns, every muscle bulging around the wire-taut bonds aches. But they won’t give, they won’t give ….

Suddenly the massive stone column, cold between your gargantuan globes and against your gut, cracks in your armgloved embrace.

Feeling like Samson, you push against the support, feel it give a bit. Super-Stupe, you could’ve snapped this thing easily if you hadn’t wasted so much of your strength "playing" with these scumbags!

Then, from behind: "Fuck this touchy-feely shit, I’m goin’ for the gold!"

Hands yank apart the chains encircling your lavish naked cheeks

and what feels like a baseball bat slams up your puckered asshole!

You throw your cowled head back and scream into the filthy gag, then grunt shrilly like an Amazonian pig as that humongous baton proceeds to give you the buttfucking of the week—no, the month! It hauls out and plunges in again and again, each powering thrust wringing a humiliated squeal from your drooling rag-stuffed mouth and blowing fire up your gapingly distended anus!

The scumbag audience cheers and applauds raucously.

You howl and squeal into the cheek-bulging underpants, and give one final frenzied heave with every last ounce of hysterical strength left in you

and the 2-foot-thick column snaps like a breadstick in your embrace!

"Jeez—!"

"The roof!!"

Which comes crashing down in an avalanche of concrete blocks and clouds of plaster, burying both you and the Chain Gang. The upper half of the column topples across your broad bare back slamming you to the floor beneath it and a falling hunk of concrete the size of a microwave rings your belfry but good.

And then silence, like after a bomb explosion. Dazed, pinned under the column with the pillows of your monstrous soft mammaries cushioning your face, you just listen to it for a moment. Then rouse yourself, shake your cowled head, pull the befouled underpants from your mouth (coughing up a few drops of yucky piss), brace your leather-sheathed arms under you

and really have to heave and grunt to do even a single push-up and roll that obelisk off your back!

Then the massive column pins your thighbooted legs, so you have to struggle and strain some more to drag yourself out from under it.

You stagger to your feet, balanced precariously on spikeheels, so weak and exhausted you stumble and almost fall again. The big room, now much bigger, is filled with rubble and dust, pierced by bright shafts of light from windows in what had been the floor above but is now a loft. Parts of the Chain Gang are visible underneath the debris. A few moan. All are unconscious, saved by their armor from being crushed.

Too bad.

Way more importantly: Jonathan Hard is unharmed. You follow the sound of coughing through the dust to where the chair he’s tied to lies on its side. With a grunt of effort, you haul him upright again, "accidentally" shoving your double dirigibles into his face. You smile tiredly at the way his eyes bulge. He’s always so suave and debonair in public that it’s kind of fun to see him lose his cool over a pair of naked pumpkin-sized breasts like yours.

"My God, they’re huge!" He swallows and coughs some more while, too weak to just tear his ropes off, you untie him.

"And they really get in the way sometimes." You help him up but he stumbles against you and you both stagger back against a wall. Your colossal milkbags mash against his chest and balloon up into his dirty face. His tux’s shirtfront tickles your hard bare nipples.

"Oops, better cover up." A teasing wink. "Won’t take a moment."

Straightening, you stretch the costume’s straps out over your gigantic jugs, carefully centering them over the big nipples—though of course the dark silver dollar-sized aureolae still swell out on both sides of the narrow thongs.

"Savage Fury, are you all right?" he asks, voice full of concern. Even covered in dust, he’s way more handsome in person than on "E News Daily" or the newscasts. And that deep velvety voice of his—not to mention an impressive erection tenting out his crotch—does things to your pussy that you wouldn’t have thought possible so soon after being bound, humiliated and cruelly buggered.

Too bad Jonathan is happily married to the gorgeous and sexy Jennifer Hard. You flick a leatherclad hand and reply airily, "Oh, trashed thrashed and crashed, but I’ll be okay in an hour or so."

"I mean, if any of the others had regained consciousness—"

"—Then we’d be in deep shit. But when Savage Fury puts ‘em down, they stay down."

With a casual glance downward at his groin: and when Savage Fury gets ‘em up, they stay up!

You manage a reassuring smile and allow yourself to sag in exhaustion. "Right now, to be honest, I couldn’t outwrestle a chipmunk."

"As for these scumbags—"

You pick your spikeheeled way through the piles of rubble to the stump of the pillar, and gather up the chains. You hear him follow, and prepare to decline any offers to help bind the Chain Gang—you are the super-professional here, after all.

Then you glimpse his shadow behind you, and it looks like he’s holding the chair over his head.

And you’ve only begun to raise one shoulder-gloved arm and turn when the chair comes smashing down across your broad shoulders and cowled skull! You stagger back with an astonished cry, trip over some rubble and go down ker-plump! on your big bare reamed ass.

To sit there stunned—in more ways than one—goggling in numb disbelief as the man you just rescued from the most vicious gang in the city comes toward you, reaching out.

You get your leather-sheathed arms beneath you to struggle up but his fashionable wingtip slams into the side of your cowled head ("UGHH!!") rolling you onto your side. You glance back at him in total shock.

"What are—Mr. Hard, Jonathan, what’s—no, please!"

Frantic now, awash in confusion and pain, bells ringing in your skull, you crawl away from him. Try to drag your aching awesomely overblown body across the rubble-littered floor but it feels like you have a battleship strapped to your back! Each of your pendent blubber-boulders weighs tons and your eyes won’t focus.

The millionaire follows you like some implacable monster in a nightmare. He waits until you try to get up again then fits an exquisitely-shod foot between your lavish quaking buttocks and pushes hard, sends you reeling forward pell-mell to crash head first into another stone pillar ("unhhh!!"). You slide to the floor with your shoulder-gloved arms thrown about it, hugging it like a refuge.

Which it isn’t. When he takes a fistful of your crimson ponytail and hauls you up, all you can do is flap your leather-sheathed limbs and squawk like a parrot. He blasts a rabbit punch to the small of your muscular back stiffening you with a grunt, then hurls you against the column again, cracking your leathern skull and bouncing back to sprawl at his feet.

Staring up at him through tear-bleary domino’d eyes.

The first thing you notice from this angle is that he’s living up to his name and then some.

The second thing is his big white perfectly-capped grin when he bends down to clutch your massive soft mammaries. Your gorgeous face twists and gloved hands grasp his wrists without strength as those brutal fingers sink knuckle-deep in all that burgeoning megamelony milkfat.

"What do you know?" he marvels. "They are all real! Didn’t think it was possible."

He lifts you by your ponderous pontoons, stretching them stupendously and wringing a long shrill squeal from you.

"Always liked big tits," Jonathan Hard remarks as, holding you by a gigantic agonized jug, he casually slaps your sweaty masked face back and forth. "But these are light-years beyond ‘big’!"

You bring up an armgloved fist but he clenches his fist till it all but disappears in your titanic resilient boob ("ggggGGhh!!") and slams his knee up into your tender gaping twat. Drives your pussy into your stomach (at least that’s what it feels like) making you scream breathily. Your thighbooted legs go limp and you drop to your knees before him. The tautly tented crotch of his tailored double-knit slacks is right in your battered face.

"This is what we like," he chuckles, "an arrogant elephant-uddered superpig kneeling before us, ready for action."

"P-please," you whimper up at him, licking your swollen lips. "Why are you—"

"Doing this?" He takes your cowled head and slams it onto his kneecap ("UGHH!!"). "Don’t disappoint me by being naïve after all, Fury."

He knee-blasts your masked face again ("OOOFF!!").

"I’m not made of stone—except in part." He chuckles. "Dressed like you are—undressed is more like it, and most spectacularly—a man would have to be a gelding to watch you flaunt your overblown charms and not get totally turned on: all that fighting and kicking and shaking these monstrous tits and this outrageous ass then letting yourself get chained and buttfucked. A magnificent show! That crook was right—your performance is worth the ransom. But it’s far from over.

"That was just the Prologue to Act One."

He takes your cowled head in both hands. "You see, I’m no gelding."

And rubs your face into the strainingly erect proof. "Nooommppffff!!"

"Oh yes, please beg, that’ll be the frosting on the cake!"

You can tell that by the way his big cock hardens against your nose as you protest into his crotch.

But you manage to push him back—not nearly as far back as you'd like (say, the moon). Your arms are like noodles encased in concrete gloves and your eyes keep blurring. He backs up a few steps, watches you climb painfully to your feet to sway unsteadily on their 5-inch spikes.

"I—I should’ve let them k-keep you," you stammer, wiping a leather-sheathed forearm across your drooling mouth.

He nods happily. "Believe me, I’m glad you didn’t. Being rescued by one of the male super-types would’ve been so boring."

You lunge at him with a cry of rage, swinging an armgloved fist able to punch through concrete. He sidesteps nimbly and, as you stumble past off-balance, buries a short hook in your gut. You double over around that fist whoffffing a blast of breath and spittle, teary eyes bulging from their mask.

But instead of following though, he dances away. Goes into an parody of a boxer’s stance, dukes up and chin back. "Fisticuffs! A wonderful idea!"

He prances towards you like a 19^th century bare-knuckle brawler. A faint voice tells you to get the hell out of there, but you tell it to shut up—you’re Savage Fury and you don’t run from a fight, especially with a

"Sick, perverted sonuvabUGH-OOOH!" Your cowled head jerks back twice at a quick pair of vicious jabs to your lush lips.

"What does it take to make you bleed?" he demands.

When, dazed, you’re slow to back away, he rifles a brutal fist wrist deep into a massive jello-pumpkin and dances away from a clumsy grunting return, then blasts your jaw left, right, then left again ("OOH-UGH-ULKK!!") with a lightning combo that explodes stars in your eyes.

"You’re a disappointment, Fury," he says sadly. "Obviously, without strength you’re just an overblown Amazonian bimbo who can’t fight worth beans."

The regret and smugness in the millionaire’s voice enrages you even further. With a growl, you charge him blindly! Only to have him take you by your mountainously vulnerable tits and fall onto his back as he brings up an expensively-shod foot, jams it into your gut,

and throws you over him in a wailing arc, your astonished scream cut off when you smash cowled-head-first into a wall

rendering all questions of returning strength instantly, and darkly, academic.

But you aren’t totally unconscious. You can dimly feel what’s going on outside your personal black realm. Your leather-sheathed arms are jerked together across your broad bare back, then those darned chains wound tightly around their forearms and noosed about your neck. When you are taken by the ponytail and dragged on your belly across the rubble-strewn floor, you feel every sharp piece of rubble—broken glass, wood splinters, concrete—that digs into the gigantic soft jugs spreading vastly beneath you.

You decide to rest here for awhile, until you hear him turn on a faucet and fill a bucket or something with water. Then you struggle frantically to consciousness.

You moan and manage to rock about on the floor, onto your back.

You feel your massive doughy chest boulders flop heavily around your ribcage.

Your fleshy jiggling struggles work. The faucet is turned off and the bucket put down. Footsteps approach.

A foot kicks your cowled head rolling you over onto your side with a yelp. "Open your eyes, bitch."

When they focus, it’s on those high-priced shoes of his standing a few inches away from your bloodied masked face. You don’t know the label—you don’t shop in that part of town let alone those stores.

"Nice shoes, aren’t they?" Tired of that big mocking grin of his, you don’t look up.

When you don’t answer right away, he boots your head again and you grunt. More blood in your mouth. It almost disguises the foul taste of the piss from the underpants the Chain Gang used to gag you.

"See how dirty they are?"

You just lie there. The toe of his shoe turns your head to stare up at him, masked eyes shiny with tears.

"Are we going to be stubborn? Or just naïve again. By now you know the punishment for naïveté."

Your immense shimmying boobs lie one atop the other like half inflated beachballs. He steps down on a hard thumb-sized teat, grinds that rubbery dowel beneath his heel. Your face twists behind its mask ("ngggggg!").

"See how dirty?" he prompts.

Tasting bile, you nod miserably.

He steps off your sore swollen nipple and waits. You test the chains binding your gloved forearms—still unbreakable. And what’s worse: the way they’re wrapped around your neck tightens the noose, choking you.

He notices your gasp. "I am an inveterate bet-hedger, Fury. Those chains may not in fact be unbreakable, but believe me you’ll have strangled yourself long before they snap."

After a moment, you wriggle on your side over to him, like some awesomely voluptuous eel. Careful not to pull on those chains.

"In the Marines, they call this a spit shine."

You stick your tongue out and, grimacing, give the toe of his right shoe a tentative lick. When he doesn’t move, you squirm ultra-fleshily forward and, stifling a sob, lave the side, then the heel. You taste dirt. Small sharp shards of concrete dig into your naked side and muscular flanks.

"Wouldn’t you rather I did this on my knees?" you ask.

He stomps his saliva-smeared shoe down onto the back of your leathern head, grinds your masked face into the ground till you wonder if your nose is broken.

His voice is gently reproving. "No one gave you permission to speak, cow."

Sniffling, you go back to humbly licking his shoes. You lap at the right one, then the left, till your mouth is filled with dust and you gag on the dirt and humiliation.

Finally, when he’s satisfied with your degrading tongue work, he takes your ponytail and pulls you groaning onto your thighbooted knees. You choke when your chainbound arms jerk the noose about your throat tight.

And there It is again, tenting his crotch enormously now. "He wants to join the party," Jonathan Hard points out, unnecessarily.

You shake your cowled head. "N-no, no way, I—I won’t—UNH!! OOO!!"

As by your crimson topknot he slams your face onto his knee, and again. "Not unless spoken to, I thought I’d made that clear."

He releases your hair and your leathern head slumps forward. Masked eyes closed, you wait to hear the zipper sliiide down but nothing happens. You open your eyes—just a crack—to see his gleamingly clean shoe tapping impatiently.

"Well-ll?" he demands. But makes no move to his hugely-tented zipper. It just bobs there in your face like a bowsprit.

You lick your lips. He smiles approvingly.

"C’mon, Fury, just for once use your ingenuity instead of your tits!"

You choke back a sob but a tear trickles down your filthy cheek as you lean forward and take his zipper tab in your teeth.

"Very good!"

Slowly, you pull it down. Pubic hair tickles your nose and the tiny tongue slips free and, hastily, you bite it again. Cringing, you have to nudge his awesome erection to one side with your cheek so you can get the zipper all the way down.

A curving baton that leaps out and slaps you across the chops. You jerk back with a sharp squeak of surprise. And stare in horror at the great rhino horn projecting from the open zipper.

"Rufus, I want you to meet the famous, the superheroic, the one-and-only Savage Fury. You’re going to be best friends, very soon."

He tilts your cowled head up by your drool-slathered chin. "Rufus means ‘redhead.’"

You swallow, run your tongue over opulent smashed lips. "Ah, now we’re on the same page! If half of what I’ve heard is true, this is far from the first of these you’ve met on similar terms."

It’s the first you’ve seen with its glans pierced by a pair of diamond studs!

From somewhere deep, you dredge up feeble defiance. "You—you bastard, if you th-think I’m going to—to suucKKLLLGGHH--!"

Steadying your cowled head with both hands, he makes the point moot by ramming his huge dick all the way home in one brutal stroke, stretching your plush mouth so wide its lips all but disappear. You stare in cross-eyed shock and gag on the immense veined slab of rigid gristle, its balls nestling against your chin.

He stares too. "Even my wife can’t do what you just did, Fury. Are you a sword swallower in your secret identity?"

You just kneel there, mouth crammed full of colossal cock, and breathe loudly through your nose. The studs tickle the back of your throat—the way far back. It feels like they’re in your stomach. More tears leak down from beneath your mask.

"Oh, don’t—" Jonathan Hard chuckles. "I almost said ‘don’t take it so hard’."

But you do, as usual.

That’s when the sirens fade in from the distance.

The millionaire frowns. "I hate to rush things. Like the movie said, ‘Never a quickie with you, always a longie.’" Thoughtfully: "But I certainly can’t face the press with an erection like this, understandable though it would be. So …."

Hurriedly now, he starts to pump his mammoth member into your taut-stretched mouth, so hard it bangs your head against a pillar behind you. ("unh—guh—uhff—glgg—kukkh!!")

Your shoulder-sheathed arms are so tightly chained they can’t help but pull on the noose, strangling you as the handsome creep fucks your beautiful face and slams your skull back into the column ("OOOF—NNG—UMPF—GUGH!!")

The cowl’s snug leather provides no padding at all. Pretty soon the gyrating world fades, lit with by-now-familiar stars as your consciousness is battered and choked and mouth-fucked away.

And then he adds the gushing coup de grace, drowning what’s left of your awareness in a river of cum that pours down your throat and spouts out of your raw reamed lips and all over you.

Two silly thoughts follow you sputtering and gagging down into the darkness:

Paige awoke in bed, so disoriented that for a moment she wasn’t sure if that had been the dream or this was. The room was dark and she’d sweated through the sheet again; it clung like wet tissue to her gigantic jugs. She smelled her perspiration and felt her trembling and knew this was real.

Walt was asleep next to her. She enjoyed watching him sleep. Despite the bushy mustache and bald spot on top, he looked like an innocent young boy—which was what he was, in so many ways.

He looked so sweet and trusting, and because she was sorry for the way she’d snapped at him tonight, and because he was leaving tomorrow morning

(and to pull herself out of the megrims)

Paige gently, carefully climbed astride him and dangled her monstrous mammaries in his sleeping face, juust brushing his cheek with her big hard nipples. Then poked each hard thumb-sized teat into his lips as breathing pushed them in and out, then his eyes, barely touching ….

As usual, he awoke from the bottom up. She felt his cock stir against her already-wet and swollen pussy, then his nipples hardened along with it, his lips smiled soft and dreamy, and last of all his eyes opened and widened

and so did she.

When it was over they cuddled for awhile till he fell asleep again. Walt was a gentle and considerate lover and a world-class cuddler. That was one of the big reasons she’d gone with him over all the macho studs who’d panted after her at the company where they’d worked and met. A lot of them had fucked her brains clear out of this galaxy, but none could cuddle like Walt.

It hadn’t been as good as she’d wanted for his last night home. She just couldn’t go down on him, no matter how much she tried. He had a wonderful cock—not as big as some (especially the super-villains she tended to run into) but he knew how to use it in her. Tonight, however, the thought of putting any man’s meat in her mouth just made her cringe. He hid his disappointment well and so she managed to get him up a third time and took the initiative, held him on the edge for a long time before tumbling them both over.

But, hard as she had worked, no sleep followed for her.

When his breathing regularized and the scent of their mingled sweat and cum filled her nostrils, she sat there propped up against the pillows in the darkness and hugged her knees to her gleaming chest-pumpkins and shivered.

The first thing Savage Fury had seen when she came to and felt her full strength back again and the chains gone was Jonathan Hard’s grinning face. He was standing not far from her—not nearly far enough.

She surged to her thighbooted feet with a cry, ready to tear his handsome head off! Then froze, seeing for the first time all the smiling cops around them. In the background, the Chain Gang was being carried out on a line of stretchers.

The Cowled Crusader blinked in confusion as the cops surrounded her, as usual ogling her massive near-naked milkbags and (definitely not as usual) showering her with enthusiastic congratulations on a job well done!!

Usually, they just ogled and played with their bulging crotches and made sniggering remarks.

Her confusion quickly became astonishment. Jonathan Hard, it seemed, had been going on and on and on about how valiantly she’d battled and beaten the Chain Gang. "This gorgeous and gallant Amazon even kept the last one from killing me, then managed to free me before succumbing to the effects of the beating she’d selflessly endured on my behalf."

Which made it sound like the Chain Gang had spent most of the time knocking her around, instead of vice-versa. But he was so obviously pleased at her rescue that there wasn’t a thing she could say in reply (at least he didn’t mention the chains and ass-rape). She had to stand there and take the praise of the cops, and a few minutes later all the reporters with their manically-flashing cameras.

While Jonathan Hard stood there and beamed and beamed, his eyes a-twinkle with merry mischief that only she picked up on—and somehow Fury had the feeling that was the point: it was a secret between them. Until, of course, the reporters pushed them together, made her put her shoulder-gloved arm around his waist, all but suggested he heft one of her humongous boobs. The camera flashes went wild, blinding her and dazzling everyone else.

So no one saw the hand he casually slipped down behind them while they posed and smiled, to stroke her great naked asscheek and run a finger into the deep crevice between those soft gleaming bastions.

Like a damned pet! She remembered. And there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it in front of all those reporters and police!

Keeping her masked face carefully composed (her smile felt stitched in place) Fury glanced sideways and down at him—he was about 3 inches shorter than she in her 5-inch heels. Into wide jovial eyes that watched her and appraised her as the humiliating hand familiarized itself with every sleek bursting contour of her full-blown ass, and she just stood there tasting his cum and smiled and smiled.

For the cameras.

And raged inwardly, wanted to tear him and his smug superior grin to pieces!!

But took it.

Even the finger that probed ever-so-slightly up her still-sore anus, just to the first knuckle ….

Even the parting still-discreet cheek slap when it was time to go. Not a hard one. Nowhere near as hard as some of the butt-poundings she’d received, stretched over the laps of her scumbag foes, reduced to bawling like a baby while they spanked her outsized buns and she kicked thighbooted legs (and even now, in the safety of her own bedroom, blushed furiously at the memory). It was just a playful indulgent smack—that, a full week later, still burned on her big ass like a brand (and you sure know how that feels!).

A very full totally crazy week later. The kidnapping and rescue made banner headlines in all the LA papers and was the lead in all the local newscasts. Dan Rather and Peter Jennings even led off the national news with it. A week in which Jonathan Hard was everywhere, doing interviews and sound bites and film clips, on Regis & Kathie Lee and Good Morning America and Leno and Rosie O’Donnell (tho not Oprah, her favorite), tirelessly proclaiming Savage Fury’s bravery and heroism everywhere.

The award was even his idea, and when the mayor (a rigid conservative, notoriously anti-heroine) balked, Hard used every form of pressure to maneuver him into going along. When you’re as rich as Jonathan Hard, that’s a lot of pressure. The mayor still resisted but the rising tide of public acclamation and one long private meeting with one very insistent multi-multi-millionaire backed him into a corner.

-2-

"And now this stupid ceremony!" Savage Fury groused to Justice Juggs and Scarlet Dragon the next day. They were gathered in Silk Stalker’s office, their unofficial HQ even when Raven O’Rourke was out of town, as now.

"Which, by the way, we’ll be late for if we don’t get a move on," Scarlet Dragon remarked with a glance at her watch.

The Oriental bombshell stood up and stretched her long spectacular body in its leather straps and netting. The gigantic breasts that threatened to crowd one another off her slender awesomely overloaded ribcage quivered in expectation.

"Better never than late," Fury muttered. She sounded childishly petulant, even to herself.

From where she sat perched magnificently on the corner of Silk’s big scarred desk, cowgirl hat cocked back on her leonine blonde mane and a muscular booted leg artfully dangling (giving Fury a glimpse of golden bush up her fringed microskirt), Justice drawled, "Darlin’, you still haven’t told us what the problem here is. This’s the best thing that’s happened to us supergirls in, well, ever."

Dragon stood. "Yeah, Red, what’s with you, anyway? For the first time since I got started in this business people are looking at me with respect instead of just ogling my tits and ass. You’re a real authentic super-hero, we all are thanks to you, and now you wanna screw it up!"

The Cowled Crusader turned appealing eyes to Justice Juggs, who just shrugged. At that point she almost told them what had really happened a week ago. But she was still too embarrassed. And besides, would it change the fact that they were right? Supergirls did have status now that they never had before, and all because of that scumbag Jonathan Hard and his lies.

That was wrong. She wasn’t sure how exactly, but it was wrong.

What she also couldn’t figure out was what he was up to. Despite all the hype in the last week he’d made no attempt at all to contact her.

But she remembered his big merry grin beaming down at her as he pumped his mammoth dick into her mouth … the taste of his cum gushing down her throat … and especially his discreet but knowing hand on her big ass as he proclaimed her bravery to the press, poking her aching asshole, stroking the lavish resilient cheek in such a horribly familiar, insinuating way ….

She clenched her gloved fist.

"Say, darlin’," Justice suddenly spoke up. "Are you maybe feelin’ a mite, well, shy? I mean, about wearin’ that costume out in public and all?"

Fury tried to make it look good, but she was glad the blinds were drawn and the light dim. "I—I guess that’s it."

Dragon threw up her gloved hands in disbelief. "Give me a break!" The spikeheels of her boots rapped loudly as she went to the window and parted the blinds to peer out.

Justice strode over to the Cowled Crusader and put a gauntleted arm around her wide shoulders with a reassuring smile. "Shoot, Red, we’ve all felt like that!"

"Speak for yourself," Scarlet Dragon said. "I wear what I wear. People don’t like it, they can lump it. Or I’ll do it for ‘em."

Justice ignored her. "It’s nothin’ to be ashamed of, especially with a body like yours!" Her floppy-gloved hand gave one of Fury’s titanic strapped tits a sisterly squeeze. "Why, it’d be purely a crime to cover these big ol’ beauties up. And we’re crime fighters, right?"

"I guess we are." Savage Fury allowed herself a relieved smile.

The Cowled Crusader hated lying to the women who were her closest friends in this weird other life of hers—but then, it wasn’t a complete lie. She did have more than a qualm about parading these ponderous heaving pontoons of hers around naked in broad public daylight—not to mention the outrageously overblown and underclad rest of her. At night, fighting crime, it was different somehow.

Justice went to the closet. "Silk lets me keep this here for public appearances."

Smiling, she patted her burstingly butt-filled microskirt and the vest that barely contained her own swaying set of gargantuan milkbags. "I don’t have a lot of pockets."

"Who does?" Dragon rejoined the party as Justice disappeared into the closet. "Sorry about the attitude, Red. I just—it’s nice to have people treat me like a person for once, instead of an overgrown set of tits and ass that takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’. Y’know?"

Fury nodded. She knew how that felt too.

Justice came out of the closet carrying a floor-length blue cloak spangled with golden stars. "All you have to do now is hope it ain’t windy."

The Cowled Crusader took the gaudy garment and swung it over her broad bare shoulders. It tied in front at the throat and, by holding the hem, she could cover about 90% of the 90% of her that was uncovered. She liked it, even if it only solved the way-lesser of her two problems.

Savage Fury took a deep breath that lifted her immense chest like a pair of dirigibles taking off. "Let’s go."

-3-

"… It is long past time for these valiant women, not just Savage Fury but Justice—er—Juggs and Scarlet Dragon and their super-sisters as well, to be accorded the recognition they have earned with their unceasing and selfless battle for law and order in this great city …."

Dazed by the dazzling sun and positively stunned by the even-more-dazzling acclaim, she stood in the cloudless blaze of the California noon, barely hearing the mayor’s speech, barely seeing the ocean of faces that lapped at the steps of City Hall and filled the plaza all the way back to the towering Centennial Obelisk at the far end.

A dream, she kept telling herself. It’s all a dream and you’ll wake up and probably find yourself bound and gagged with a whole bunch of dildos coming right at you!

Before the ceremony, the mayor had been all smiles and cordiality when he met them in his office with Jonathan Hard. Scarlet Dragon’s mouth had quirked at the warm and wet handshakes and the way his cold little eyes gloated over all three Amazons’ magnificent bodies and humongous mostly-naked boobs. The millionaire surprised Fury by remaining cool and correct, merely thanking her again and saying she deserved this award and many others. The mayor, who couldn’t get enough of her colossal cleavage, pumped her armgloved hand and babbled on and on. But those eyes of his had stayed cold.

Then there was the mob of press in the city hall rotunda, shouting questions like a cattle auction and blinding the super-bombshells with so many TV lights and camera flashes it seemed like one continuous glare.

And now this …!

It was like being at a—a rock concert or something. She stood balanced on her 5-inch spikes on one side of the mayor with Jonathan on the other. The vast crowd spilled out into the street, with cops on the periphery to control traffic. Justice Juggs and Scarlet Dragon sat to her left on folding chairs especially reserved for them with a single rose on each. Dragon had smiled cynically at that, but she held onto her rose. Justice as usual was all graciousness and smiles and enormous breasts. Fury wished she could be so professional and casual and un-selfconscious about everything she was letting hang out and jiggle with every gesture and movement.

Of course, the Masked Mammazon didn’t delude herself about what the crowd was there for. The roar that went up when the 3 Amazon goddesses strode out onto the stage was awesome. Next day one of the tabs described the entrance thusly: "Their breasts began arriving at least 5 minutes before the rest of them." And when Fury waved to the assemblage the star-spangled cloak draped open over her gigantic taut-strapped milkbags and the half-revealed scarlet bush that frothed around her costume’s V-bottom. The throng surged forward with a single mindless groan of mega-lust. It took all of Fury’s will power not to quail back.

Headlines flashed through her mind: "SUPER-HEROINES GANG-RAPED TO DEATH BY HORDES OF SECRETARIES, OFFICE WORKERS AND HARDHATS—DROWN IN LAKE OF CUM!!"

She’d been a lot more careful since.

When the shit hit the fan, there was so much it took helicopter blades to handle it all.

Pointedly ignoring Jonathan Hard when he stepped up to the podium and made his usual tribute to her bravery and daring and blah blah blah, Fury was idly watching a news copter that hovered overhead and wondering if she looked as sweaty as she felt—and almost missed her cue. But suddenly the rostrum was empty and the handsome millionaire was smiling to her and she realized it was Her Turn.

Those famous notes from that old TV show crashed through her mind: DUM DA DUM DUM!

As she stepped up to the microphone, The Cowled Crusader prayed for a diversion, like that chopper diving on the crowd and strafing it—or (much more likely) flying so low to get an overhead shot of her mountainous milkbags that its engine would drown out any stupid thing she might say. Because she couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t stupid.

To make matters worse, her head in its leather cowl felt like a chicken being roasted. Sweat streamed down through the canyon of her colossal cleavage like a river, while the perspiration that had been pooling in her armpits (right through the most powerful deodorant she could find) dripped down her sides and into her shoulder-length gloves. Fury’s entire awesomely overblown body felt like a fountain of sweat under the cloak, but no way she’d get rid of it. Her mounded pussy’s more intimate perspiration had already soaked the minuscule bottom, and made her extra glad for the podium’s concealment below the waist.

And one last minor but oh-so-public embarrassment: the microphone had a short desk stand instead of one of those long gooseneck things, so to get close enough to speak into it Fury had to heave her gargantuan sweaty chest-blimps up onto the lectern. They landed with a mike-amplified thud that through the PA system sounded like a pair of crashing boulders.

The crowd applauded and cheered.

The Cowled Crusader didn’t dare look around to see if Jonathan Hard’s smile was wider. She knew it was. She just knew it.

So she was not only startled and horrified but also just the teensiest bit relieved when she got her (sort-of) wish, and the chopper overhead suddenly did swoop down on the crowd!

Fury had just cleared her throat and licked her lips (causing one man in front of the crowd to faint) when the copter’s engine suddenly grew to a roar and everyone looked up.

The mayor began, "Someone tell that stupid fuck to—"

Justice Juggs and Scarlet Dragon leaped to their feet, ready for anything

Savage Fury blinked twice

everyone else just stared

when the chopper began spewing tear gas bombs into the sea of people!

Fury snapped out of her daze as pandemonium exploded before her. Blinded and nauseated by the stinging gas, the great crowd stampeded screaming in all directions at once. The Cowled Crusader plucked up the heavy podium and was about to hurl it at the hovering bomb-coughing chopper’s blades till she realized what a disaster a helicopter crashing amongst that surging, shrieking mob would be.

For a moment she didn’t know what the hell to do, and glanced over at Justice Juggs and Scarlet Dragon. They and a bunch of overturned chairs were the only occupants remaining at the top of the steps. Looking as stunned as she had, the two magnificent Mammazons sat leaning drunkenly against one another, and Fury knew immediately something was wrong. She started towards them as nooses at the end of steel cable shot from the underside of the copter.

JJ and Dragon were lasso’d simultaneously, the colossal-titted cowgirl taken by the neck and the Oriental Amazon around her wasp waist, then both super-bombshells were yanked with twin choked-off squeals into the air. Fury squatted to leap up after them when a third steel lariat settled around her titanic heaving tits and jerked

tiiiiiiightttttt!!

A grunt more like a pig’s than a superheroine’s squeezed out like vomit between the Thighbooted Thunderbolt’s clenched teeth as the noose buried itself deep into the bases of all that massively joggling tit blubber, till the gigantic jugs looked like huge crimson pumpkins attached to her ribcage.

Barely attached.

And, like her limply suspended Mammazon compatriots, Savage Fury couldn’t even grab a hold of the megamelon-strangling cable before she too was wrenched skyward with a scream, eyes bulging from their mask.

The pain in the stupendous superwoman’s ponderous tight-noosed pontoons as they reddened, swollen nipples staring skyward, made thinking like trying to swim upstream against raging rapids of agony. The sun and sky wheeled crazily above her. Wailing, Fury thrashed at the end of her line like a fabulous hooked fish. She grabbed the cable to try to at least lift herself and ease the watermelon-squeezing loop—but completed a circuit of some kind that sent a blinding blast of electricity through her entire writhing body, and made her gargantuan crimson glamorglobes feel like they were about to explode!

But the massive jolt cleared her pain-fogged brain a bit. The chopper had stopped throwing gas bombs, and she realized if it lifted her and JJ and Dragon much higher, they’d be too far up to drop safely even if they did free themselves (tho her dangling super-friends didn’t look in any shape to try that, they weren’t tugging at their lines or anything).

But she could swing, and as the suspended titan-titted trio passed next to the Centennial Obelisk (a miniature Washington Monument), Fury kicked out her long thighbooted legs and managed to push off the spire’s side, swinging herself over to Justice and Dragon. They really looked out of it: the colossal-chested cowgirl’s masked eyes were half closed and her tongue lolled slackly, while Dragon hung doubled over around her waist noose like limp Amazonian meat.

The Cowled Crusader grabbed Dragon’s taut steel cable and didn’t get a jolt so she snapped it like a thread. Holding the limp superwoman with one gloved arm around her waist, Fury did the same to the thick steel wire choking Justice

then just let both stunned superbombshells drop. Nervously watched them plummet down … down … down …. (It seemed like a mile though it was only maybe a hundred feet).

But she missed their landing because the chopper, as though in revenge for losing its prey, swung her against the Obelisk, slamming her mounded pussy into the spire at the top with a meaty wet chunk. It felt like someone had exploded a stick of dynamite up her snatch. Savage Fury shrieked and thrashed wildly (the pain in her monumental noosed by-now-dark-crimson milkbags completely forgotten)

so the helicopter did it again.

The impact this time was wetter and sloppier and the explosion of pain reached from her smashed pussy to the roots of her scarlet ponytail and the tips of her toes.

"AAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!"

Now the chopper carried Fury away from the 10-story column but the agonized awesome-bodied Amazon barely noticed. Sobbing, she curled up around her lasso’d stupendously-stretched ultra-udders, both gloved hands clutching her ravaged dripping twat.

So the copter ran her along the tips of the flagpoles that lined the City Hall plaza three to a side, and slammed her into each one.

One

by

one

then two—three—four—five—six.

Fury tried to lift herself with the cable, but all that got her was another numbing jolt of electricity. So the best the haplessly suspended Masked Mammazon could do was twist herself so her big bare ass took the bludgeoning blows as she was smashed into the poles in quick succession.

It still hurt. A lot.

Then the sadistic whirlybird carried her back towards the Obelisk. But again, the electric shock seemed to clear her pain-wracked mind a bit. As she neared the column, she saw her cum splashed all over its pinnacle. And this time when she was swung into the pillar, the boulder-busted bombshell wrapped her leather-sheathed arms around that pole and held on, with every ounce of her fast-fading strength.

Which was still enough to bring the chopper up short when it tried to move away. The noose jerked tighter about the bases of her ultimate udders and Savage Fury grunted. The copter’s engine roared and the taut steel cable thrummed with tension and a ragged wail of protest filtered through The Cowled Crusader’s clenched teeth as the lasso was pulled outwards from her ribcage, straining her massive malleable mammaries through its way-too-small loop.

Till those monstrous milkbags were sttrrreeetttchhhed out into titanic crimson teardrops, a full 3 feet to their bloated nipples, and her wail had become a howl of agony.

But she held on grimly, praying the noose would slip off or the cable would snap or dearJesusLordGod something!

Finally, when she could stand the torment in her distended dirigibles no longer, Fury wrapped her mighty thighbooted legs around the pole and reached up to snap off the golden ball at the top of the pole. Aiming blindly through the tears of pain spilling from her masked eyes, she threw it as hard as she could at the demonic hovering copter, and (just her luck) hit the tail rotor.

With a metallic spannggg! the blades flew off. The chopper began to rotate, lazily at first then faster, and the agonizing tension in her titanic tits eased somewhat. Fury sighed in relief—until she discovered that the whirlybird, no longer under the pilot’s control, had begun orbiting the Obelisk. And her!

Winding the cable around her awesomely voluptuous body!

And, what was worse, it was slowly spiraling in towards her, great spinning blades flashing wickedly in the sun.

The cable twisted around and around her, lashing her to the Obelisk like a human sacrifice. It dug deeply into the helpless Fabulous Fury’s lavish curves till opulent tanned flesh bulged pneumatically around it. One coil looped around her mouth, jerking her head against the Obelisk and gagging her, and the next wrapped around her throat, strangling the struggling ultra-Amazon. Another nearly bisected her gargantuan doughy chest-pumpkins, made them look like 2 pairs of buttocks turned sideways and turned her breathing into short frantic gasps as her big ribcage constricted.

And so on, down the scantclad length of her magnificent body—waist, hips, the tops of her thighboots, knees. Every time she managed to loosen the cocooning cable by expanding her colossal chest or giving her broad shoulders a mighty super-shrug, the circling chopper only jerked it tighter again.

And always, with each circuit, those whirling, scything blades inched inexorably closer.

Far below, the frantic Fury saw the tear gas clouds had dispersed and cop cars were arriving in droves. The plaza was filling again and everyone was staring up. And now she noticed that the windows of City Hall facing her were jammed with spectators.

The length of cable clamped like a bit between her teeth threatened to pull the corners of her lush mouth back to her ears and her poor ravaged milkblimps felt like they were going to be twisted off her chest.

And there wasn’t a damned thing The Cowled Crusader could do.

The great rotor blades whooshed within inches of her titanic tightly wired tits. One more orbit ….

"Jesus!" Scarlet Dragon yelled, staring up. "We gotta do something!"

"Not a damned thing we can do," Justice Juggs pronounced flatly. She interlaced her gauntleted fingers behind her and stretched, throwing her gargantuan milkbags forward to balloon vastly against and around their vest. Two onlookers came in their pants and another wet his.

Dragon took a sudden step back and JJ was barely able to keep her from falling. "Oooo, dizzy …. What was that stuff?"

"Some kind of nerve gas. Woops, this is it."

On the next pass the chopper’s rotor scythed across the swollen tips of her nipples and Savage Fury screamed at the explosion of pain. A few seconds later the craft swung around again

Fury took a deep blimp-inflating breath and squeezed her masked eyes shut

the great gleaming blade slammed into the boulderous sides of her monstrous bound mammaries

and snapped off!

Even as The Cowled Crusader howled in agony, her super-ears caught a comment from a City Hall onlooker: "Wow, talk about tough titties!"

Still tethered to the obelisk with Fury, the disabled chopper now began to spin crazily in the opposite direction, unwinding the steel cable from around the Cowled Crusader’s monumental body. For a moment, she breathed a sigh of relief as her gigantic jugs were freed, at least from one bondage.

Then the gyrating copter’s single remaining rotor blade slammed into the stone pillar below her, and snapped off.

Its engine screaming, the aircraft dropped like a stone. A very large, very heavy stone, plummeting toward the crowded plaza below,

that was still noosed to the bases of Fury’s immense tautly purple chest-pumpkins. They’d gone numb in the last few minutes—she hoped numb enough.

All the stunned suffering superwoman could think to do was grab onto the obelisk’s pinnacle for dear life

and shriek when the cable jerked rigid and the loop felt like it would sever her massive much-abused mammaries from their moorings!

Suspended by the taut cable from the Thighbooted Thunderbolt’s indestructible milkmountains, strrettchhing their tormented impossibly swollen whale-hulks below her waist, the chopper swung back and forth below. Fury wanted to cry "Look out below, my tits can’t hold it much longer!" but all she could do was hug the Obelisk and wail.

"I don’t believe it," Dragon gasped.

"Let’s get these people out of here!" Justice exclaimed.

But for the first time in either magnificent mega-bombshell’s life, it was very hard to get anyone’s attention.

Until, that is, the dangling helicopter suddenly hitched down a bit and a shrill scream echoed from above.

The noose had now worked its agonizing way about halfway down her distended sweat-slick dirigibles, till it all but bisected the stupendous blood-red sausages they now resembled. They’d been stretched into gargantuan figure-8’s but the top part of each 8 was getting smaller and the bottom was growing and swelling. Fury thought that her monumental milkbags had been tortured and abused in every way possible, but she knew she couldn’t take

one

more

second

of

this

impossible tit torment!

Her masked eyes blinded by tears and sweat, she prayed that the people far below had gotten out of the way

because with a wrench the massive whirlybird pulled its agonizing lasso free, and plunged to the ground with a crash. Suddenly freed, Fury’s battered and strained wonder-watermelons snapped back a little—about to her navel. But the humongous heroic milkbags still sagged massively and sadly out of shape.

Fury clung to the Obelisk and whimpered. It wasn’t till a real news helicopter buzzed her that she started the slow, aching climb down.

-4-

"Will somebody explain to me what that was all about?" Fuming, Scarlet Dragon paced furiously from one end of the mayor’s office to the other.

"Someone tryin’ to rain on Fury’s parade," Justice Juggs theorized. "Mebbe more of the Chain Gang."

She sat on the couch with Savage Fury, gauntleted hands massaging The Cowled Crusader’s enormous aching tits. Fury could’ve done it herself, but she liked the feel of the super-cowgirl’s leatherclad fingers on her poor ponderous pontoons (which, being resilient as well as gigantic, were slowly resuming their normal watermelon-shape).

Well, maybe more than liked it. But this was neither the time nor the place. The mayor had graciously offered them his office as a recovery room, not a playpen—and besides, there were cops right outside the door. Probably listening.

"Then why include us?" Dragon fumed. "My head still aches from that fucking gas! Not to mention the long drop!"

"And if it was my parade getting rained on, how come I didn’t get any gas?" Fury asked. "Ooo yes, JJ, right therrre …."

"Well, according to the cops it was the roses—they were soaked in some kind of contact drug that soaked right through our gloves." Justice kneaded the Masked Mammazon’s doughy chest-blimps making her squirm. "They said there was enough of it to kill one elephant per rose."

Dragon snorted. "Talk about adding insult to injury. So I repeat: why us?"

Justice shrugged. As though on their own, her crimson-gloved thumbs waggled Fury’s hard thumb-sized teats through the straps of her costume making the scarlet-tressed superwoman bite her lower lip.

"Y’know," Dragon said with mock severity, leatherclad hand fondling her own semi-covered pussy, "if you keep that up I’m gonna take one of those watermelons for myself. And I won’t just play with it."

And despite any eavesdroppers, Fury might have proceeded down that path and quickly—if at that moment there hadn’t come a discreet knock. "Join the party," Dragon called out, and Jonathan Hard stuck his head in.

"Am I interrupting anything?"

"Not yet."

He stepped in, closed the door behind him. Didn’t seem to notice Justice sitting next to Savage Fury massaging the Cowled Crusader’s enormous mostly-naked breasts. Unperturbed, the colossal-titted cowgirl demurely folded her gauntleted hands in her micro-skirted lap.

"No clues from the helicopter wreckage," he reported. "The pilot was dead."

Fury gasped, leatherclad hand flying to her mouth.

Justice reached a comforting arm around her broad bare shoulders.

"Well I’m not sorry," Dragon said. "Except I’d like to’ve been the one who did it."

"Dragon!" Justice admonished softly.

Gloved fists on her hips, the Scarlet Amazon faced the ponderous-pontooned paladin. "What—you enjoyed being dangled a hundred feet in the air like the damned catch of the day? No thanks, I like my bondage and humiliation to be more private. If he’d been trying to make fools of us, he couldn’t have done a better job! He’s probably the one who drugged the roses, too!"

"The police are still checking the wreckage," Jonathan Hard broke in smoothly. "When they ID the pilot or find anything more, I’ll personally make sure you get it."

"Thank you," Justice replied.

"And by the way, ladies—as an apology for this fiasco, and by way of thanking Savage Fury for saving this day too, I’m throwing a small soiree Saturday night, and I’d really appreciate it if you'd attend."

The three gargantuan-globed super-goddesses shared a look. "Count me in," Scarlet Dragon said. "I’ve heard about your parties."

Justice Juggs nodded. "I’ll check to make sure I’m free."

All eyes turned to Fury. A flush crept up her monumental near-naked body, from the cuffs of her thighboots to the collar of her cowl. But this time she was enn-oh-tee NOT going to be pressured into something she ab-so-lutely did NOT want to do, and WASN’T going to do, and ….

"You’ll be there of course," the millionaire said silkily.

"Of COURSE she will!" the mayor boomed, striding into the room. "She’s the heroine of the day! Both days—I’m proclaiming Friday Furyday and Saturday Savageday! Why, this little lady"—there was ab-so-lutely nothing little about his eyes or the two titanic breasts they were staring at—"saved hundreds of lives today—at, if I may say so, great personal cost!"

"So what were we—chopped liver?"

Justice elbowed Dragon in the ribs.

Trapped again

outmaneuvered in public

cornered,

Savage Fury muttered, "All—all right, I guess I can’t refuse."

Besides, there were going to be mobs of people there, and his wife. Besides besides, Jonathan and Jennifer Hard threw parties that were legendary: featured on "ET", "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" and in all the tabs. Valley housewife Paige Powers had always dreamed of attending one of these gala festivities—and this one was being held in her honor!

But if he so much as touches me, I’ll pulverize him!