Finally—after I proved to him that I really could inflict more pain than he could take—Coltrane took me to an old jazz club a couple of blocks off the eastern reaches of Ventura Blvd. The sign out front, which hadn’t neoned in this decade, read "Jazz R Us." I could see why they went under.
He parked in an unlit back lot with a couple of other cars and sat there grumpily, wheezing in pain. I’d been careful not to mark up his face or break any ribs—short of that I’d enjoyed myself immensely. The split lip he’d given me along with the shiner swelling out under my mask, would help a lot. If it shut the eye, that would be another matter. I was going to need both eyes and a lot more to get out of this.
"Show time," I said after a moment.
I figured we were being watched, by infra-red or starlight scope. Monk loves his toys. When Coltrane climbed out of the car groaning I wasn’t worried that the big cop would run or blow my gig (as Monk might say). He just galumphed around the car to my door and opened it. Took me by the collar and hauled me out. I stumbled a bit to make it look rough, and also show anyone interested that my gauntleted wrists were tied behind me. How tightly—well, even the best technology couldn’t show that.
Coltrane half-walked, half-dragged me to the back door. We made it look good. I resisted and tried to dig in my spikeheels but he was obviously too strong for me. He threw me to my leather-sheathed knees hard and I glared up at him from under a tangled sheaf of hair. His fleeting look of satisfaction dissolved into such obvious fright that I hissed at him, "Wipe that look off your face, you want to get us both killed?"
Just in case he needed reminding.
He hastily re-assembled his brutish cop persona—though cracked about the edges now, it would do to get me inside. Took me by my collar and pulled me to my feet again and marched me to the entrance. Where I found I’d been right about being watched, because the door swung right open for us, like a yawning hungry mouth.
He pushed me in, past a grinning guard with a .357 Magnum in an armpit holster. When the door closed behind us—very solidly, ringing like steel (or, if you want to be ominous, like the door of a tomb)—the lights came on again.
We were in the back of the club, where the musicians used to hang out between sets. Much better furnished now. Maybe a dozen other guards and assorted hood types played cards and leaned over a pool table. They looked up then stayed up to stare at me appreciatively. Coltrane got into his role then—I was sure he wouldn’t forget it was only acting. He straightened his broad shoulders (how they’d slumped while I’d outlined for him exactly how it would go!) and neatened his tie.
"Tell Monk I brung her."
"He already knows."
The doorman stepped up to me, licking his lips. He was tall enough to ogle down the gaping deep-V collar of my trench coat into the sweaty jam-packed valley between my gigantic thrusting tits. He stared so copiously I was surprised he didn’t add a waterfall of drool to my mountain scenery. Been known to happen.
"I gotta search the bitch, Trane," he said to Marilyn and Jayne. Didn’t sound the least bit reluctant, but I get that a lot.
The big cop shrugged. Out of the corner of my masked eye I caught his tiny smile. I kept my face carefully impassive with a tincture of fear, but inside I was seething. Just because I’d expected this and prepared for it didn’t mean I had to like it.
I didn’t.
To my surprise, the doorman hunkered down to start at the bottom—my bottom—and work his way up. Usually they start at the Himalayas and save Bush Gardens for last. Other than that, his routine was perfunctory—though if I’d been carrying my usual armory, he’d have busted me in a moment.
This whole situation stank all the way to Bakersfield and I wished to hell there’d been some other way to deal with it. I wondered if Savage Fury was in on it, maybe by force and maybe not, because of Justice Juggs—there definitely was something between them, whether Fury would admit it or not. I couldn’t believe she’d set me up—I wouldn’t believe it.
But I had to admit that it was all too possible.
He unzipped my thighhigh boots to my knees and felt around inside, where I usually keep knives and a gun or two. He also checked the muscle tone in my legs (taut) and the fit of their stockings (tight), then zipped the boots back up. Snapped my garters a few times.
The pool and card players had lost interest in their games by now and were just kind of casually wandering over. Gesturing with hands holding cigarettes and joints they made comments and suggestions, but I didn’t pay any attention.
Because after a moment’s indecision at my midsection, the doorman decided to save the fur-pie in front for later. Being more interested in making sure the flaring cuffs of my gauntlets were empty of their usual micro-bombs and throwing blades, he gave the ropes binding my wrists a perfunctory tug. I let out a relieved and long-held breath—gently. Then he turned his attention to my derriere.
Whistling a cheery tune, he flipped up the thigh-topping hem of my coat, pulled the panties down over the rounded globes of my cheeks. Got some whistles, so he made me turn to show my glorious naked butt to the other hoods, then put on a big show of making me bend over and grasp my opulent buns to pull them apart.
"Big ass like this could hide almost anything," he said. The chorus agreed and offered the kind of genteel speculations you might expect.
He didn’t bother with a glove for the finger he stuck up my anus and probed as far in as it would go. I stiffened with a gasp to appreciative chuckles, and clenched my sleek buttcheeks around the avidly reaming digit. Became acutely aware of how badly this bastard needed a manicure.
I knew exactly who was going to give it to him—all the way to the elbow.
Coltrane provided my only solace during the degrading ordeal. The fat cop was a sight—he didn’t know whether to enjoy my humiliation or tremble at it. When the doorman straightened and gave my bare buttocks a loud meaty slap he managed a tight little smile, even joined in the general mirth a bit.
Just to remain in character, I’m sure.
Then the stupid lug stopped and stared down at my left gauntlet. I hoped no one else would notice that, especially my intimate inventory-taker.
I needn’t have worried, all eyes were on me. Because now the inspector turned me to face him and knelt down again, eyes intent, till his head was just visible over Marilyn and Jayne’s quivering massively thrusting peaks. I felt him slide my micro-panties to my booted knees and shivered at the cold air across my pussy. They don’t hold much, not even all of my bush, but they are warm.
"Oh yeah," came his voice from below. "This is gorgeous!"
Everyone leaned in for a better look. A dozen or so pairs of enormous eyes with pale faces behind them. A finger slid between my labia, then another. I held myself rigid as he felt me up. And actually managed to neither squirm nor kick him in the face.
"Someone get me a flashlight!" he ordered.
And one was brought, quicker than quick. I just stood there, sweating lightly, trembling, chewing on my split lower lip. Thought about road graders and the Microsoft break-up and hands of bridge and why I had to put up with this. Expertly, he massaged my bulging cunt (some have said she’s an "A" cup all by herself) till the traitorous bitch moistened and blossomed around his groping digits like a depraved fleshy flower.
Fingers opened my heavy twat lips. I swear I could feel the flashlight beam on my moist inner walls. I could certainly see its reflection in the google-eyes around me.
"Pussy like this could hide almost anything," my examiner muttered.
"Anything you’ve got," I sneered.
I regretted it as soon as I said it. That wasn’t why I was here.
Why was I here? Oh yeah.
Regretted it even more a moment later, when that SOB tried to prove his words by jamming the flashlight, butt end first, as far as he could into my snatch. I threw my head back so violently my hat fell off, gave a squeal like the noon whistle and almost tore my gloved hands loose from their knots. It was NOT an act when, groaning through clenched teeth, I started to sink to my booted knees amidst the general cheers and applause. But the movement hurt too much so I jerked up straight again. Got a glimpse of the plastic flash sticking out of my poor gaping semi-ruptured pussy, its beam shining brightly. Like a stubby bright red dick of my own.
"Now she’s got a foglight to go with her headlights!" someone cracked.
More laughter. Dontcha just hate metaphors sometimes? Viz:
"These ain’t headlights, they’re searchlights!" The doorman feverishly unbuckled my belt and threw my mini-coat open and off my shoulders.
Silence fell over my audience like a shroud. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the circle of light thrown by the cunt-imbedded flash. By swiveling my hips I could make it dance about like Tinker Bell on the eager lusting faces around me.
By standing stock still I could almost bear the pain.
Which is what I did, bound gauntleted fists trembling behind me, while the doorman groped awesomely unveiled Marilyn and Jayne, sank cruel fingers into their soft watermelon-masses, tweaked the rubbery thumb-sized teats. Just as well I hadn’t replaced the bra, it would’ve been history anyway.
"Almost anything could hide between tits like these, right?" I said.
"Shaddap, bitch."
His palm carressed my cheek, with a smack that rang in the room. Even that small jerk flashed pain through my belly from the plastic dildo and made the beam dance wildly over the avid clustered faces.
Clap if you want Tinker Bell to live!
There’ve been times in situations like this (which I get into rather more than I like) when some drooling creep’s expert fondling of my fabulous floppers has gotten me so hot and bothered that I just let him or her fuck me, and sometimes I even helped out—a little. Sometimes I’ve even done the fucking. After I beat the crap out of him, of course (or her). My boulderous boobs are my most sensitive erogenous zones—as well as every creep’s easiest targets.
Every so often Mike feels obligated to suggest getting a reduction to move their cup size down into the more commonly used part of the alphabet. It’s his practical side talking, and it’s about the only time you will ever see real fear in his spaniel eyes, especially if—just to be a tease—I pretend to consider such an abomination. I like a man who puts practical considerations ahead of his personal needs. As long as he doesn’t do it too often.)
But this clown was just looking for cheap thrills and audience approval. His high octane breath scorched my face and I could feel a raging hard-on against my leather-cuffed thigh as he squeezed and kneaded my monstrous milkbags. Every so often his leg would nudge the flashlight projecting out of my cunt and (I hated it) a tear would trickle from under my mask.
Though miraculously retaining their watermelony shape, Marilyn and Jayne were deep crimson by now, slick with dripping sweat, along with the rest of me. My mammary masseur’s eyes were almost all pupil—I wondered what I would do if he decided to take things to their logical sperm-donating conclusion. From the greedy looks of our audience, he would be only the first of many.
I gave Coltrane a pointed glance. Which he ignored, sweating as much as I was. Kept rubbing his big hands on his pants, licking his lips, watching my left glove. But not even a hint of an erection. My fault I guess—sometimes I overdo things. I (hating it!) began to moan and writhe about, as though the doorman’s brutal mega-melony mauling was getting me hot. This concentrated his attention on pinching and pulling my hard protruding teats, so I could risk a backwards kick to the stupid cop’s shin. It finally startled him out of his lustful fearful trance.
"Hey," he managed after a great deal of throat clearing. "Hey! Monk wants to be the one does that, don’t he?"
The words were more effective than a kick to the balls for my personal milker. He jerked back like he’d just discovered a tarantula hiding between my pneumatic mountains. A big part of him pointed accusingly at me.
"Are you boys enjoying yourselves?" came a mocking female voice to my left.
She was big, about my size and build, rather less so upstairs and a bit more below. Beautiful too, in an ornate robe and a black wig she was taking off to shake out a thick gleaming blonde mane.
"Femme Fatale," I spat out. "Given the ape any good blowjobs lately?"
"No, I gave up trying to match yours. He enjoys them so much more when you don’t."
She came up to me smiling, plucked my hat from the floor and set it atop my head (at just the angle I like, damn her). Then pulled my masked face to hers and kissed me, full on the lips. Brother she could kiss, tongue and all. And—all right so sue me—I kissed her back. Kept my tongue where it belonged though, you only have to be bit once to learn for always. Besides, mine was busy on its own turf dealing with hers as it checked out the farthest corners of my mouth and checked the fillings in my teeth, one by one. Like anything had changed since the last time.
Well, one new cap, courtesy of a right cross I’d neglected to duck awhile back.
The audience was loudly appreciative. Their applause and cheers seemed to spur her on, that eager tongue kept trying to dive down my throat. She’s always been a total exhibitionist.
At least I won the contest to see who could open her working grinding mouth wider.
Maybe that’s why, as Femme pulled back from me with her eyes wide and mocking and her lipstick smeared, the big bitch grabbed the flashlight between my legs and gave it a twist.
If she’d let go of the shining dildo I would have dropped to my leather-sheathed knees before her, and pride be damned. But she didn’t, so I just folded up against her with a gritted groan. "God ... damn you."
"Time to go see Monk," she crooned. One hand stroked my hair while the other moved down to clutch a bursting glossy cheek and give it a motherly pat. I knew what she had in mind: the proud Silk Stalker stretched over her lap, big naked butt upthrust, getting the shit spanked out of her and bawling like a baby. I’d rather have my ass fucked than beaten any day, and she knows it.
"Can I pull my panties up first?" I asked acidly. By now they were tangled in my 6-inch spikes.
She smiled. "Try it."
I felt her fingers tighten on the flashlight. Another drool of cum soaked into my hose.
"Why bother?" I stepped out of them and lifted my boot-sheathed leg extra high to give all attending the biggest, crotch-&-eye-bulgingest snapshot I could.
We started for the front of the club, all eyes riveted on me. I hoped.
She stopped as though suddenly remembering something and sighed. "Some nights. I am getting tired of this ...."
In a smooth practiced blur, so snake-quick I couldn’t have stopped her even if I hadn’t been tied up, she pulled a small ladylike automatic from her purse and put a small, ladylike hole in the middle of the cop’s sloping forehead. The top of his skull blew off in a crimson cloud, spattering brains and hemoglobin over the ceiling. He took two steps back with just the tiniest sigh of disappointment, and would have collapsed if I hadn’t dodged behind to prop him up, almost losing it from the flash of agony between my thighs.
Get it? Flash—oh, never mind.
As the shot’s echo faded, there was a second of stunned silence among even that hardened crew.
This was It for Yrs Truly. I’d hoped Coltrane would get me all the way up to Monk, but no such luck. At least he’d gotten me in the door, though at the moment that wasn’t looking like such a big favor. Now I’d have to get myself out.
As usual.
Wedging my shoulder between the sagging body’s shoulder blades, I used that precious instant of surprise and the cover behind the slack settling bag of meat to unravel the trick knots at my wrists. Then came one of those octopus moments: I grappled the limp dead mass with one hand while extracting the sopping flashlight from its warm wet dilated hidey-hole (groaning with the relief), then grabbed the body’s jacket by the collar to wrench it down off his dangling arms. The corpse started to collapse bonelessly so I fit a spikeheeled boot into its lard ass and pushed as hard as I could, jerking the jacket free.
My kick sent the carcass into the midst of my erstwhile audience making them jump back. It sprawled on the floor, spattering crimson and what little remained of its brains at their feet.
Femme Fatale’s gun was still out but she hadn’t used it, probably because of Monk’s command to bring me to him alive. I’d been counting on that. Even at twice his fat useless size, Coltrane couldn’t have shielded me from her bullets. She’s too damned good.
The blonde killer hesitated only an instant, but it was enough. Her gun barked but I was already diving for cover behind the end of a couch. Holding his jacket in the right hand, I clenched my left fist, the one Coltrane had been so afraid of.
And the cop’s body exploded, splattering blood and hunks of gore everywhere on everyone. A flying five foot rope of intestines slapped Femme Fatale across her beautiful puss and she gave a squeal that warmed my own innards.
My gamble had been that they’d search me, but not Coltrane. So I’d stowed my bombs and blades and stuff in his jacket pockets. Then to insure his cooperation I’d wired him for sound—a loud one: taped all of my plastique beneath overhanging belly (talk about a gross-out) and palmed the quarter-sized radio detonator under my left glove.
Now, while everyone was off balance, I got busy: retrieved said armaments from said jacket and scattered them all over the crimson-splashed room where they would do the most bad. Gas grenades the size of marbles for the far corners and plain explosives for closer quarters; I was going to shoot out the lights but one of my bombs saved me the trouble by blowing the circuit breaker box off the wall and plunging everything into darkness.
The sudden complete blackness was full of coughing and yelling and cursing—the most strident invective in the dulcet alto of Femme Fatale. I couldn’t blow the steel door because I’d all my plastique had just gone up with Coltrane’s body (like I said about overdoing things). But I had a special oxyacetylene mini-torch about the size of a pen that would do a job on any door’s lock.
Unfortunately, the blonde bitch could think with more than just her guns and her cunt. In the blackness and choking gas and chaos, she knew I had only one way out. So she met me there. A hand snagged a spikeheeled ankle as I dove for the door, tripping me to sprawl against it. Marilyn and Jayne complained loudly and the micro-torch flew from my gloved fingers into the dark oblivion.
I released some invective of my own, and kicked back at her. I didn’t want to waste the charges in my heels, I needed them to get me out the door, so I fumbled in Coltrane’s jacket for my gun. Finally found it in an inner pocket, yanked it out
an instant behind Femme Fatale. Her shot from the floor took my hat off and creased my precious skull and suddenly the night was lit by strange lights and constellations and I had all the time in the world to admire them.
In fact, I thought at first it was concussion that made the steel door ring like a great bell in my ears. But then it slammed inwards, not the direction it was designed for, and a pair of thighbooted legs stood over me with Savage Fury high atop them, staring down between the heaving mountains of her immense breasts and looking very much like her name.
She plucked me up like an unruly kitten and slung me over her broad bare shoulder, threw the door at someone behind us, and then we were out in the cool night air. With a casual swipe of her shoulder-gloved arm she sent a couple of cars crashing into the doorway blocking it, then hunkered down.
Her shoulder slammed into my gut whoffing the breath from me and we were airborne, arcing high high and away from the darkness and confusion and Femme Fatale.
Justice Juggs screams. Not one of the full-throated outcries of before, by now her tattered vocal chords can barely put out more than a raspy bleat. But it resounds in her head like a scream.
Lightning jabs down from above her and strikes the six-shooter buried in her smoking pussy and she stiffens, titanic naked breasts joggling under their flapping vest. The blonde bombshell starts to sink to her knees, but the movement triggers another electrical bolt which stabs the other pistol, jammed up her bare ass, and the agonized Amazon jerks up again with a breathy squeak.
Bringing down two more bolts which zap the metal stars on long nails that pierce her hard thrusting nipples. She whinnies and tears pour from the wild eyes bulging from their star-mask.
Justice doesn’t know how long she’s been dancing and bawling, like an overblown marionette on electric strings. Justice doesn’t care. They’re using her own weapons, her custom-made six-shooters, against her. Every time she moves in this motion-detecting field, another electrical bolt blasts her cunt or asshole or tits. By now all she wants is for it to be over, one way or the other. She knows her guns are still loaded—are they waiting for a spark to ignite one of their bullets and give her the .45 calibre enema? That would end this instantly!
"Dontcha just love automation?" a voice sneers behind her.
"Yeah, Monk and his damned toys!" another agrees. "This’s better than Acres of Meat!"
"She’s acres of meat all by herself! C’mon, bitch, shake it!"
By now Justice knows better than to even try to turn toward the voices—that would only bring down more lightning, followed by applause from the two men smoking and watching her fleshy jiggling joggling torment. For some reason it’s worse than if she was alone, if no one was watching this being done to her.
But it’s all but impossible for the Amazon crimefighter to remain absolutely motionless. Especially when one of the onlookers has a kid’s pea-shooter. From only a few feet away it’s equally impossible to miss her billowing chest pumpkins, and he doesn’t. A stinging hail of tiny meteors batters her awesome tits, and a few hit the stars nailed to those mammoth mammaries.
Justice bleats and jerks and lightning strikes both nipple-impaling star-electrodes at once. The magnificent masked cowgirl throws her blonde-maned head back and howls. Her immense breasts heave and smoke in the single overhead spot.
What the ponderous-pontooned paladin doesn’t understand is, why they haven’t even tried to rape her yet. Usually the sight of all this overblown pulchritude of hers bouncing and jiggling around as she struggles and squirms would get her yanked out of bondage, thrown down across a table or floor or whatever’s handy and her lusciously padded bones jumped again and again, sometimes by 6 or 7 creeps all at once.
The more the merrier as far as she was concerned, and not because Justice enjoyed getting gangbanged, tho it had a darkly crazed headlong sensuality that in her calmer moments she found totally repulsive. But because the more scumbags there were trying to climb on top of her and stick their dicks into her mouth and everywhere else, the more confusion there was and the more out-of-control everyone got and the better chance she had to—
And then her torture chamber is plunged into darkness.
And the lightning dies.
And Justice drops to her boot-sheathed knees.
"What th’ fuck??"
Almost on their own, Justice’s backbound gauntleted hands grab the six-shooter protruding from between her lavish sweaty buttocks and jerk it free (biting her lower lip at the pain). She gets the pistol up and, bending down, aims between her legs (and the ponderous pendent masses of her boobs) for the two bright stars in the blackness. The two roaring flashes from the big pistol illuminate two startled scumbags seated on a couch as her bullets unerringly extinguish their cigs and the heads behind them. Two bodies hit the floor.
And then a third, squealing as she impales her massive breasts on the deeply nailed stars.
Justice flops over onto her side, lies there panting, sniffling.
Waiting.
But no one else comes.
And finally (not for the first time) she climaxes around the .45 buried in her pussy.
----------------
"Fury you gorgeous creature, I love ya! Your timing was perfect! Kiss me, you mad fool! If I may suggest a good place, right down here ...."
That’s what I was going to say to my rescuer when we landed, a couple of prodigious leaps and several rooftops later. That’s what I ached to say to her.
And, heat of battle and thrill of rescue being guaranteed erotic stimulation (at least for me), if I wet my full inviting lips just right, gave her a smoky masked glance and maybe showed a little more billowing cleavage than usual (difficult, since I show almost all of it anyway), I figured there was at least a decent chance that she’d look me over, throw inhibition to the winds (where it most definitely belongs), pull me down with a throaty growl and Have Her Way With Me—bury her cowled face in my thick nether-shrubbery and tongue me to heaven. I specifically ached for that to happen.
But it didn’t happen, and I was aching anyway. All over, especially above the neck.
Because Fury was dangling me by a gloved fistful of ebon tresses, my spikeheeled feet kicking a foot off the ground, while she slapped my masked face back and forth
All the while demanding to know where I was.
Not what I expected at all.
And I couldn’t tell if it made any sense, because each heavy slap rang my chimes so loudly I couldn’t hear myself think.
"Where’s Silk?" SMACK! "Where is she, bitch??" WHAMMO!
Yrs Truly could barely get a grunt or yelp in edgewise. I thought dimly it was a good thing my mini-coat was crimson, so it wouldn’t show all the blood my smashed lips were spattering on its tailored shoulders as my face was slammed 180° each way.
I struggled but it was like being hung from a gantry crane and clobbered with a steel girder sheathed in black leather.
"Where is she??" SMACKO!
My senses were doing the backstroke. I felt something clothy in my right gauntleted fist that I was holding onto for dear life. Took me a moment to remember what—Coltrane’s coat—and why. Fury was so mad and (she denies this but I know better) enjoyed beating me up so much (not "me" per se of course) that she didn’t notice when I passed the coat behind me and fumbled through the pockets. Wasn’t sure what it was I pulled out and didn’t care, I just tossed it at her thighbooted feet.
It was a dazzler, and it lit the night around us with white-hot brilliance. My masked eyes were closed (one of them for the next day or so) but Fury’s super-eyes caught the full glare: enough instantaneous candle power to light an indoor arena. Blinded, she dropped me with a surprised cry and staggered back a step, armgloved hands scrubbing her face.
I collapsed with all the grace and aplomb of wet laundry. My jaw felt like bruises were only things keeping it from falling off my face. I tried to get up and promptly went to my leather-sheathed knees again—it was a major triumph just to keep my face off the roof.
"Where's Silk?"
Fury came back at me, way too quickly and madder than ever. With a baad feeling about the immediate future, I went through the coat’s pockets, very hurriedly. Found a gas bomb and as she reached for me, gloved fingers hooked into claws that could tear steel, I lobbed it into her beautiful livid face and ducked away.
The bomb exploded, wreathing her cowled head in enough stun gas to KO a dozen or more. Fury acted like all she’d gotten was a faceful of ragweed. She coughed and gasped, swiped her leather-sheathed arms around but didn’t even stumble.
The bomb bought me time, though—enough to climb to my feet, tottering on the damned heels, and pull my gun from the coat’s inner pocket. Last resort time, folks.
But not even that. I got a single shot off, that dimpled one of Fury’s gigantic joggling breasts just below the nipple, before she high-kicked the automatic out of my gauntleted hand, numbing it to my shoulder. I didn’t even hear where the gun landed. The big boulder-busted superbeauty was more limber than I thought. And angrier still.
So, I used something I don’t often try, because they’re too difficult to control: fired a quick burst from the tiny rockets in my 6-inch heels. They blew me up and over her cowled head as she dove for me, and for once I managed to come down without breaking anything, in a tuck-and-roll.
Kept on rolling to my feet, tried to come up with a way of at least slowing this gorgeous Amazonian tank down, then felt something cold against my ass. I fumbled behind me and found a quarter-sized doohickey someone had stuck under my minicoat.
I had a pretty good idea who. I could still taste her tongue in my mouth.
I held it up as Fury came after me. To my surprise, she not only slowed, she stopped. A lot like a tigress savoring her next meal.
"So, you found it," she snarled. "Too late, bitch!"
"It belongs to you?" I asked.
Femme Fatale had been taking off a black wig ....
"Damn right! I stuck it on you while your creeps were beating me up!"
Suddenly the rooftop was flooded with light—metaphorically speaking. And I was just smiling and parting my pulped lips to Explain Everything
when Fury buried an armgloved hook in my gut. Might as well have been a grenade—I rocketed into the air on her fist like a tennis ball being served, everything inside me blowing out of my ragged gaping mouth in a wheezing spray. Felt like I hung slumped over those five clenched sticks of dynamite for a full minute before hurtling across the rooftop to crumple against a chimney.
I lay there propped up, trying like hell to take a breath. Every internal organ seemed to have been squeezed out of the way of a tunnel from my navel to my spine. And there was my lunch, making a real effort to see daylight once more. It took all my scant remaining strength just to pull in a wheezing lungful of air—which hurt so much I let it right out.
Fortunately, she still needed me to tell her where I was, so she didn’t hit me hard enough to kill. Just almost.
And Here She Came Again, that stupid supergirl cape of hers flapping behind her.
Fury hadn’t asked me about me for awhile and I could see things had progressed beyond that point. There were personal grievances to address here. Sounded like I hadn’t treated her too kindly when last we met. Or Femme Fatale hadn’t, anyway.
I was naturally curious, but more than willing to forego having that satisfied as Fury swung a leather-sheathed right that meant business. I avoided it only by collapsing onto my side. The first smashed a big chunk out of the chimney, scattering brick everywhere. If it had connected, it would have killed.
"Fury," I managed to choke out, "—God’s sake ...." I still could barely catch a breath.
The only way to save myself was to fight her, but all that did was get her madder and harder to get through to. And how in hell could I fight her?
She leaned down to pull me up by my collar. I got my thighbooted legs up between us as though to piston her back, and fired my heel rockets flush against her belly. There was a double flash of light and report and Fury reeled back, but the reaction almost upended me, drove my knees into the chimney over my head and numbed my legs. If the boots hadn’t been reinforced like my gloves, my kneecaps would’ve been smashed. Goddam Isaac Newton.
And still she came back. I decided that I really wanted to be around to watch her tangle with Felonious Monk.
To do anything, for that matter.
But I still had a couple of cards to play—the question was whether they were deuces or aces. I let Fury haul me groaning to my spikeheeled feet by my lapels, then (wincing inwardly) sank gloved fingers into her titanic swaying tits and activated my finger-zappers—normally used for shorting out electronic locks, but also good for amplifying punches. I gave those billowy sweat-gleaming pumpkins every volt the batteries had, a jolt that actually jumped a spark from nipple to nipple.
The Cowled Crusader’s ravishing eyes bulged from their mask and she squealed like bad brakes. I think I yelled too. She dropped me and slumped to her booted knees, leaned one gloved arm against the chimney stub, panting and running with sweat. I lay there staring at her, totally done in, but she was getting tired as well.
Final-fucking-ly!
And inwardly, a cool nasty part of me was pleased that I was able to bring a human powerhouse like Savage Fury to her knees like this. Too bad she was in no mood for any fun while she was there.
But the Masked Mammazon was already gathering steam again to finish me off, so I had to try one more gambit. I didn’t want to, in the worst way, but I needed her immobilized—that was all—so we could talk ....
Fury had mentioned that she felt bullets, they just didn’t penetrate as long as she was dry. I hoped all of her was as sensitive as she was impervious. Massaging her enormous doughy boobs in a way that would otherwise have driven me wiild, Fury got one hip-booted leg up to stand. I slipped my last throwing knife, a 6-inch blade, out of its sheath in a thighboot cuff.
Her luscious lips quirked at the knife. Both sets: the horizontal above and the vertical below. A part of me just had to stand back and admire how attractively that costume tended to get disarranged. Talk about distractions!
She got up, all but shoving her dense scarlet bush into my masked face—accidentally I think. I took a deep breath and thrust the razor-sharp blade
right into her cunt.
The gleaming knife slid between Fury’s heavy labia to the hilt. If I hadn’t been so beat to shit, I’d have been overjoyed that no blood dripped out—for a moment I’d been afraid she was like Achilles, with that one vulnerable spot.
It didn’t bleed but it did stop her, cold as the steel finger sheathed in her exquisite fleshy cleft. She gasped and stared down. Twitched an armgloved hand towards it so I took the haft in mine.
"God damn you, you stupid overblown bitch!" It came out a hoarse whisper. "Now are you going to listen to me?"
The towering boulder-busted super-bombshell trembled. Hatred glared down at me from eyes that danced from the pussy-probing knife to my face and back again. At least the wildness was gone.
After a moment, she nodded. Once, and carefully.
Then her eyes widened behind their mask and she straightened. I never did catch what those super ears of hers heard. But at that moment something huge and fast and foul came bounding in out of the night like a gigantic kangaroo, and powered two big hairy feet down onto the back of Fury’s leathern skull. They drove her head to the roof and through it, turned her into an Amazonian ostrich propped up on her broad shoulders, big bare ass levered up over the cuffs of her thighboots.
Savage Fury’s cowled head had been smashed so far through the tar stripping that for a moment she looked decapitated.
Monk overdid it, thank God. He was so intent on The Big Entrance that he overbalanced and rolled away from his monumental felled target. Giving me a moment to lunge to her and yank my knife out of her snatch. The groan that issued from somewhere below her shoulders didn’t sound particularly grateful.
Still somewhat duffed up myself, I was almost fast enough to duck away from the big gorilla’s backhand swipe. It caught me alongside the head and sent me rolling across the roof tumbleweed-style to fetch up unceremoniously at the feet of Femme Fatale and a few of their boys. The smile she directed down to me was very grateful, in a nasty eager sort of way.
I’d like to report that I leaped to my feet and cleaned her clock while Savage Fury mopped up the place with Felonious Monk.
Alas.
Give me this much: I did try to get up. But the kick she slammed into my side, and the follow-up stomp to my gut, and the spikeheeled coup de grace across my masked face that almost took my jaw off, dissuaded me from further such endeavors.
And Fury wasn’t having it even that easy with her dancing partner.
Stunned, Savage Fury wasn’t sure why she suddenly found herself in this ridiculous position—head down in a hole and ass up.
At least that knife’s out of your pussy!
A hand suddenly grabbed her ponytail and jerked her upright with a numb yelp, to stare into the ugliest mug she’d ever seen. The instant it took her to realize it was a gorilla mask made of rubber was enough for a huge hirsute fist to crank back and detonate like a bomb in her own beautiful masked face
sending her hurtling through the air, leather-sheathed arms windmilling, to demolish the rest of the chimney stump. She lay there on a pile of bricks with a gloved hand at her resounding head
started to get up
but Monk was upon her already, seizing a gargantuan strapped tit and hauling Fury to her feet with a shrill wide-eyed squeal. The pain in her ponderous clenched pontoon was enough to clear away some of the cobwebs in the battered Cowled Crusader’s brain. She pretended his vicious groping of her massive milkbag hurt worse than it did (which was bad enough), and sagged against him with a moan. The big gorilla did what she hoped: grabbed onto her other enormous udder, and while he was distracted with mauling her double dirigibles,
(just like most males!)
Fury used all her strength to bring both gloved fists exploding up into his simian face. With a honk like some huge duck, the hairy horror was launched into the air and off the roof, tumbling as he disappeared into the alleyway behind. Racing to the edge, Fury saw Monk imbedded in a dumpster far below, was about to leap down after him and finish him off
when Femme Fatale shot her in her big naked ass.
The .357 Magnum loads smacked into the Masked Mammazon’s lavish cheeks like red-hot irons, jerking her up with a scream. She clapped gloved hands to her agonized butt and turned to the beautiful marksman
who, standing there more interested in what was going on down between her legs, drilled Fury’s hard swollen nipples squarely, dimpling them deep into her immense breasts and backing her up a step with a squeak
right into Monk, who stood behind her, hands raised high over his head.
Fury had only started to spin, gloved fists clenched, when the huge gorilla dropped what felt like two steel sledgehammers onto the top of her cowled head
and drove the Thighbooted Thunderbolt down through the roof, so abruptly she seemed to just disappear into a hole at her spikeheeled feet. Crashes and a long wailing scream echoing up from that hole marked her plunge into the building’s bowels.
"Beat me daddy, 8 to the bar!" Monk bellowed. He widened the opening with a few splintering swipes of his great hairy arms and, like some immense dog down a rabbit hole, dove after her.
And what (as Melville so carelessly puts it, long after we’ve forgotten about poor Ishmael) of our narrator?
Do you really want to know? Oh, you remember that look of eager and malign anticipation on Femme Fatale’s face as she gazed down upon Yrs Truly.
It’s a game that Femme Fatale (whose real name is Trudy by the way) and I play sometimes—when I get her down, she pleasures me, and when she gets the better of me, I service her. Actually it isn’t a game, it’s just the most excellent humiliation either of us can conceive for the other. Given our wide-ranging imaginations, that shows the exalted level of our mutual disregard.
So it shouldn’t surprise anyone (though it may disappoint some including NOSY SECRETARIES WHO SHOULDN’T BE READING THIS ANYWAY) that as Savage Fury and Monk sparred through the prelims, I was on my thighbooted knees between Femme Fatale’s legs, eating her out. While a goon tied my hands behind me, she had a hank of my hair in one hand
and her favorite .357 in the other, pointed right between my masked eyes as I worked my tongue into her dampening and blossoming cleft. Just in case I got any ideas about doing the authenticity test on the cute little pearl tickling my nose.
I have to admit it, Femme/Trudy has a tasty cunt, and if it belonged to anyone else I wouldn’t mind going down on it at all. But the rest of her is so rancid that I can’t even pretend to enjoy my labial labors. And she knows it, the bitch.
So I knelt there playing what I guess you could call offense in our little game: licking her snatch as avidly as I could while trying not to throw up. And she, on defense, did her best to pretend not to notice. Examined her nails. Stretched. Shot Savage Fury and reloaded her gun. Shivered a bit when I blew on her clit—point for my side.
The goon finished binding my gloved wrists and jerked them up, wringing a grunt from me that brought a smile to Femme Fatale’s fine lips. Point for her, though with an assist.
I was seriously tempted to bite down on that hard little nub and to hell with the consequences. She knew it, and pulled me out of her superheated crotch by my hair to make me suck on the barrel of her Magnum. Just to remind me. I wrapped cum-smeared lips around the cold steel barrel and ran my mouth along its smooth oiled tube like it was a hard gleaming dick, and almost burst into tears right there.
Trudy smiled down at me. "We’re going to be doing a lot of this, bitch. Monk promised."
"If you believe him," I said around the gun barrel, "you’re not only sick, you’re stuppmmmffffh!!"
I was yanked back to my furpie feast.
The roof beneath us shook. From the crashing rending sound of things, two wrecking balls were holding a destruction derby in the bowels of the building. Savage Fury seemed to be holding her own against Monk so far, though at one point her cowled head and broad bare shoulders all but erupted from the roof. She stared at Trudy and me for a wild-eyed instant before giving a squeal like a steam whistle and vanishing below.
The roof rocked and cracked. Way down below, things shifted and collapsed with subterranean rumblings and grumblings.
I worked diligently at Femme Fatale’s swampy honeypot, lapping and kissing her sweet fleshy folds, and testing my wrist bonds. The latter was to no avail, but a fine sweat sheened her forehead and her lips pulled tight over her teeth. It wasn’t a game any more.
The roof grew still. I slowed my tongue-work, a sinking sensation in my churning stomach unrelated to current humiliation. Femme Fatale stretched out on the roof and lifted her long strong legs to wrap them around my head and bury my masked face (sweating as well) in her mounded crotch. She lowered her gun, wouldn’t need it any more.
Time to really get down to cases.
----------
Fury lay there moaning.
At first she’d felt like Alice, tumbling headlong down the rabbit hole into some dark, dirty and smelly Wonderland. Her plummeting awesomely voluptuous body had smashed through floor after floor of the abandoned building all the way to the basement, where her meteoric arrival cracked the concrete. The shock coupled with Monk’s double-whammy numbed her from cowled head to spikeheeled toes, and she’d only begun to get enough feeling to lever herself up
when Monk himself came plunging down onto her, feet first again—this time into her immense boobs, smashing those massive soft mountains flat against her ribcage and spreading them out around his huge paws. She let out a wailing grunt and a lot of spittle, and her bulging eyes almost leaped from their mask.
But when, giggling, he lingered atop her crushed chest to clench his prehensile toes in its pneumatic twin mega-peaks and grope them like mangling fingers, Fury found enough strength (barely) to sieze his hairy ankles and throw him off, up through the ceiling and at least two more walls by the sound.
It bought her enough time to make out where she was by the dim light from the tunnel in the ceiling (and a dozen ceilings above): a big office, barren of desks or anything else except dust and cobwebs and a lot of scurrying rats and spiders and other yuchhy things.
The groaning Cowled Crusader was on one thighbooted knee feeling each separate vertebra creak, massaging her enormous mashed mammaries when a fist took her cape and hauled her up with a choked yelp. Reacting instinctively, Fury rammed a leather-sheathed elbow back as hard as she could into a solid furry belly, was rewarded with a grunt. She reached behind her, wrapped a gloved arm around Monk’s hairy skull and bent forward to judo-throw the big gorilla over her and make another gaping hole in the walls.
This time, she met Monk’s charge head on. He wasn’t really a very good fighter, just strong and dirty. And immune to one of her best shots, as she found out when they grappled, grunting, hirsute and gloved hands at each other’s throats. His paws felt like they were trying to squeeze her eyes out through her mask as they threw each other around, through more walls and a floor or two, till she got the gorilla in position to knee him solidly in the crotch.
He just smiled benignly down at her (which wasn’t easy at 6’1" without her 6" spikes). And slammed his own knee into her mounded cunt. Fury’s mouth, eyes, her entire beautiful face opened up, tongue sticking out like a diving board, and she collapsed to her booted knees before him, paralyzed from the waist south. She’d been kicked in the twat before—almost as obvious a target as her titanic tits, half exposed as it was with its pubic bush curling over and around her V-bottom—but never nearly as hard as this. Felt like her clit had been jammed into her womb.
"Sorry you don’t wanna, like, dance, Supertits," Monk chuckled.
He took her pinkly protruding tongue in two big fingers and pulled the numbed overblown bombshell wailing to her feet, and ran her head into the only wall that had so far escaped catastrophe. She crashed through into a filthy bathroom, hit the shower stall and bounced back into a rabbit punch to her lower back that slumped her over the scummy sink on her leather-sheathed elbows. Monk took her by the ponytail and slammed her cowled head into the cracked mirror, Fury howling helplessly. He enjoyed her cries, so he did it again and again, till he’d smashed all the glass from the frame with her leathern skull.
"Oops, looks like seven years bad luck."
"Not for me!" she half yelled, half sobbed. Wrenched the sink from its moorings, spun and smashed it into Monk’s leering face, then brought it crashing down on his simian head.
He dropped to his knees, but shot up again like an anthropoid missile, his skull taking the Masked Mammazon solidly under her jaw and sprawling her back against the toilet. The grinning gorilla took the dazed double-dirigibled dominatrix by her broad shoulders and jammed her down into the filthy bowl, which at least was dry.
Fury struggled, grunting. She gripped the bowl’s rim and tried to hoist herself out, but her beefy bare buns were wedged in too tightly. Finally her frantic efforts shattered the toilet into porcelain shards and she collapsed back again. Monk took her cowled skull and bashed it into his kneecap, held her in both great hands to slam knee into sweaty masked face again, and again. Fury screamed and screamed, the blood pouring from her nose and burst lips
and then, as she slumped there before the chortling panting Monk, she saw the bizarre: an invisible seam parted at the hairy beast’s crotch
and a huge cock sprang out, pink and erect with a head like a plum, complete with a sac of golfball-sized gonads.
It was a costume! And he had complete control over it!
"Oh yes, you big beautiful bitch, give me more .... Higher, higher!"
My diligent tongue and I had won a partial victory (if you could call it that): made the cunt (both of them, in fact) admit she was enjoying my compulsory orals. If the thighboot had been on the other leg I wouldn’t give her that satisfaction, though she usually gave me plenty. In another life we might have been lovers—voluntary ones, that is.
I was on my back now with Femme Fatale sitting on my masked face. Able to see only the svelte (and less than tight) asscheeks spread over my eyes, I nuzzled her hard little clit, pulled on it with my lips, flayed it with my tongue, while Trudy writhed and squirmed and squealed on my mouth. If I did a good enough job on her snatch, she wouldn’t make me french her asshole. It was a little hard to concentrate on my face-mashed pussy feast, because one of Monk’s goons was straddling my chest to fuck my gigantic soft jugs, while two more took turns between my thighs plowing me like a field.
One would kneel between my widespread leather-sheathed legs to grab my ankles and drive his rigid dick into me for a few slurping strokes making me howl and beller into Fatale’s grinding snatch, then the other would yank him away and take his shift at my slack swampy cleft. I’d wail and groan for him till he was suddenly gone, and the first throbbing schlong splashed down again.
Oblivious, the tit-fucker sawed his bone banana between my colossal clenched milkbags, squeezing them so hard I was afraid I’d spout milk like a whale. The others stood around drooling and stroking their rigid curving selves while they waited for their turn at me.
I lay there, eating pussy and getting raped and balled and humiliated out of my mind, and also waited for my turn.
Because I’d suggested this little menage a many.
The roof had settled down to occasional rumbles and crashes from far below, and I had the uneasy feeling that Monk was probably doing unto Savage Fury pretty much as I was being done. The way she’d just vanished when he’d clobbered her, all the way to the basement from the sound of it—could anyone recover from that?
Now, with a "Hey!" a new eager straining cock was rammed like a spear up my so-far-relatively-unmolested asshole, bigger than the others and at least a couple inches longer,. I let out a howl as though my rectum had been ruptured (wasn’t sure it hadn’t been), and Femme Fatale lifted her swollen pussy from my ragged cum-smeared mouth so everyone could enjoy my reaction. My thighbooted legs were lifted onto broad shoulders and this new outsized intruder began to pound into me and I yelped with each deep-plunging blow, as loud as I could. Threw in a little supplication, for good measure.
"Please!—UNH!—don’t!—OOO!!—STOP!—GGG!!"
"All right, bitch, I won’t!"
Coarse drooling laughter. Respite over, Trudy dropped back onto my mouth and my flailing tongue slid back into her dripping superheated oven of a twat to pick up where it had left off. She was off to Joyland again, riding the Raven O’Rourke Hot Tongue Express.
Like the search back at the jazz club, just what I hated and wanted. But I didn’t know how much more of this I could take (or give). I’d lost track of my orgasms. But there'd been at least three, and each new explosion took more out of me. Underneath me my gauntleted hands could barely feel their knots any more, much less work at them.
It was, all in all, a helluva way to distract a bunch of slimeballs, and I was starting to doubt what I’d seen a few minutes before. If she took much longer ....
-------------------
No .... No .... Not this, not this ....
Seated before him on what was left of the toilet, Fury pretended to be stunned. She let her head nod forward between her broad shoulders, but Monk tilted her slack beautiful face up again by her ponytail
"Noooofllghhhhh ...."
and fed his truncheon of a member between her swollen smashed lips.
"Ooooh yeah, baby!" he hissed. "The coolest and the hottest!"
The loathsome cudgel banged to the back of the battered superbeauty’s mouth, so hard it cracked her head against the wall behind the toilet.
"Nnkkkkh!"
"Melts in your mouth, not in your hands!"
She choked on Monk’s rampant gristle, stared down it at with wide tear-filled masked eyes when he started to slide it in and out of her widestretched lips.
"Mmmpfff! Gllgghh!!"
"Soooo niiiiice!" the huge gorilla exulted as he fucked Savage Fury’s face.
Fury’s mind whirled, she felt like she was drowning in foulness. Monk’s enormous organ kept banging her head into the wall making her gag and forcing more between her taut-stretched lips and it tasted awful! It filled her bloodied mouth so full that she couldn’t keep her tongue away, this was the worst cock she’d ever ever been forced to suck, and he was as strong as she was and as tough (maybe stronger and tougher), so even if she had the strength it wouldn’t do any good to ....
Her masked eyes snapped open. Lost in the sensation of stirring his curving baton like a rampant joystick in her ripe drooling lips, Monk didn’t notice.
At first.
------------------
And finally ....
Finally!!
I was lapping up Femme Fatale’s second or maybe third climax—as much as I could anyway, a lot of it trickled down cheeks and chin and even into my eyes under my mask—and at the same time pouring my fourth or fifth charge all over some scumbag’s pumping bull dork (not the Big One, he’d hosed his load into my bowels awhile back and was currently just rubbing his flaccid organ over one of my massive sweaty mountains).
When I heard that butter-soft molasses-sweet voice purr, "Excuse me, gents—and lady—but to coin a phrase? Stick ‘em up."
Femme Fatale froze on my face and I swear her pussy dried up in an instant—the woman’s glands are as fast as her trigger finger. Not fast enough in this case, I felt her jerk and though I couldn’t see it, I knew she was going for her Magnum. I bit down on her clit at the same time a .45 crashed and Fatale gave a shrill oh-so-satisfying yelp, her thighs clenching around my head. I heard metal clatter in the distance.
And miraculously, all male organs of reproduction, engorged and otherwise, disappeared from within and without me.
"Now, if you'd please get up off my friend’s face, ma’am? I think she’s had more than enough of your—attentions?"
Trudy removed her ass from my masked face and stood, bent over a bit. I blinked for a moment up at the night. A magnificent star-masked vision in micro-leather stood at the far end of the roof, booted legs planted, the wide brimmed hat on her blonde mane just blocking the full moon so that it gave her an angelic halo. Pistols in her gauntleted hands trained steadily on my erstwhile ravagers as they backed away from me. It was the only time I’ve ever seen her greeted with disappearing hard-ons, there wasn’t even a bulge in any of the pants around me. Sixguns will do that to you, when guided by the cool eyes of an ponderous-pontooned pistolera like Justice Juggs.
I wasn’t sure I could get to my feet, but I managed. Good thing Justice could handle them by herself, in a fight I’d have been about as much use as a wet noodle. Which was pretty much what I felt like. As though I’d been under that greedy cunt and those stroking plunging cocks for hours, instead of the few minutes it took Justice to dispose of a couple of lookouts and find her best position, after peeking up over the cornice and catching my eye.
A fervent wish was fulfilled next, when a couple of Monk’s goons—one of whom I recognized as a nipple-chewer with a taste for mammary blood in lieu of milk—went for their pieces. Justice never even took her eyes off Femme Fatale, just flicked one of her guns their way and fired twice, guaranteeing both would be called "Lefty" henceforth.
She could’ve shot the guns from their hands, but seemed a tad displeased at the way they treated me, and has always been a big believer in an ounce of prevention—in this case an ounce of lead. Plus, from marks on her star-masked face and the enormous boobs bulging around her vest, I could see she’d had some recent rough usage herself. I made a note not to ask her, she tends to get stroppy about such matters.
I stepped up to Trudy, who watched me with sullen hatred. I kneed her in the groin, then as she started to fold with a sound like "kakkk!!" slammed a gauntleted straight shot across her jaw, felling her quite nicely. A cheap shot—two of them in fact—but satisfying. She’d had me, now I was going to have her. I figured I had enough joy juice left to make a pleasantly gooey mess all over her gorgeous patrician face.
I’d just turned to ask Justice if she would care to join in, when the most ungodly howl I ever heard echoed up from below—sounded like a cross between a gelded moose and an air raid siren. The roof trembled, then shook, then started heaving "like a bronc on locoweed" as Justice later said.
She was thrown from her feet along with most of the roof’s occupants and Femme Fatale took the opportunity to dive for her Magnum. I tackled her just inches from it but didn’t have the strength to do much more than that, so we rolled around the pitching roof, fighting like cats. Neither of us with enough moxie to really damage the other, but damned if we’d let go.
She sank her long manicured nails into my gigantic heaving jugs and I let out a yell, but Marilyn and Jayne were too slick with sweat for her to get a good agonizing grip. She kept trying, which gave me a chance to grab a couple fistfuls of her hair. We strained at one another, testing her vari-colored roots against the roots of my chest mountains. The entire building was swaying like a tree in a hurricane and starting to collapse, but did we care? This was personal!
"Silk!" Justice yelled. I looked up to see a huge crack zig-zagging towards us, splitting the roof almost in two. The building gave an immense groan and the half I was on, with Femme Fatale and Monk’s hoods, dropped a couple of feet with a crash. Justice’s half started to lean the other way.
Trudy pulled one of my mammoth milkbags to her mouth and sank teeth into its doughy hulk. I reared back with a wide-eyed scream, pulling her up with my stupendous stretched breast then laying the human remora out again with a gauntleted double shot across her face. I levered myself up astride her, just in time to realize the crack had widened to a crevasse, too wide to jump!
The suspense is killing you, right? How will our valiant heroine escape a fate worse than death—or at least as bad?
Before I could figure a flight plan out of there, Justice took the bullwhip coiled at her hip and sent it singing out to me. It wrapped about my waist, and as my half of the building slumped sideways and began to loudly collapse, she hauled me off Femme Fatale and across the gaping abyss to her side.
Which wasn’t doing much better, actually, and Justice’s whip wasn’t long enough to reach any of the adjacent roofs. On the other side, as that part of the building dropped and came apart with a huge roar, Femme Fatale disappeared in a roiling cloud of dust and fountains of debris. I kind of hoped she’d make it, if only to take care of her myself later on. One must have worthwhile goals.
"C’mon, kiddo," I gritted, scooping Justice up in my arms—as pneumatic and opulent a bundle as I can imagine. "Let’s book!"
She put her gloved arms around my shoulders and pressed all of her soft mountainous self to me. At that, I think I could’ve made the jump without my heel rockets. I’d never tried them with a passenger, but I figured they’d at least brake us enough that—well, a busted leg is better than a busted everything. The roof beneath us slumped in the middle and the walls tilted towards us. The building was trying to swallow us whole. I jumped and fired my rockets at the same time
and what do you know? The little bastards were more powerful than I thought! As the building collapsed, the halves closing up beneath us like huge jaws vomiting vast clouds of dust and debris, we lofted into the air on twin streaks of fire.
And barely made it to the next roof, fortunately a few stories lower than our departure point.
Though not by the time we landed. By the time we’d picked ourselves up and dusted ourselves off, all there was five stories below was a mountainous pile of rubble, only now appearing through a churning cloud of dust.
So there you have it—Savage Fury and I set out to rescue Justice Juggs, and she rescued us. My life is full of little ironies like that, some not so pleasant. Not that this one was any buck-and-wing through the begonias.
Oh, what about Fury and Monk?
Justice and I shared a kiss or two on that adjacent rooftop, and her lips were sweet and soft and warm as ever, but much as I needed it I couldn’t enjoy them, or the billowing press of her stupendous tits against mine. We both knew what we had to do. And from the multitude of sirens in the distance it would have to be done soon. This time it was JJ’s magical lariat that helped us rappel downt the side of the building to the street.
To just stand there, staring at all that smashed concrete and bent steel.
"Where do we start lookin’?" Justice asked after a few moments.
We didn’t have to, which was just as well. A few yards away in midst of the mess, a slab of concrete the size of a bus gave a shudder, lifted till it almost stood on end, then toppled the other way with a crash we felt in our high heels. And there was Savage Fury. She was dusting herself off and cramming as much of her jiggling overblown magnificence back into her costume as would fit—which at the best of times wasn’t much.
The Cowled Crusader waded towards us through the piles and mountains of debris as though fording a stream. "Gone!" she ranted in rage and disgust, swiping a leather-sheathed forearm across her mouth. "That—that big ape got away!"
I wasn’t surprised. I knew exactly how she felt.
"I know how you feel," Fury muttered, fidgeting, gazing down at the floor. "I really do."
I believed her, but that didn’t help. I get my share of turndowns (not very many I hasten to add, and sure as hell not as many as I give) but never before from someone who wanted me as badly as I wanted her.
"It’s just that—" She searched for words, shrugged, fidgeted some more. The tectonic resonances said fidgeting sent through her spectacular scantclad body did not help the present situation in the least. "I’m not really ... I mean ...."
We were back in my office. Justice Juggs had left a few minutes before. Under other circumstances her departure probably would have been delayed by several hours (or maybe not, she’d been run through a pretty rugged grinder by Monk’s pet creeps), but she knew I had business with Savage Fury. Probably a pretty good idea how it would come out too, which would explain the sympathy in the smile she left me as she closed the door behind her.
"After an operation like this I find that it helps soothe the aches and pains," I remarked oh-so-casually. "Better than a hot bath with tons of bubbles."
"You like those too?"
"My tub fits two. Comfortably."
"Oh, it sounds wonderful, but I ... don’t think I’d be comfortable. See, it’s not just that we’re women, but—"
"I know, I know, you’re not into casual sex. Get enough of it on the job, do you?"
It came out sharper than I’d intended. Fury’s big solemn green eyes looked at me from behind their mask. "I do like you, a—a lot."
She turned and strode to the door, sky-high heels rapping like nails being pounded into a coffin. I caught her as she opened it. Turned her to face me, which one can’t do unless she goes along.
Then I couldn’t think of a thing to say. It took all my strength not to pull her to me—or try—and cover those soft ripe lips of hers with mine.
"We, we made a pretty good team," I finally stammered. Witty to the end, that’s me.
Her sudden smile was like a rose opening in the dawn. "We sure did. Got our asses whipped, and whipped a few back."
"Let’s do it again."
She stepped up to me and put a gloved hand on my shoulder and kissed me, softly but definitely. Mashed her titanic tits into mine too, even more softly, but that was udderly unavoidable.
Get it? "Udderly—" Okay, okay.
She tasted of peaches and Scope. And something else on her tongue, like a bad memory that never quite fades: just a tincture of sourness, but one I knew all too well. I realized what that ear-splitting howl had meant—that Monk hadn’t gotten away (shall we say) untasted and unbitten.
Right on, sister! I hope you were brought up to chew your food well!
And then her lips and chest blimps and she too were gone, leaving behind a whiff of Chanel No. 5. And something subtler, saltier, a little like fish.
Maybe that was why I wasn’t as depressed as I might have been when I opened the door to the adjoining office-bedroom, wishing for nothing more than a long dreamless sleep (well, almost nothing). And froze.
Gayle lay in the bed, staring with huge eyes at me. If she wore below the sheet what she wore above, she was naked.
"How long have you been here?" I demanded.
"I ... I’ve been waiting for you."
"All night??" The first rays of morning were just turning the mini-blinds orange.
She nodded.
"I suppose you overheard all that." I took my hat off and shook out my hair.
Gayle knows how I feel about eavesdropping—unless it’s for a fee. She just stared at me, with eyes even bigger and more solemn than Fury’s. On the verge of tears, for Pete’s sake!
"I—I can be the—consolation prize, if you want." She knelt on the bed, tried to smile but her luscious lips trembled too much. As did her huge bare tits.
I stood over her. "C’mon, kid, you know I don’t do consolation prizes."
And pulled her to me.