"First up on the 6 pm news is some extraordinary and revealing footage of Savage Fury in action.  The beautiful and mysterious crime fighter more than lived up to her name earlier today after a bank robbery turned into a tense hostage situation."

The picture cuts from the solemn pretty face of the newscaster to a blurry close-up of what at first appear to be a pair of pale pumpkins crossed by vertical stripes.  Until it’s apparent they’re way too soft and jiggle much too energetically, and if they are pumpkins (little else could be so massive and spherical) what about those brown bulls-eyes in the center that peek so coyly around the stripes?

The camera promptly solves the mystery when it pulls back and reveals them to be an enormous pair of breasts, the size and shape of pumpkins, naked except for straps that provide little in the way of coverage or support, for they are too narrow even to hide all of the monumental melons’ big brown nipples.

The colossal tits belong to an awesomely Amazonian figure, cowled and caped, clad in shoulder-length gloves and hip-high boots and very little else.  She stands on a rooftop gazing intently down, but the camera lingers on her near-naked monumentally voluptuous body for a few more seconds (you can almost hear it panting)

Before it swings down to show what the scantclad super-Mammazon is watching, five stories below: a group of people coming out of a bank.  They walk slowly, holding hands in a circle around three men in ski masks.  Two of the masked men carry automatic rifles.  One wears a belt of dynamite and holds a detonator in one hand.

A wider shot shows cops and police cars everywhere, dozens of guns tracking the hostage shield.  Waiting.  Helpless.

Savage Fury tracks them as well.  Cape flapping around her muscular booted thighs giving teasing glimpses of a lavish naked ass, the Avenging Amazon moves along the rooftop keeping them directly beneath, till she gets to a water tower on the roof a few yards behind her.

A heli-cam hovering overhead picks up the action, as the massive-busted Cowled Crusader races to the steel struts supporting the huge tank and chops them away with leather-sheathed arms like axes.  It tilts and she rips another beam out like straw and the tower collapses, topples right to the edge of the roof with a crash,

pouring its thousands of gallons of water in a sudden deluge onto the knot of people below, drenching and smashing them all flat.  And stunning them, long enough for Fury to step off the roof and casually drop five stories to the sidewalk, cloak billowing above.  She lands (with a muffled yelp of surprise when the thin straps can’t keep those chest-boulders of hers from leaping up with a meaty double-smack to her masked face), then proceeds to take out the dazed bank robbers with light but telling blows while the police move in to help the hostages up.

"But then, a surprising turn of events ...."

As the crooks’ masks are yanked off revealing them to be the bank manager and two guards, and three of the ‘hostages’ suddenly make a break for a nearby van.  Savage Fury lunges after them but they pull sawed-off shotguns from under their jackets and shoot her squarely on those gigantic joggling jugs, smashing them flat against her ribcage.  The Cowled Crusader is thrown back coughing, then appears to go into a twisting, gyrating dance for the camera, throwing her near-naked outrageously overblown body about as two of them pump blast after blast into the Masked Mammazon while the third starts the van.  The camera is much too interested in the boulderous doughy bounding of Fury’s titanic milkmountains as they are battered, and the jiggly bouncing of her bare ass as she dances in helpless pain, to show the cops and bystanders diving for cover from all the ricocheting double-ought buck.

Driven back by the relentless painful pounding, Fury drops to her thighbooted knees as though in defeat.  But she’s only stooped to snatch up a manhole cover the way one would pick up a penny.  Using it as a shield, she charges in.  The van’s rear doors burst open and the shotgunners empty their weapons at the oncoming Thighbooted Thunderbolt as they climb aboard.  The vehicle roars off.

But Savage Fury is in hot pursuit.  Like a Frisbee she shies the heavy cover at the fleeing van and the massive discus shears off a rear wheel.  The van slews sideways and flops over onto its side, skids a few more yards before screeching to a halt.  Fury tears the rear doors off as though they were paper and hauls the dazed crooks out.  Holds them overhead, one in each armgloved hand.  Behind her, the driver starts to climb up out the passenger side.  She waits till he’s half out before giving the van a casual thighbooted kick toppling it over onto its roof with a crash, pinning him.

Paige Powers turned the set off with a satisfied smile and settled back in the easy chair.  (Pretty good for your TV debut.  But you can sure tell it’s sweeps month—the camera was a lot more interested in Savage Fury’s big naked milkbags than anything else!)

She frowned down at her enormous endowments.  They were a long way past "big" and she hated the way they held the loose-fitting caftan out so far: made her look like a circus tent with legs—okay, loong gorgeous legs, but still.  But her monumental mammaries still throbbed from the shotgunning they’d received (If there hadn’t been so many people around, I’d have really given those creeps a lesson in manners!) so she couldn’t even wear one of her usual skintight T-shirts, much less a bra.

Paige cupped her colossal aching breasts, massaged them gently through the thin material.  As usual they were too much for her hands and slopped doughily all over her fingers but it felt soo gooood ....

Paige was caressing her big still-swollen nipples when she glimpsed movement out the corner of her eye and turned with a gasp.  Veronica Bainbridge stood there

(watching you feel yourself up, you stupid cow!)

She leaped to her feet, too flustered to speak.  Veronica was dressed in her costume for the party tonight: a very plausible (and very tight) Wonder Woman outfit, to which she’d added a couple inches for the boot heels and shoulder-length red leather gloves—and also expanded the bustier top several sizes to make room for her mountainous boobs, which still bulged over and around the eagle-styled cups.

She was the only woman in the neighborhood whose breasts even approached Paige’s ponderous pontoons in size—though it was still like comparing, say, the Appalachians to the Himalayas.  Which was how they’d met: Paige had been shopping in a lingerie store Raven (Silk Stalker) O’Rourke had recommended as specializing in undergarments for the overblown.  She’d struck up a conversation with the tall brunette trying on extra-large bras in the next cubicle and it turned out they lived just a couple of blocks apart, which meant they had to have lunch.

Which was spent discussing the hassles of outsized tits and what a bunch of jealous cats most of the women in the neighborhood were.  Ronnie listened to Paige’s difficulties with her double dirigibles—the ones she could talk about anyway (of course she couldn’t mention all the breast bondage and torture, tit-stompings and -fuckings and other humiliations she suffered as Savage Fury).  By the time lunch was over, Paige realized she’d found her first real friend (non-costumed, anyway) since moving to the Valley.

For a moment, the elegant beautiful brunette seemed frozen in her spikeheeled tracks.  Then she smiled and pirouetted.  "What do you think?" The rear was little more than a thong buried between her trim supple buttocks.  Paige liked it (and them).

(Shut up!)

"I’m—speechless, darling."

Ronnie cupped her huge tits in the golden eagle-wing bustier.  "You don’t think they overflow too much?"

"I hope there’s some tape in there to keep all of you in."

"I’ll try not to breathe too deeply."

Paige couldn’t take her eyes off the way Ronnie’s leather-gloved hands pushed her big soft milkbags up and over the costume’s top.  She found herself wanting to pull those hands away and substitute her own, then see if a two-week-old friendship could endure a long deep kiss, maybe a warm wet tongue ....

"Paige?"

The outsized redhead shook herself.

(Stop that!  Don’t screw this one up too, just because you’re still horny after the action today!)

It was always worst when Walt was out of town, which he usually was.

"So," she said brightly, a shiver running down her spine.  "Where’re my charges for the night?"

Ronnie’s exquisite mouth quirked.  "You have to ask?"

Paige followed her down the hall, watching that sleek bare ass quiver and roll around the scant star-spangled costume bottom.  She remembered her reaction to finding this gorgeous woman not only was a mother twice over, but that her kids were—

"—10 years old??"

Ronnie had chuckled at her surprise.  "If it wasn’t for them, we probably never would’ve met.  These things were barely normal before Brandon, and only maybe a D-cup till Britta.  Funny thing: they grew so much for her but she barely nursed at all."

"What a waste," Paige had commented without thinking.  Then, to cover her fluster, she only made it worse: "What did you do with all that milk?"

The Amazonian brunette sighed.  "Harv said I should open a dairy.  As long as he was the only farmer who got to milk the cow."

Paige shook her head.  She resisted the usual temptation to ask Ronnie how the hell she’d stayed married to that asshole for so long.  The two reasons were just ahead.

At the end of the hallway she opened a door revealing a pair of blonde youngsters hunched intently over a keyboard before a computer monitor.  With the lights out and the curtains closed, the glow from the screen made their faces look pale and drawn.  They didn’t even glance up.

"Mo-om!" From Britta.

Brandon: "Close the door, please??" With that offended kind of politeness kids reserved for adults who blunder onto their private preserves.

At ten the older by two years, he was round-faced with a pudginess that promised muscular bulk later on, but now made him look roly-poly.  Reminded Paige a little of Beaver Cleaver.  Britta, now, was a slender nymphet with a precociously sensual mouth that was a virtual replica of her mother’s.  Paige figured her to blossom early and drive the little boys wild before they even knew why.

Of course, these days you could never never tell how much kids know when.

Either way, she both did and didn’t envy Ronnie the chore of raising these two by herself.  They were bright and curious, seriously into computers, and "way more than two handsful" as Ronnie had put it.  At the time her eyes had been on Paige’s gigantic swaying chest, and the big gorgeous housewife had felt her spine heat up and soften and her big nipples harden.

(It was just a metaphor, don’t get carried away!)

"What’re they doing in there?" she asked when the door was closed again.

"There’s a new website that they’re really into, some kind of virtual reality game.  I think it’s called Cyberdemon."

Paige didn’t ask what a "website" or "virtual reality" was, she didn’t want to reveal her total ignorance of computers.

"I probably let them spend too much time with it, but it’s better than TV and it isn’t kiddy porn and it’s a local call.  Just let them huddle in there and they’ll be happy and quiet.  Till 9:30, then it’s bed time.  And don’t take any backtalk about that."

At the door, Veronica drew a star-studded cloak onto her wide bare shoulders.  "Listen, Paige, thanks again for—"

"You just go and have a good time."

"But I’m going to pay you for this."

"Okay, sure." Actually, Paige was more than happy to take the money.  It was hard enough keeping her Savage Fury identity from Walt without dealing with the expenses.  The secret life of a superheroine was costlier than she’d expected, and she needed all the spare cash she could pull in.

Ronnie leaned in to kiss her lightly on the cheek.  She wore L’Air du Temps and her lips were moist and warm.  Did she linger a bit as her big boobs mashed softly against Paige’s mammoth tits, and all but overflowed their low-slung bustier? "I’ll be back by midnight."

Paige’s deep breath actually pushed Ronnie back a little.  "Don’t hurry home on my account."

"Well, if I run into Superman—"

They both laughed.

—2—

"Boy, didja catch the hooters on that one?"

"Don’t be gross."

"They’re gross!  I mean, we’re talkin’ humongous headlights!"

Britta gave Brandon a shot to the shoulder.  "I’m gonna tell Mom you said that."

"You do, an’ I’ll tell her about—"

"About what?"

" ...  I dunno, but I’ll think of somethin’."

They turned to the screen, suddenly intent.  Brandon said, "You mean—she’s the one?"

"Oh boy!" Britta cried.

"Shhhh!"

"You shhhh!"

A spark leaped from the monitor to each of the kids’ noses.  They yelped.  And regarded the screen with new fear in their eyes.  And something more.

Wide-eyed, they nodded.

Brandon and Britta moved closer to the screen, till their heads touched and the light from it filled their faces.

—3—

Paige just couldn’t pay attention to the TV.  She usually got into "Friends" but tonight a more important task was at hand: sewing up her Savage Fury costume, which had been torn by those scumbags’ shotguns this afternoon.  It took a lot to damage the outfit, which was good because she lost some power when it was ripped or something like that (let alone got wet, which was disaster).  But all she had to do was sew the torn parts together and they mended themselves, kind of like skin—even made thread disappear.  She didn’t know how; she didn’t know much at all about the costume except that it made her Savage Fury.  But if it ever ran out of super power or just stopped working, she would be shit out of luck.

So she just had to hope it would never happen.  Despite all the beatings and bondage and rapes (oh my!), she enjoyed being the Cowled Crusader (and maybe, sneakily, a part of her she tried to ignore liked it because of that stuff—just a little).

In fact lately she’d come to realize she needed to be her Amazonian alter-ego.  To lose her powers and have to go back to being just plain old Paige Powers, celebrated for chicken pot pie and tits the size of watermelons, would be horrible!

The massive-busted housewife didn’t like to think about that, it made her nervous because there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about any of it.  So while she sipped a Coke and stitched a seam on one of the long boots, she thought about Veronica in her Wonder Woman costume.

And first thing she knew, her hand was under the caftan rummaging around between her thighs, playing with swollen labia and tickling its clit.

(What is with you tonight?)

This was no time to masturbate—not till the kids were asleep anyway.

But she had the whole evening to sew, and Veronica had looked incredible in (or hanging and jiggling half out of) that costume, and she was horny, and her fingers felt sooo goooood ....

To distract herself, she decided to call Walt in Denver.  It was an hour later there so he should be finished with the latest round of sales meetings.  But when she picked up the phone, she was almost deafened by a loud squealing!

"Hey!" came Brandon’s voice from down the hall.  "We’re online!"

Paige banged the phone down guiltily.  "Sorry, kids!"

So.

She picked up a magazine, paged through it, tossed it down.  Took the remote and channel-surfed a bit.  The heat in her loins was intolerable, undeniable.

Knowing she should have brought a vibrator with her since action always got her going, Paige got up and checked the door at the end of the hall.  She sure didn’t want the kids to come out for the next few minutes, but if their door opened she’d hear it.

She slid down in the chair so she could spread her legs wider.  Rucked the caftan up about her waist, then picked up the empty Coke bottle on the end table ....

"Eeeewwww, what’s she doing?" Britta made a gagging sound.

"Gross," Brandon commented, eyes wide.

On the monitor screen, naked from the waist down, their beautiful boulder-titted baby-sitter had her long muscular legs spread almost straight out to her sides and both hands down between them, shoving a Coke bottle into herself for all she was worth.  Her scarlet-maned head rolled about on the chair back like she was looking for something on the ceiling but her eyes were tightly closed.  Her mouth hung open slackly and tinny grunts and groans came from the PC’s speaker.

"Is she hurting herself?" Brandon asked.

"She sounds like a pig!" Britta said.

"Yeah!"

The voice continued to speak, long after the wide blue eyes had glazed over.

"I dunno," Brandon said at one point.  "I wouldn’t want to hurt her."

"Me neither," Britta agreed, "even if she is gross."

Gradually the green glow from the monitor spread out, like a pulsing living thing, till it engulfed the rapt children ....

—4—

"Unh!  Unghhh ...  ooooo!  Gggggk!"

Knees drawn back almost to her ears, Paige pumped the bottle into her sloshing pussy with both hands, pushing herself higher and higher.  It was one of the good-bad side effects of her Savage Fury career that she could even fit something this big inside her.  The good part was, all the huge cocks that plowed the Cowled Crusader made it hurt less to get raped (at least physically), but the bad part was that regular sex with Walt was more difficult.  He didn’t have an organ like a salami (which alone made him a pleasant and welcome change) and being old-fashioned, he was reluctant to fuck her up the ass, which left oral sex about the only option.  Fortunately he loved to eat her out as much as she loved to suck his sweet normal dick.

(Deeper ...  deeper ...  stir it aroundddd!  OoooGODDDDdddd ...!)

And she wouldn’t dream of asking him to tie her up, something else that always happened to her that she found herself starting to enjoy.  Well, a little—though like so much in her increasingly weird sex life these days, Paige wasn’t sure if it was she herself doing the enjoying, or part of the passionate bisexual persona that had come on-board with her powers, the one that had her lusting after the (gorgeous mega-bustyyyyygghhhhh!) mother of these kids.

At least Walt wasn’t wondering how or why her pussy had loosened up so much.  He was totally preoccupied with his job lately, just like she was becoming preoccupied with her secret one.

(Funny. We finally have something in common, and it’s moving us apart.)

Feverishly she clutched the bottle and worked it in and out, stirred it around inside her, sweating, bucking her lavish hips and groping a gargantuan doughy milkbag, trying to keep her passionate cries down.  But she felt a Big One building, and she hoped the kids were really absorbed in that computer of theirs.  She’d worked hard for this orgasm, she’d earned it and she deserved it, and she was going to enjoy it—

"Ms.  Powers?" The voice came from the hallway behind her.

Paige froze.

(Thank God the chair is turned away!) was all she could think as knees dropped from ears and bare heels thumped to the floor.  Leaving the Coke bottle in place so it stuck about half way out of her gaping swollen pussy, she carefully lowered the caftan over her legs.  But the bottle still humped the garment up over her lap like a great erect penis of her own.

It took her a moment to catch her breath.  "Uhhh—y-yes, Brandon?"

"Are you all right?" He came to her side, regarded her curiously.

Paige’s hands on the chair’s arms were almost fists.  "Why ...  yes.  Why do you ask?"

"I dunno, you’re all sweaty and pale." Was that a half smile tugging at his lips? "What’s that funny smell? Kinda like—fish." He wrinkled his pug nose.

The bottle inside her seemed to throb and burn.  She took a deep shuddery breath.  As firmly as she could manage: "I’m fine, Brandon.  What is it?"

"There’s someone outside.  In the bushes.  We heard something."

Paige sat up straight, winced as the deep-buried bottle’s neck gouged tender sopping inner walls.

"Kind of a rustling.  Would you check?"

There were about a zillion things the sweaty huge-titted housewife would rather have done than "check." Once after ambushing Savage Fury and beating the living crap out of her, Jack Hammer had bound the whimpering bloodied Masked Mammazon with wet rope and made her do the Bottle Trick for him: squat down on a champagne bottle till it was jammed as far up her twat as possible, then hold it in with just her vaginal muscles while she straightened again.  Despite juices that flowed copiously down the sides of the bottle, the Cowled Crusader had managed it, even danced for him with the bottle sticking down out of her—and made him pay later when she’d enticed Jack into replacing the bottle with his mammoth dick.

Jack plowed her long and hard till he blasted cum into the Thighbooted Thunderbolt like a firehose.  But thanks to his bottle workout, she’d still been a long way from the kind of climax that usually weakened her so much a bastard like Jack could do anything he wanted—which usually involved rope and gags and more fucking.

So while he was totally preoccupied with pumping about a quart of sperm into her and then all over her, she got her thighbooted legs up and kicked him back—through three concrete walls, a few stone pillars, and finally about a hundred feet of solid earth.  Then Fury beat the crap out of Jack for once, and had the satisfaction of sitting on his face and making him finish her off.  She hated to admit it but the supercreep had a talented tongue: he’d brought her to an orgasm so intense he was almost able to buck her off and get away.

Almost.

But not being Savage Fury now, Paige wasn’t sure she could keep the Coke bottle inside.  She was sure she didn’t want it dropping out, all slimed with her juices, in front of this kid.

(He’d pick it up and sniff it and look up at you and what would you say then? "Things go better with Coke"?

(Can you say "horny", little boy? What about "nymphomaniac?" I knew you could!)

Soooo … very slowly and very gingerly, all too aware of Brandon’s eyes on her, Paige pushed herself to her feet.  Her gut clenched and she swayed dizzily for a moment.  He watched her, but his eyes were on her gigantic swaying jugs.

The bottle started to slip and she slapped her meaty thighs together around the cold glass cylinder.  Caught it.  Felt like she was trying to keep from giving birth.

Trembling: "All right, uh, Brandon, sh-show me."

Clenching her vaginal muscles as tight as she could, the humongous-hootered housewife took a step.  The bottle stayed put.  Another step.  A mini-orgasm rippled through her belly and she bit her lower lip, put a hand out to the back of the chair to steady herself.

(How do you get yourself INTO these messes? This is NOT the way super-heroines are supposed to operate!)

Paige took another baby step, and another.  It was like walking a tightrope: if she placed one foot ahead of the other like a runway model and kept her strides short, the bottle crammed up her pussy only shifted, didn’t slip.

But each step was like fucking herself with the fat glass dildo, which lubricated them both and made it all the more slippery and harder to hold in.

(And there’s probably nobody out there anyway!)

But just in case, she picked up her oversize purse with the costume inside.  Brandon seemed very interested in that, but said nothing.  He led her into the hall.

"Why are you walking so funny, Ms.  Powers?" Again, it was as though he was trying to keep from giggling.  "Do you hurt?"

(He DOESN’T know, he COULDN’T have seen ....)

She couldn’t come up with an excuse, could barely think straight, because the truth was the exact opposite.  She was cumming with each careful shuddering step till juices oozed thickly down the insides of her muscular clenched thighs.

Finally, outside the bathroom door, she could go no farther.  The bottle had hitched down to its waist inside her and she was barely able to hold it with her knees.  "Listen, uh, Brandon" (yes, that’s his name) "you go back into the room with your—your sister" (what the hell’s HER name?) "and, ah, stay there."

He gazed up at her, merry eyes filled with the gargantuan breasts straining against the caftan.  They were swollen impossibly with her lust, hard thumb-sized teats pointing through the taut material like stiff fingers, chafing

(and turning you on even more, if that’s possible!)

But he just stood there (the little creep) watching her.  If the Big One came now ....  "You sure you’re okay?"

"Oh, oh yes, I’m just—fine, just (ngggggh!) peachy." She bit her heavy honey-laden lower lip as another orgasm ripped through her and more cum greased her throbbing loins.

"What’re you gonna do?"

"Me? Uh, I’m going to call a, a friend of mine, she’ll deal with whoever’s out there."

He glanced at the purse.  Stood there until she thought she would scream!  Then shrugged.  "Okay."

"I want you to stay in the room till—till it’s safe."

Another shudder racked her.  The bottle slipped a bit farther.  The glass was cold and wet between her knees.

Without another word, the little angel turned and went in and closed the door.

And she was barely able to close the bathroom door behind her before the bottle slipped out of its swollen dripping grotto.  With an embarrassing slurp!  it fell to the floor and rolled away.  Shuddering, hurrying, she fumbled open the purse.

After changing to Savage Fury she found the bottle in a corner behind the toilet.  The Cowled Crusader gave it a quick rinse then, after a furious inner debate, plumped her great bare ass down on the toilet and spread her thighbooted legs wide

and fervently, helplessly used it on herself and in herself and in herself to finally finally shudder and groan and gush through the long delayed and much-needed Big One.  No way she could concentrate on felons (real or imagined) before she got that out of the way.

What a life you lead, the Masked Mammazon reflected as she stood shakily from the toilet and gave it a flush.  She washed the bottle off and tossed it into a waste basket, used some wadded Kleenex to swab off her cum-slimed inner thighs.  Some had dripped down into the flaring cuffs of her thighboots; that would have to wait.

(Toppling water towers and capturing felons in the afternoon, and for the evening’s entertainment, dildoing yourself with a pop bottle on a toilet.   What would Wonder Woman think?)

Stepping quietly so her heels wouldn’t rap on the tile (in the 5-inch spikes she couldn’t help tip-toeing), she opened the bathroom door sloowly, peered out.  The hallway was empty.

(Now, let’s see if there really is anyone outside.  After all this, there damned well BETTER be!)

—5—

Savage Fury was just starting through the kitchen door to check the back yard out when there was a snifflebehind her.  She spun.  Britta stood there holding a Ken doll and fisting a tearful eye.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I’m—a friend of Paige’s," the Cowled Crusader replied quickly.  "She asked me to check on this prowler."

"Where is she?"

"Safe and out of the way, like you should be."

Fury took the girl’s hand and started to lead her back to the computer room.  "Will you hug me first? I’m scared."

"Why of course, darling!" Maternal protectiveness flooded the Mighty Mammazon and with a smile she stooped down, thighboots creaking.  She gathered the frightened child to her, the small blonde head nestling between her titanic swaying tits like a cantaloupe between two soft pink watermelons.

"Is that better?" Fury asked after a moment, stroking the tousled hair with a shoulder-gloved hand.

From the vast valley came a muffled "mm-hmm." Small arms went as far around her great ribcage as they could hug and Savage Fury knew that if it ever came to a choice between being a superheroine or a mom, there could be no choice.  Britta squirmed against her, nuzzled a gigantic soft jug, then took one of the Cowled Crusader’s big hard nipples in her small mouth.

(Whoa!) Fury stiffened as the child began to suckle at that gargantuan udder.  But she couldn’t resist giving herself to the tender nurturing.

(This is ...  this is ...)

Before the boulder-busted super-bombshell could find the word, the cute little girl, with all her might, bit down on the tender thumb-sized teat!  And jammed the Ken doll right through Fury’s costume into her slackly gaping (and fortunately still lubed) snatch!

The pain that exploded through her pussy totally submerged the pain from her chest.  More astonished than ever in a life filled with surprises (too many of them like this one), the Thighbooted Thunderbolt leaped up with a shrill squeal, dragging the tit-chomping child with her.  She grabbed the Ken doll, buried to the knees in her bulging scarlet-thatched twat, but Britta still hugged her tightly, small head buried in Fury’s boulderous soft milkbag, teeth grinding her nipple!

Fury staggered backwards and the backs of her hip-booted knees struck Brandon, down on all fours behind her like some stupid playground trick!  With a squeak of surprise the towering Amazon toppled over him with a crash, cowled head striking the base of the mahogany sideboard.

Sprawled on her back, dazed for a fatal moment, Fury stared numbly at the ceiling, then at the tiny tux-clad doll legs that protruded from her gaping dripping gash.

(What the hell is—)

Had just begun to lever herself up on leather-sheathed elbows when Britta gave a yell of "Trampoline!" and jumped onto her muscular belly with both feet, blasting a geyser of spittle from the prone ponderous-pontooned paladin’s plush mouth ("OOOLLGGHH!").  As though playing sadistic hopscotch, the girl bounced from there to Fury’s stupendous sagging tits, smashing them to the floor at her sides!  Her tiny feet sank ankle-deep into all that doughy burgeoning boob blubber and spread each monstrous mammary out over the carpeting on opposite sides of Fury’s ribcage like an immense pink soufflé.

The Mammazon Manhunter heard herself squeal like a pig.  Mind still spinning from the astonishing and bizarre attack, she reached for Britta’s jug-stomping legs, but with a merry teasing laugh the child jumped away.  Fury again tried to sit up, but her titanic smashed tits were like boulders at her sides dragging her down again.  Brandon gave the doll crammed into the double-dirigibled dominatrix’s snatch a kick.  That popped both mouth and masked eyes open as wide as they would go and Fury, howling, collapsed to writhe in helpless agony.

She grabbed the doll with both gloved hands but Britta yelled "Don’t touch that—naughty!" and kicked her cowled face to one side ("unhh!!"), spattering blood from burst lush lips across the carpet.  When the bewildered battered Battling Bombshell struggled up again on one leatherclad elbow, Brandon took the twat-buried mannequin by its ankles and began to twist it around in her and pump it in and out.  Fury let out a wracking groan and flopped back down again to thrash about helplessly as, giggling, the boy reamed and fucked her with the doll.

(I can’t—what’s going—sooo strongggg!)

"Lookit all the hair she’s got down here!" Brandon marveled as he plunged the doll into the outsized Amazon’s squishy sloppy cunt.  He grabbed a fistful of crimson crotch plumage and yanked on it.  "An’ she’s all wet inside!"

Fury bawled.

"Ewwwww!" Britta took a handful for herself.  They pulled in opposite directions, spreading her twatlips wide open like fleshy pink petals around the muff-diving (literally!) doll.

Eyes bulging from their mask, Fury shrieked.

The agonized colossal-titted Cowled Crusader managed to get her thighbooted legs up and piston the children back.  Brandon slammed into a wall and collapsed, crying.

(Omigod!)

Fury staggered to her feet, teetering on their 5-inch spikes (the doll slipping unnoticed from her slack sopping snatch), and hurried to him.  Full of concern, she knelt down to the bawling pudgy kid, noted he was now dressed as a cowboy.

"Are you all right?" she asked.  "What kind of game are you and Britta trying toooOOLFFH!!"

As he smashed her gigantic joggling chest-pumpkins together between his small fists, then started to beat and pound them!

"I’m a cowpuncher!" he yelled.  "Cowpuncher!  Cowpuncher!"

Fury, grunting, more confused and pain-wracked than ever because each tit-punch was as hard and punishing as those shotgun blasts this afternoon, managed to straighten.  She staggered away from the boy—only to have Britta slam into her gut like a small blonde cannonball!  Breath and spittle whoffed from her again and the Thighbooted Thunderbolt was sent reeling to a wall.  Thudded down on her big bare ass bringing an avalanche of books and trophies from a shelf overhead, the last one a bronze monster of a loving cup that clocked her leathern skull but good.

Through all the pain and confusion Savage Fury realized that part of the problem was her costume, which hadn’t been mended and wasn’t up to full power.  But why were these kids attacking her? Where the hell did they get this strength and savagery?? This was way more than just rough-housing with the baby-sitter!

And more importantly right now—(how can you fight back? They’re only children!)

She realized they were tugging on her shoulder-length gloves, trying to pull them off her arms.  If they did that, she’d lose even more power!

"N-no!" she blurted out, and pushed the two towheads back—but not as hard as she could have.

(They’re just kids!)

The groaning monster-titted musclemaid struggled to her feet.  The two "just-kids" took her by the gloved hands as though to help her up—and, laughing merrily, pulled her forward to crash head first into the opposite wall!  Fury bounced back with a cry, clutching her cowled head.  Surprised to find herself still on her feet, she took to her spikeheels down the hall, sobbing, in utter tottering swaying and jiggling disarray.

All those crooks you’ve mercilessly beaten to bloody crap—wouldn’t they laugh, to see the spectacular scantclad Avenging Amazon fleeing from a couple of little kids!

(Little MONSTERS!)

But the Battling Bombshell barely made it into the dining room before a lasso sailed over her to drop down about her broad bare shoulders and joggling milkjugs.  She grunted as her own forward momentum jerked it tight around her meaty leather-sheathed upper arms pinning them to her sides, and the grunt became a shrill squeal when the rope dug deep into her titanic doughy tits, almost bisecting their tender mountainous hulks!

Fury struggled with the lariat.  Normally she could burst chain by merely expanding her colossal chest, but this rope was unbreakable!  She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror: lasso’d like a humongous-hootered supercow, the rope buried so deeply in her heaving mammaries that each enormous udder looked like a pair of buttocks turned sideways!  And her every effort only drew it tighter about her!

Brandon and Britta pulled on the rope, hauling her back to them.

"I get to help tie her up!" Britta yelled.

"It’s my lasso!" Brandon said.

At the moment Savage Fury was too preoccupied to pay much attention: (Can’t ...  breathe, rope’s ... cutting my tits in two!  Only one chance ....)

Suddenly the Masked Mammazon threw herself backwards, towards the siblings.  The rope loosened enough to slide down to her elbows and release her throbbing naked chest pumpkins.  She jerked her gloved arms out of the lariat as it settled over her lavish flaring hips, then dove forward again.  And almost made it.

But Brandon, snake-quick, gave the loop a snap of the wrist

pulled it tight around Fury’s ankles

jerking her spikeheeled feet from under her

and the Cowled Crusader went down like a towering awesomely-voluptuous tree, with a crash that shook the whole house.

Gamely, half-panting and half-sobbing, Fury pushed herself up again on her shoulder-gloved arms like some kind of beached mermaid.  Each boulderous swaying boob was a ton of jiggling dead weight beneath her, but she actually managed to crawl a few feet dragging her bound ankles.  Then Britta pounced onto her back and slammed her to the floor again with a wracking grunt, jello-monsters spreading out to her sides like waterwings.  The 8-year-old jumped again, came down with both feet on the back of Fury’s leathern skull smashing her masked face to the floor.

"Tag!  You’re it!"

But, dazed and bloodied, the Thighbooted Thunderbolt still fought to get up.  So the 8-year-old leaped onto one of her mammoth side-ballooning blubberbags, smashing that colossal udder flat.  Fury let out a long exhausted wail, choked off by Brandon’s cowboy boot crashing into her cowled head.

He stood in her other gargantuan milkblimp, spreading it over the floor like an immense pink soufflé, and kicked her head a few more times.

"I get to tie her tits up," he announced.

"You can have ‘em," Britta replied.  "Gross!" She ran through a repertoire of barf sounds.  "I get her arms and legs."

"Not!"

"So!"

"It’s my rope!"

Sprawling stunned at their feet as the kids argued over her broad caped back, pinned to the floor by her flattened mammary monsters, Savage Fury made one more agonized attempt at getting up.  She only succeeded in stretching her mammoth mashed breasts out like stupendous bags of taffy.

Groaning, Fury went limp.  At this point, she didn’t care who tied her up.

"Then I’m going to gag her!"

"Like l almost care."

—6—

"A new rodeo record!" Brandon crowed, as he finished hog-tying the Savage Sensation with a flourish.

"I helped!" Britta insisted, sticking her tongue out.

In the small distant part of her mind that wasn’t totally overwhelmed by this bizarre defeat and utter humiliation, Fury was pretty sure that Brandon hadn’t learned this rope work in the Boy Scouts.  She’d gotten herself bound and gagged a lot in her short super-career—in fact she had a special stretching routine she usually did before going into action, so she’d be loose enough to endure any tortuous bondage she might end up in.  But this was one of the worst.  And of course she hadn’t done her stretches.

Hog-tied on her belly in the living room, cowled head pulled back till it socketed between her shoulder blades, she stared miserably at the ceiling.  The boy had tied her shoulder-sheathed arms together at wrists and elbows, bunching cape and back muscles painfully between.  More rope passed from the knots binding her gloved wrists down between her lavish buttocks, digging deep into her swollen sopping pussy.  It was tied beneath Fury to her titanic tits, stretching them down past her waist by twin nooses so tight they all but disappeared into the colossal distended jello-hulks.  It felt like she was lying on huge throbbing bolsters.

The beaten bound Avenging Amazon wasn’t sure if that was what hurt most (tits pulled to my knees!).  Or if it was her thighbooted legs, bent back by the agonizing hog-tie till their ankles lay on the clenched pillows of her lavish ass.  Of course it could have been her scarlet ponytail, taut as wire because it was tied to her spikeheeled feet, jerking her cowled head back till the tendons stood out on her neck, giving her ample tearful opportunity to study the ceiling and moan into her mouth-stuffed gag.

Which was where Britta had shown her ingenuity: she’d poked wire through a fat nerf tennis ball, then crammed that ad hoc ballgag between Fury’s ripe bloodied lips and tied it behind her cowled head.  Naturally, the kids had argued about that too—Brandon sniffed that it wasn’t in far enough and Britta said it was so!

But she’d poked the spongy gag in deeper anyway, ignoring Fury’s pleading grunts, till it pressed the outsized bombshell’s tongue against her palate and the wires drew the corners of her drooling mouth back.

(WhatinGodsname are they teaching kids these days?)

(And what the hell happened to my super-strength? I’m not wet and neither are the ropes, so why can’t I break them?)

There was something else, too: a high-pitched whistling squeal, faint but annoying—surprisingly so considering all the other indignities heaped upon her by these playful little monsters.  She’d done a fair amount of squealing herself—and grunting and writhing—as they tied her up (the brats had only giggled and Britta pinched her stiff finger-sized nipples till she stopped struggling) but this was coming from somewhere off to her right.

Try as she might, with her cowled head cocked back till she could barely breathe and her wire-taut topknot feeling like it was about to come out strand by strand, Fury couldn’t squirm into a position to see what was causing the shrill noise.  Every time she wriggled even a bit, one of the kids would give her bursting bunched butt a painful whack!  with a ruler, making her bleat into her spongy mouthball and setting off another fit of snickers.

"Let’s see if she can touch her head to her feet!" Brandon said.

(Ononoplease, that’s not a good idea, something will break, I’m sure of it!)

Fury did the only thing she could think of: she flopped over onto her side.  Accidentally tugged on the rope binding gloved wrists to monstrous boobs, sawing it through her tender gaping twat and pulling on those ponderous distended pontoons.  Fresh tears started into her masked eyes and she groaned horribly into the foam mouthball.

The kids laughed.  "She’s so funny!" Britta cried, clapping her hands with glee.

But when the tears cleared, the Cowled Crusader found herself staring right at the source of that high-pitched squealing: the phone.  It had been knocked off the end table and the receiver lay on the floor.

Britta pinched Fury’s naked buttcheeks and pulled them apart while Brandon poked around between the lavish domes, inserted a probing finger into the pert asshole thus revealed.

"You are so disgusting," Britta said, clenching a small but stinging fistful of glossy opulent buttock as though it was Fury’s fault.

The bound and gagged Mammazon Manhunter yelped into her mouthball and stiffened when the boy (sticking his tongue out at his sister) forced another painfully reaming digit into that no-longer-puckered aperture and wiggled both fingers inside her.

"Yuch!"

Fury tried to ignore the two anal spelunkers (which was tough because he had them jammed up her big ass almost to the webbing) and concentrate on where she’d heard that squeal before.

Then she had it: that phone call she’d tried to make when they were using

But whatinhell could a computer have to do with—"GGGHHHH!  Not three fingers, come onnnnggggh!"

(SOMEONE has to be controlling these kids!)

And Fury knew she had to get in there.  But how? She tested the knots at her gloved wrists.  Tight and unbreakable.  Numbness was spreading from her hands all the way to her leather-sheathed elbows.

"Rats!" Brandon said.

"Are we gonna have to untie her?" Britta asked, disappointed.

"Yeah," he replied in disgust, and gave Fury’s cowled head a vicious kick, like it was her fault.

He started loosening the knots at her booted ankles, tugging at her taut-stretched topknot making her masked eyes water, and she thought she had a chance.

—7—

For about 30 seconds.

But when Brandon untied Fury’s crimson ponytail from her spikeheeled feet (allowing her head to drop forward onto the hardwood floor with a good solid forehead rap) Britta, the little angel, piped up:

"Won’t she try to get away?"

"No I won’t!" Fury cried.  "Promise!  Cross my heart!"

But since her drooling lush mouth remained stuffed with foam ballgag, it came out "Uhnff!  Num-hmm-umpf!"

"Yeah, probably," Brandon allowed.

(Just WAIT’LL I tell your mom, you little—)

"I know!" Britta exclaimed, and jumped up and ran off.

While she was gone, the boy amused himself by abusing one of Fury’s gigantic side-ballooning milkwhoppers, which, unbound, were finally regaining their shape.  He poked a finger into a doughy pumpkin-sized hulk to the second knuckle, then experimented to see how far he could stretch out her stiff nipple (an agonizing 2 feet), and how long the colossal blubberbag would jiggle and shimmy once he let the big hard teat snap back.  As her massive mammary was mauled, the hog-tied leatherclad powergirl squirmed and squealed pitifully—probably would’ve swallowed her mouthball if it hadn’t been wired in place.

Finally Britta came back.  Face down on the floor in a puddle of drool and sweat, trying not to whimper but gasping and chewing on saliva-soaked foam, Savage Fury couldn’t see what she’d brought.

"What good’ll those do?" Brandon demanded.

"You’ll see." With as nasty and superior a snicker as the Thighbooted Thunderbolt had heard from any adult scumbag.

For the umpteenth time: (But they’re just kids!)

Though she was beginning to have her doubts.

"Here, you have to open her up."

"No way, it’s all wet and smelly in there."

"Oh Brandon don’t be such a baby."

That did it.  Fury writhed and bleated in helpless outrage at the rough fingers that fumbled at her tender pussy and pinched its gravid slack twatlips.  Her whole gorgeous sweaty face clenched under its cowl when he pulled them apart, so violently the hog-tied Masked Mammazon threw her leathern head back and howled to the ceiling.

"There, is that wide enough? I bet they don’t all fit."

Britta didn’t reply, just began inserting small pointed metal objects into Fury’s throbbing distended snatch.  The Cowled Crusader couldn’t see, but by a very intimate form of Braille she knew immediately what they were:

Jacks!

As more and more were stuffed into her moist tender (especially now) orifice, the toys gouged Fury’s delicate vaginal walls like barbs, and the ponderous-pontooned paladin’s powerful thighbooted legs jerked involuntarily, causing the most exquisite pain to shoot through her entire scantclad awesomely voluptuous superbody.  She stiffened with a groan strained between teeth that actually managed to clench around their beslobbered foam mouthball.

She heard Brandon’s delighted grin in his voice: "Hey, that’s pretty neat!"

Encouraged by her big brother’s approval, Britta did manage to cram all the jacks into Fury’s burning wet cunt.  When finished, she gave the bulging crimson-thatched lovemound a satisfied smack.  Fury clapped her brawny big-cuffed thighs together and thrashed wildly at the fire that roared through her lower belly, pushed herself onto her leather-sheathed knees and waggled her great naked ass about in the air, bawling wretchedly into the floor.  It was as though someone had stuck a burning signal flare up her twat—and she knew what that felt like.

"She won’t try to get away now," Britta smirked.

Brandon, muttering something that sounded like "real cowboys don’t untie cows" finished freeing the bedraggled boulder-busted super-bombshell.  And Britta was right.  Savage Fury just lay there face down between the children (Britta kneeling and Brandon standing on her titanic soft tits, of course, like prayer cushions).  She didn’t dare to move or even look up, since the slightest wrong movement would enflame her throbbing abused honeypot even further.  She did try to reach back between her legs to stroke herself and ease the agony, but stopped instantly when Brandon stomped down on a stiff thumb-sized teat and ground it under his cowboy boot heel.

The Thighbooted Thunderbolt writhed at his feet like a fabulously fleshy fish out of water then lay still, trembling and whimpering into her ballgag.

—8—

"We should so punish her, she’s been a bad lady!" Britta stamped her foot.

"You don’t punish grown-ups." Brandon repeated patiently.  He sat astride Savage Fury’s waist facing backwards, idly stroking and pinching her great bare asscheeks.  The mortified suffering Cowled Crusader kept still with an effort.  Jam-packed with what felt like tiny porcupines, her dripping swollen snatch felt like it would rupture if she so much as hiccuped.

(Listen to your older brother, you little bi—minx.)

"Why not? We get punished when we’ve been bad!"

(My costume?)

"And she’s been very bad!  Telling us what to do, running around all naked with her, her watermelons hanging out all over the place, touching her thing down there!"

There was a long pause.  Brandon sighed.

They took the thoroughly beslobbered and sodden nerf ballgag out of Fury’s luscious slack mouth.  Brandon had as stern and paternal an expression on his pudgy young face as he could manage.  "Britta’s right.  You’ve been bad, and you’re going to be punished.  Get used to it."

(Ogod, what are they going to do to me?)

The increasingly frantic Fury grabbed at a last ditch idea: "What if I give you a ride instead? On my back, you know, like a pony."

(Straight into the computer room.)

"Both of us?" Brandon asked Fury.

Who nodded (not too eagerly, she hoped).  The boy looked at his frowning sister, who folded her arms and shook her head stubbornly.  Then he smiled.

The Cowled Crusader howled!  She wailed, she squirmed and struggled till her pendent chest-boulders joggled massively about, sagging around their narrow straps like gigantic bags of flan.  Stretched across Brandon’s lap, shoulder-gloved arms bound before her at wrists and elbows, the sobbing Savage Sensation writhed and kicked her long thighbooted legs as he and his sister battered her lavish bare buttocks with hair brush (Brandon) and ping-pong paddle (Britta), each pounding a separate shimmying netherpillow.

Plenty to go around, she thought deliriously, sobbing.

"Bad lady!" Britta kept saying with each whack to a resilient gleaming fleshbowl.  "Bad BAD lady!"

"You’re just an old crybaby," Brandon pronounced scornfully as he battered the reddening full-blown dome on his side.  They had it down to a rhythm by now, even played "shave-and-a-haircut" on her vast quaking cheeks.

The tormented bawling Fury could barely think straight for the agony!  It wasn’t the spanking itself—though bad enough, it was more humiliating than painful—but every blow to her great naked ass felt like firecrackers exploding in her jack-stuffed snatch!  And every so often Britta (that little bi—brat) missed her outthrust pillowy target and landed one squarely on Fury’s swollen bulging cunt, which all but launched the wretched weeping woman wonder’s wide tear-streaming eyes from their mask and caused her cries to leap up a few octaves.

"Nononoooo!" she wailed to her own intense but helpless embarrassment, and wriggled sumptuously.

"Stay still!" Brandon commanded, sounding more than ever like a stern father.  He reached down and took a monstrous joggling mega-jug by its stiff nipple, gave that rubbery dowel a pinch that normally would have made Savage Fury go limp as a lox.  But the agonized Avenging Amazon barely felt it.

Nothing annoys children more than adults who don’t act like adults.  Fury was discovering this, too late.  The louder her sobs and the more frantic her struggles and kicks, the harder the kids pounded her swollen naked ass.

And now it did hurt.  A lot.  She’d been machine-gunned down there (an ass the size of hers was almost as hard to miss as her titanic tits) and it hadn’t hurt as much.

The horrid humiliating butt-barrage seemed to go on forever, till Brandon suddenly stood, dumping the crying Cowled Crusader onto the floor with a weary squawk.  "This is boring," he announced.

Beaten, Fury lay in the dining room and sniffled.  Her big ass was one throbbing fiery ache, as though a migraine had migrated south into each lavish crimson cheek.  Her poor thorn-packed pussy had gone numb.  She hoped it would stay that way, at least for awhile.  She also hoped no one would come up with any other use for it.

(Good thing Brandon’s only ten!)

" … a saddle," she overheard from a corner where Brandon and Britta were in whispered huddle.  He seemed to be giving her instructions, which (oddly enough) she eagerly accepted.  Giggled a lot, in fact, before going into the living room.

Fury decided she’d better take what advantage she could of the girl’s absence.  Even though he was only ten, Brandon didn’t seem totally immune to her near-naked ultra-voluptuous charms, sweaty and bruised though they were.

(Of course, that is when they usually get their hardest work-out!)

"I can’t find the turn-on thing!" Britta called from the other room.

"It’s by the tools!  The matches are there too!"

Something hissed.

(Ironic—if he was older, you could manipulate him easily.)

"I, I won’t be able to go very fast with jacks in my—inside me," Fury told him.  Her tremulous smile tried to be friendly and warm but didn’t do very well.

(If he was older you could entice him into replacing the jacks with something else, more personal, like Jack Hammer and the others are always only too eager to do.  Even rape is preferable to this!  And afterwards ....)

"You better go as fast as I want!" he declared, smacking the hair brush into his palm.

(Rats.  Of course, if he was older he probably would’ve had you already, at least once.  Wouldn’t that gross Little Miss Britta out!)

For a moment the desperate double-dirigibled dynamo actually considered trying to seduce the boy.

(No way.  He’s still just a kid, whatever’s got him under its spell.)

From the living room: "Which one should I use?"

"I told you—the one with the ‘X’ on the end."

"Then how about at least untying my arms?" Fury asked.

"Not yet."

"What does that mean?"

He only smiled down at her, and for a moment didn’t look like a human boy at all.  Hunkered at his feet, the Cowled Crusader couldn’t help cringing away from that grimace.

She found out what he meant a few moments later, when behind her Britta sang out "Readyyyy!"

Brandon kicked the hapless grunting heroine up onto gloved hands and thighbooted knees.  With a sharp intake of breath, she discovered her cunt wasn’t totally numb.

Fury prepared herself to be ridden.  On all fours, she glanced around behind her and got just a quick glimpse of a rod of some kind in Britta’s hand, before it was smacked into her lavish bare butt.

Savage Fury shrieked and reared up at the sudden searing agony!  She would have staggered to her spikeheeled feet despite the barbs filling her snatch if Brandon hadn’t slammed a baseball bat across her leathern skull with all his strength and dropped her down again.  To slump there stunned, head down and scorched throbbing ass up.

Through her haze of torment, Fury dimly caught the following:

"Hey!  Nothing happened!"

"Let’s try the other one."

No sooner said than done.  Savage Fury hunkered there and howled and kicked as her left buttcheek was seared.

"Maybe it isn’t hot enough," Britta said.

(They’re trying to brand me!  With fireplace tools!  The little monsters!)

Fury was losing it.  It was all too bizarre, too painful, too degrading.  She couldn’t even use her powers because of those stupid jacks—what good was super strength when every movement hurt like hell? A spiked dildo jammed up her ass hadn’t hurt as much, she’d still been able to beat Big Bad Mama and her Diabolical Daughters to a pulp before extracting it.

(And the sequel, where you forced Mama and her teen bitches to use that thing on each other—not to mention a lot of other stuff they’d used on you before those ropes dried out—was almost worth the whole ordeal!)

"Uh ohhh," Brandon said.

"What’s ‘whelps’?" Britta asked.

Fury opened her masked eyes and blinked away tears as Brandon cut the knots at her leather-sheathed elbows and wrists.  Didn’t really give a damn, not even when they stuffed the drool-soaked nerf-gag back into her slack raw mouth.  Her lavish scorched ass throbbed horribly, and for maybe the millionth time (this month) she wished her skin was as insensitive as it was invulnerable.

Brandon climbed astride Fury’s broad muscular back and Britta got on behind him.  He took the straps of the mouthball and tugged on them like reins.  The gagged great-titted superwoman grunted numbly, didn’t move.

"Giddyap!"

(No fucking way, kid.  This mare ain’t going nowhere yet.  Oooooh, my ass—!)

"C’mon, horsy, giddyap!" Brandon insisted, rather plaintively.

"I know what she needs." Britta got off.

Brandon tried stomping the slumped Thighbooted Thunderbolt’s mammoth side-ballooning mammaries as though he was kick-starting a motorcycle.  But even that didn’t work, though she groaned horribly into her foam mouthball.  A minute or so later Britta came back with a feather duster.

"She needs a tail!"

"Nnmm-hmmpffffff!!" Fury protested around the gag, and shook her cowled head violently.  Then: "GGGLLAAGGGHHHH!!"

As the duster was jammed into her no-longer-puckered-at-all asshole—then twisted and turned and pushed till almost the whole handle had disappeared between her throbbing outsized nethercheeks.

That got her up, despite the pain in her ass and the barbs filling her cunt (which were making their presence agonizingly felt, each and every one of them).

The young cowboy’s third "Giddyap!" was both unheard and unnecessary.

—9—

"Yippeeee!" Brandon hollered, and Britta chimed in with her own squeal of delight.

Yelping and bleating into her ballgag as the jacks tore and gouged the tender walls of her pussy and the duster reamed her raw rectum, Savage Fury scrambled frenziedly on hands and knees around the living room, bearing her gleeful young riders through the dining room again and into the kitchen.  Her humiliating gallop bounced and joggled Fury’s massively pendent jello-pumpkins about wildly between her leather-sheathed arms.  

Whooping and cheering, Brandon held the straps of the Savage Sensation’s mouthball in one pudgy fist and waved his cowboy hat with the other.  Britta faced backwards with spindly legs clamped around the galloping gargantuan-globed gladiatrix’s narrow waist so she could beat her great pumping ass with a spatula and play with the protruding duster.  She stirred it around in Fury’s throbbing swollen coal chute like a joystick, as though trying to steer their miserable Mammazon mount from behind.

"Yahoo!" Brandon screamed.

Whenever the crawling Cowled Crusader slowed even a smidge, the boy liked to jam his razor-sharp spurs deep into the glossy sides of her dangling dancing dirigibles and at the same time Britta would give her throbbing butt a hard whack right on the burning brand, making her (to her own embarrassment) rear up whinnying like an Amazonian bucking bronco.

Then charge off again, the duster waggling between her great shim-shammying cheeks like a saucy tail.

"Hi-yo Silverrrrrr!"

Sawing viciously on the ballgag-reins, Brandon jerked the stupendous scrambling Fury’s cowled head about till it felt like her neck would snap or the corners of her lips would be pulled back to her ears or both.  As she clambered wildly over the carpet her naked milkblimps swung and billowed beneath her like boulderous gelid bells, bounced between her leatherclad elbows and battered by her boot-sheathed knees, their big stiff nipples almost brushing the floor.  Dimly, in her fog of pain and humiliation, the massive-mammed mount wondered what they would look like when they hung to her knees, kicked and pounded and spurred totally black and blue.

And every time Britta smacked her invisible nether scorch mark with the spatula, she might as well have poured lighter fluid on the fire in the Cowled Crusader’s big bare ass.

But something else was happening too: as she scrabbled around the house on all fours, she found the pain in her lacerated dripping pussy was lessening.  She also started to find cum-soaked jacks scattered about the floor.

(They’re dropping out, one by one!  Maybe it’s all the lubricant or maybe it’s the same problem as with Walt: you’ve taken so many enormous dicks down there you’re too loose to hold them in!)

All she had to do now was keep Brandon and Britta from noticing the jacks and putting them back.

So Fury gave them a ride they’d remember (like you have a choice, right!).  She carried them twice more around the house on her broad bare back, sobbing by now as Brandon savagely raked her massive ponderously dancing whoppers with his spurs and Britta battered her outthrust outsized buttcheeks crimson.

And finally, when she hadn’t found any more jacks for awhile, took them where everyone wanted to go: right into the computer room.

—10—

As she pushed the door open with her cowled head and crawled inside The Fabulous Fury wasn’t sure what she expected to find inside, but she was sure she couldn’t take much more of this.  Giggling, Britta beat on her lavish netherpillows like soft bursting bongos (actually pounding out a kind of meaty lambada rhythm) while Brandon had tied the straps of the fat ballgag behind her head so he could use her scarlet ponytail as reins.  He held on with both hands and jerked her cowled head back till her neck cracked, while kicking his razor-sharp rowels deep into the billowing sides of her pendent dancing blubberblimps.

What she found shocked but didn’t surprise her.  The room was filled with a bright evil light from the monitor, like sick green fire, and Brandon and Britta—the real Brandon and Britta—stared miserably out of it as though from prison.

"I knew it!" she would have cried if it hadn’t been for the well-chewed and drool-soaked ballgag.

The Britta in the screen was crying silently.  Brandon mouthed the word "Help!" before both children were shoved aside by a face so ugly that for a moment the ridden Thighbooted Thunderbolt forgot her humiliating burden.  It filled the monitor, like a toad crossed with one of those little fish that eat anything in seconds—piranha.

(Looks like that Cyberdemon thing is more than just a game!)

"We were just having fun," the Brandon on her back pouted.

"Yeah, fun!" the fake Britta chimed in.

The Savage Sensation (feeling neither savage nor sensational right now) glanced back over her shoulder to see them changing before her eyes.  Their skin coarsened into something like scales, ears elongated to points, eyes now like cats’—still children, but not of human parents.  They were turning into younger versions of the awful face on the screen.

Fury blinked tears from her masked eyes and finally spotted what she’d been looking for.  Suddenly, gathering all the strength she’d carefully hoarded during this ride (at the expense of major humiliation and serious pain, especially in her mammoth mauled mammaries), she bucked the surprised demon children off.  The little monsters tumbled to the floor with reptilian hisses of rage and with a gagged grunt Fury surged to her spikeheeled feet.

The desperate Battling Bombshell launched herself at the power cord in one corner of the green-lit room.

(I don’t know squat about computers, but they sure as heck have to be plugged in!)

She grabbed the plug—and screamed, stiffening as thousands of volts slammed through her!  For a moment that seemed to stretch into hours, the kneeling Savage Fury thrashed like a monumental marionette, gloved fingers helplessly clenched around that agonizing wire, before a circuit breaker opened somewhere and the fiery body-wracking voltage vanished.

Leaving her to crouch in the corner stunned.  Surprised not to see smoke rising from her gargantuan boobs—their nipples had popped up like sore stiff thumbs.  Every muscle felt like it had shorted out.

(Well, at least I got the juice turned off, everything’s—)

Unbelieving, the Masked Mammazon looked up.  The face was still there!

"How—?" she managed to gasp.

"What’s an uninterrible—?" Fury spotted the small box at the other end of the power cord that had almost fried her, but turned at a strange sound from behind.  The words froze in her mouth.  

Cats-eyes flashing, shark’s teeth gnashing, demon-Britta was coming towards the weakened woman wonder, and as Savage Fury gaped helplessly the childish body changed.  Like some inflatable doll, her narrow ribcage developed full-sized breasts (and then some—they’re like cantaloupes!) and her immature bare mons swelled out to a mature woman’s pussy, complete with heavy pouting labia, and sprouted lush pubic foliage in the process.  The heavy new breasts weren’t nearly as big as Fury’s own, but on that small girlish body they looked bizarrely enormous!

"Do you like me better now, superbitch?" the monster-child demanded in a harsh shrill voice, one claw-like hand clutching a heavy breast while the other groped her burgeoning snatch.

And right behind his savage sister, demon-Brandon’s cock came literally exploding from his cowboy jeans like a pink jack-in-the-box the size of a forearm—no, (Jesus Christ!) make that two jack-in-the-boxes!!  One atop the other!  Groaning, Fury started to pull herself away.  Every movement pumped fresh agony throughout her battered overblown body, but she knew she’d have trouble taking in just one of those phallic monsters, there was no way her pussy could stretch around—

Demon-Britta grabbed the crawling colossal-titted crusader by her crimson ponytail and jerked her up so demon-Brandon could kick her over onto her back.  The grinning girl-fiend plumped her bottom down on Fury’s gut and, splaying a claw-like hand over the back of her cowled head, lifted the Stupendous Sexsation to mash her plush bloodied lips into a huge breast and force her to suckle at that great unnatural udder.

"NNNOOOOONOOMMMPPPHHhhhh—!!"

Fury gagged on the soft foul-tasting titflesh that filled her mouth, tried to bite down on the hard nipple but that was when demon-Brandon rammed his huge rigid dicks into her swollen pussy and raw throbbing asshole together, double-pronging the Thighbooted Thunderbolt as she had never been double-pronged before!  All that doughy boob crammed into Fury’s drooling mouth could only slightly muffle the nearly ultrasonic squeal that blasted forth.  The masked eyes staring over the enormous face-mashed tit poured out agony and tears.

"Oh Daddy, don’t be gross!" the demon-child pouted and released Fury’s leathern head so abruptly her skull rapped on the floor.

Massively and doubly fucked, Fury wasn’t listening to the family argument.  She heard nothing but her own groans and cries of passion and pain as demon-Brandon, her limply kicking thighbooted legs in the crooks of his arms, pounded those twin truncheons into both her raw swollen netherholes at once.

"UGHH—OHHH—OOOO—URGGH—GGGK!!"

"Hey, try it, sis," the monstrous boy said, hunching himself forward into the writhing hapless super-bombshell with a piston-like power and rhythm that belied his immaturity.  "This is kinda cool."

Demon-Britta gave grunting Fury a venomous glare, like this was all her fault—and obeyed her father.  Suddenly the Cowled Crusader’s whole sweaty pain-clenched face was engulfed in the biggest heaviest wettest snatch she’d ever encountered.

Momentarily overwhelmed (not to mention smothered), the Masked Mammazon didn’t start licking immediately, so demon-Britta reached back to seize her swollen nipples and twist them painfully.  Fury bleated into the sopping fleshy folds, the cry rising to a pathetic wail when razor-sharp claws tore her hard rubbery teats and pulled her gigantic jugs, stretched them into gargantuan bulbous cones.

So, gagging, Savage Fury went to work at the precocious pussy.

Rolled her tongue out like a red carpet into the warm smothering swampy grotto that covered her face.  The bloated pudenda shivered as she began to lap at them and tremors ran through the bony haunches astraddle her upturned cowled head.  As though jealous of the hapless superheroine’s divided attention, Demon-Brandon stepped up his double-fucking.  He leaned over bending Fury’s legs down till her leather-sheathed knees were almost at her sides and plowed her so deep and hard and fast that his scaly loins slapping against hers sounded like another spanking.

Fury thrashed about screaming into his sister’s face-smothering snatch, it felt like one of the humongous organs was trying to tunnel up her asshole into her stomach.  But with a moan demon-Britta clamped the Masked Mammazon’s cowled head between thin thighs and forced Fury to continue eating her out as she was brutally banged.  It was like the frenzied fuck-energy passed through Fury from the awesome plunging double-dorks to the suffocating superheated pussy spread across her face devouring her industriously working tongue.  As though the demonic boy was screwing his evil sister through the helpless writhing Cowled Crusader!

A vagrant thought floated through Fury’s pain- and passion-drenched mind as she licked and licked at the mouth-mashed fleshfolds: Now that’s kinky!

"Oooooooo!" went demon-Britta, squirming about on Savage Fury’s face and pussy-probing tongue.  "Aaaaaaaaaa!"

"O man—o man—oman—omanomanoman!" went demon-Brandon, pumping and reaming as hard as he could.

"Ngggh!  Ggguuhhh!" went Savage Fury, weeping silently.  She wrapped her shoulder-sheathed arms around the girl-ghoul’s skinny thighs and lapped and tongued and ate her out for all she was worth.

(Can you say "humiliated and degraded," boys and girls? I knew you could!)

—11—

But (the ponderous-pontooned paladin was surprised to find) not abased quite completely.  While demon-Brandon’s plunging double-dorks pounded her grunting and sweating toward a wretched wrenching kind of climax (thank God you crammed that entire Coke bottle into your cunt, without that stretching this would be even tougher!) and the face-sat Fabulous Fury’s lapping probing tongue curled around his monstrous sister’s finger-sized clit and brought her to the brink as well, one of her leather-sheathed arms fumbled around blindly for—for—

(Where the hell is it? Don’t even know if this’ll work, but I’ll bet he puts himself ahead of his kids—

(Ah!)

Gloved fingers curled around the plug from the computer to the box on the floor that the Cyberdemon had called an "unintelligible" something or other.

Another tremendous electrical charge slammed through her monumentally voluptuous super-body,

and blasted into the little horrors grinding drenched smelly pussy into her masked face and ramming impossibly big and hard cocks up her poor raw throbbing (and by now soaked with cum and blood) netherholes!

With twin reptilian howls, the child-demons spasmed off of and out of the Cowled Crusader (which was what she wanted), but came simultaneously as they did so—which was what she definitely didn’t want.

Fury’s gorgeous masked face was spattered and slimed with goo that filled her mouth and tasted awful, like anchovies and stale milk and liver and everything she hated—and worse, blinded her.  Demon-Brandon’s cum burned in her swollen abused pussy and asshole as though he’d hosed flaming gasoline into her.

"Jeez Dad, thanks a lot!" came demon-Brandon’s yowl.

"Yeah, thanks!" demon-Britta chimed in.

Fury’s gamble had paid off but she was less than elated.  Coughing and retching, the blinded boulder-boobed bombshell wiped her cum-splashed face and clutched at her burning dripping twat as she struggled to her spikeheeled feet.  Stumbled back against the computer table, felt the edge against her bare buttocks.  Squeaked at a burst of fiery pain from her anus and the one branded mega-cheek.

Fury turned toward the sound, fumbling blindly for the computer.  She didn’t have a plan; there was so much pain in her tender ravaged inner parts that she could barely call up a coherent thought.  But if the voice was afraid when she was this close, there must be something ....

A shrill screech filled the scantclad Avenging Amazon’s ears and she cried out as claws scored her broad muscular back!  She spun sightlessly into wings beating her masked face and talons that clutched and raked her titanic naked tits.  Flailing wildly, unseeingly, she managed to knock the flying whatever-the-hell-it-was back—and her eyes cleared enough for a blurry glimpse of her attacker that would stay with her for a long time: a scaly body with flapping leathery wings and the demon-Britta’s head on top!

The great bat-creature swooped at her with a shriek and the colossal-titted crusader was too dazed to duck the claws that slammed across her cowled head, knocking her sideways with a yelp.  The room rocked and Fury put out a gloved hand to catch herself, touched a small metal box behind her with blinking red lights on its face.

(This must be that modem thingggGGGGHHHHH!!)

The flying demon-Britta dove upon her again and seized her gigantic joggling chest-pumpkins in its sharp claws, squeezed them till the the horny grapnels were engulfed in doughy titflesh

and, batwings speeding to a blur, hauled the leatherclad super-bombshell bawling and thrashing into the air!  Suspended from her agonizingly distended double dirigibles, thighbooted legs kicking two feet from the floor, Savage Fury screamed and flopped about like a fabulous fish on a hook, only the hooks were deep in her monstrous milkbags!  She managed to reach up and wrap gloved fingers around the Britta-bat’s neck, had the small satisfaction of seeing the crazy eyes bulge and a panicky snake-like tongue flash out.  They descended a bit and Fury’s spikeheels scraped the floor.

Meanwhile, ignored by the lofting painfully preoccupied ponderous-pontooned paladin, demon-Brandon had changed too, even more bizarrely.  Savage Fury discovered this when what looked like snakes reached up to twist around her gloved wrists and yank them away from the Britta-bat’s neck.  Her muscular limbs were pulled down behind her and when she struggled half-hysterically (stretching her distended watermelons even more) they wrapped around and around her shoulder-sheathed arms from elbows to wrists, binding them together with something like unbreakable vines.

At first the frantic Fabulous Fury was more concerned with her agonizingly-stretched monsterjugs.  The horrible bat-Britta was lifting her toward the ceiling again by them and it felt like the claws were trying to tear her titanic tender tits right off their ribcage.

Then more tentacles joined the first two—forcibly, one slamming up her dripping lust-bloated twat like a fist and the other burrowing deep into her gaping asshole—and when she squealed, another dove into her mouth!

"EEEEEEEEMMMMPPPPHHHHhhhh …!!"

In seconds they were all over her like crawling slimy snakes.  The first pair tunneled deeper into her throbbing pussy and raw swollen asshole, but Fury couldn’t groan or scream because she was gagging on the third as it tried to force its way down her throat like some huge implacable mouth-fucking cock!  Two more joined the first pair between her frantically kicking legs (she managed an agonized croak around the oily wrist-thick worm stretching her lips) while others grabbed her ankles and pulled her hipbooted legs apart, wrapping around her calves till they were bound to her thighs, and still others snaked around neck, waist, and into the vast crevice between her lavish bare buttocks.

Tightly cocooned, suspended between floor and ceiling, Savage Fury struggled—as much against utter hysteria as to free herself from the monstermamm-clenched claws and the tightly constricting erogenously exploring tentacles.  She was being grabbed and squeezed and groped and probed and just plain fucked everywhere at once—and then, at the point in a corner of the room where all the entwining snakes came together, Fury spotted the grinning mad face of demon-Brandon, like some kind of hideous flower!  His legs and arms and both of those awful cocks of his extended away from him into thick writhing tendrils which then split into smaller vines like wiggling fingers.

A tongue leaped forth from his horrible drooling mouth and shot through the air to loop around the bases of her enormous teardrop-shaped whoppers and pull tight.  Fury’s masked sweat-streaming face clenched in agony and she’d have bitten down on the thick tendril filling her mouth if it hadn’t already stretched her jaw as far as it would go, and was currently trying to worm its way down her throat.

"Glughh!  Gulkkk!"

"Mine!" the bat-Britta screeched, bumping against the ceiling as she flapped up a storm.  "Leggo!"

"Thut up!" her fiendish brother lisped around his impossible python of a tongue.

As by her gargantuan globes that tentacle reeled Savage Fury down to the securely anchored demon-Brandon, and pulled his monstrous sister with her.  The screeching winged horror whipped her leathery wings to a misty blur, but only slowed them a bit.  And the bawling thrashing Thighbooted Thunderbolt’s enormous udders stretched and strreettchhed!  And still more tentacles forced their way into an already-yawning pussy and fought for entry into a gaping bloodied asshole!

Demon-Brandon, enchanted with the thound of his own voithe (and delighted by the fact it enraged his thithter), was chanting: "Thikth thea-thick thailors thighted theven therpenth thwimming!" over and over again.

"Shut up!" the bat-Britta screamed.  "Shutupshutpshup!" Clenching Fury’s colossal boobs even tighter, till the razorclaws all but disappeared in the vast ballooning blubberbags!

At that moment the tormented tentacle-cocooned monumentally voluptuous body in question, having endured way more than enough excessive and grotesque stimuli at both extremes of the pleasure-pain spectrum, began to buck and writhe in mid-air through a series of convulsive climaxes.  Wave after explosive wave of thick honey surged from her overstuffed snatch, till she felt like she was hemorrhaging cum!

As though in answer, the coiling reaming deep-boring tendrils began to spew jism of their own, gushed it into her strained bursting snatch and anus like fire hoses and pumped more into her mouth—if she hadn’t closed her throat instantly, she’d have drowned in the awful stuff!  The creamy foul discharge erupted from taut-stretched lips and snatch and anus to splash over her tight-wound watermelons and drip down into her thighboots, till it covered her great bare ass and the rest of her from cowled head to stiletto bootheels.  It thoroughly drenched both her and the entire constricting tendril-web—and lubricated them as well.  Fury found she could move her leather-sheathed arms in their now-slippery cocoon.  With a tendril-gagged cry she wrenched them free, grabbed the loose tentacles

and began lashing the demon-Britta-bat with them.

(Let’s see if these two share their father’s warm family values!)

The flying horror shrieked and snapped at the whipping snakes and finally did what Fury wanted: she released the Cowled Crusader’s elephantine elongated udders and seized the flailing tendrils in her claws!

Savage Fury slipped from the enfolding tentacles’ cum-slimed grasp and landed flat on her cum-smeared bare ass with a squelch and a squeak, but this time she didn’t mind at all.  Demon-Brandon was more interested in fighting his sister, throwing every oozing feeler he possessed around her as she bit them and tore at them with her claws and screamed.

"Children will squabble," Fury managed to quip, stumbling to the computer table.

Not wanting to risk another unintelligible power supply thing, she brought a gloved fist down on what she hoped was the modem and smashed it to pieces.

Small itsy-bitsy teensy-tiny pieces.

But the kids—that part she was never sure of.  Something came out of the monitor at the same time something else went in, and it looked like they blended in the middle, as though making an exchange of some sort.

Whatever it was, when she looked around again there were Brandon and Britta—the real Brandon and Britta—sitting in the middle of the floor looking dazed and sleepy.  There was no sign of their evil duplicates—in fact, no sign anything at all had happened except for the smashed modem next to her gloved fist and a few puddles of cum soaking into the carpet.  And of course she herself was covered with the awful icky stuff like she’d fallen into a vat of it.

"What happened?" Brandon yawned.

"Yeah, what?" Britta chimed in, fisting a drooping eye sleepily.

Joyously, the Masked Mammazon scooped them up in her shoulder-gloved arms and hugged them to her, engulfing their small faces in her massive soft bosom.

"Wow!" Brandon gasped into all that burgeoning doughy titflesh, as a hard rubbery nipple like a finger poked through its narrow strap into his nose.

"Ewwwwww!" Britta squirmed, but not too hard.

—12—

And so she got the kids to bed and they dropped off the instant their little heads hit the pillow.  They acted like they’d been awakened from a sound sleep just to be put to bed again.

(Probably think the whole thing was a bad dream by tomorrow.)

She hoped—she sure didn’t want them telling their mom all about the sexy lady in the kinky costume who just happened to show up at the same time their baby-sitter disappeared ….

The house wasn’t nearly as much of a mess as Savage Fury expected.  She wondered how much of what had happened had been real, and how much had been a dream.  Or hallucination, or (what had Ronnie called it?) "virtuous realty."

But first—FIRST—she stripped off her cum-soaked costume and tossed it in the washer-dryer and took a long, long, soapy soak, hot as Paige Powers or Savage Fury could stand, and used way more of Ronnie’s best scented bubble bath than she had to.  She gave every raw abused orifice a thorough cleaning and lay there in mountains of fragrant froth up to her neck till the water cooled.  But that wasn’t why she shivered and hugged herself and chewed her plump lower lip and kept having to blink away tears.

Her mantra helped a little: (You beat them again, it doesn’t matter how, you beat them, you beat them ....)

Finally she retrieved her Savage Fury costume, all washed and dried and not shrunk a bit, which was a good thing because as it was she had a hard enough time fitting all of her into it as it was.  The bath had helped, but not all the way, and a good thorough housecleaning might do the rest.  So she used her super-strength and -speed to get everything back in order before Ronnie came home.

She almost made it.

But the Cowled Crusader had just finished the last item: straightening a bent metal floor lamp, when the front door opened (she cursed herself for not listening for the car engine) and Veronica-Wonder Woman walked in.

Stood there, one crimson-gloved hand on the knob, as Fury spun about.

The two costumed Amazons shared an astonished stare.

"Uh—" Fury felt a deep blush suffuse her outrageously-overblown body, all too aware of how much of that blush was visible to her friend.  She fumbled for an excuse.  And fumbled some more.

"What a great costume!" Ronnie exclaimed.  "Why didn’t you come to the party?? You'd have been the hit of the evening!"

"Well, see, it—well, it wasn’t, uh, finished yet."

(Yeah, that’s the ticket!)

"Those are killer boots!  Where did you get them?"

Fury glanced down, suddenly feeling like she teetered precariously on the 5-inch spikes.  "Oh, gee, they were kind of—a gift."

(That much at least is true.)

Veronica came up to her, swinging the floor-length cloak from her broad bare shoulders with a flourish and draping it over a chair.

"I’ve always loved fine leather," she smiled, "and I’ve never seen better than this!" Her elegant eyes danced over the Thighbooted Thunderbolt’s outsized near-naked splendors.

"It’s, oh it’s one-of-a-kind, as far as I know." Relief flooded Fury in a cool tide.

"And it’s so daring!  I would never dream of wearing anything like it!" Ronnie clasped their scarlet and black-gloved hands.  "And I thought you were, well, kind of mousy."

Paige smiled.