I didn’t hear an echo, so she was still out. I was flat on my back and my mouth tasted of cum. I ached everywhere, especially between my legs. Why is it that rapists always seem to have dicks like salamis? I tried to lever myself up on my elbows but gave up after a couple of tries. My tits felt like two Himalayan mountains pinning me down. Make that Himalayan volcanoes, the way they throbbed and burned. At least all the bastards had done was squeeze and punch them.

I turned over onto my side and discovered the reason I couldn’t see anything. My mask was askew. Found a hand at the end of an arm wearing a big flare-cuffed gauntlet whose bright red matched the arm’s leather jacket sleeve. That cinched it—mine. Took that hand and raised it and straightened the mask over my eyes. At least they hadn’t tied me or my tits up. The way they’d left me, I probably wasn’t worth the bother. They’d done just about everything else.

The overhead light was as bright as the sun. Slipped an ice pick into my brain. Closed my eyes again. Nothing much to see anyway.

Flopped over onto my hands and knees, grunting as I mashed my massive aching mamms beneath me. Did a slow arduous push-up. Knew I was at arms’ length when my naked boobs finally lifted off the floor. Their ponderous weight almost pulled me down again. My desk was within reach, so after only a half dozen tries I managed to grab onto the edge. By using most of my strength I was able to hoist myself all the way onto my thighbooted knees, and chin myself on the desk top. Bit my tongue.

That sudden motion started cardiac tom-toms beating in my skull. Knelt for awhile and listened, my chin on the scarred wood the only thing keeping me up. An old familiar rhythm. At least they’d only kicked my head a couple of times, instead of using it for soccer practice like some. That was what had skewed my mask.

Huh. I was starting to feel downright grateful to those creeps.

Except for the semen that coated throat and dripped from chin, and oozed down legs from raw reamed asshole, soaking stockings and collecting in thigh-high boots. Except for the finger bruises on gigantic jugs and inner loins where he’d spread them as he hard-hosed me, the teeth marks on nipples and the mouse swelling under one masked eye, and the ache in my gut where his fists had pounded me like a drum before I’d finally dropped to booted knees for him and his dick.

Except for the open wound on my ego and the swollen knot of rage, that Raven O’Rourke, the Silk Stalker, could be taken so easily, manhandled and beaten and plowed like a field in her own office. Her own goddam office!

Anger gave me amazing strength. Got a good grip on the edge of the desk and heaved my awesomely voluptuous and awesomely aching body up a whole nother foot or so, lifting my throbbing naked tits onto the desk where they spread over the cool wood like shimmying pumpkins of flan. They were so soft and pillowy that if they hadn’t hurt so much I might have gone to sleep, aching head nestled between their pink cushions. Wouldn’t have been the first time.

Soon I knew I’d have to stuff them back into their bra. Wasn’t looking forward to that ordeal. They don’t like being thrown into prison, especially after being used as overblown punching bags. Besides, I wasn’t sure where that particular outsized item of lingerie was. And if I did go to all the trouble of recupping my boulderous babies (Mike came up with that one), someone would probably just yank them out again. Tits the size of mine are easy targets; for caresses and blows.

Both of which had been the order of the day so far. Kneeling there at my desk as though offering these monstrous jiggling mamms on an altar, I knew damned well that if I hadn’t had so much of the first two, I might not have been such an easy set-up for the third.

It’s hard to accept that even in 6-inch boot heels, I could be caught flat-footed.

Should’ve been suspicious right off, when I got back to the office and Gayle wasn’t at her receptionist’s desk. (Where was she, by the way?) It was only mid-afternoon and she never left early, even when I wanted her to. But I’d figured she was running an errand or something. Maybe seeing her new girlfriend for a little afternoon delight on the sly. Smiled at that—she was so afraid I’d be jealous.

Not likely, if only because I’d just come back from a couple hours of sweaty satisfying quality time myself. So I couldn’t blame her. Talk about rosy glows—a big dick and good sex will do that to me every time (so will a hot tongue and sweet pussy, for that matter).

But Gayle takes her duties very seriously, and never leaves her desk without telling me. In person.

Roseately halo’d thus and totally out of touch with reality, I’d even hummed as I paused to check my mask and make-up in a mirror. Straightened my stocking seams and pulled up the tops of my thighboots and tilted my broad-brimmed hat to just the right cocky angle before opening the inner office door. A client was due—so far just a hesitant yet urgent female voice over the phone, but that’s the way a lot of profitable cases begin. We always try to look our best for the customers. And if I do say so myself, my best is very good indeed.

If I hadn’t been thinking about that last time as I walked into my office—Mike’s warm tasty cum squirting all over my smiling stupid face and humongous boobs for both of us to lick off—I might have made more of the fact the inner door was already slightly ajar ....

Because three spikeheeled steps in was all I got to take before the ceiling fell on me. Or something close enough, that took me across the back of the neck and dropped me to my leather-sheathed knees, whole new constellations exploding in my domino’d eyes. Tried to get up again, which was obviously a mistake, since it brought a knee powering into my gut from the side, me commenting "gloolfff!" and reassuming the penitent position more sincerely.

Reached into the flaring cuff of one of my gauntlets for a microbomb or gas pellet and discovered to my intense dismay I hadn’t loaded any—no dazzlers or even acid pills. The glove was empty. Mike and I do some kinky things, but none of them involve gas or explosions.

Frantically checked my right thighboot for a knife. But a hand swept my Certified Lamont Cranston Slouch Hat off so it could take a fistful of my hair and slam my beautiful masked face down onto the knee that had just been forcefully introduced to my gut. I made a very unglamorous noise, more suitable to a pigsty than an office, and blood spurted from my nose.

For some reason, not a very bright one, I persisted in struggling to my feet. This time got about half way up when the hand turned into a wrecking ball of a fist that slammed across my jaw like it was trying to twist my head all the way around on my shoulders. With a yelp, I went flying to sprawl across my desk on my stomach scattering papers and other stuff. And just lay there for a numb moment, staring down at my chair and tasting blood from smashed lips.

Then the hand was back, this time like a crane. It took me by its favorite grip—my hair, be it ever so long and black and tangled—and hauled me back off my desk. Yrs Truly groaned through gritted teeth and tried to grab the hand. This annoyed its bro the five-fingered wrecking ball, which proceeded to pound my lower back from behind, making me squawk and bawl and flounder about from my fist-clutched hair like the crimson-leatherclad Catch of the Day.

Finally, when Silk Stalker’s kidneys had been battered till they felt like so much oatmeal and her arms dangled at her sides like overcooked pasta clad in gauntlets of granite, the crane slammed the dangling battered detective back against the wall. So the wrecking ball could work the same pulverizing magic from in front. Each separate knuckle did its damndest to burrow through my belly to my spine. As that quart of bone buried itself in my gut again and again, stomach tried to get out of the way by squeezing up esophagus. But whenever it rose as far as throat, a second stone fist would blast mouth, spraying blood over the new wallpaper and loosening pearly teeth.

Finally, when the fist had knocked mask around head at least twice and the only thing holding me up on my spikes was that gut-busting fist smashing me against the wall again and again, crane and wrecking ball seemed to agree I was beaten.

Leaning there doubled over, gasping hoarsely and tasting every meal for the past week with my blood, I was in no shape to argue. But I tried anyway—what the hell, right?—and launched myself away from the wall in what was supposed to be a fullback-style tackle that would carry us both into the outer office, where I would proceed to beat the shit out of this clown in my best heroic (heroinic?) fashion. That was what always happened.

Well, almost always. And unfortunately for me, this was part of the "almost." We got about half that distance before I ran out of steam.

So I had to kneel there while two hands like shovels played ping-pong with my masked face, slapped me back and forth till wasn’t sure which side was which, then a piledriver I hadn’t met yet clubbed me back to my gloved hands and thighbooted knees with a grunt. Would have continued the collapse but the crane jerked me up again by my hair (what else?). Heard a zipper, then something like a banana made of bone smacked across my numb visage. Someone moaned thickly (was that me?) and it slapped back the other way.

Before I could even tighten my sexy swollen lips, let alone clench my teeth (which was impossible anyway after the clobbering my jaw had taken), a dick like a billy club rammed into my elegant fist-pulped mouth. Said something witty like "glrffhh!!" then gagged on that lipstretching manshaft as its fist-sized head (well, that’s how big it felt) plugged my throat. Grip on hair tightened making me bleat around the mouth-filling cock, and I was showed the wrecking ball of a fist as a warning. I wanted to bite, was aching to chew that thing up and spit it out again, and to hell with wrecking balls (or any other kind). But see previous parenthetical note, dammit.

So there wasn’t a fucking thing I could do to keep him from sawing his fat mofo schlong in and out of bloodied puffy mouth, his balls bouncing against my chin, except gag on it and get ready to drink cum. It’s better if you don’t actually try to swallow, just open your gullet and let the gooey stuff squirt right down your throat. Doesn’t taste as bad that way and you don’t make a mess if the guy ejaculates like a firehose. Take it from a past master.

But that wasn’t what he wanted. Suddenly he pulled out of my mouth, leaving me choking and rubbing a great-gauntleted forearm over my raw abused lips. I started to say (with feeling) "You motherfu—" but the wrecking ball came down again and laid me out on my beautiful masked face. Elephantine endowments cushioned my fall as usual. Can’t say that’s what they’re mainly good for—Mike and my secretary’s lips and hands would surely disagree—but frequently (too frequently) it’s one of their principal functions.

Lay there like I had a choice, one awesomely voluptuous throbbing ache from hatless ebon-maned head to spikeheeled toes. Waited for the rope around my gloved wrists and booted ankles, then a rag or wad of toilet paper—or ballgag if he was a Boy Scout and came prepared—crammed into mouth.

I should’ve been so lucky.

Suddenly I was kicked contemptuously over onto my back. Squinted up through mask at my attacker, but could only make out a towering black figure whose head seemed to brush the ceiling light. There were all these stars and comets and things dancing around him. Pretty, I thought. You can see why I hadn’t gotten around to wondering what this was all about.

The giant bent down and took the lapels of my crimson leather mini-trenchcoat and yanked it open. It used to have buttons, but that kind of thing happens so often I replaced them with snaps. Saves a lot of time and sewing.

We both stared at the immense black lace bra thus revealed (Yrs Truly somewhat dazedly), and the twin heaving mountains of milkfat that surged and bulged out over the enormous overloaded cups. Can I help it if they don’t make bras anywhere near my part of the alphabet? And all my custom bras were in the laundry.

I was jerked halfway up by a taut strap, given a few flat-handed smashes across gorgeous puss accompanied by the standard yelps and grunts and blood and one good neck-creak—then the strap snapped and I dropped back to the floor again. Like magic the huge bra was gone.

And There They Were: my colossal cantaloupes, my double dirigibles, my boulderous babies. Marilyn and Jayne, my two sex symbols, named after my two favorite sex symbols. Though judging by the treatment they usually get from the creeps we three run into, I should call them Ali and Frazier. Or maybe Everest and K-2. Right then I felt every pound of their mountainous masses.

But the towering figure was even less interested in fondling gigantic jiggling jugs than he’d been in fucking sexy smashed lips. He had a more intimate target in his sights. Dropped to his knees between my limp thighbooted legs and spread them wide. I couldn’t lift my two-ton head enough to see over the Grand Tetons, but I felt a hand rummage around under my G-string, comb through my thick pubic bush. There was a snap and cold air brushed over my pussy lips. They were still slack and wet from all the hot and heavy fucking just an hour or so earlier.

Just as well I was ready. At least my love canal was lubed and loose when, after feeling me up roughly and making me squirm and whimper (I hate that), he lifted my leather-sheathed knees in the crooks of his arms and

slammed his truncheon of a dick into me. I’d been expecting it, dimly, and tried to prepare for it. But I still reared up with a wide-eyed squeal more appropriate to a gelded pig, only to be smashed down again—the wrecking ball was on duty.

Hands gripped asscheeks under the flapping trenchcoat and my thighbooted legs jerked limply in his arms as his cock plowed me. Accompanied by the meaty smack of loins, we settled into the old fuck rhythm, grunting a capella—his baritone, mine mezzo. Gauntleted arms outflung, I sprawled under him with all the animation of an Amazonian lox, going "hunh-unh-unh-unh!" with my massive naked mamms flopping up into my masked face going "slap slap slap!" against my cheeks. Talk about music to be ravaged by!

The funny thing was, he never touched my lolling milkbags at all. Maybe he just wanted to watch them roll like doughy bowling balls around my heaving ribcage (I’m told it’s quite a spectacular show) as he pumped his huge dick into me and into me. From my point of view, it’s two pumpkins of jello trying to bury my face (believe it or not, guys: Marilyn and Jayne are all real!)

Did manage to clench a crimson-gloved fist, but it was like my hair some mornings: couldn’t do a thing with it.

What I hated most, what I always hate most whenever I’m raped, was/is being dragged kicking and screaming (literally) to a wrenching degrading kind of climax. Talk about all but ruining a great thing! Oh, I tried my usual tricks: closed my eyes behind their mask and bit my plump lower lip till I tasted fresh blood, concentrated on hating this brutal bastard, hating his hard-driving dick and his buttcheek-clutching hands and his foul breath panting on my face.

But this time nothing helped. I couldn’t even try a reversal, and pretend it was Mike doing it to me, though at times he’s almost as rough (I am too).

"No! Don’t!" The words bubbled up, thick and slurred, between groans and gasps of reluctant miserable lust. "Goddammit—"

Grunting and straining, I didn’t catch his droll riposte. But it was probably "Shut up, bitch!" because that’s what usually precedes a back-handed smack across my luscious drooling chops. I yelped, neck creaked, tasted more blood.

Too late anyway.

I bucked and writhed and raged inwardly, but it kept on building. Squawking, bleating, it was all I could do not to wrap my thighbooted legs around his waist to pull him closer, there were nooks and crannies of my burning sloshing pussy that his plunging dick hadn’t filled and reamed out.

Sometimes—alright, more than "some"—my body has no taste or class at all. Any old rigid kielbasa-sized piece of meat, even tongues or dildos or flashlights or ....

That was when a horrified female voice said, "What the hell is going on here?"

At this I did manage to lift my head, because suddenly the rapist gave a yelp and his plunging powering cock was gone with a slurp. If my cunt had had a tongue instead of a clit, she would’ve wailed in sorrow.

The slut.

Through the valley between my Grand Tetons, I saw standing there

a majestic monster-busted vision in limb-sheathing black leather (her boots reached higher than mine, all the way up to her hips), sky-high heels and a cowl-cape combo.

My towering despoiler dangled from an armgloved fist like something better thrown back. He’d been reduced to a sallow balding medium-sized Salesman in a rumpled suit—mostly about his ankles. Legs hairy and soft and pale missed the floor by inches. The only thing that lived up to billing was the huge cock which projected like a bowsprit from under his Tourist tails. It was slick with juices and smeared with lipstick, all mine.

I made a hazy note to check into smearproof gloss.

"Are you all right?" the spectacularly scantclad super-Amazon asked me. I nodded. This had to be Savage Fury. What was she doing here, aside from saving my gorgeous ass? Was she the mysteriously urgent phone voice?

She shook my rapist. His great dick waggled about. It showed no signs of shrinking despite his evident fear, which I also found remarkable.

"I asked you a question, creep!"

His eyes were closed tight and his lips moved. He might have been saying a final prayer. I levered myself up on my elbows, titanic naked tits lolling, thighbooted legs and plundered dripping pussy wide open.

Savage Fury wasn’t in any mood to be fucked with (unlike others I could mention). She lifted the Salesman higher, like a puppy she’d caught messing on the rug, and reached for his groin. Leather-gloved hand stroked his wondrous wang a bit as though in amazement (he squirmed) then reached underneath to give his balls a not-so-gentle squeeze. That opened his eyes, very wide. But they were turned sideways, towards the other office.

From which came a crash.

"All right," the Cowled Crusader gritted, "I’ll find out from your partner."

Fury tossed him into a corner like so much trash. Gloved fists clenched, she strode on those sky-high heels into the next office, cape snapping at her knees. Closed the door behind her.

That room had once belonged to my ex-partner, used only in his rare sober moments. About a dozen times a day my ambitious secretary drops broad hints anent how she wouldn't mind taking Paul’s place in there, the way she has in my bed. And I remind her that’s one of the reasons he’s my ex partner. Since then it’s been storage and a second bedroom for when I’m too tired to go home—or too horny. I mean, it isn’t as though Gayle doesn’t spend plenty of time in there with me anyway.

I used my desk to pull myself painfully to my feet, and teetered against it on boot heels that seemed to have telescoped from their normal 6 to at least 12 inches. Gartered thighs felt squishy and bruised, and these mammoth tits kept trying to pull me over again. But I managed to make it look easy, for my audience’s benefit. You know—"oh, were you raping me?"

Crumpled in his corner, he wasn’t paying attention to the angry masked Amazon preparing to clean his clock as it had ne’er been cleaned. I quickly found out why.

From the next room came the oddest sound I’d ever heard in there—and if you knew my ex-partner, you’d appreciate how odd that was. A gushing whooshing kind of splash, followed by an astonished yelp, much like the rapist had made. Only this was female.

Something thudded hard against the inner wall, shaking pictures down on this side. A flurry of meaty smacks followed, like fists pounding flesh, and muffled squeals and grunts. I didn’t bother to cover my enormous swaying endowments—let the little shit ogle them (dick still at full mast!). I finally found my gun and stilted on my precarious spikes over to the door. Was reaching for the knob when there came an explosive crunching blow that could only be fist-to-jaw, a cry of pain

and the door exploded from its hinges as Savage Fury came hurtling through it. Both slammed into me like a train and knocked me sprawling over my desk again, the gun flying from my gloved grasp. Long thighbooted legs arced up and over as I collapsed on the other side and brought the computer monitor crashing down on my head. It wasn’t a flat panel.

So I just lay there stunned, leather-sheathed legs draped up over my chair with their heels pointing at the ceiling, and watched. Fury sprawled against the far wall between the file cabinets, monumental scantclad body soaking wet, scarlet ponytail plastered to her back. She had taken quite a beating already—blood dripped from her opulent smashed lips and her chest-blimps were the angry color of battered boobfat. But she shook her cowled head as she pushed herself up, monumental milkbags joggling in their straps—they were obviously, awesomely all natural too—and lunged across the office through the doorway.

Only to meet with another flesh-splatting blow. The towering titan-titted superbeauty came careening back again, shoulder-sheathed arms outflung, and hit the wall at exactly the same spot as before, only much harder. A few of the file drawers jumped out in salute. Dazed, she slumped sideways against one of the cabinets, a gloved hand to her bloodied masked face.

After all that I expected a human big rig to come through the door after her, someone the massive size of one of the Hammer boys (Sledge or Jack), or Big Rig himself, with his brothers Diesel, Wide Load and Hugene. I mean, I’d seen news footage of Savage Fury stopping a speeding van cold, then shot-putting it a hundred yards—as one of my squeals might say, this was one mean mountain-mammed muscle mama (though she could stand to lose some weight, the way she jiggled and bulged around that waist cinch).

To my stunned surprise, what emerged from the other office was another nondescript mid-sized compact, maybe chin-high to Fury. Where the first one had the rumpled dusty look of a traveling salesman who’d traveled miles too far, this jeeter looked like a tourist whose main requirement for a hotel was nearby hookers: thinning blonde on top with a belly that filled a screaming Hawaiian shirt, fat-kid shorts and sockless tennies. I was still looking behind him for the muscle-bound buddy who could beat Savage Fury so badly—when he tore into the colossal-titted Cowled Crusader like a pudgy mangy wolf going after a cow. A gorgeous leatherclad super-cow who towered tits-and-shoulders over both him and his buddy, which made the whole scene all the more agonizingly absurd.

I’ll give it to Fury, she’s a fighter. Not real bright in some ways, but a fighter. Tottering gamely on her skyscrapers, she came out to meet him swinging an armgloved fist like a cannon shell

which he slapped aside like a fluttering moth and buried his puny clenched rejoinder squarely into her belly button. You wouldn’t think a blow like that would make a Girl Scout wince, but it doubled the Masked Mammazon forward like a cannonball, going "ooollggh!" with a spray of bloody spittle.

This, I realized numbly, did not bode well for the immediate future. I was starting to feel my body again. It was good to have it back but I wasn’t sure why.

Moving in on her, he repeated his gut-whomping a few more times with ever greater spit-spraying success, till the convulsing grunting Fury’s cowled face was practically chinning itself on his shoulder and her tongue lolled from its slack drooling mouth. Each measured deep-plowing bellybuster launched Fury’s great naked ass up into her flapping cloak and stained the visible part of her face a deeper red. A couple of them lifted that monumental masked milkmaid onto her toes—trust me, with 5-inch heels that takes one helluva punch!

I struggled up onto my sky-spikes again, enraged but helpless. This scumbag was handling superstrong Savage Fury so easily that he could probably swat big ol’ me like a fly. But damned if I’d let this magnificent Amazon get the crap beat out of her in my own office and not do something!

Well folks, all I succeeded in doing was adding my name to the list of magnificent Amazons who got the crap beat out of them in my own office.

In the few moments they’d danced, the Tourist had reduced Fury to a massive-mammaried thighbooted marionette, slumped against him with her strings cut, to be pounded at leisure. So he switched from battering her heaving belly to smashing her cowled head onto his knee. He stepped back and took Fury’s scarlet ponytail in both hands and yanked her face down to meet it with his rocketing patella, the sharp impact jerking her up again and spattering blood and screams all over.

The Cowled Crusader’s elegant lips were a beslobbered crimson pulp. The best those shoulder-gloved super-arms of hers could do was try to pry his hands loose from her topknot, but gave that up to shield her battered masked face, which didn’t work either. Finally they could only dangle beneath her as bloody down-slamming face met upkicking kneecap again and again.

Every so often for old times’ sake, the Tourist would take the helpless leather-limbed heroine by her gigantic joggling tits and pull her forward to bury his bloodstained knee in her belly, spraying more groans and spit-diluted hemoglobin from her ragged mouth. Before my eyes and quicker than it takes to tell, the Fabulous Fury had been reduced to a groaning ponderous-pontooned punching bag.

Me? I was so frantic wondering how I could help (and how this creep could be so powerful) that it took me a moment to realize my dance partner was missing from his corner. This flash hit me as I lifted the monitor to launch both of us at the smiling Tourist. Smiling because he held the grunting spectacularly squirming Fury by a massive doughy milkbag while he groped her scarlet-bushed pussy. Looked like he was trying to stuff all five fingers inside those swollen wet labia.

Suddenly I knew the Salesman was behind me. I was holding that goddam 19" monster overhead (I’d almost bought a laptop!) and I started to turn, but his knee smashed up into my snatch first.

I’ll bet he was a field goal specialist in college.

There’s nothing like having one’s pudenda kicked up into one’s womb to take the starch right out of one. I dropped the monitor. My gauntleted hands suddenly had to take an urgent meeting at my ruptured crotch. The pig-squeal was barely out of my sagging luscious mouth and my boot-sheathed legs had just begun to buckle,

when he did it again, this time with his foot. There was a hard squishy impact and my big ass flew up. The squeal went ultrasonic and my tongue made like a diving board. My bulging eyes tried to burst from their mask slits and every circuit south of my hourglass equator shorted out in a flash of utter twat-agony. I folded like my own strings had been snapped, leather-sheathed knees knocking my chair away. The Salesman took my head by a fistful of my tangled ebon luxuriance and bashed it down on my desk. I screamed and the wide center drawer popped open like a jackpot. He jerked me up and I heard my frantic voice say, "NononooooGoddUNHH!!" as he head-banged me again.

My naked jiggle-whoppers avalanched into the open drawer. Which he then proceeded to kick shut on the stunned Silk Stalker’s poor babies, crushing Marilyn and Jayne and wrenching another shrill squeal out of their suffering owner. Which then proceeded to rise to an outright shriek when he jammed the drawer shut with his knee and yanked me up again by my hair, crushing then strrrettchhing my elephantine envised udders way out into ponderous pink teardrops of shimmying agony. We’re talking almost two feet here, sports fans!

As I did my best fire siren imitation to the ceiling, a part of me wondered what it would be like to have tits that drooped to my knees. How could I keep from kicking them about when I walked? Would I give milkshakes when I lactated? Maybe I could carry them slung over my shoulders like stupendous sausages.

The Salesman had me standing almost straight, howling like a banshee, before my sweat-slick mashed and mangled milkmountains popped free of the drawer and it banged shut. And all I could do was clutch my agonized chest-blimps in my gauntleted hands as he spun me to stare, wide-eyed and helpless, down at him. It really is the pits to be able to look down at the bald spot on the head of the guy who’s beating the crap out of you.

But I only had to do it for an instant before he slammed that bare patch of skull into my nose then blasted my jaw with what felt like a right-cross stick of dynamite, sending me reeling back

right into wailing Savage Fury, who the Tourist had been spinning around and around by her massive jugs, then released to pile into me. We both went down in a tangle of leather-sheathed limbs and gigantic joggling tits. My face buried ears-deep in one of Fury’s pillowy mammary monuments, but I didn’t have time to do anything about it.

Because the Salesman pulled me off Fury by my hair (as usual) and I reacted as usual: wailed and flapped my gauntleted arms about.

"What the fuck does it take to finish you off, Tits?" he demanded.

"M-more than you’ve g-got, asshole." It didn’t come out nearly as bold and defiant as I intended.

My arms felt like rubber bands wearing heavy steel blocks, but I did what I could. I wrenched about (pulling loose a fistful of expensively salon’d raven tresses) and swung at him. Missed pathetically (my eyes had been under water since the two cunt kicks) and was rewarded with a bludgeoning double blast to my throbbing heaving double dirigibles. Felt like he was trying to hammer their hard nipples back through my ribs.

Normally Marilyn and Jayne can take a fair amount of punishment, which is good because they frequently have to. But not after being crushed and stretched in that drawer. Blasting a lungful of air and pink spittle all over him, I bounced back off my desk and crumpled to all fours. Wracked with dry heaves, it took all my strength just to stay on gloved hands and thighbooted knees. After kicking me in the belly to drop my bloody nose to the carpet and make me look like a hound dog sniffing out a rabbit, The Salesman seemed content to leave me like that, with my big ass up and titanic naked tits spreading beneath me.

So I had a front row seat to the brutal and thorough stomping of the sumptuously supine Savage Fury.

It was like watching some murderous wind-up toy—every time she started to get up, the Tourist kicked her masked face down again, so hard her leathern skull banged the floor. But the Cowled Crusader kept trying, only to get booted flat on her back again. Up and down, up and down, till, petulantly, he stamped his foot ankle-deep into her bulging belly. Blood and spit and a wracking breathy grunt geysered from her smashed lips like a beached and beaten whale.

And that was the game.

As far as Fury was concerned, anyway. Her assailant was still getting his kicks (sorry, couldn’t resist it) and continued booting her cowled head about like he was trying to punt it off her broad bare shoulders.

By the time he’d finished her off to his sadistic satisfaction, Fury sprawled on her back, luscious mouth a ragged gory smear, gigantic tits sagging out of their straps so far to her sides they almost touched the floor and one big brown nipple stared straight at me.

What the fuck did these bastards want?? Maybe a dumb question considering that the Tourist was now wrestling a big dick out of his pants, but somehow I had the feeling (among so many others that I couldn’t keep track) that wasn’t it. Though Lord knows there are plenty of freaks around who just get off on beating up beautiful monster-titted Amazons.

Then, of course, it was Rape Time—again. Slumped there kissing the floor with my big bare cold butt in the air, I couldn’t do a fucking thing about it, except get fucked—again.

Mini-trenchcoat was flipped up behind me.

Hard hands gripped and spread soft opulent netherglobes apart till I yelped.

The Salesman kept muttering "Asshole, hey?" Me and my biiig cock-suckin’ mouth.

"No no you bastard," I cried indignantly, "not up the ass—nooOOGKK—!!"

Like I expected him to beg my pardon and go in the regular way, right?

His salami of a dick felt twice as big slamming up my anus as it had filling my twat. He reamed me out good, too—it was going to be quite awhile before I could sit down without wincing. I hunkered there on my knees and elbows, the tile floor cool against my cheek and enormous spreading milkpails, and tried to clench my teeth tight enough to dam back a scream while he plowed and bored out my coal chute till we both squeaked.

"C’mon, bitch," he gritted, "Take it all where the sun don’t shine!"

Exactly what I was doing in case he hadn’t noticed, though it does shine there a tad more than I like, and usually not by preference. I could feel his balls slap against my sopping snatch.

Funny—beaten and butt-fucked and bawling miserably, what I hated most was the way my bursting sweaty buttocks shimmied and rippled as his hips smacked into them. What the hell had I bought that damned stair-climber for??

The Tourist was boning Savage Fury the old fashioned way, I suppose because she’d earned it. Tied her up first, of course. After stretching her shoulder-sheathed arms out over her head and binding her gloved hands to my desk’s legs, the creep lifted her hipbooted legs into the air so they waved about like spikeheeled insect antennae. He knelt between them and plunged himself into her, a cock that wasn’t as big as the Salesman’s (just my luck, I always get the hung ones!) but more active.

His fingers siezed and squeezed her colossal soft tits in rhythm with his hard chugging, till she groaned and yipped with each squishy impalement and squealed with each milkmountain crush. Pumping and squeezing away, he seemed to be playing a near naked awesomely voluptuous musical instrument. Fury had the same self-control problem I have—she writhed against her wrist bonds under him and tossed her cowled head about and arched her back. The spirit hated it, the flesh loved it.

Goddam flesh.

Buttfucked as I had not been in some time (but not nearly long enough), I sang my own accompaniment to her tune: "unh—unh—ughh—ohh—ohff!" and wondered in a small distant part of my brain how long this would continue. Didn’t this bastard ever cum? The way the Salesman was driving it between my lavish asscheeks, I half expected his plum-sized knob to push into my mouth. From the wrong end.

Not even a reluctant orgasm this time for the Silk Stalker. Just raw butt-buggering pain. Still swollen and juiced from the first time, I tried to get off by reaching back between my gartered thighs to flail at my clit. But as he pounded himself between my big jiggling buns, the Salesman took my gloved fingers and twisted them till I screamed, then gave my dripping bloated snatch a volley of stinging slaps. I let out a hopeless wail and slumped wretchedly on my knees and let him have me.

Any way he wanted.

I went Floating then. It happens occasionally when I’ve been beaten on too long and hard, tied up and tortured and boffed too oft. I just sort of rise up from my ravaged groaning body and hover above it, gazing down at my self. The first time had been when Monk’s gang blew my cover as a hooker. They beat me senseless (gratitude for putting four of their buds in the hospital prison ward for a few weeks) then bound me spreadeagled across a filthy mattress and gang-banged me for a solid week. Pumped enough of their cum into my mouth and pussy and asshole to float a yacht. I thought I’d never fuck or suck again.

About the fourth or fifth day without sleep when three of them were doing me at once, trying their best to bump cock-heads inside me, and my gauntleted hand was stroking off a fourth, I felt a curious light sensation, a vertigo-like dizziness. And suddenly there I was, watching this bound bedraggled blimp-busted beauty get the stuffings balled out of her. Silken tatters of lingerie clung to her, she was bloody and bruised and cum-splashed (had she been bathing in the stuff?) but still darn good-lookin’. It took me a moment to recognize myself, since I’d never seen me from that angle before; another moment to realize the angle was from up near the ceiling.

And there I Floated now, watching that same grunting sweating huge-hootered honey get royally cornholed on her thighbooted knees with her suffering face pressed to her tight-knotted gloved fists. I noted with some disapproval that those hands weren’t even tied—she obviously hadn’t put up much of a struggle. The copious tears streaming down her cheeks from under her mask couldn’t fool me.

Yelping and bleating across the room, Savage Fury had her hipbooted legs wrapped around the Tourist’s pumping butt as he power-pronged her. Masked eyes tightly shut, plush mouth ragged, sweating and arching her back and so Into It she was pulling the desk inch by inch across the floor by her legbound hands.

Stupid useless bimbos, I decided. The both of them. Ruled by their tits and twats. Not worth—

Then I was yanked back into one bimbo’s body, as the Salesman pulled his huge crank out of my raw sundered asshole without the expected (and by now prayed for) sperm enema. Unable (all right, too miserable and ashamed) to raise my head from my fists, I only heard him get to his feet. But I could feel the anal blood trickle from my plundered buttcheeks and down my thighs into my stockings and boots.

His feet walked past me. "Jesus fucking Christ!" I managed to yell into my leatherclad fists. "You could at least finish me off once, you sonuvabullggh!!"

The cartoon sound effect from the crouching masked Amazon was caused by her former ass-rapist stomping on one of the monumental milkblimps ballooning out from her side, grinding it into the floor. She hunkered there, face twisted comically, clutching the naked wounded watermelon with both gauntleted hands, till a hand jerked her head up by her hair, to stare numbly at the Tourist as he dropped to his knees before her.

"Remind me to get a crewcut next time—"

The words were barely out of my mouth when he rammed them back down my throat by impaling my mouth on his dick. I gagged and tasted Savage Fury’s love syrup, but by then that was no comfort at all.

A line from the Duke ran through my raddled brain: "How long has this been going on?"

As I sucked and choked on that mouth-filling tubesteak, I got brief glimpses of my spectacular leatherclad partner in pain. The Salesman sat astraddle her neck with his hairy pale butt cushioned against her sloshing tits—they almost made his ass look skinny. One hand held Fury’s cowled head up by her scarlet ponytail so the other could feed his veined powerpole between those elegant pulped lips. She was smearing as much blood as lipstick on his great organ.

While that Monumental Mammazon licked his scrotum and mouthed his mighty manshaft and then, with a weary sour grimace, took it into her mouth to the balls, she watched me with masked eyes that brimmed tears and misery. I couldn’t tell if she was looking for encouragement or support or maybe just company (as in what "_____" loves). On my hands and knees with my hair clenched in the kneeling Tourist’s fists, drooling mouth also crammed full of fervidly pumping dick, I must’ve looked real inspirational.

Wretchedly, we both sucked and sucked those throat-plumbing boners. For too long, the only sounds in my office were moist slurpings and cock-muffled moans and gasps and the occasional spirited "that’s right, bitch!" and "oh yeah!" and of course the ever-popular "take him all the way!"

Finally we both choked at about the same time, and gulped, and drank. I managed to get most of the Tourist’s cum down—don’t ask me why except it’s less messy that way. My stomach turned over like an old truck engine.

I was so whipped he didn’t even bother to tie me up. When he pulled his limp dripping dick out of my mouth, I collapsed like it was the only thing holding me up. Might have been, too.

Fury lay still on her back as the Salesman got up off her. Her outstretched leather-sheathed arms were limp in their bonds. She might have been dead except for the slow massive rise and fall of those stupefying boobs and the lazy bubbles blown by her slack cum-drooling mouth. He saw the Tourist wipe his spent weapon off with my tangled sweat-matted tresses, so he used Fury’s flaming ponytail.

Classy to the end.

Numbly, still on my thighbooted knees, I watched them pull up their pants and zippers and buckle their belts. Neither spoke. There was much I wanted to do with the equipment they were putting away. Not just make them sopranos—my needs went so far beyond that, that sopranohood would seem like a reward.

I guess the Salesman didn’t like something he saw in my masked eyes—I wasn’t aware of anything there but tears and dull hatred—because he came over and gazed down at me staring up at him. Another towering figure against the light.

He sneered and cranked his foot back. I didn’t take my gaze from his. I felt like an NFL quarterback, dropping back and waiting for a receiver to get clear with 800 pounds of beef charging straight at me.

The kick took me under the chin, snapped my head back and lit my personal sky with new stars. It rolled me over and over humpty-bumpty on my huge naked tits to fetch up on my back against the wall.

I wouldn’t have been so brave if I’d known his shoes were steel-toed. My bonging clanging head lay on an outflung leather-sleeved arm, cum-smeared thighbooted legs akimbo showing them my vertical gape. A piece of broken glass dug into a big bare buttcheek. Didn’t seem worth complaining about just then.

Blood and the Tourist’s semen filled my mouth. Shadows swarmed up from where they’d been waiting. The kick had skewed my mask, but I kept my blurry eyes on both creeps till they walked out. The Salesman gave me a last uneasy glance before closing the door. Then, and only then, I let the shadows take me.

Pass complete.

--2--

My legs felt eight feet long, cleverly constructed of match sticks and library paste. But they supported me—as long as I held onto the desk. I leaned back against it with a wince, the edge cool against the big reamed cheeks under my mini-coat. I was reminded to remove the glass shard. At least they hadn’t spanked or whipped me—I hate being spanked and whipped.

It was a toss-up as to whether the office or its occupants were the worse mess. Every picture had fallen from the wall, paper and folders scattered everywhere, a chair smashed (when had that happened?), blood and cum spattered about.

Savage Fury stirred now, cowled head rolling slowly from side to side as her eyes fluttered and focused. I imagine they were no more impressed with my ceiling than I’d been. Inspired to great undertakings since my legs were feeling a bit less like putty and rubber poured into thighhigh boots, I launched myself away from the desk and tottered over to her like someone’s drunken grandmother.

And she practically did a kip to her feet! I wouldn’t have been more surprised if a Patriot missile had zoomed out of her pussy—which, I couldn’t help noticing, gaped all pink and tempting between those muscular booted thighs of hers. I lost my balance and staggered back, and she steadied me. With a grip which left no doubt that if she wanted to loft me over the building (or the building over me), it would be no sweat. The sinews under that gleaming black leather armglove might have been cast in steel. But the fingers were gentle.

I stared at her mask-to-cowl as I braced myself. Though rather larger than Yrs Truly in some ways—with those monumental jiggling boobs maybe a couple of letters above mine in bra-size and her general bulging heft, I guessed Fury’s weight at a zoftig 180—she exactly equaled my own 5’10"—6’4" in boot heels.

All I could think of to say was "What the fuck?"

Then suddenly I was laughing, God only knows at what. It all hurt like hell, but I couldn’t stop. I have a full throaty laugh that’s usually infectious, but Fury just stared at me like I was nuts, which at that point was a possibility. Her cowled eyes watched Marilyn & Jayne joggle about from my flapping trenchcoat, and she licked her lips (which were no longer bruised much less swollen, while mine felt like inner tubes).

I wouldn’t have minded licking her lips myself, and leaned against her for support when I didn’t really have to. Clutching her broad bare shoulder was like holding onto a marble statue, except that she was soft and yielding. I think it would’ve taken a falling building to bend those boot-sheathed knees.

So why the hell had she been such a sitting duck for the Tourist?

That was when Fury’s head jerked around as though she’d heard something. I managed to stifle my laughter, but heard nothing. She led me into the reception room where I finally heard the pounding too: faint, muffled and coming from the coat closet.

We found Gayle bound and gagged and hung from the coat rack like a gorgeous side of voluptuous blonde beef. These guys knew their rope work, which gave me immediate suspicions. They’d stripped her to her underthings (where I stick to silk, hence my nom du guerre, my secretary goes for a studded heavy-metal look with lots of snaps and buckles—our lingerie-buying expeditions are legendary) then tied her hands to her knees and hung her up by that knot. Crammed that luscious young mouth "which full oft I have kissed" (and sometimes gagged myself, in our more playful rollin’s and a-tumblin’s) with Kleenex till her cheeks bulged. Underestimating her, of course, as do many to their cost. She’d managed after much struggling to hitch down the rod to one end, then swing back and forth banging her sweet ass against the wall.

Well, it wasn’t the first time her ass had been banged in that closet.

She looked distinctly less than pleased with herself when Fury lifted her off the rod like a forlorn kitten and tore the ropes from her hands and knees. The verbal torrent she spat out after the wad of soggy Kleenex doesn’t bear recording. Then she burst into tears and threw herself on me for a big hug. Somewhat embarrassed in front of Fury, I held her and stroked her blonde head and made soft commiserating sounds. The Cowled Crusader smiled but looked a bit uncomfortable.

The golden top of Gayle’s head came about to my collarbone, her face cushioned in one of my pneumatic naked jello-pumpkins (not by accident). Her sobs made all that pillowy milkfat shimmy. Those pouty lips of hers were just at my nipple, which was hardening, and I was afraid she’d start to suckle at it. Under other more private circumstances I might have already put it in her mouth. Holding her was making me feel a bit randy through all my aches and bruises—and I never had gotten off during that whole wretched farce of a rape (my pussy lips felt like they dangled to my knees).

But not with Fury standing there, her own monumental freckled megamelons hanging out. Unstrapped they sagged below her navel, obviously all natural though without stretch marks. There seemed to be too many enormous billowing tits in that room. Gayle’s were the only ones covered—and hers just barely.

Here I suppose I should formally introduce my teen temptress of a secretary, lover and occasional coworker. She signs her name "Gayle 4444" (get it? Gayle 4’s?). She’s a freshman at UCLA and outwardly the epitome of the giggly jiggly beach blanket bimbo. An exact foot shorter than Y.T., 4’10" (5’3" in her heels), which makes her boobs, almost as big as mine, look even bigger on her diminutive hourglass frame. And a real hardbody, works out like a fiend with weights and aerobics and par courses and all that masochistic malarkey, which so far hasn’t melted away any of her mammoth mammaries. She swears if that ever starts to happen, she’ll cut back. I’m going to hold her to it, you can bet.

Holding her as she wept, her breath warm on my enormous bare breast and the crisp clean smell and silken froth of her hair right in my bruised face, made it tough to keep my gauntleted hand away from that tight ass of hers. I was all too aware of the panties wedgied up between its lithe muscular cheeks till they almost disappeared. And the way her quaking boobs spilled over her studded leather hemi-semi-demi-bra and spread against my elephantine endowments ....

As much for my benefit as hers, I took her shoulders and gave her a slight shake. I should explain that Gayle’s tears weren’t caused by humiliation or misery or anything like that—she was crying from anger and frustration at not being able to clean those creeps’ clocks. And another emotion that was quite prevalent in the room: embarrassment at being taken so easily.

"Where’d you put ‘em?" she demanded fiercely, sniffling. "I hope you didn’t kill ‘em, I want a shot at the one in the loud shirt!"

Fury looked at me. I transferred that look down to Gayle.

"Well, darling, it’s like this ...."

"You let them get away??" she repeated, a bit less forcefully this time. Disappointment was replacing outrage, disappointment in me. I’d rather have the outrage.

I was looking for my bra and G-string, as much to avoid the disillusion in those big china-blue eyes as anything else. The G-string could be missed in a handful of leaves but the bra, black and lacy and big enough to hold a pair of soccer balls, was damn near impossible to hide.

"Maybe one of ‘em took it with him?" Fury suggested. When she wasn’t addressing scumbags, her voice was soft, with a wisp of Southern drawl that sounded Georgian. "As a souvenir?"

She finished snapping the straps across her own gigantic shimmying jugs and reattached them to her neck piece. Not that they hid much of her monstermelons, even their big brown nipples, but they did wonders for lift and separation. She straightened the cloak on her broad bare shoulders. By now there wasn’t a bruise or swelling left on that monumental leatherclad body—and believe me, a spare freckle would’ve been obvious. I couldn’t hide my envy.

"Benefits of bein’ super," she said drily. Like sometimes those benefits didn’t outweigh the penalties nearly enough. Sometimes like these.

Finally I gave up the bra search and just snapped the trenchcoat closed over my own naked mega-knockers. As closed as it could be at least, which still left a lot of glossy swelling cleavage, massively a-quiver, crowding up between the taut lapels. Gave me a double prow like a catamaran. For some reason the thought that creeps were somewhere sniffing my underwear made me queasy in a way that having had their hard dicks had fuck my mouth, my pussy and my ass hadn’t.

"I kinda like that better anyway," Fury said, eying my considerable shimmying cleavage as I moved to my desk. There was a glint in her masked eyes though the rest of her beautiful pale face was sober. I made a note to look into that gleam further.

As soon as some things got straightened out.

"Like what?" the Cowled Crusader said. She sat across from me in a client’s chair, cloak spread beneath her, legs in their black hip-high boots crossed demurely so her meaty thighs hid her half naked snatch (mostly—if I held my head just so, I could just glimpse a few stray crimson pubic curls). Her domino’d eyes were as wide and faux innocent as Gayle’s. That blonde bombshell, back in her office clothes, was pouring us tea. My office was more or less in order again—at its best it isn’t too neat—and we were relaxing, me leaning back in my chair with my long thighbooted gams up on the desk.

"Like you and the Tourist." I was trying (not too hard I admit) to distract myself from Fury’s peekaboo pussy with my sexpot secretary’s sweet trim ass rolling in a leather mini so tight that if it covered one millimeter more than her cheeks, she couldn’t have moved.

"I felt his strength when he was making me suck his dick"— at the hot plate Gayle stiffened, she hates for me to discuss things like that—"and it wasn’t super. But he—"

"—Had no trouble handling me," Savage Fury finished uncomfortably. "I know."

I squirmed a bit in my chair, uncomfortable as well for a slightly different reason. I’d applied some special anesthetic cream to my raw reamed-out anus and it was taking its own sweet time getting to work. Gayle had offered to do the anal anointing but she wanted to apply it with her tongue (it was cherry flavored and lo-cal). And if she started to lick my ass, there was only one place that would lead.

Stark naked under my mini-coat except for stockings and garters, I was also aware of the view Fury had of my pussy up between my crossed thighbooted legs. Her eyes in their mask would flick to it, then away again. As though she liked what she saw, but didn’t want to like it.

"So, what’s the deal, Neil? Did he hit you with some kind of super-chloro? A ray? Kryptonite?"

Ever so casually, I stretched and uncrossed my boot-sheathed legs to give her a better look. My swollen abused and unsatisfied labia were still open and slack as though complaining at their unfulfilled condition. The way Fury sat, half-hiding what was obviously a magnificent muff with a thick crimson bush, irritated me. If she was that prim, why wear a costume that let most of her pubic foliage hang out? I mean, we’d been raped and forced to suck dick together, for God’s sake! If that didn’t make us intimates ....

Fury studied me for a moment, then sighed. She pushed herself up and went into the other office. Her spike heels rapped as though marching to an execution. We’d given it a cursory once-over: except for a lot of water on the floor and cracked plaster there wasn’t much damage.

She came back a moment later with a plastic contraption of tanks and a hose with a gun-type nozzle. Looked like a pesticide sprayer for kids.

Gayle recognized it immediately. "A Mega Squirter!"

"A Mega Squirter 2000," Fury corrected her. To me, masked eyes downcast: "I, well, I hid it under the bed before you came in."

I sat and waited. The tall leather-limbed superbeauty went to the window, gazed out. Folded her shoulder-gloved arms under those stupefying boobs of hers. Their vastly overhanging jigglehulks all but buried her leathern forearms in glossy billowing milkfat. She sighed again. I liked it when she did that.

"It isn’t something I want to get around," she finally murmured.

"Let me contact my press agent," I said. I’d already guessed, but I wanted to hear it from her.

She glanced at me. "It wasn’t a gas, or a ray, or Kryptonite he hit me with. It was water."

"Whoa!" Gayle chimed in. "You mean you lose your strength when you get wet??"

Savage Fury nodded glumly. "All my powers—sight, hearing, speed, strength. Fogs can be nasty, rain is disaster."

"Not to mention Mega Squirter 2000s," I said.

"He had it strapped to his back when I charged in. Gave me a good hosing, then waded in and beat the shit out of me. That rotten little creep." She sagged miserably. And boy, when she sagged, she sagged.

I swung my spikeheeled feet off the desk and got up. I stood next to her, put a gauntleted arm around her smooth bare shoulder. The muscle under the warm flesh was firm and I felt her tense, just for a moment, before she leaned her cowled head against my hip. As Gayle had said, "Whoa!"

"Kind of a stupid weakness, huh?"

I tilted her masked face up to mine with a gloved finger under her chin. Her opulent lips were wet and trembled. I leaned over and kissed them, gently. They were soft and warm and hesitant.

"Well, I guess you better stay away from Seattle."

She smiled, not tense at all. There was a moment of genuine touchy-feely warmth. I thought she was going to kiss me back, and then we’d have to decide what to do about Gayle, either send her home crying or invite her in, but—

"Omigosh!" Fury suddenly cried. "Justice!"

"It’s what we aim for," I agreed.

"No, you don’t understand," the cowled armgloved Amazon insisted, pulling away from me. "She’s why I’m here!"

Gayle, shuffling through some papers, gave me a look. I shrugged.

"I think she’s in trouble!"

I had an image of a blindfolded statue carrying scales being booked and printed. "Well, she gets abused a lot, I suppose. Don’t we all?"

Fury looked at me.

Gayle and I said it together: "What in hell are you talking about?"

"Justice Juggs, of course!" Fury said.

I should’ve known more boobs would be involved.

--3--

"You’re sure this is the place?"

"Positive. She told me to meet her here at 3. And to bring you."

Savage Fury watched the big beautiful leatherclad detective look around. The emerald eyes behind that mask weren’t super, but they missed nothing. And (unlike that outrageously overstuffed red trenchcoat of hers) hid everything, except skepticism.

"Doesn’t look like she’s around. She say anything else?"

"I don’t need a private eye to tell me that." Worry edged Fury’s voice. "And no."

Silk Stalker glanced at her but said nothing.

The loft over a closed factory was large and empty. High windows near the ceiling sent down thick slanting church-like shafts of light. One gleamed off Silk Stalker’s wide-brimmed hat, another highlighted the deep valley of décolletage between her enormous tits, bulging up pinkly between the straining lapels of her coat. Fury wished she’d put on a bra, so those mighty mammaries didn’t jiggle and slosh so much. At least they’d found Stalker’s G-string—which the blonde bombshell had promptly skinned up her boot-sheathed legs and snugged over her bulging slack-lipped cuntmound right in front of Fury—but even that allowed too much of her curly ebon bush to spill over the top. A fact teasingly revealed by the coat’s hem, which barely made it over that outsized ass and those sumptuous flaring hips of hers.

Stalker knelt down, thighboots creaking in the silence, and examined something. Ran a gauntleted finger along a floorboard. Fury used her super-eyes but saw nothing unusual even at micro-range.

Of course, her problem with the amount of the Amazonian detective’s magnificent body on display wasn’t a prudish one. She wished it was. No, her dilemma was that she couldn’t keep her eyes off all that heaving pulchritude. Her hands in their armlength gloves had a bad case of sweaty palms and the wanna-grab-onto-all-thats. It was a problem she also had with Justice Juggs, who was even more awesomely voluptuous and spectacularly scantclad.

This desire for other women as well as men was the part of her new life she was least comfortable with. She’d been straight as they came, before. But now ....

But when she stopped thinking about Stalker, she started thinking about those two men, and their punishing fists, and their plunging ravaging dicks. Better to think about Stalker.

Better still to think about the business at hand, because she could feel her pussy lips softening and blossoming, and with her costume that was impossible to hide.

"Something happened here, and not too long ago," the raven-maned masked Amazon was saying.

"I don’t see anything," Savage Fury said. "And I’ve got real good eyes."

"That’s just it. There isn’t anything to see. Not even dust."

Then Fury got it. "Which means the place was cleaned up."

Silk Stalker nodded. "And recently, or there’d be more dust."

"But why would anyone bother?"

Nodding as though this confirmed a suspicion, Silk traced a faint dark smear with a gloved finger. The way she knelt, on one thighbooted knee, Fury could easily peer up under her mini-trenchcoat at the dark curls foaming up out of her overloaded G-string. She decided not to.

"What’s this?" the tall top-heavy detective asked.

Fury concentrated on it. "A track of some kind. Wouldn’t have been visible if the floor wasn’t so clean. Goes this way."

Fury traced the faint trail to out the door they’d come in and down a short corridor to another door at its end. Stalker followed her. The Cowled Crusader felt masked eyes on her great naked asscheeks. Or was it just her imagination?

Stalker tried the knob. "Locked."

Fury gave the knob a twist. It made a loud snap. "Unlocked."

She opened the door to a small supply closet, empty except for a TV-VCR combo on a cart. A videocassette poked out of the slot. The two masked Amazons looked at one another.

--4--

OVER BLACKNESS:

FADE IN:

INT. LOFT - DAY.

Empty and filthy.

The door opens and JUSTICE JUGGS enters cautiously, a big gleaming six-shooter in each fringe-gauntleted hand.

CAMERA ZOOMS IN for a shaky CLOSE-UP of JUSTICE’s mammoth near-naked boobs, twin swaying and jiggling watermelons awesomely outthrust over and around their straining fringed vest, the chain between the two halves of the vest taut as a violin string. Her teats punch through the centers of white stars like pointing fingers.

CAMERA PANS DOWN JUSTICE’s extravagantly overblown body: her hourglass waist, a blue leather microskirt even shorter than Silk Stalker’s tight over sumptuous swelling hips

PAUSING at the gleam of blonde pubic bush visible just below the hem, a few golden curls at the juncture of her muscular thighs.

As she turns warily, CAMERA HOLDS on the colossal-chested masked cowgirl’s awesome ass jam-packed into the tiny skirt, lavish cheeks bulging out under the hem and stretching the leather sheer as glass.

Sixguns raised, JUSTICE takes a couple of steps into the room. Her spike heels rap loudly. Star-masked eyes roam about.

Suddenly the floor opens up beneath her feet, and with a startled yelp the masked cowgirl drops out of sight. From below comes a shrill drawn-out squeal that is much more than startled.

After a moment JUSTICE reappears, rising slowly and struggling, eyes bulging in agony from their mask. She appears to be dancing in mid-air as she ascends, howls and thrashes madly about, monstrous mammaries heaving and joggling in their vest. After a moment we see why:

She is deeply impaled up her cunt on a thick pole, long thighbooted legs kicking wildly on both sides of the blood-stained shaft as it lifts her into full view.

Wailing in pain, the colossal-titted cowgirl tries to bend over to grasp the pole, but just that motion hurts too much, and she straightens again.

Then a heavy bowling ball on a chain swings down and smashes into her pumping belly, doubling the pussy-skewered superstacked bombshell over with a grunt.

Another one swings down behind her crashing into her lower back jerking her straight with a scream, and two more together swoop down from both sides to smash her head between them, knocking her cowgirl hat back.

Stunned, JUSTICE slumps on her twat-impaling pole, but is too deeply spiked to fall off.

TWO MEN, JOE SCHMUCK THE MIDGET and NUTSY FAGIN, the first tall and cadaverously lean and far from a midget and the other no more than 4 feet tall, appear. They approach the snatch-spiked sagging JUSTICE JUGGS with caution at first, then more boldly when they see she's in no shape to do them any damage.

Behind her, NUTSY FAGIN jerks her gauntleted arms together and ties them at elbows and wrists. JUSTICE moans dimly and squirms, lavish buttocks clenching under the rucked-up microskirt.

Quickly, JOE SCHMUCK reaches up and brings down two large fishing hooks suspended from the ceiling by wire. He tears open her outrageously-overloaded vest and briefly kneads the stupendous soft tits formerly enclosed therein.

His rough hands work the doughy dirigibles till their big nipples stiffen and the teats extrude.

He seems content to continue his monster-mammary ministrations but NUTSY FAGIN, jerking the knots tight behind JUSTICE JUGGS, says something. Then he brusquely sticks the hooks through the colossal-chested cowgirl’s thumb-sized teats.

JUSTICE’s masked eyes fly wide open and she screams as the barbs are pulled up, lifting her humongous hooked hooters till they obscure her gorgeous pain-drawn face.

The two henchmen stand back ogling. The pole descends, pulling out of the ponderous-pontooned paladin’s pussy with a SLURP, and leaves her dangling by her upstretched teat-skewered watermelons, writhing and shrieking in bulge-eyed agony.

With a snicker JOE SCHMUCK gives her big bare ass a push and she sways gently back and forth, howling and squirming, broad back arched, long thighbooted legs kicking.

Blood drips down her awesomely distended blubberbags from the transfixed teats.

That was as far as the show got. Savage Fury took two long thighbooted strides to the TV and brought an armgloved fist down on it. There was an explosion and the top became one with the bottom, scattering parts and shards of glass and plastic everywhere. The look on her face echoed her name, and I'm pretty sure my expression reflected it.

But now was not the time for rage. "Okay," I said as calmly as I could. "He’s got her. Now we have to figure out how to get her back. And what he really wants."

"‘He’? You know who this guy is?" Fury stared at me.

"Oh yeah. Monk and I are old enemies. Figuratively speaking of course."

"Monk?"

I stood. "First, let’s get out of here. No telling what other toys he might have left behind for us."

Me and my big mouth. The video cassette popped out of the VCR’s slot and Fury reached for it like it was a writhing hissing snake (don’t get me started on snakes). "I suppose we’ll need this for evidence."

Those words were the last thing I heard clearly for some time. Because that was when a blinding light stabbed my masked eyes all the way to the back of my brain, and an enormous bang! boxed my ears with the walls and then took light and walls and everything away for a while. Not all the way away, because Savage Fury had been between the explosion and Yrs Truly and shielded me with that magnificent body of hers.

No, just far enough away to make what was left seem distant and unimportant.

To wit: flying and falling, sprawling on the floor, gauntleted arms and thighbooted legs stretched out for miles like soggy pasta. Listening to the sea roar in my ears and staring up at the far dim ceiling. Couldn’t remember its being that high.

Then a face in my field of vision, cowled and beautiful and anxious. I could tell it was saying something because its lips were moving. And there were these gigantic satiny breasts hanging right under the masked face. I could almost reach out and touch one, if I could find my arm.

But right then I was more interested in the lips. They were soft and moist and full and seemed to be asking something urgent. Damned if I could hear what it was with all the racket in my head, but I thought I could guess.

So I reached up and wrapped a floppy-gloved arm (there it was!) around the cowled head and pulled those tempting lips down. They were every bit as warm and succulent as their promise. They opened right up against mine and my tongue speared between them and darned if it didn’t meet an avidly squirming sister coming the other way!

For a moment we just kissed. My lips slid over the ripe juicy cushions of hers and our tongues wrestled eagerly. That could’ve gone on for a long enjoyable time, but as usual my appendages had to push their luck. A gauntleted hand came up to cup one of Fury’s pendant pumpkins and stroke that overwhelming jiggle-hulk

and suddenly I was hoisted to my spikeheeled feet as the cowled bombshell stood, protesting now into my still working mouth. I let her go and staggered back a couple of steps till she steadied me with a leather-sheathed arm like a steel beam. A soft steel beam.

For a moment there was silence between us, dazed on my part and embarrassed on Fury’s. Her costume had been disarranged—a titanic tit hung free of its strap again—but weathered the blast well. My leather trenchcoat had been blown open, giving her more chances to try to ignore my enormous swaying endowments. The room too was somewhat the worse for wear: it now lacked windows and door but the floor had gained a new entry way the size of a swimming pool.

Sirens yammered in the distance, less so with each second.

"We should get out of here," Fury said, her voice echoing cavernously. "Can you walk?"

I suppose I could have tricked her into carrying me, and copped some cheap feels in the process. The way her awesomely voluptuous body overwhelmed what little there was of her costume, it would’ve been easy.

But I have pride too. Well, sometimes.

I just nodded and strode to the door. Where my legs promptly buckled, so she ended up carrying me anyway. After closing my trenchcoat and snapping every damned snap all the way to my neck. She could’ve lingered at the ones over my tits, she could’ve pretended to have the problems I do getting those fasteners to come together while Marilyn and Jayne struggle mightily to keep them apart. But she didn’t.

And a funny thing: there were those stupendous mostly-naked boobs of hers, shimmying and sloshing all over my chastely buttoned lap like the kind of water balloons you'd need a catapult to throw, and I didn’t touch them. Was I out of it or what?

When we got to the van I was still flaky, so Fury drove. She didn’t mention the kiss, in fact she didn’t say a word. As much to fill the silence as anything else, I started telling her about me and the Monk.

Bedtime for Bonzo it wasn’t.

--5--

Justice Juggs awakes with her tits in a wringer.

Literally.

She hangs from those humongous soft mountains, being slowly winched into the air as they are pulled and squeezed vastly between two studded rollers. It’s a curious thing to see her gigantic breasts bulge enormously right at her chin, then mash almost flat in the wringer—which can’t be more than a couple of inches wide—and balloon out again on the other side, looking twice as colossal and the color of tomatoes.

She can’t feel a thing at first, then gradually becomes aware that her gauntleted hands are tied behind her and there’s something jammed up her ass. Something long and cold and metal.

More impressions fade in: ankles bound together, boot-sheathed knees spread wide apart by a rod or something, a fat rubbery mass crammed between her teeth. All she can see is a ceiling many feet above her, and her titanic tits rolling inch by inch into the wringer and out the other side, hauling her up.

Her entire weight depends from those double dirigibles, they ought to hurt like hell.

Probably start, pretty soon. So far just a dull throbbing kind of heat.

So far, so bad.

Footsteps. Three men. They stop right below her.

"Justice Juggs," says a guttural gloating voice, oddly muffled. "How cool a cognomen. And apt."

"Biggest boobs I ever seen." Another voice, almost a squeak.

"Nah, Savage Fury’s is bigger," a third puts in, flat and toneless.

"Bullshit."

"Dudes, you’re comparin’ Rockies with Sierras," the first voice says. "But reet all reet, we’ll do us a side-by-side comparison." Then, with a sigh: "Soften the cowgirl up, cats, allegro non troppo. Follow the chart but you may improv the middle eight. I’m gonna lay out on this set. Dig?"

They dig. Something like a pile driver buries itself in Justice’s heaving muscular belly and she would bend double if she wasn’t hanging from her tight-squeezed mammary mountains. The masked paladin grunts and writhes in midair and another fist smashes her gut. Her stomach is mashed against her spine and her stupendous mammaries stretched in their wringer-vise. She puts her whole heart into a ballgagged groan.

Justice tightens her gut muscles in anticipation of the next blows, but they slam into both sides of her wasp waist between flapping vest and microskirt and she can’t help but scream into the mouthball.

Besides, she’s starting to feel the agony in her distended vastly crushed meatblimps. She clenches her teeth against a moan, bulging the rubber globe between them. Tries to prepare for more.

The next punch rockets right up between her spread leather-sheathed thighs, into her aching gold-furred pussy.

Justice throws her blonde-maned head back and shrieks. Her masked eyes bulge wildly and she thrashes about like a fish on a line, heedless of the pain in her gigantic milkbags. Dimly feels that she’s pulling the long metal tube from her anus.

That’s when the Western Woman Wonder realizes what it is—they’ve rammed one of her own six-shooters up her asshole, and tied her gauntleted hands to the trigger! She’s almost given herself a hot-lead suppository!

Justice goes limp. Hangs there from her fabulous agonized whale-udders. Big-gloved fists clench at the lavish buttcheeks under her rucked-up fringed micro, the cylinder block of her Colt protruding between them. Chews on her ballgag and can’t keep from sobbing miserably.

"Very well, dudes, I’m callin’ time," the guttural voice says. "She has twigged unto our riff. No .45 caliber enemas for our guest today."

"Awwwww."

"Rats." Like disappointed boys.

"Like, bring her down."

Suddenly the rollers straining her massive chest-pumpkins between loosen, and Justice Juggs falls. Only a couple of feet. She lands on her thighbooted knees and stretches out flat on her tremendous tormented tits, wrenching a squeal from plush ball-stretched lips.

Someone stands over her. Wretchedly sprawled, the sniffling six-shootin sexbomb can’t lift her head enough to take in more than his bare feet. They are flat and hairy and way too big. Someone pulls her cowboy hat off. Brutally, a misshapen foot stomps on the back of her head, grinds her masked face into the floor till blood drips from her nose, then those huge extremities kick her over onto her back. She lies there on her bound fists sobbing. Her enormous breasts loll to her sides like monstrous waterwings, pulsing with fire. Tear-filled domino’d eyes unable to make out more than an indistinct shape standing over her.

However, Justice can clearly see the big hairy feet when they lift and, one by one (almost daintily) step down on her heaving blubberbags. Sink ankle-deep into those elephantine jello-hulks, press them into the floor at her sides, spread them out like stupendous soufflés.

More gag-muffled screaming and writhing.

Especially when her masked eyes clear and the agonized Amazon beholds the enormous gorilla that towers over her, straddling her chest and standing on her titanic soft tits.

The gorilla impossibly dressed in zoot suit, shades and beret. Who smiles down at her and takes a satisfied pull on a long cigarette holder and hums something jazzy.

"Felonious Monk, your humble but ever-so-jivin’ servant, reet all reet."

He flexes his toes in her gigantic doughy jugs and Justice Juggs whimpers into her beslobbered ballgag.