--6--

"He’s what??" Savage Fury stared at me.

"Watch that pedestrian," I said.

She swerved the van violently to the right, missed the startled pedestrian and almost side-swiped a parked car. While Fury might have had the strength of a hundred and the tits of ten, a driver she wasn’t. But I was still shaking off the effects of Monk’s little parting gift. If she hadn’t been between me and that blast ....

"You’ve got to be joking," the Cowled Crusader said, keeping her eyes on the road and her armgloved hands at 10 and 2.

I sighed. "I thought it was pretty funny too when I pulled him out of the burning lab. Now I wish I’d left him there."

"An ape suit?" Fury said, even more incredulously if that was possible.

"That’s what he was wearing. There was this party, see, TV nostalgia, and the musicians were all dressed as gorillas. You know, the Nairobi String Trio from the old Ernie Kovacs show?"

From the blank look in her masked eyes, she didn’t know. Guess she didn’t get cable.

"I was there as a guest—mostly. I wore my usual get-up, mask and boots and all, and told everyone I was Honey West."

Fury eyed my enormous tits, bulging half out of their navel-slashed V and shimmying heavily with the van’s motion. "You must’ve been the hit of the party."

I shrugged. "Doesn’t take much, and I’ve got a lot more than that. Anyway, I was really there as security because of a series of burglaries that had taken place during parties. I’d narrowed the most likely culprits down to the musicians because in one combination or another, they’d played at every party that was hit."

"You followed him."

"Like a bat out of hell, darling. I hate being caught by cute tricks, especially on my boobs. There was this industrial park not too far away, and he made straight for it. It had one of those multi-level parking structures, where his sports job had a serious advantage over the van. By the time I caught up with him, he’d cracked his car up and abandoned it."

"So you lost him."

"For a few minutes. I just found a door he’d forced and an unconscious security guard nearby when the whole building shook from this humongous explosion."

"And that was that?"

"The light’s red."

"I see it."

"… Not by a long shot. The other members of his jazz group had followed us."

I still hadn’t seen my attacker, just his arm. Every time I tried to turn around I was bashed against the van. I couldn’t believe it was the musician in the ape suit. What I couldn’t believe even more was this clown’s strength—he was playing with me like a pet kitten. The bells in my carillon were ringing like Easter Sunday.

By the time I finished the story we were back at my place. Savage Fury, seated across from me, massaged her own big nipples in their semi-concealing straps. The massive soft mammaries resting on her shoulder-gloved arms all but engulfed them. For the umpteenth time, I resisted the temptation to lick my lips.

"Ouch. How long did it take for your breasts to heal?"

"A few days. I had the luck for awhile and didn’t take any shots to them."

"You’ve run into him since then, I take it."

I took a long pull of my single malt whiskey—one of the Glens—and nodded. "Oh yeah. Monk and me are old friends by now. Turns out the high tech whammy that hit him in that lab fused the gorilla suit with his own skin and gave him some hellacious kind of strength."

"Strong as me?"

"Maybe. I’d have to see you two duke it out."

Fury stood up. Her beautiful cowled face was set. "Silk, I want you to help me arrange that." Suddenly that butter-soft Southern accent of hers could have cut steel.

I just had to ask it. "So, do you and Justice, like, have a thing going?"

She stared at me. "What d’you mean?"

"I mean, are you lovers?"

She showed me the back of her cowled head too quickly. But not so quickly that I missed the sudden flush under her mask, the same color as her ponytail.

"Hey, look, you don’t have to be embarrassed or anything. Justice is one helluva woman and I’d be the last person in the world to blame you."

"Were you and Justice ... lovers?"

"I had a boyfriend and so did she, and it turned out they were the same guy. We had a stupid fight over him. When he was murdered, we brought in his killer and after that we just sort of kept on comforting one another for awhile—a couple of months, maybe. We still do, sometimes. It’s kind of casual, nothing to get in your way."

"Murdered. Wow, that’s tough."

Fury was silent. Then her broad bare shoulders straightened and she turned back to me. "We better find this Ferocious Monk. I don’t think he captured JJ to wine and dine her."

"That’s ‘Felonious’, and my next line exactly."

She never did answer my question about being lovers. Because just then Gayle walked in with the Mega-Squirter and said, "What do you want me to do with this thing?"

Savage Fury reached for it and I knew what she had in mind. But I jumped up and got there first. The pumpkin-busted cowled bombshell looked at me. "You think there might be clues on it?"

Gayle frowned. "I could try to lift some prints but I don’t think we’d get any, wet like it is."

I held the contraption and looked at them. "Doesn’t anything about this strike you as odd?"

Fury looked blank. Gayle chewed her luscious lower lip for a moment. "Well, only that a couple of crooks would have one with them for—"

"Exact-a-mundo!" I all but yelled.

I turned to Fury. The excitement mounting within me was almost as good as an orgasm. "Who knew you were coming here?"

Her lovely masked face looked even blanker. "What d’you mean?"

"Don’t you think it’s a mighty big coincidence that those two creeps came prepared with your specific weakness? Especially when neither Gayle nor I knew you were coming? If we didn’t know—"

Her eyes lit up. "—How did they??"

--8--

We created quite a commotion at the West Valley station. On my own turf in the City they’ve almost gotten used to me—sometimes the whole place only comes to a dead stop for ten minutes when I show up, giving Lt. Carnahan a chance to blow off some steam and get his act together before dealing with me. Maybe some day he’ll even talk to my face instead of Jayne & Marilyn.

But Savage Fury, now, out here in the Valley. She’s tougher to deal with than even I, not only because there’s so jiggling much of her, but virtually none of it is decently concealed. We strode into the day room on our six inch spikes with our humongous boobs swaying before us like they were towing us along, and silence fell. More accurately, it plummeted—with a crash. And I was treated to the pleasantly novel experience of having every male eye in the place glued somewhere else for once, and every cock stand up and salute another awesomely overblown set of curves and mountains.

Thought I, watching her try like hell to ignore all this google-eyed attention: the Cowled Crusader might be a regular visitor here, but this lot were a looong way from getting used to her. I hoped she had the sense to use that.

------------

Savage Fury hated the eyes on her, crawling like flies over her gigantic tits barely contained by their tautly overloaded straps and up the long thighbooted legs to the thicket of curls at their juncture spilling over her bottom "V". Well, she didn’t hate them exactly, kind of liked it really—but she hated the liking. The liking that made her pose for all those lewd stares and dirty minds with her massive mammaries outthrust (their natural state anyway), her wide-flaring womanly hips canted with one leather-sheathed leg bent and her weight on the other spikeheeled foot.

She wished she could be like Silk, and just accept the silent lusting tribute, even enjoy it—the way the masked raven-maned goddess stood there waiting, perfectly natural, playing with the floppy cuff of a big crimson gauntlet. The eyes not glommed onto Fury were fixed on the stretch of muscular thigh, stocking band and garter between the tops of Silk’s thighboots and the hem of her tightly belted micro-coat. Not to mention the teasing glimpse of bulging silken panties below the coat, and the quivering barely-contained chest blimps that threatened to explode up from the coat’s straining lapels.

Silk knew the lust, and she liked it, and liked the liking.

Finally Fury got sick of waiting. They always made her wait to see Matt so they could get their cheap thrills, she doubted that anyone had even gone to get him yet. She turned and strode toward his office, spike heels rapping loudly in the silence. Silk Stalker followed.

The desk sergeant, Olivares, who always focussed on her crimson-bushed cunt mound, moved to intercept the two masked Amazons. "I’m sorry, ladies, uh, you can’t just—"

Fury froze him in his tracks with a scowl. In a mirror, she caught the small smile on Silk’s full lips.

Captain Matt Lamarr came out of his office grinning. "I always know when you show up," he said. "Suddenly I can hear myself think."

The thing that had first impressed Savage Fury about the tall slender sardonic cop—aside from the scar that connected his left eye with the left corner of his mouth, pulling the lid down slightly and giving him a sleepy dangerous air—was that he looked into her eyes when he spoke to her, not at her gigantic ever-jiggling jugs or her half naked pussy. It wasn’t much, till she’d started to really notice his eyes—how deep they were, and, beneath a glint of irony, how sad. Since then she’d worked at getting down to that sadness, but she hadn’t made it despite all of her power-pulchritude, which could pry most men open like a laser can opener.

Not yet, anyway.

Silk was holding out a crimson gauntleted hand. "Captain, I’m—"

"Silk Stalker, of course." He took the hand. "Max Carnahan’s told me about you—as though he had to. That’s why I sent our girl here your way with her little problem, whatever it was."

"You don’t know?" Silk asked sharply.

Lamarr shrugged. "Her business. She needed to know how to find you, I told her."

Fury shook herself (inwardly only, she didn’t want to be responsible for any sprained eyeballs). "That’s kind of why we’re here, Matt. Could we—" She gestured to his office with an armgloved hand.

"Mais certainement, mamselles." He bowed them in ahead of him.

--9--

Justice Juggs’ shrill scream is buried by one of her own gigantic joggling breasts. Like a bowling ball of blubber, bigger than her head, it flies up into her star-masked face with a meaty impact that echoes in the small room. Her audience applauds her humiliated girlish squeak. The force of the boob-blow throws her back, then the weight of the titanic tit flopping down jerks her forward again, and the other monstrous udder jumps up to smack her kisser. Each impact leaves lines of small cuts in her beautiful pain-taut visage.

Justice doesn’t have to worry about whether she’s coming or going—she’s doing both at the same time. Cumming convulsively, painfully, around the mechanical bull’s saddle horn buried deep in her pussy as the heaving bucking contraption throws her wildly about. And going crazy from the pain in her enormous joggling milkwhoppers which are webbed tightly in barbed wire that flays her masked face every time one of her titanic tits leaps up into it.

Plunging and screaming and leaping and wailing.

The masked Amazon’s gauntleted hands are tied behind her but her thighbooted legs flap about loose. She can end her twat-torment by simply letting herself be thrown to the floor, yet she clamps her powerful leather-sheathed legs about the bull’s flanks and holds on for all she’s worth. And orgasms over and over, wretchedly, groaning and squealing, till her cum drips down the sides of the bull.

Making it very slippery.

"I don’t get it," Zoot says to Ice. "Why don’t she just let go?"

"Check it closer, my man," Ice replies with a smile.

Zoot does, at great length. He studies the bawling bucking Justice’s bounding chest-pumpkins and the intimate fit of the saddle horn in her streaming pussy. When he comes back he’s smiling and his groin is tented. "That Monk, what a character."

"One of a kind."

"I was hopin’ she’d stay on forever, I mean this bitch’s tits put on one helluva show, but now—"

Zoot gets his wish before he can express it. The bull gives a great lunge forward, catapulting wristbound Justice from its back. But instead of tumbling to the floor she swings back and forth in midair, howling and kicking her spikeheeled legs, elephantine milkbags stretched up like massive pink teardrops.

From the fine, almost-invisible cords attached to the barbed wire cocoon bloodying each pliant soccer ball.

Zoot and Ice amble over to the dangling masked cowgirl and study her. Penduluming in a wide arc, sobbing in her own world of pain, she ignores them. Zoot wipes a finger on a distended tightly-wrapped watermelon of blubber and it comes away bloody. Ice does the same to a muscular calf slimed with cum above its scalloped boot cuff, then rucks her fringed microskirt up and gives a lavish clenched buttcheek a hard smack!

Justice Juggs squeals miserably and writhes, spikeheels kicking in space. They smile at one another.

"Boss said to leave her hangin’," Zoot says.

"We c’n always hoist her back up again," Ice grins.

"True."

Dimly, the pendant ponderous-pontooned paladin feels herself lowered till her booted feet touch the floor. The haze of agony parts for a moment and she conceives a desperate plan. She hears a zipper behind, then rough hands grasp her great nethercheeks, and a hard questing dick probes between their bursting glossy rounds. In front, other hands take her flaring muscular hips.

"This is gonna be great!" a voice says.

Blindly, Justice kicks a knee up and feels a solid testicular impact. There is a grunt and the hands forget about her hips.

Blindly, Justice flees. But not far.

The bound star-masked Mammazon gets about 10 feet before the cords attached to her barbed wire bra suddenly pull taut. Her wire-webbed watermelons are wrenched backwards and apart till their big swollen nipples stare back around her upper arms, ballooning vastly out to her sides. The colossal-chested cowqueen squeals in agony and fresh blood drips from those back-stretched blubberblimps. But before she can reel back and relieve the horrible strain on her immense bloody udders Zoot is right behind her, taking a fistful of her golden mane. Such is her torment that she barely feels the rabbit punches he slams into her lower back, doesn’t hear her own grunts of pain. But when her knees buckle, she drops her anus right onto his rigid upstanding dick. That she feels, and reacts with wide-eyed porcine aptness.

Zoot avidly buttfucks the spectacular sobbing 6-shootin’ sexbomb. With each thrust between her shimmying buttocks he pushes her hard against the straining lines which pull her titanic tight-wired tits back. Justice’s pliant pontoons are stretched so far around her ribcage that her big dark nipples all but stare at each other across the vested expanse of her back. Feverishly as he buggers her, Zoot snaps rings connected by taut chain to her stiff thumb-sized teats.

There’s so much mega-mammary pain and blood already that the new spurt from her punctured nipples goes all but unnoticed, even by Justice Juggs herself.

In fact, it takes the agonized ass-reamed Amazon a few minutes to realize that Ice has taken her tear-streaming masked face and rammed her plush mouth down onto his foul rampant organ, and what she’s choking on is his big hard mouth-pumping dick. But Justice definitely feels it when Zoot grabs onto the chain binding her gigantic bloody jugs, stretched around behind her like two stupendous blutwurst, and pulls on it as he slams himself into her, and into her, and into her.

------------------

Lamarr stared at us. "You’re shitting me," he said after a moment.

"Word up," I said.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" he asked Fury.

She shrugged uncomfortably. "I wanted to handle it on my own."

We’d given him the PG version of our misadventures, but it was still enough to bring the blood boiling up from his collar. Aside from the obvious fact Something Significant was going on between the cop and the cowled superwoman (whether they knew it or not), it also meant there was a leak in his department. A bad one.

I could see doubt gnawing at Fury, but she didn’t want to mention it. So I took a smoother tack.

"Who else knew you told Fury where to find me?"

Lamarr was on his feet. "Excuse me, ladies, I’m going to find that out."

He exited. His office still seemed overcrowded with heaving barely covered boobs and legs and hair and leather. Fury stood there chewing on her plump lower lip. I pulled up the cuffs of my thighboots, then straightened the brim of my hat.

"Ladies." I definitely liked this guy.

"How’re you doing?" I asked my fellow lady.

She shrugged. I reached out and gave her shoulder-gloved arm a squeeze. To my surprise she grasped my gauntleted hand, squeezed my fingers so hard I had to fight to keep from wincing. She only let go when we heard Lamarr outside the door.

Good thing my gloves were reinforced. I resisted a sore temptation to massage my semi-mangled digits. And wondered if maybe I should think twice about trying to coax this boulder-busted super-bombshell into bed with me.

He came in like a fast-moving thundercloud. When he was angry that scar turned his face into something I wouldn’t want to run into at night.

"When we talked in Interrogation 1," he said to me, "there were 2 cops outside who could’ve overheard what we said. No one else."

"Who?" I asked.

"Sgt. Wally Sizemore and Det. Lucius Coltrane. Both 20-year men." He didn’t even try to hide his disgust. "They’re off shift now, I’m having them brought in."

"No need, Lieutenant," I replied. "I’ll bet I know which one it is."

They looked at me.

And the next thing I know, I’m bound and gagged on my knees with my masked face jammed into vinyl upholstery that smells of cheap cigars and sweat. Head pounding like a whole orchestra of big dull drums. My coat open and a big rough hand reaching inside to grope Marilyn’s pliant mega-abundance as though trying to milk her.

--10--

"Silk?"

Her voice echoed in the empty parking structure. She listened intently, filtering out the usual traffic: heard the foundations shift, a gentle breeze, water dripping, the hum of fluorescent lights. No rustle of sweet raven hair, creak of leather thighboots, tapping of ridiculously high heels across concrete.

Footsteps behind her. She’d have known whose they were without turning even if he wasn’t wearing Aramis as usual.

"Nothing?" Lamarr asked at her shoulder.

Savage Fury shook her cowled head, stretched her sinewy arms in their snug shoulder-high gloves. "I’m going to look for her."

The cop stepped in front of her, face grim, eyes concerned. "If Coltrane has her, be careful. He’s one tough bastard."

She smiled, patted his cheek. "And I’m one tough bitch."

His answering smile was cautious. "You’ve been hanging around Silk Stalker too much."

"I think she’s good for me, Matt."

"Maybe. But like the songs says, I love you just the way you are."

Their eyes held and Fury was thankful for the mask. It was a barrier between them still—if not for it, she’d probably let him have her right here and now. The desire for him moistened her pussy, made her labia so heavy she could almost feel them sticking out around her V-shaped bottom. Matt, of course, was too much of a gentleman to look down. Like her eyes were enough for him.

"Fury!" It was so faint even her super-hearing almost missed it.

Just that one word, then a scuffle and a grunt. A car door opened to a blast of music cut off by the door closing, then an engine roared and tires squealed on pavement.

Lamarr as usual was trying his damndest not to stare down at those gigantic mostly-naked tits jiggling on Savage Fury’s chest like pumpkin-sized balloons with their big brown nipples peering out around the straps. Everyone did, so he wanted to be the one who didn’t. But it was goddam hard sometimes; there was such a thing as just too much woman. Her lovely eyes made it easier, staring out at him from behind their mask like those of a frightened doe.

Then he blinked and it seemed the awesomely overblown Thighbooted Thunderbolt had just disappeared from in front of him.

No, there she was, at the edge of the ramp staring over the parapet to the street below. He sprinted over to her.

"What’s up?" he asked.

"I heard her, Matt!" Fury’s cowled head craned intently down the busy street far below.

Without further elaboration, the Cowled Crusader vaulted over the low wall and plummeted the 5 levels to the sidewalk, cape billowing behind her. Landed with what he could have sworn was a squeak.

And then was gone like a fleshy leathern streak up the boulevard, too fast for his eyes to follow. It was hard to believe that such a big woman could move so fast.

----------

A funny thing about head trauma, specifically the kind induced by a skillfully applied blackjack and a healthy dose of chloroform—it can scramble your memory in very surrealistic ways as well as leave your brain feeling like a poached egg. I hadn’t the foggiest idea how I got in that car (which was where I was) kneeling on the floor with my mountainous top half (or top three-quarters, as Mike would say) spread over the front seat. Nor did I recall being clobbered, let alone being blindfolded or having my gauntleted hands tied behind me, or how this fat foul-tasting ballgag got crammed between my teeth.

I did know my head ached, but that was mostly the choloform. It had been a very skilled koshing, designed to dim the lights without breaking the bulb.

The kind cops are good at.

That was when it came back to me.

Some days I feel like Chicken Little—the sky keeps falling, right on me. And I never seem to wake up in satin sheets with soft sea breezes wafting through the windows and a naked stud lying next to me with a dick like a tent pole.

"Welcome back, Silk," a voice said. The hand gave my monumental milkbag a brutal squeeze and I groaned into my mouthball.

Though I’d never met him I was pretty sure I knew that voice’s owner, and it explained much. Nothing that was good. But I’d already realized this was no joy ride.

The hand let go of my massive mammary and pulled the blindfold off. I blinked and looked up.

He was big and not all that ugly. Except for the wide unpleasant leer spread across his puss, directed down at me. He kept his hands at 10 and 2 on the wheel. A very conscientious driver.

"Coltrane," I said. Translated through the ballgag it came out "mpffughh!"

"Too bad for both of us you caught on," he said. "Worse for you, of course."

He gave a sour snicker. "So I get early retirement in the sunny south, on a lot more than a cop’s pension. And you—" He looked down at me. "I dunno what King Kong has in mind for you. But I’m pretty sure you ain’t gonna enjoy it."

Much as I hated to agree with the creep ....

Kneeling by his legs, I shook my head violently and yelled into the ballgag. I’ve always hated the damn things, and only partly because my mouth usually isn’t the first they’ve been in.

He backhanded me a good one across the chops, knocked me against the passenger door with a yelp. Reached over for a fistful of ebon mane to jerk me back. I wondered where my hat was. They don’t come cheap in red leather.

"God you got a body on you!" he gritted. "Tits like I wouldn’t believe!"

"Mrrpff!!" I replied wittily, tasting blood. It didn’t improve the flavor of the chloroform.

Coltrane was waiting for something. As he drove, one hand on the wheel and the other clenched painfully in my hair, he kept glancing down at me and licking his lips, then searching up ahead of the car. Finally he smiled—not pleasantly—and put on the brakes. I could hear other cars doing the same thing. Stop light.

I found out what the big cop had been waiting for: the chance to use both big rough hands. With the wheel hand he yanked his zipper down and the ballgag out. I barely had time to lick my raw lips before he pulled my masked face over to his groin with the hair hand and impaled my mouth on the huge oily dick that sprang up like a rampant catapult.

"Glrppfff!" I objected. Strenuously.

He tightened his fist in my hair as he floored the gas pedal and the car leaped forward. I know a threat when I get one, especially in a situation like that. Just my usual luck for the day—what they really mean by "the luck o’ the Irish"—we were in a clear stretch with no traffic and he was able to drive fast. We’d probably end up a tree somewhere if I bit down on the stiff salami that stretched my swollen lips wide and filled my mouth.

Shit.

As I slowly (and ever-so-reluctantly) began to suck his truncheon of a dick I could feel the creep’s smile beaming down at my back, even though all I could see was his open zipper and a curly thatch of smelly pubic hair that filled my nose and made me want to gag or sneeze. His grip on my hair relaxed a bit.

"It’s up to you and your mouth, Tits. I can deliver you alive or dead."

Nose-breathing loudly while I lifted my head to run my tongue around the bloated plum-sized head of his huge organ, I thought it would serve Coltrane right if I made him kill me. What Felonious Monk would do to this scumbag for denying him that pleasure would be almost as interesting as anything the gorilla would do to me himself. The only catch was, I wouldn’t be around to watch.

I checked the knots at my gauntleted wrists. Strong and tight, so much so my fingers were going numb. No joy there.

He took a deep shuddery breath when I slid my opulent mouth the rampant length of his cock (trying not to vomit) and started to seesaw my lips onto the rigid curving fleshpole.

"Oh yeah," he gasped. "Oh yeah!"

The same old song, with the same old accompaniment. Slurp, suck, slurp, suck. Up and down and up and down. Choking on his rigid shaft of gristle when he forced my mouth all the way onto it till the swollen glans dove down my throat and his scrotum nestled against my chin. Trying not to taste. Trying not to think or feel. Not succeeding particularly well.

This is the way Chicken Little wakes up after the sky has fallen on her for the umpteenth time. Suck slurp suck.

At least he’d bathed in the last few days. And he’d been circumcised. When you’re in a position like this, little things mean a lot.

Lights flashed over my head as I worked diligently at his mouth-crammed dick. They were getting fewer and farther between, and dimmer. Less traffic. We were heading into a darker part of town. This did not bode well unless it was Beverly Hills, which I doubted.

"Oh yeah baby!" he said. "Jesus yeah!"

Funny how maggots like Coltrane get so paternal and religious when they’ve got my gorgeous masked face in their laps and my diligent ripe lips around their cocks.

Sans choice, I sucked him off vigorously. Each moist slurp, each throb of the blue vein in his rampant dick prolonged my life another miserable minute. My bound floppy-cuffed fists clenched so tightly on my big ass that the nails dug into my palms right through the gloves.

--11--

Six-inch heels a machine gun tattoo beneath her, Savage Fury dashed down the middle of Ventura Blvd, shoulder-gloved arms pumping, legs flashing in their hipboots. Dodging in and out of evening traffic kept her down to 70 miles per. She hoped Matt hadn’t heard that involuntary squeak of surprise when she landed and these damned double dirigibles of hers flew up into her face with a floppy one-two titpunch that almost knocked her on her naked ass. She was going to have to reinforce their straps—again.

No time to worry about that now, though. She focused her super-ears ahead but could hear nothing over the traffic’s honking horns and engines and radios. Fury leaped onto the roof of a SCRTD bus and rode it for half a block or so, listening intently.

Finally caught the music she’d heard minutes ago, just before the car door closed: Travis Tritt, one of her favorites. Straight ahead, maybe a mile or so.

The Masked Mammazon leaped from the bus onto a pickup, did a somersault to the street and was off. The startled truck driver jumped at the impact on his cab roof, got a flash out the passenger window of the biggest damn set of knockers he’d ever seen, with a cape flying behind. Then their owner sped up, and the last he saw of her was an equally magnificent (and equally naked) pair of buttcheeks shim-shammying like crazy over a pair of thighhigh boots. Which proceeded to pump away from him like he was parked, zig-zagging through the traffic till all that jiggling wiggling girlmeat was gone.

Fury saw it was a van as she drew near. The station was KTRY, "the new country in town." Now the song was about cleaning some bully’s clock. Wind whipping about her cowled face, she smiled in anticipation. Clenched her leathern fists and put on a burst of speed.

But suddenly the rear doors burst open and a bazooka poked its gaping maw out at her. Through the open door she got a glimpse of Silk Stalker in her red leather outfit and hat, bound to a rear-facing seat and gagged. Fury had just an instant to realize she didn’t dare swerve or dodge because of all the traffic behind her

before the tube roared and the projectile slammed into her gut, just above the junction of her costume’s V-straps

and exploded.

Screaming, the Cowled Crusader was hurled back as though from a catapult. Leather-sheathed arms and legs flailing, she smashed into the windshield of the car behind her cracking it with her great bare butt then somersaulted fifty yards through the air into a group of trash cans, scattering them like bowling pins.

Somewhat to her own amazement (not to mention that of many goggle-eyed pedestrians), she got up again almost immediately. Saw only bright flaring stars and heard only clanging bells and shrieking whistles, but By God She Got Up. Though it felt like the bazooka rocket was still imbedded in her heaving belly, she took right off again after the van (after a moment’s pause to pull up the tops of her thighboots and one armglove cuff that sagged to her elbow). Staggered a bit at first and huffed and puffed, but found her long-legged spikeheeled stride again quickly.

You are a tough bitch!

Fury followed at a distance this time, not only because she couldn’t get up to full speed with the cramp in her belly, but also to wait till traffic thinned out. Tough or not, one of those rockets was all she wanted to deal with tonight. Finally the van turned off Ventura toward the hills and left the traffic behind. Her stomach had stopped throbbing and threatening to empty itself the wrong way, so she closed in.

And this time when the back doors burst open she was ready with a powerful leap. But this time they had a flame thrower. Its roaring gout of fire filled her masked eyes for an instant, blinding her as she leaped. Fury’s jump still carried her onto the van’s roof as she’d planned, but she had to pause a few moments to let her streaming masked eyes clear.

The vehicle began to swerve and slew about wildly, trying to throw her off. As it veered to the left and bounced up onto the sidewalk, the Cowled Crusader crouched down and sank gloved fingers into the sheet metal to hold on. No way they could dislodge that grip!

It wasn’t the first time she’d been wrong today, but it was the most painful. Suddenly the roof at her feet erupted with .50 caliber machinegun slugs from below! They blasted up between the Masked Mammazon’s thighbooted legs to slam into her poor abused pussy and overblown ass. It was like being raped by a burning torch and taking a molten lead enema at the same time!

Savage Fury was blown howling off the van roof as though she’d been launched.

The van screamed around a corner and was gone.

Fury rolled about the gutter where she’d fallen and bawled her pain, armgloved hands clutching at her agonized snatch.

God damn them! Goddam them to hell, the miserable sadistic aaaAAAHHHSHIT THAT HURTS!!

Every time the tormented super-Amazon rolled onto her huge butt, fresh pain shot up from her anus. Finally, when she was sure nothing had been ruptured down there (good ol’ impenetrable skin) and her howls had diminished to gusts of weeping, she ever so gingerly reached back behind her and probed her asshole.

Found a .50 caliber bullet imbedded up to its base, just a hot steel-jacketed stub sticking out of the raw throbbing chute, all but buried between battered pillowy netherglobes.

She used two leathern fingers to draw the big slug out slowly, with a hiss. Crushed it in a gloved fist.

Got up again. Just stood there for a few minutes, massaging her throbbing twat till the burning subsided a bit. Enough to take a wincing spikeheeled step, then another.

--12--

The radio was still tuned to KTRY when Savage Fury caught up to the van again. She found it parked on a dark side street outside a brick building that had been a hotel before the big quake, but now was just a cracked shell of masonry awaiting the wrecking ball. Like most of this neighborhood.

The van was empty except for the driver. Fury took care of him quickly and quietly (though he tried like hell to scream). Her super-ears followed the sounds of blows and gasps of pain to the third floor room where they had Silk Stalker. She hunkered down on the sidewalk and took the 40 feet in a single mighty leap, to crash through the cracked window in a spray of glass.

Surprising the hell out of the three men gathered around Silk slapping and punching her. The gorgeous masked detective was tied to a chair, stunned, her raven-maned head bowed forward under the wide-brimmed hat. Blood dripped onto her gigantic heaving tits, which had been bared for the occasion.

The trio jumped away from their voluptuous leatherclad victim at the explosion from the window and the awesomely overblown thighbooted vision that bounded through it into their midst. Two, one bald as a cueball and the other with a ponytail, drew revolvers and opened fire as Fury straightened and shook off shards of glass.

The bullets, .357 Magnums designed to penetrate stone block, bounced off her bare shoulder and punched a big nipple deep into its gigantic joggling boob. Fury yelped and staggered back to a tattered sofa, one gloved hand clutching her ponderous smashed milkmountain.

Before they could get off more of the stinging loads, the double-dirigibled dynamo plucked the couch up and shied it at them, slamming both gunmen into a wall and pinning them beneath it. She heard a snick! and saw the third one had taken up a shotgun. Fury had no desire to tangle with double-ought buck, so she stooped down and grabbed the edge of the rug under his feet and gave it a tug

and the tattered carpeting tore in her gloved grip!

The shotgun roared battering her with buckshot, stinging her everywhere on her scantclad ultra-body. The scumbag adjusted choke to "narrow" and blasted her titanic tits, driving the Cowled Crusader back with an agonized howl, shoulder-sheathed arms trying as futilely as ever to shield all that joggling boob blubber.

Before he could jack another load in, Fury did the only thing she could think of—she stamped her thighbooted foot, hard. The room shook, the whole building shook! The chair-bound Silk Stalker toppled over onto her side. And the gunman was pitched onto his face, the shotgun flying from his fingers.

He scrambled for it, but Savage Fury was across the room in a single leap and as he grabbed for the weapon she trapped the smoking firearm between the shank and 6-inch spikeheel of her boot. He lay there, arm outstretched, fingers a half inch from the shotgun, and stared up at her. She smiled down at him.

Still aching over a goodly bit of her overripe and over-exposed hide, Fury smashed the gun, then lifted the creep up by his collar and held him overhead for a moment to enjoy the way he trembled in her leathern grip, which made her smile even wider, which made him tremble harder—and so on. Finally the Masked Mammazon tossed him across the room into his buddies, who were trying to get out from under the sofa. Then spun to the overturned moaning Silk Stalker.

The leatherclad detective struggled in her bonds, grunting into the ballgag crammed between her luscious lips. Fury righted the chair easily, and rather than untie Silk’s booted ankles and everything else just smashed it to splinters beneath her, then reached down behind to tear away the ropes binding her gauntleted wrists. In the process, she not-so-accidentally shoved a massive soft mammary into Silk’s masked face, waited tensely and expectantly for soft lips to encircle her stiff thrusting teat ....

Suddenly teeth clamped down on the hard thumb-sized teat and she had just begun to yelp in astonished pain when there was a splash and for the second time that day the Cowled Crusader was

WET!

Before the shocked super-Amazon could even reel back, Silk Stalker jacked a leather-sheathed knee up into her swollen pussy, and again—it had been more than ready for action, but not this kind! Amplified by all the abuse this most sensitive part of her awesome anatomy had taken recently, the most exquisite pain exploded through Fury’s loins. All she could do was drop to her booted knees numbly clutching her ruptured twat

and stare in astonishment when Silk produced another water balloon from a bucket behind the chair and lobbed it underhand at her

(the balloon wobbled through the air as though in slow motion)

Fury tried frantically to fall away from it

and cringed at the splash when it burst against her bare hip.

Despair: You’re drenched, all your super strength is gone!

Silk Stalker—who Fury now saw was an impostor, just a big-titted brunette in a similar costume—buried a spike heel in her belly. She let out an explosive grunt with a lot of saliva and folded up on her side. Another kick to her gut and the frantic gasping superwoman tried to grab the rampaging foot. That only got her cowled head kicked, rolling her onto her back with a scream, gigantic strapped boobs sloshing vastly.

But the battered Masked Mammazon didn’t give up. So what if she just had a normal woman’s strength now, so did the fake Stalker. She was a good deal smaller than Fury’s 6’2" (barefoot) and 180 lbs, too. If she could just get to her feet ....

But the big raven-maned bitch stamped a sky-spiked foot into Fury’s heaving gut that levered her up with a wrenching groan, bloody drool flowing over her chin from ragged lush lips. At least that gave her a chance to grab the booted ankle and throw her Amazonian assailant back.

The spectacular soaked superheroine climbed achingly to her feet. Each movement lit a new fire in her dripping smashed pussy. Tottered a moment on her heels. The fake Silk came at her with a big looping right that gave Fury plenty of time to weave back—almost overbalanced, careful there—then step in under the gauntleted fist and nail the scarlet-clad slut in her gut. Hard, even without super-strength. She grunted and doubled over.

"Where's Silk?" Fury demanded.

The big leathercoated impostor said nothing, only charged the Cowled Crusader and head-butted her belly. The battling Amazons staggered back together, but Fury spun about and used the fake’s own momentum to hurl her away into the wall.

"Where is she??" the Masked Mammazon yelled.

The crimson-costumed cunt just growled, picked up a footstool. Fury dove under it into the bitch, batted the stool away and took her by a jiggling boob and squeezed that opulent soft globe, started slapping the masked face about.

"Talk!" she ordered.

Fury found herself enjoying this, a little. Hey, you’re pretty darn good (and bad) even without your powers!

She’d show this bitch what a real woman could do with her fists!

That was when the door flew open and two men burst in. One, a big muscular black, headed straight for her while the other went over to the couch pinning their cohorts.

Fury set herself. Better take care of this one quick before you have all those others to deal with again.

She never got the chance. The awesome-bodied Cowled Crusader threw a measuring right at the black’s face to slow him down, but he nonchalantly slapped the leathern fist aside and rifled a machinegun-quick series of brutal jabs into her plush mouth that rocked to her spikeheeled toes. She had only staggered back a single step from the lip-smashing barrage before the bludgeoning fists crashed wrist-deep into her gargantuan tits and then drove her belly button almost to her spine.

"OOOOLLGGHHH!!" This one’s a—a boxer!

The watermelon-titted woman wonder’s gut churned and her gigantic jugs felt like they’d been ruptured. But there was no time to dwell on that because he exploded a granite-knuckled bomb in her pain-clenched masked face that sent Fury back to the wall with a crash, leather-sheathed arms outflung, to bounce out again into a jaw-battering combo that jerked her cowled head back and forth on her broad shoulders till she thought her neck would unscrew!

Her world rocking and rolling, the powerless towering superwoman could only grunt and yelp as she was pounded. Blood sprayed everywhere from burst lips and smashed nose till her knees started to buckle but the boxer reached down and grabbed her twat stiffening Fury with a shrill gasping squeal, held the hapless heroine by her tender pussy so he could slam his forehead into her sweaty face, then let go of her abused swollen privates only to blast the boulderous side of a monstrous mammary, spinning Savage Fury around.

For a brief tearful glimpse of the other scumbags watching her get thoroughly and humiliatingly beaten—before one of them slammed a high arcing kick across her masked face that whirled the dazed tottering Mammazon back to the boxer, who backhanded her almost casually and sent her stumbling backwards to Cueball, who snagged her cape and hauled her choking to him. From behind, his arms snaked under her dripping armpits and eager groping fingers siezed her stupendous strapped mammaries and jerked them down, strrretched those massive blubberbags almost to her hips. Fury threw her cowled head back with a scream, buried by a groan when the boxer began pounding her heaving gut, jerking her forward again, to convulse and drool numbly with each agonizing pull on her ponderous pontoons, each fist buried in her burning midsection.

Can’t -"UNNGGGH!!"- take this-"GGUHH!!"-too much pain-"OOOLFFF!!"- tits twat belly everything hurts hurts -"AAWLLKHHH!!"- hurts got to got to got to GET AWAY!

The fake Silk Stalker leaned in with a serene smile and yanked Fury’s head up by her flapping ponytail, spat a big gob of saliva squarely into a masked eye.

Miserably: One more -"nnrrffhhh!!"- thing to do

The battered super-bombshell put everything she had left into the only move she had left. Bent forward suddenly at the waist, clenching her teeth against the pain as the milkblimp-clutching fingers dug knuckle-deep into her pain-wracked pumpkins and tried to stretch them back around her sides

and managed to throw the creep attached to the hands over her

into the boxer.

Both men went down in a yelling heap. As the Savage Sensation had hoped in her desperation, the phony Stalker waved the others back and jumped at her with a snarl. Fury fumbled at a small compartment in her "SS" symbol, hidden by the monstrous heaving masses of her breasts, and tackled the scarlet-clad masked bitch. Reckless momentum carried them both back toward the open door while she managed to attach the small device inside the hem of the big blonde’s leather minicoat.

That was as far as the desperate double-dirigibled dominatrix’s plans worked. Hands grabbed her matted ponytail and hauled her back with a yelp. The fake Silk crashed both gauntleted fists down on the back of Fury’s cowled skull driving her masked face onto an upkicking leather-sheathed kneecap in a spray of blood.

For Savage Fury, that was the ball game. She dropped to her booted knees stunned.

The Silk impostor smiled down at her and said, "We have to make sure to keep her too wet to escape."

Fury stared numbly at the puddle of blood from her lips and nose. Hands took her leathern wrists and jerked them together, tied them behind her, gave her great naked ass a sharp cheek-shimmying smack!

"We don’t want her to catch cold," Cueball chuckled.

More water splashed over the kneeling Masked Mammazon. It filled her thighboots almost to their cuffs, saturated her costume and hair and everything.

A gauntleted hand stroked Fury’s head like a pet, gave her topknot a twist that made her bleat through clenched teeth. "That will be the least of her problems."

Part of her raged at the gloating in the voice, and part of her quailed.

When they finished fastening the rings to her big stiff teats, the men chuckling at each gasp as the sharp teeth bit into the tender rubbery ducts, they ran the rings’ filigree chains down between the kneeling Fury’s booted thighs—careful to snug the lines deeply among her swollen pendant pussylips and the vast crevice of her awesome naked ass. Pulled the lines taut stretching her titanic tits down past her waist making her squeal and rear up. That got the fake Silk to giggling as she attached them to the cords at Fury’s gloved wrists.

"I think she’ll be careful about testing her bonds," Cueball said. He’d groped the helpless dripping heroine’s overblown jiggling pulchritude all the while she was being tied up and humiliated—kept shoving his bulging crotch into her masked face and rubbing that hard-on over her slack bloodied mouth. He wanted her lips around his rampaging dick in the worst way. Fury filed that in the part of her mind that wasn’t awash in pain and misery.

"Unless she wants these mountains flopping at her knees," the boxer agreed, giving a ponderous pendent pontoon a painful squeeze.

"I’d like that," the phony Stalker said behind her, and yanked up on her bound wrists.

The Cowled Crusader screamed as the filigree tore into her sensitive snatch and pulled her immense melons to her leather-sheathed knees, setting their bloated nipples afire. ‘Silk’ let go and they rebounded to swing vastly from her ribcage—sawing the fine chain back and forth between her gravid cuntlips. Hating herself, Fury bowed her cowled head and whimpered.

‘Silk’ produced a fat penis gag that was a strap-on dildo turned backwards.

When Cueball took her face and mashed it into his distended groin again for a final throbbing hard-on rub, she knew this was her last chance. The bound and bloodied—but not quite (to her own surprise) beaten—bombshell hoped none of these bastards had read Uncle Remus.

She cowered back from the proffered bulge with a moan. "N-no, please ...."

He took a fistful of her sopping ponytail. "Hey, before we do that, why not loosen her lips with a taste of the real thing?"

"You just want to make her suck that thing you call a dick," ‘Silk’ said.

From several others: "Yeah!" "Fuck yeah!"

You can’t put a thing over on this bunch, Fury thought.

"All right, all right," ‘Silk’ said. "If she sucks Mitch off she has to suck everyone."

"Fine with me," Cueball said. "But I go first."

"Then we gag her and take her to Monk."

"We can’t fuck her?" the boxer asked.

"Not without the big ape’s okay."

The boxer shrugged. Heart pounding and mouth dry, Fury knew the okay was guaranteed—if she was still alive after Monk finished with her.

By her topknot, Cueball bent the Thighbooted Thunderbolt over to his swollen crotch. Wide-eyed and moaning as though it was what she didn’t want, Fury made him work at it. A hand drew down the tented zipper before her masked eyes and hauled out a big rampant dick. Involuntarily, she tightened her pulped lips. Swinging his hips about, Cueball slapped the great erect dong across her cowled face a few times making her yelp. Hating it but knowing it was the only way, she let her mouth sag open

and he stuffed his rigid member right on in, all the way to its balls.

Fury wasn’t prepared for that, the way the blunt golfball-sized head plugged her throat and pubic hair tickled her nose. She choked on the foul organ. Her grimace of disgust was not faked. Cueball started sawing the curving manshaft between her lips, in and out. The onlookers murmured appreciatively and Fury, gagging, burned. Bad enough to be forced to suck dick in private, it was always ten times worse with an audience.

"Mmphh! glrrggh! grkkkk!"

For a moment her mind went swimming in nausea and degradation. It was almost too much to pull herself back and do what she had to do.

Which was actually easy: just nip, ever so lightly, his hard mouth-pumping and super-sensitive cock. Like capturing a dim sum in her teeth.

Cueball froze instantly. Turning her moist masked eyes up to him as calmly as she could, Fury skinned her bloodied lips back to show him the teeth clasping the rigid dick—not quite enough to break the taut skin.

Just enough.

She knew he’d gotten the message from the way the mouth-filling member softened a bit. He stared down at her, sweating.

"What’s wrong?" ‘Silk’ asked. She looked. "Oh for God’s sake!"

The bent-over armbound Fury’s plush lips worked around the slowly melting organ to keep it rigid in her mouth—if he went all soft this would be a lot harder.

She jerked her cowled head toward the door, hating the way his balls bounced against her chin. Cueball nodded anxiously, staring down. His lips formed the word "please" over and over again.

He took a careful step backwards, then another. The Masked Mammazon matched him step for step with equal care. Bound gloved fists on her outthrust naked ass knotted so tightly they trembled.

"What the fuck??" a few voices exclaimed.

Fury, able to see only her freedom ticket’s unzipped pants and hairy crotch, heard movement behind her. They stopped. She dug her teeth into his tumid organ ever so slightly and he took in a bushel of air quickly.

"You guys move," he said in a quavery voice, "and I’m a soprano."

"What the fuck do we care?" the boxer asked.

"You help that elephant-uddered supercow escape," ‘Silk’ snarled, "and Monk’ll make you wish that’s all you were."

"Hey, I’ll take my chances." He drew his gun.

Cueball backed up a few more cautious steps and they were at the door. Working at his dick, Fury wished he would hurry because despite her most skilled lip and tongue work he was slowly losing his erection. And wet noodles were slippery, especially this kind.

They were a few feet out into the hallway when ‘Silk’ said "Sorry Mitch" and shot Cueball in the head. Blood and brains spattered Fury’s bare back and with a sigh he collapsed over the cock-swallowing Cowled Crusader, driving her to her boot-sheathed knees beneath his body.

And suddenly Savage Fury had a dead man’s cock in her mouth.

--13--

"Oh Jeez! Oh Christ!"

By now I had Coltrane seeing the Second Coming, when we hadn’t even had the first one yet. Which was the way I wanted it. When your hands are tied behind you and you’re on your knees sucking dick and not liking it a bit (well, maybe a bit, but that had nothing to do with its owner) the only power you have is over that rigid saliva-slick organ in your pumping mouth. If you’re good, you can play it and its owner like bagpipes—a squeeze, a suck and a long wailing moan.

I kind of hate to admit it, but I’m damned good. When it comes to forced blowjobs I’ve had more opportunities to perfect my technique than I’d like. I wanted him to pop. Not yet, but soon.

His driving had become erratic. Also the way I wanted it.

I lifted my mouth off his curving truncheon to tongue-feather its bulbous head. Then, watching him squirm and sweat and try like hell to both watch me and control the car, I licked his foul hairy balls, sucked them one by one into my mouth. By now his scrotum was smeared with my lipstick, as was his straining shaft. The car swerved, slowed, veered back again, jumped forward.

He was getting close. But this had to be timed juuust right.

Grimacing, I put my throat in "sword-swallowing" mode and deep-throated the fat throbbing disgusting organ with a loud slurp till its head did a nose-dive into my gorge. That did it. Coltrane jerked the wheel around and the car dove to the curb, bounced up onto the sidewalk and stopped, banging my head against the dashboard and almost jerking my mouth off his cock. Just in the nick, because I felt his balls against my chin contract, and I did not want to drink this scumbag’s cum!

That wasn’t what he had in mind either. Before I could bite down on that mouth-filling hogleg, he took a fistful of hair and yanked my mouth off with a surprised gasp

so his dick could hose its thick, creamy load all over my masked face, like an exploding drinking fountain. That’s a risk you run when you stretch something like that out—a lot of hydraulic pressure builds up. And the only thing worse than drinking it is getting a faceful of it (Justice prefers drinkage to facial decoration, but she’s such a neat-freak).

At this point I could see hers, if little else. Blinded by the gooey jism dripping down my chin and nose and cheeks, I surged up and butted my head into the fat cop’s face as hard as I could, felt his nose crunch. He screamed girlishly and blood mixed with the cum all over my face. I’d have broken his fucking neck if the damned seats hadn’t had headrests.

He didn’t mean to, but the big creep did me a favor then. One hand over his busted bloodied schnozz, he trumpeted like a wounded elephant and backhanded me across the jaw. The blow threw me into the passenger door with a yelp, where, chimes ringing, I shifted so my bound gloved hands could fumble behind me for the handle.

After only a few years of frantic fumblage, they found it

and as he grabbed for me I pistoned both spikeheeled feet into the raging cop’s fat belly

slammed him against his door

and (thanks to Newtonianism) burst mine open.

I bailed out onto the sidewalk trying to do three things at once: untie my gauntleted hands, shake Coltrane’s jism from my masked eyes so I could at least see, and struggle up onto my thigh-spikes. Had one eye clear but was still on my leather sheathed knees when he came charging around the car with a bellow. I managed to duck the first swing, a wide wild right that swished over my head. Could do absolutely nothing about the second, a kick to my gut that bent me to the pavement with a groan, my drool and his cum puddling an inch below my ragged mouth.

He jerked me up by my hair. With the widest (if unfocussed) eyes I could manage I begged him, "N-no, please—" Hating it but hoping he would do just what he did, which was lay me out flat on my back with a wide haymaker.

Bells a-ringin’, I sprawled on my bound gloved hands with a stitch in my gut, an aching jaw, and sticky sperm all over my masked face. Kept telling myself dazedly that Everything Was Going According to Plan. At least now all the questions had come down to one:

Could I get up again?

Standing there staring down at me, mopping the blood from his nose with a handkerchief, Coltrane was nice enough to give me time to find out. His avid piggy gaze was totally focussed on the thick ebon plumage between my widespread boot-sheathed thighs and the heavy fleshy petals unfolding within. Score another one for transparent panties. Before he could get closer, I lifted my legs and curled them back and thrust them forward with a yell, managed a clumsy kip to my feet

and staggered right into the fat cop, who probably would have laid me out right there and then kicked me into oblivion if my forehead hadn’t solidly rapped his bloodied beak. He howled and he got too busy trying to push his gushing nose back into shape to deflect the leather-sheathed thigh that slammed up into his balls. And then he was on his knees, hurting at both ends, and I just kicked him into doing the best imitation of a sidewalk he could manage.

Which wasn’t very good—way too lumpy and noisy—but I wasn’t particular. And it was the first thing I’d really enjoyed in about a thousand years, since lunch.

I knelt next to him and used my knotted hands to fish a pocket knife out of a pants pocket. Seconds later I stood over him rubbing my gloved wrists and wondering what the hell to do with this moaning miserable wreck of an ex-cop.

He moved so I kicked him again. Solved that problem.

First things first: I found my hat in the back seat.

Then I set about waking the SOB up. It wasn’t easy—when the Silk Stalker knocks ‘em out, they stay that way. But it was easier than setting up what was going to come next.

Which, like a lot of the things I do, I wasn’t going to enjoy a bit.

---------------

Just outside the door, Fury knelt under the corpse’s dead weight slumped over her back, his arms dangling loose at her sides. His cock in her mouth was already cold and slack. She could hear them coming for her through the door. She strained at her wrist bonds but was still too wet to break them. She spat out Cueball’s flaccid organ, and very nearly everything in her churning stomach.

The horrified heroine lowered her cowled head and shoved it between the corpse’s thighs taking as much of his limp weight as she could onto her back. Then, with a grunt that was almost a yell, heaved herself upright and catapulted the body over her back into the knot of men charging through the doorway. She didn’t have to turn to hear them all tumble yelling and swearing back into the room. She just hoped ‘Silk’ was in the middle of the pile.

Trying not to whimper (and failing), the totally grossed-out Masked Mammazon fled down the dark hallway—staggered pell-mell on her sky-high heels was more like it. Tripped over something in the blackness and went to one leather-sheathed knee, stumbled to her feet again with a sob, tottered on. She was about half way to the stairwell when shots blasted out behind her.

They were shooting blind in the darkness, probably at the echoing rap of her heels, but two bullets still found her—and since she was still wet, they did painful damage. One scored the massively joggling side of a titanic tit and she yelped, the yelp becoming a full blown squeal when the second slug smacked right into the shim-shammying pillow of a bare buttock.

"Monk wants the masked cow in one piece, you morons!" ‘Silk’ yelled. "She’s weak, tied up and on 6-inch spikes! Get her!"

Racing footsteps. Not nearly far enough behind.

The bullet in her big naked ass lanced a flash of pain into every step and the weary wristbound woman wonder faltered. Stumbling against a wall blew fire through her enormous wounded breast and she bounced away with a thin bleat to stagger blindly on.

Frantic, sobbing openly by now, Fury followed a silvery thread of light under a door to the stairwell. She shoved it open with a shoulder, got a moonlit glimpse of stairs zig-zagging down three floors

then was tackled by the lead pursuer, his head socketing between her lavish bare asscheeks as his arms went around her booted thighs. Golden agony rocketed up her spine from her bleeding buttock

and both tackler and screaming superwoman somersaulted down the stairs.

Down

and down

and down

leathern skull rapping every single step, or so it felt

till all that kept her conscious was the pain that exploded in her boulderous bloodied boob and overblown ass as each in tumbling turn slammed into the stairs.

At the landing he straddled her, and in a shaft of silver light the dazed Fury saw it was the boxer. He smashed her masked face left then right, pulping her plush mouth anew, and she did the only thing she could: lifted a brawny thigh and slammed a knee into the back of his head catapulting him over her with a yell

to take the rest of the stairs by himself

thumpety thumpety thumpety

For a moment Fury just lay there, panting, whimpering, bleeding. Her immense tit burned and the lavish wounded buttcheek throbbed in a pool of crimson. She flexed her bound fists behind her and wondered if she could get up. Feet pounding down the stairs toward her answered that question in the BIG affirmative. Leaning a gloved elbow on the rail, she reeled down the remaining stairs.

The boxer lay at the bottom with his head on his shoulder and blood puddling at his mouth. He looked more than a little surprised. Fury’s stomach gave a big heave toward her throat as she stepped over him. She was half afraid he’d jump up again like some kind of Terminator.

Moonlight through double glass doors lit the dusty empty lobby bright as day. With a wild yell, Fury hit the doors at full headlong charge

burst them open

and staggered into the street.

The night air was so sweet and cold and invigorating that she thought her strength might have returned, but tugging at her wrist bonds still did no good.

Well, maybe a little, the ropes stretched a bit ....

But not enough. They were still close behind her. She dove into a dark alleyway next to the building with no idea of where to go, just running, trying to get away so she could dry off.

It was dark in there but not as dark as the hallway. She thought she saw flickering light up ahead. Her spikeheels rapped off the sides of the buildings and her bound gloved hands bounced against her big wounded ass. She could feel the blood from her throbbing nethercheek trickle down her thigh into her hipboot and every time her gigantic injured jug heaved and joggled about her ribcage it pumped out another dose of fire.

(a brief image of Silk Stalker next to her)

But not quite yet.

Something tripped her and she sprawled full length on the pavement, let out a wail at all the pain everywhere. Almost blacked out, but not quite.

From her darkness, she smelled something awful. Sweat, filth, vomit, the kind of breath a dragon might spew after a hundred years’ bender, too many other stinks to sort out. All she could think was,

Footsteps shuffled over to her and the stench became overpowering, almost enough to bring her to full consciousness again. The breath on her masked face was like a blowtorch.

"Marge?" a cracked bleary voice said.

Fury tried to lift her cowled head, muttered something even she couldn’t understand. A foot stepped down on the massive bloodied milkbag ballooning out from her side, mashed it flat against the cold damp asphalt. She writhed wildly, managed a breathy drooling squeak, then lost it.

The last thing she heard as the darkness took her was "Oops, Marge!"

Pain brought Savage Fury up again, not quite to consciousness. Pain in her ponderous pontoons—someone was dragging her by them. Pain in her butt—ground scraped under her naked wounded ass. Sweat and filth and alcohol were a choking reek all about her. And she smelled burning—warmth bathed the front of her.

There were two of them, the Cowled Crusader realized dimly, and they stank horribly. She was hauled to her thighbooted feet by hands that were all over her battered monumental body, feeling and probing and squeezing soft pneumatic flesh. She was propped against a brick wall, then her gloved hands untied from behind her

only to be jerked up above her and retied. Her booted knees were too weak to keep her from sagging, hanging limp. A foul rag was crammed into her luscious bloodied mouth. She gagged on the gag.

Somehow, she knew that the nightmare wasn’t over.

Her masked eyes cleared. The first things she saw were the stub of overhead beam she’d been hung from (those knots feel tight!) and the fire in the trashcan a few feet away (the flickering light she’d noticed before) that warmed her. The next thing was the room she was in—what was left of one anyway. It was open to the night sky and tattered furniture and junk were scattered about the remnant of a floor, but it all looked curiously ... cozy?

Lastly there were the two derelicts who now stepped into her view, grinning toothlessly. It took the dazed dynamic dominatrix a moment to realize they were even men. Stubble-bearded and emaciated, they looked as bad as they smelled, were clad (if that was the word) in rags so dirty they were stiff as cardboard and could’ve been anywhere from 30 to 130 years old. The pair leered up at her—hanging from her bound wrists as she was with her 6-inch spikes barely touching the floor, her titanic tits were just at the level of their heads, and bigger than either.

"Marge," the bum with a tattered patch over one eye said, "I’d like ya to meet Hobey."

Hobey nodded. He was albino-pale and so stooped he looked deflated.

"Mmmphh!" she managed through her foul-tasting gag, writhing sumptuously. "Glrfff!"

Their seamed, ruined faces lit up at the way her monstrous milkbags joggled about, and Eyepatch swabbed cracked lips with an evil-looking tongue. Hobey’s tongue just dangled from a corner of his mouth like a piece of rotting meat he’d forgotten to swallow.

"Wha’d I tell ya?" Eyepatch cackled.

Hobey nodded some more. His rheumy eyes looked about to fall out of his head.

Eyepatch reached out a gnarled, trembling hand and, wonderingly stroked the glossy side of an immense shimmying boob, gave the other mammoth melon a gentle squeeze that reminded her of its wound. Pulled their tautly overloaded straps aside and allowed the gigantic udders to drop to her waist with a flash of pain. Their massive weights jerked the bound super-bombshell forward against her knots with a gagged grunt.

The drooling derelict splayed trembling skeletal hands under her humongous heaving breasts and hefted them, while Hobey knelt to clasp her swelling hips and bury his filthy face in her belly. Fury arched her back with a gagged groan. He slid a hand under her G-string to grope her swollen pussy, slip eager fingers inside, where his clawlike nails tore at her tender inner walls.

"Nnnngggg!" Fury wailed, stiffening indignantly. She glared down at her tormentors through tear-filled eyes.

When Eyepatch lifted an enormous milkbag to his crusted lips and began to nurse noisily, the Savage Sensation started to jerk on her overhead bonds with all her might. But it still wasn’t enough. She tried to concentrate on the warmth from the trashcan fire, how it was slowly seeping into her aching abused body.

But that was difficult, with Hobey pulling on her thick golden bush then prying open her heavy pussylips to insert a dirty wine bottle into her twat (she strained a wretched groan through teeth tightly clenched around the foul rag). Eyepatch pinched her hard teats and swung her boulderous boobs by them like fat melony hammocks so they slapped against one another.

Hobey pushed the wine bottle farther into her than she thought possible while he frigged her asshole with two fingers making her gasp and squeeze her great bloodied buns together around his hand.

Eyepatch clenched his fists in her soft doughy monster-hulks, sending shivers of disgust (and something else that she loathed) up and down her towering magnificent body. Fury couldn’t help but moan and writhe fleshily from her upstretched shoulder-gloved arms as the two bums fondled and felt her up, dildo’d her with the wine bottle and mauled her mammoth mammaries.

The Masked Mammazon was hoping they’d get so turned on that one of them would free her hands and try to make her stroke their cocks (which was exactly what she’d do, right!). But as avidly as they groped and nuzzled and abused her, neither had even the beginnings of an erection. They were farther gone than she’d thought possible for men! Someone had once said that watching Savage Fury in action could give a 3-day corpse a hard-on.

She’d had that happen, too ….

The sound of low voices brought The Cowled Crusader back as she was starting to lose herself to the pussy-plumbing wine bottle. It was the fake Silk’s men, they were coming this way down the alley. But the two derelicts ignored her shrill grunts and frantic wide-eyed attempts at getting their attention.

Each clutched a massive sloshing milkbag in both hands and chewed avidly on its distended nipple, Hobey even forgetting to work the cum-slimed wine bottle into her slurping twat. This went on for a minute more as the footsteps got closer and closer till suddenly, finally, the two froze. Fury said "uhnf huhnff!" and Eyepatch clapped a foul hand over her plush rag-crammed mouth. Hobey looked scared.

Eyepatch jerked his head toward the blazing trash can and the albino nodded. They shuffled over to it and sat. Eyepatch picked up a wine bottle and they started to pass it back and forth, as though nothing was going on.

The footsteps stopped on the other side of the wall. "Hey you," said a voice from the doorway they’d dragged her through not long (so long!) ago.

The two derelicts paused in their drinking, peered over.

"Either of you see a broad run past here?"

"Yeah," added another, "dressed real kinky, boots and gloves up to her armpits and tits out to here, maybe limping?"

Eyepatch and Hobey shared a dull look, went back to their bottle and the trashcan fire.

Pause, for a few moments or hours. Muscular shoulders aching, the Masked Mammazon hung from her gloved arms and held her breath. She’d never been more aware of how far her gigantic jiggling milkpails stuck out.

"C’mon," a third voice finally piped up in disgust, "these winos ain’t seen nothin’ real in years!"

She let her breath out, slowly, and relaxed.

That was when the bottle slipped from Fury’s slack well-lubed pussy. She gasped, tried to catch it with her leather-sheathed knees,

almost had it, but it squirted free

and crashed to the ground.

A shattering plate glass window couldn’t have been louder. The two bums jumped as though at a gunshot. And ran.

"What th’— Hey!"

The first one through the doorway saw the dangling Cowled Crusader trying frantically to slide her bound wrists off the overhead beam, grunting as she jerked the ropes a few inches at a time toward the end.

"Bingo!" he yelled.

"Fuck Monk and the bitch!" another drooled as they surrounded the pendent struggling dominatrix. "This cunt owes us plenty!"

"Jeez lookit them jugs!"

Like dogs at a bitch in heat they crowded around her, jostling to be the first to take her on. The first one’s punch to Fury’s heaving belly drove her all the way back on the beam with a gagged grunt, her big wounded ass smacking against the wall. The second’s combo smashed her masked face left and right (she yelped into the cloth wad, tasted blood).

But the third had something else in mind when he stepped up to her. He sank eager fingers into the billowing hulks of her breasts and pulled on them, stretching her stupendous milkbags out to titanic teardrops! And when she threw her cowled head back and howled, he just planted a knee in her gut and pulled harder till the elephantine udder was stretched to his knee and his brutal fingers had disappeared into all that distended titfat and her howl became a shrill squeal.

In a surge of agony-driven strength, the masked Amazon lifted her thighbooted legs and kicked him back into the other two, at the same time swinging herself off the overhead beam

and snapping the ropes binding her leathern wrists!

Fury came down with sky-high heels firmly planted, immense tits throbbing and ready to kick some scumbag ass. But when they came at her and she smashed the first one back with a satisfying right that should have knocked him into next week, he only staggered a few steps. Another dove under her extended shoulder-sheathed arm to nail her in the belly slamming her back into the wall with a whoofff! of breath and spittle.

She’d made her move too soon.

And maybe too late.

Trying to stay near the burning garbage can to dry off her thighhighs and armgloves, Fury desperately trades punches with the creeps. Even only partially re-enpowered, she gives as good as she gets. But it’s 3-to-1: she knocks one back and the other two crowd in with punches that smash her gigantic heaving jugs and spatter blood from her luscious mouth. She downs No.2 with a spikebooted foot to his balls but that clears the way for the third to grab a colossal still-aching boob and jerk her wide-eyed to him. He hooks in a couple of gut-busters that almost bring up her dinner, and by the time she’s flattened that one, still red-faced and gasping hoarsely

the first is up again, hauling her back by her ponytail and slamming rabbit punches into her from behind. She grabs his hand and bends forward throwing him over her

but before she can straighten the second (or is it the third?) blasts her masked face with a whirling kick, sends the screaming super-bombshell reeling to collapse over a pile of junk

to be dragged back and up again by two of the creeps, held slumped between them by her leather-sheathed arms so the third (or the first) can beat on her ponderous tits, bury his fists in their billowing doughy hulks again and again, pound them like huge drums, her struggles and grunts of pain only intensifying his mega-mammary onslaught.

Till finally the battered bawling battlegoddess knew it was now or never. Soon she’d be so badly beaten that even if she got her full strength back it might not be enough. Fury reached deep within for the last dregs of anything she had left, tensed herself

and, with astonishing ease, brought her gloved arms together before her slamming the two creeps holding them into the third!

So hard that they went down without even a yell, to a limp heap of arms and legs.

Reveling in the return of her powers, Savage Fury would have gladly taken some extra time to do unto these as they had done unto her. But just then she caught the faint tone of the device she’d risked so much pain to plant on the fake ‘Silk’—an ultrasonic tracker that not even dogs could hear. But she could.

She was also aware of Eyepatch and Hobey lurking in the shadows, fearfully watching. Skittish as deer, they shuffled into the light. Stared at the very unconscious hoods, then at her, with eyes like yellowed eggs.

"Can you—boys take care of these three?" Fury asked.

As one, they nodded. Now they had erections.