This is a short, silly little story to serve as a pallate clenser after the last, darker entry. A breezy little thing I wrote for a contest, my goal with this one was “write something short and manageable.” No sex, but lots of nudity. Not enough of a cast to warrant a dramatis personae this time; Velvet Glove is strong, but bitchy. Mind Mistress is smart and hates Velvet, a feeling Velvet returns tenfold. Shadowgal is a youthful ninja raised in the Midwest with a go-along-to-get-along attitude (yes, THAT old cliché) whom Velvet has vague aspirations to turn into her Asian girl accessory.
If you're following along with Femme Defendres continuity, this one takes place after Vs. the Penetrator, but before Green Around the Gills.
Comments? Questions? My email is nocomeupance AT gmail DOT com .
As always, all characters are entirely original or, when stolen, have at least had the serial numbers filed off.
By Amy “NoComeupance” Ziegfeld
“This is an outrage!”
Velvet Glove stomped into the meeting room of the Femme Defenders’ headquarters. Thanks to her super-human strength, it sounded not unlike a particularly petulant rhinoceros was making its way down the corridor. The only occupants were Shadowgal, who looked up from the manga she was reading, and Mind Mistress, who did not look up from the calibrations she was performing on the main monitor.
The purple-clad pummeler hurled a rolled up magazine on the table and it slid across the polished surface, unfolding as it did to reveal its cover. A rather pneumatic, spandex-clad blonde gave a half-smile that spoke to intent to commit mischief, and a cocked eyebrow suggested sin. Her arms were crossed under her brobdingnagian bosom, which was already the center of the viewer’s attention, thanks to both its size and the large oval cut-out of the blonde’s costume. The focus of the high-definition camera used to take the photo showed off every pore and bead of sweat on the inner curve of the blonde’s breasts. Pull text screamed from the sides of the image: “OUR ANNUAL LIST OF MOST BANGABLE SUPERHEROINES!” “ENERGY LASS TAKES THE CROWN!” “VELVET GLOVE DETHRONED!”
“I’ve been DudeMag’s Most Bangable Superheroine for three years in a row, a feat that has never been equalled!” Velvet shouted, pointing a purple-gloved finger at the offending magazine, “And now they bestow the honor on some… Some knock-off Stupendous Girl?”
Shadowgal bit her lip as she looked at the magazine. On one level (Well, most levels) it was gross and demeaning. But something about the cover image was strangely compelling in a way she couldn’t quite articulate. She reached out to grab the magazine and slide it in front of herself.
“Well, I mean, three years is a pretty good run, right? You couldn’t expect to keep winning forever…” Shadowgal said. Velvet shot her a stare icy enough to freeze the Sahara.
“I wouldn’t mind losing the top slot if I felt it was justified. But how could they possibly rank Energy Lass above me?” Velvet gestured downward to indicate her body. It was hard to argue that she wasn’t quite fetching, by any conventional standards. Lustrous black hair that looked like it was done by a movie star’s stylist (Because it was), emerald green eyes, pouty lips, generous bust, tight tummy, slender and graceful arms and legs, and, the piece de resistance, a pair of perfectly round buttocks, slightly large for her delicate frame, but not so large that you would ever dream of calling them fat. DudeMag had, on previous occasions, described Velvet as possessing “The perfect human ass” that “should be on display in a museum.” Velvet arched her back and looked at her bottom, frowning.
“Maybe it’s my outfit. It’s been a minute since I changed it,” Velvet reached down and tugged at the waist of her purple hot-pants, then turned her attention to her top. It was a clingy spandex, long sleeves, cropped just below her chest, with a plunging neckline… but did it plunge enough? “I wonder if I’ve been putting too much emphasis on my ass, and not enough on my-”
“Brains?” Mind Mistress interrupted without shifting her attention from her work.
“Tits,” Velvet Glove concluded her thought, paying no mind to the egghead in the corner. She bounced, slightly, observing her breasts jiggling in a fetching manner. “I mean, they’re not as big as Energy Lass’s, but they’re pretty great, all things considered, wouldn’t you agree Shady?”
“Oh! Um. Yeah, they’re, uh, pretty great… Yes,” Shadowgal hastily looked up from the magazine, which she had found strangely fascinating, then blushed as she found herself staring at Velvet Glove’s breasts.
“So, we’re in agreement. A bold new direction, a reboot, Velvet Glove 2.0: Tits AND Ass, Not Just Ass!” Velvet Glove said.
“You’ll always be just ass to me,” offered Mind Mistress.
“And what better way to publicize my new direction than with a new costume? Something bold, something daring, something…” She sauntered around the table and leaned over Shadowgal, closing the magazine and tracing a finger lazily around the edge of Energy Lass’ cleavage window, “...Ventilated.”
“You know, I think I’ve heard something about those windows. What was it…” Shadowgal looked up, squinting in thought.
“That’s a terrific idea!” Mind Mistress, at last, abandoned her task to walk to wear Velvet stood over Shadowgal. Mind Mistress stood ramrod straight, hands clasped behind her back, reflecting her years of military service. The slightest smirk curled the edge of her lip, hinting that mischief was on her mind, “If there’s anything I can do to help…”
“Finally you’re making yourself useful around here!” Velvet exclaimed.
“Of course! I… care deeply that you be honored by this…” Mind Mistress glanced down at the copy of DudeMag, “esteemed and distinguished publication.”
“Naturally, I won’t be needing your tailoring services, since, well, I’d insult your sense of fashion, but you have none.”
Mind Mistress exhaled sharply, but called forth ancient meditative techniques to maintain her calm demeanor.
“But I will need your help with the press conference,” Velvet continued.
“You’re going to throw a press conference to announce a new costume?” Shadowgal asked.
“Of course not,” said Velvet.
“Oh, good, because-”
“The press stopped coming to those.”
“Ah.”
“Which is why I need something more. Some new substance to go with my new style. So what I need from you, dear Brainy, is to go to your little lab and invent me a new superpower.”
“A new superpower?” Mind Mistress said, raising an eyebrow as the subtle smirk returned to her lip, “You set me a herculean task. The greatest minds on Earth would have to make it their life’s work to accomplish such a feat. Fortunately, I’m not of Earth.” Mind Mistress accentuated this fact by running a green hand through her purple-pink hair.
“How long will it take?”
“I already did it.”
“Wait, how did-” Shadowgal interrupted.
“I’ve been working on flying boots and just this morning perfected them. High speed, very stable, very safe, mentally controlled, easier than riding a bike. I can have them adjusted to your specifications within an hour and you can start practicing with them in the gym,” Mind Mistress said, placing a hand behind Velvet’s back and leading her from the room.
“Perfect! I’ll make arrangements, call my personal tailor, and arrange the press conference for the day after tomorrow. Now, the boots must be purple, I can give you the pantone…”
The pair’s conversation trailed off as they exited the conference room and the door slid shut behind them. Shadowgal looked around, making sure she was alone, then opened up the magazine again and began reading intently.
***
“Thank you all for coming!”
Lainey Leng, reporter for the Weekly News, looked to her left and right, lifting herself slightly out of her seat so she could twist her torso and look all the way behind her, confirming that she was, in fact, the only person sitting in any of the hundred or so white folding chairs that had been set up on the terrace on the thirtieth floor of the Balmer Building. The Balmer Building sat at 666 Park Avenue and was a largely unremarkable forty-story skyscraper in midtown Manhattan, built in the Bauhaus, or “International,” style. A gleaming glass edifice, each ten floors the building narrowed, with a lovely terrace and accompanying sloped-glass on that floor's offices, leading up to the next, somewhat smaller tier of office space. The Balmer Building was home to the offices of a number of commercial tennants, including a coffee chain on the ground floor, an upscale Italian eatery on the second, and the corporate offices of a northeast-regional office supply and paper company on the twelfth floor. It's largest claim to fame was being home to the Frondé Nest periodical publishing conglomerate, which occupied the top twenty-five floors, one for each of its publications.
Significantly, DudeMag, a member of the Frondé Nest conglomerate, had its offices on the thirtieth floor, and an editorial meeting was under way in the conference room, which had a lovely view of the thirtieth floor terrace, on which a curiously poorly-attended press conference was now taking place.
“That said, I almost feel like you should be thanking me for inviting you to this, the unveiling of the next exciting phase of the superheroic career of Velvet Glove.” Velvet Glove stood atop a purple-draped dais at a podium with a thoroughly unnecessary microphone.
She was dressed in her new costume, which had arrived just that morning from her personal tailor and designer. It was, in every respect, a duplicate of Energy Lass's costume, though everything was just a little bit more. It looked like a one-piece swimsuit with long sleeves and an oval cutout at the chest. But the leg was cut slightly higher than Energy Lass's, the back dipped slightly lower, the cleavage window just a bit larger. A Roman-style cape draped from her left shoulder, and the outfit was accented by a domino mask and oversized, slouchy boots and gloves. Where Energy Lass's outfit was white with blue accents, Velvet's was purple with gold highlights, “to maintain brand continuity,” she had told her designer.
Lainey assessed the new costume to be no more nor less tasteless than Velvet's prior costumes, which was another sense in which she had maintained brand continuity.
To the side, shuffling uncomfortably and hugging her chest, was an Asian girl dressed in a black hoody and cargo pants. Lainey searched her memory and recalled that this was the ninja-themed member of the Femme Defenders... Shadow-something. Lainey almost felt bad for her, except that her participation in this farce meant she was at least partly responsible for this time-waster of an afternoon.
“I've prepared a few words for this occasion, words that I hope will inspire you as they inspired me while I was writing them. In the words of the warrior-poet Taylor Swift-”
“You know, we could just do this as an interview,” Lainey interrupted.
“Excuse me?” Velvet glared at the journalist.
“I mean, it's just you and me and your little sidekick there.”
“I'm not her sidekick,” Shadowgal muttered.
“You are my sidekick for the afternoon, if you want those DVDs I promised,” Velvet Glove wheeled on Shadowgal, “and acquired at great expense, I might add,”
Shadowgal muttered quietly to herself.
“And why aren't you wearing the costume I had made for you?” Velvet continued.
“I am, but... it's really not me...”
“You know our deal.”
“Fine.”
Shadowgal squirmed a bit, then, with quick ninja reflexes, whipped off her hoodie and tied it around her waist, revealing that she was wearing a black version of Velvet's outfit. She crossed her arms tightly in front of her chest, totally blocking the cleavage window from sight.
“Pants, too!” Velvet said.
“No,” Shadowgal hissed.
“We'll discuss this when we get back to headquarters,” Velvet turned her attention back to Lainey, “Fine, I suppose if you'd like to do this as a more intimate portrait, we can do that.”
“How about we just skip the speech and cut to the chase,” said Lainey, “Is this just another new costume? Because if it is, I'd appreciate you telling me so I can come up with another story before my filing deadline.”
“It's not just a new costume! Though you should definitely get some photos of the new costume. If you'd listen to my full remarks-”
“Which I won't.”
“-If you'd listen to my full remarks, you'd know that I'm unveiling new powers today that will revolutionize the Velvet Glove justice experience!”
“Okay, that could be interesting. Some sort of heat vision or …?”
“The greatest power of all! The power that man has dreamed of since first he turned his gaze upward to the-”
“No speeches.”
“Flight. It's flight. I can fly now.”
“... That's it? Half of superheroes can fly already, it's barely even a power.”
“But nobody flies like Velvet Glove flies!” Velvet accentuated her words by raising her outstretched hands up into the air.
“I'll bet. Now, can we move this along? What else do you have planned for this press conference?”
“Photo opp, followed by flight demonstration, followed by an additional photo opp.”
“Beautiful, I'll snap a few pics, you do your flight thing, then we can all go home.”
Velvet Glove reluctantly agreed. Her diminished mood at the lack of pomp surrounding the press conference soon evaporated once she started posing for the camera, one of her favorite activities. The reporter girl wasn't exactly operating at the level she was accustomed to when it came to photographers, but what more could be expected of such a frumpily-dressed woman. In any case, Velvet's audience wasn't Lainey Leng, nor Shadowgal, nor even the readership of the Weekly News; it was the tasteless heathens currently meeting ten feet and three centimeters of glass away in the offices of DudeMag. As she posed, carefully emphasizing her power, her virility, and her raw sexual charisma, she caught more than a few stolen glances from the dozen or so men and women trying desperately to focus on putting together their magazine despite the evidence of their utter manifest failure being rubbed in their faces.
“Could you please look at the camera and not the office behind me?” an annoyed Lainey said.
“No,” Velvet replied.
As Velvet Glove continued to pose, Shadowgal walked over, arms still firmly crossed over her chest.
“So, umm, there's something I was meaning to mention, and I'm not sure if now is necessarily the best time, but it seems kinda important, so I feel like-”
“Just spit it out, dear,” Velvet sniffed, turning her back to the office, placing her hands on her hips, and daintily raising her heels to emphasize the flex in her buttocks, “and try to stay out of my shots.”
“Well, I was reading that issue of DudeMag-”
“Please don't mention that offensive rag to me,” Velvet arched her back, thrusting out her chest, “I assure you, Shadey, I am entirely over their insult to me and everything I stand for.”
“Well, it's just, I was reading the interview with Energy Lass, and-”
Velvet snorted. “I care even less what that third-rate pseudo-heroine has to say than the boy's club at DudeMag.”
“It's just she was talking about her costume, and-”
“Speaking of costumes,” Velvet abruptly stopped posing and addressed Shadowgal directly, “I see you're STILL wearing those frumpy pants. I won't continue this conversation until you're properly attired and on-brand for this press conference.”
Shadowgal looked down, her legs self-consciously rubbing together at the idea of their being exposed to the afternoon air. She really didn't like the idea of being that undressed in public...
“That's what I thought,” Velvet shook her head, “If what you have to tell me isn't important enough to obey my very simple request, then it can't be that important, can it?”
Embarrassed, annoyed, frustrated, Shadowgal looked down, avoiding Velvet's gaze. “I guess not...”
“Fine!” Velvet clapped and looked at Lainey, “If that's out of the way, then, shall we move on to the flight demonstration portion of the proceedings?”
“Whatever gets me out of here fastest,” the reporter replied.
“Excellent!” Velvet pranced over to the edge of the terrace, then carefully mounted the safety wall, bending forward as she did so as to afford a fetching view of her breasts and butt. At last she stood atop the wall, facing Lainey, Shadowgal, and the DudeMag offices. She raised her hands skyward.
“Then without further ado,” Velvet Glove shouted dramatically, “I give you the miracle of flight!”
The soles of Velvet Glove's boots began to glow a deep neon purple. Ordinarily she required at least a three-inch heel, but Mind Mistress had been annoyingly insistent that whatever mechanism she had installed required more space than the stilletto Velvet preferred would allow. After a few seconds of warming up, Velvet began to lift off the wall, pausing after a few inches.
“Is that it?” asked Lainey, “That's not flying, it's hovering.”
“I assure you, the demonstration is only just beginning!” Velvet said. She glanced down and, for just an instant, felt a fleeting and all-too-rare feeling of self-doubt. It was really high! She bit her lip nervously, then shook her head. Worrying hadn't gotten her where she was in life, and there was no point starting now! She looked up and sent the mental command to her boots to shoot her up ten feet.
WHOOSH!
It went a bit quicker than she had expected, and felt a lot different than when she'd been practicing in the Femme Defenders gym. In particular, she noticed a lot of air flowing in through the cleavage window, tickling her torso as it went. She stiffled a giggle. Gotta keep focused.
Velvet glanced down. Lainey was looking up and, from this distance, actually seemed mildly impressed with Velvet's speed and control. Now to really wow her with the routine she'd worked out with Mind Mistress back at HQ. She went into a series of spirals and loop-de-loops that she was reasonably certain would earn her a perfect score at the Olympics, if trick-flying were a recognized Olympic sport. She suppressed a brief bout of nerves as she did one of the more dangerous tricks, a low-level fly-by of the terrace. She ignored the insistent tickle of air down her body and took a moment to wave at the DudeMag editors as she flew by.
Then Velvet Glove glanced over at Lainey Leng and caught her stifling a yawn. Well! The audacity! It isn't as though Velvet particularly cared what Lainey thought, just that it felt wrong when anyone wasn't impressed with Velvet, and Lainey was a subset of “anyone.”
It's time to really give her a show, Velvet thought, I'll move up the grand finale and give her something to write about!
Velvet and Mind Mistress had gone over this a dozen times. They'd studied the airspace around the Balmer Building and found that another skyscraper on the other side of Fifth Avenue had a nice tall flagpole on its thirtieth floor. She would zoom over there and abruptly stop and alight daintily atop the finial that capped the pole, spinning mid-flight to face back toward the Balmer Building. Then she would blow a kiss to the assembled crowd (and, most importantly, the editors of DudeMag), then fly back and land on the terrace, arms stretched triumphantly to receive the adoring applause which was her due.
Velvet Glove squinted at her intended destination. The finial on the flagpole was a spike, not the sphere she'd practiced with. And, of course, it was much farther away and way windier than it was in the gym. And since she'd only just gotten the costume this morning she'd been practicing in her workout gear before, which meant she wasn't accustomed to the weird tickling of air through her cleavage window. Still, Velvet wasn't going to let some silly things like that get in the way of her triumph! She licked her lips, steeled herself, then sent the mental command to her boots to give her maximum velocity.
FWOOSH!
SHRRRRIIIIIIPPP!
As Velvet accelerated across the street, the tickle of wind grew exponentially. Air rushed into her suit through the hole in her chest. Once there, it pressed down against her crotch. In theory, it should have passed out through her legholes, but given their high cut Velvet had commissioned her costume with extra-tight space-age stay-in-place elastic, to ensure no unfortunate slips or exposures. With nowhere else to go, the air molecules pushed outward with extraordinary force, far more than the rush-ordered costume could bear. Half a second after Velvet began her speedy, high-altitude street crossing, the costume tore itself violently off of her body, tearing from both sides of her neck down her sleeve to the wrist. Once liberated, the torn costume fluttered gracefully down to the street, where it landed on the head of a confused grandmother who was taking her grand daughter out for some afternoon toy shopping.
Velvet Glove, meanwhile, found herself hurtling through the air wearing nothing but her mask, her boots, her gloves, and her underwear, a sky-blue g-string with the words “UP, UP AND AWAY!” written in red letters on the crotch. The construction of the costume had made a bra both impractical and unnecessary, which was cold comfort to the now-topless heroine.
“EEEK!” Velvet shrieked as she desperately tried to cover herself. She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to contain each breast in one hand, but found she was just a little too big in the bust to manage that. As she squeezed and shifted her arms, frantically trying to maximize coverage of her nearly-nude body, she lost all concentration on the aerial trick she was meant to be performing.
But while Velvet had forgotten about the flagpole, the flagpole had not forgotten about her.
FWIP
“YEEEEOOUCH!”
Velvet saw the oncoming spike of the flagpole just a second too late, and her attempt to avoid it had only succeded in snagging the waistband of her thong on the spike. Thus ensnared, she found that she was now giving herself a powerful front-wedgie, as her boots pushed her forward while her spike held her back. After long seconds, she gained the presence of mind to tell her boots to slow down and stop.
Boots deactivated, Velvet Glove found herself now hanging by her underwear, dangling from atop the flagpole high above Fifth Avenue. She took a moment to compose herself.
Alright, she thought to herself, this isn't that bad. She looked down and her brain took in the magnitude of her situation: She was dangling three hundred feet above one of the busiest streets in the world, clad in barely more than a thong, from which she now precariously hung. She took a deep breath to prevent a panic attack. Okay, it is that bad, but it could be worse! Umm... the wedgie isn't quite as painful as when I was actively flying against it.
Thus fortified, Velvet tried to figure a way out of her situation. She first attempted to fly upward, but the string was too tangled around the spike to allow her to escape without disentangling it first. Then she tried fixing the thong problem. She really didn't want to tear it off and wind up entirely exposed, so she tried undoing the tangle. The problem was, she couldn't get enough slack while she was dangling. She tried twisting around to grip the flagpole between her thighs (a feeling not entirely unfamiliar to her), but found the twist only made the tangle worse. Then she gripped the pole between her feet and tried pushing herself up the pole that way. It worked, at first, to the point where she raised herself above the spike and began frantically working at the thong behind her. But then the recently-greased pole slipped out from between her heels and-
POIT!
“OWOWOWOWOWOW!”
-Velvet fell down, landing on the spike with the full weight of her body. It poked into her left butt cheek and she found herself, once again, dangling from the pole. She ventured a glance down once again. Now traffic had stopped as a full city block's worth of onlookers stared up at her.
This is ridiculous! Velvet thought as her humiliation changed to rage, I'm Velvet Glove and I won't be defeated by a stupid flagpole!
Velvet shifted and poiinted her boots down and back, deciding that, as with her work as a superhero, the best solution was brute force. She gunned her boots to maximum acceleration, hoping that something, whether pole, thong, or some combination, would break and she'd be free.
Velvet shot forward and instantly felt the painful tightness in her crotch as the pole pulled back on her g-string. This time, though, she was braced for it. She gritted her teeth, determined that this time she would be free.
The pole was oriented to a forty-five degree angle above Fifth Avenue. Velvet was attempting to fly back toward the building it was mounted to, away from the Balmer Building (no need to multiply her humiliation by getting closer to that awful hater, Lainey Leng again!). As her boots thrust forward, the pole began slowly to bend backwards, to a forty degree angle, then, with much strain, to a thirty degree angle.
This stupid pole doesn't know when to quit! Velvet thought, I'm going to push these boots beyond what Brainy told me was the maximum safe speed!
As Velvet Glove pushed ever harder the pole bent further. Now it was at a fifteen degree angle, now it was straight up and down. Mind Mistresses pre-recorded voice emerged from the boots.
“Warning, flight boots being operated beyond safety specifications. Please return to normal operating parameters.”
Velvet glove gritted her teeth and strained, doing her best to think about anything but the intense pain in her crotch. As she had so many times in the past, she ignored Mind Mistress's words of warning.
“Need... More... Power...” she said, clenching every muscle in her body.
The pole began bending backwards from straight up, to a fifteen degree angle, then to a twenty degree angle. Velvet's boots began to spark. She felt them begin to heat up, but it was like a fly landing on her shoulder compared to the searing pain in her groin.
As her boots strained and sparked, the pole bent further, further. At last it reached a thirty degree angle.
I can feel it! Velvet thought, Something's about to give!
Something did.
“Catastrophic systems failure,” said Mind Mistress's voice, “Emergency self-destruct activated.”
With a pair of soft explosions, the bottoms of Velvet's boots blew off, exposing the soles of her feet and her delicately painted purple toes, all stained with black carbon from the recent explosion.
Velvet was not especially concerned, though, with the state of her feet. The recent explosion meant that her boots were no longer pushing her forward. In the absence of the force bending it out of shape, the flagpole rapidly returned to its original forty-five-degrees-forward orientation. As a result, Velvet was flung straight out of her underpants and catapulted in a high arc back across Fifth Avenue toward the Ballmer Building, leaving only her blue Up, Up and Away g-string as memorial of her recent encounter with the pole.
Velvet flew, twisting and turning end-over-end, across the gap separating the building with the flag from the Ballmer Building. The young heroine's heart stopped. The chemical formula that gave her the super-strength that made her a heroine had also caused a proportional increase in toughness, but she wasn't nearly strong enough to survive a thirty-story drop, especially not when flung so hard across the street. Velvet's life flashed before her eyes: The parties, the plaudits, the many men, the occasional woman, all of it, she was certain, about to be extinguished. And then-
SPLAT!
Velvet Glove found herself pressed, firmly, against the slanted glass of DudeMag's conference room. Her arms and legs were splayed out, spread-eagle. Her jaw was slack and her eyes glazed over. Her breasts were pressed flat against the glass and, as such, spread out to the size of dinner plates. The only clothing she wore was her mask, her gloves, and what remained of her flight boots. And there, in the center of it all, exposed to the entire staff of DudeMag, was her mostly bare pussy.
It had been her habit, early in her career, to shave her pubic hair into the shape of her logo, an interlocking V and G. “Got to maintain the brand, even when I'm naked!” she'd told herself. Since then she had matured and, with perspective, had decided it was better to leave such childish things behind.
Velvet Glove now had her logo vajazzled onto her pubic mound, with purple gemstones forming the V and gold stones forming the G. The staff of DudeMag stood up and took notice, slackjawed at Velvet Glove's on-point branding; there was no possibility of any onlooker mistaking the near-naked woman pressed against their glass as anyone but the Velvet Glove. There was a brief pause as they all took in the sight before them.
And then they got out their cell phones to memorialize the occasion. Because, even at DudeMag, this kind of thing didn't happen every day.
“Owwwwwwww...” Velvet moaned as her eyes rolled back in her head. Gravity reasserted itself and she slowly slid down the glass, her nipples drifting to point straight upward as her body made its way down to the terrace. At last she reached the ground, her legs still spread into a split, her arms limp at her side. She rested there for a moment, then her body fell backwards and she lay still, blinking slowly up at the sky.
Shadowgal ran over, her arms still firmly crossed over her chest. Even with all eyes on her disgraced fellow Femme Defender, she wasn't going to take the chance of anyone noticing her cleavage.
“Velvet, are you okay!?!” she shouted.
“Buh...” Velvet muttered.
“I was going to say, I was reading that copy of DudeMag you left...”
“Why were you reading DudeMag?” Lainey asked, sauntering up beside Shadowgal with a shit-eating grin on her face.
Shadowgal blushed bright red. “I was just reading it for the articles, okay!!”
“Sure...”
“They actually do a lot of really compelling investigative journalism!” Shadowgal insisted, “It's not all butts and boobies!”
Lainey just chuckled.
“Anyhow,” Shadowgal turned back to Velvet Glove, who remained in exactly the same position, with not the slightest attempt at movement, “I was reading the article and they asked Energy Lass about her costume, and whether it was aerodynamic, or whatever, and she said she'd had it custom made with unstable molecules to make sure air flowed straight through it, because if she didn't, ummm... I think she said 'if it weren't for the unstable molecules, as soon as I hit Mach 1 I'd be as naked as the day I was born! And I'm sure some fans would love that, but I don't need a rep as a naked, big-breasted bimbo.'” Shadowgal paused and bit her lip, realizing she may have gone too far, “Um, her words, not mine.”
“Fuh...” mumbled Velvet, still staring at the sky. There was a pretty cloud up above. It looked like a bird.
“I gotta hand it to you,” Lainey said, squatting down by Velvet's head, “When you said nobody flies like Velvet Glove flies, I thought you were full of it. But I can honestly say I've never seen a superhero fly like that!”
“Zuh...” Velvet exhaled. Some day, she'd have to consider getting up and rejoining the world. Some day...
“So, ah,” Shadowgal said, “You weren't going to, um, report on this were you?” She felt bad that she hadn't disclosed the thing about unstable molecules to Velvet Glove earlier, even if Velvet had been a bit of a jerk.
Lainey stood up, pointed her camera, and took one final pic of the stupefied superheroine.
“I mean, I've gotta submit it. News is news,” said Lainey, turning to leave, “I doubt this is front page stuff, though. Maybe Page Six. On the other hand, if you'll excuse me for saying so, 'Femme Defender Publicly Humiliates Herself' is kinda the definition of a Dog-Bites-Man story, if you know what I mean. Maybe she'll get lucky!”
With that, Lainey opened the door to exit the terrace, leaving Shadowgal alone with Velvet. Shadowgal bent down and grabbed Velvets hand, trying to rouse her.
“Nuh...” Velvet mouthed.
With Velvet still dead to the world, and no longer subject to her watchful eye, Shadowgal made the best of a bad situation and re-donned her black hoodie. She looked around.
“Well,” Shadowgal mused, “I guess somebody has to clean up all these folding chairs...”
Shadowgal set about her task as Velvet lay still, dazed and muttering.
***
In the end, Mind Mistress got what she wanted, a nice high-definition recording of Velvet Glove's public humiliation, to add to her collection to review whenever she was feeling down.
And Shadowgal got what she wanted. True to her word, Velvet Glove gave her the complete, rare-and-out-of-print DVD collection of the Urusei Yatsura TV series.
And Stan “The Man” Liebowitz, the outdoor maintenance guy of the building next door, got what he wanted the next time he went up to grease the flag pole, a colorful new washrag.
And, after a fashion, Velvet Glove got what she wanted. The next month she made the cover of DudeMag, her bare, squashed tits covered by edited-in VG logos, which gave the impression that the vajazzled logo on her crotch was also an edit, rather than the embarassing reality. “VELVET GLOVE BARES ALL!” the magazine declared, “WE PROCLAIM THE VOLUPTUOUS VIXEN AMERICA'S THIRSTIEST HEROINE!”
Velvet Glove shrugged as she hung the framed magazine on the wall of press coverage in her bedroom.
“Any publicity is good publicity!” she smiled as she stood back and admired her naked form on the cover.