MISS ADVENTURE

AND THE INK OF EVIL

(Guest-Starring the B-Squad)

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction intended for adult entertainment. The author declares any and all elements herein contained that may be construed as works of original creation to be public domain. All characters herein are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to real persons or comic book characters living, dead, or in or out of print circulation is purely coincidental. The character of Miss Adventure in particular has nothing to do with either the fictional columnist of the same name in the Weekly World News, nor a different heroine who makes some appearances in the work of artists on the DeviantArt website. This story is strictly non-commercial, and no profit will be made by the use of these characters or concepts.

To put it mildly, this work is not intended for consumption by minors and contains graphic depictions of forced sex, bondage and other even nastier behaviours. If you are below the adult age in your country, state, province or county then read no further and delete this file from your computer. By reading this disclaimer you agree to take full responsibility for continuing. The author does not encourage or condone the hateful and criminal things that are done to women in this story. The activities performed in this fictional work should never be inflicted on people in the real world. Feedback is welcome and can be sent to unot39@yahoo.ca or posted to the SHIB forum at http://forum.shib.net/phpbb3.

Preface

This is part of a series of tongue-in-cheek superheroine yarns written during a break from the more elaborate Foxx Force Five series, which is on hiatus. This misadventure takes place after “Miss Adventure and the Raunch Ray.” Read on, and if you enjoy it... shame on you.

1

Its engine rumbling, the sleek black Mustang muscles its way through the streets of Phoenix City in the gathering dusk, headed into the heart of the most derelict districts of the inner city. The big golden “B” on the car's hood glistens under the streetlights, and marquees and neon signs proclaiming ADULT XXX VIDEOS and LIVE NUDE GIRLS slide by outside, garishly lighting scenes of skinny hookers, half-dead addicts, strutting pimps and hard-staring gangsters.

Inside the car, three young and delicately beautiful female faces – each sporting a domino mask – look intently out, searching. In the driver's seat is a copper-coloured Latina with long, straight brown hair sporting golden highlights, beside her a mocha-skinned hottie with full red lips and her hair in a short black bob, and in the back seat a green-eyed white girl with pouty pink-glossed lips, a peaches-and-cream complexion and her dirty blonde hair in bangs and pig-tails. Though they're each fresh-faced and not a day over twenty, none of them shows any fear of the clearly rough neighbourhood. They've been here before. A police scanner blares law enforcement chatter from the dashboard... and it's the news on the scanner that's brought them here now.

“They've got to be here somewhere,” says the driver. “I can feel it.” Her name is Queen-B – as hinted by the superimposed golden letters QB (topped with a stylized crown) on her midriff-baring, strapless latex tube top, purple to match the colour of her mask. Her round hindquarters are wrapped in matching tiny purple latex booty shorts that strain to contain her prodigious glutes – she sports a mind-bogglingly sexy five foot four, 34C-25-42 frame – and her feet clad in purple latex boots with six-inch platform heels. A katana with a purple sheath and a purple-and-gold hilt is propped up next to her, and purple latex arm-warmers cover her forearms and the palms of her hands.

“Try a left up here,” says the girl in the passenger seat. “There are some abandoned warehouses in this block.” Clad identically to her friend but all in black, with the initials HB and a stylized bee in gold across her fat titties, is Honey-B. Five feet two and sporting 34DD-25-45 curves, she is trim and athletic save for her ample bust-line and her thick, juicy rump of epic proportions. Her fingers tap on the hand of the nickel-plated pistol she calls “the Stinger,” strapped into a holster on her left thigh.

As the car turns and starts into an even more derelict side street, the blonde in the backseat points suddenly: “I think I see something!” B-Dazzle's outfit, identical to the others', is themed in lavender with a stylized gem above the BD initials on her chest. Her five-foot-nothing 34DD-28-39 figure is eye-popping, and jewels glisten on the golden rings that adorn each of her fingers. “Down the other end of that alleyway. I thought I just saw a Harley pull around that corner!”

Queen-B nods and turns down the alleyway: it might be yet another false alarm, but the trio of young heroines will leave no stone unturned in their quest for adventure tonight. When the call went out several hours ago over the police scanner – an all points bulletin on a missing bus full of senior-year schoolgirls from the elite Our Lady of the Sacred Heart Academy which had never reached its destination on a field trip tour of the Phoenix City Natural Museum – and later calls warned units to beware of possible biker gang involvement... they'd known their shot at the big time had come. Lowest on the local Masked Avengers totem pole they might well be – but with the city's senior heroes all off fighting some kind of alien threat in lower Earth orbit, there's nobody else in the city to represent superhero justice. Someone's going to have to find those girls and rescue them. That someone might as well be the B-Squad.

True, the media had originally given them that nickname mockingly. And also true, in two years of adventuring together they've had their share of unfortunate incidents, like the time they'd mistaken a movie shoot for a bank robbery and wound up bruising some poor actor's testicles. Or, much worse, the time they'd tried to bust a guy for parking in a handicapped zone and found themselves face-to-face with a van full of gangbangers in the middle of a major drug deal; only their emergency beacons had saved them that time as they'd fled for their lives. They'd been the Sisters of Justice back then, but the B-Squad nickname had quickly begun to stick as they slid right to the bottom of the Masked Avengers' on-call roster.

Any one of them could remember all the mocking jokes on radio and television talk shows and comedy routines: B is for Bungler. B is for Bimbo. B is for Booty. B is for Bewildered. B is for Bozo. Well, screw them all! The B-Squad had taken up the nickname and run all-out with it, giving it their own interpretation. It's written on the custom bumper sticker plastered on the rear of the B-mobile: B is for Bravery. B is for Brilliant. B is for Believer. B is for Badass. B is for Totally Bodacious.

And tonight is the night we prove it, thinks Queen-B to herself as she comes to the end of the alley, idling the Mustang and cutting its headlights to stay unobtrusive. The three of them may seem to be just a group of college-dropout waitresses with a crazy dream, some makeshift costumes, a closet full of comic books and a few months of self defence classes under their belts, but looks can be deceiving. Inside, they all know they have a destiny. Hell, one of them even has a real superpower. And as the three of them climb out of the car and creep to the edge of the alley to look at what lies beyond, Queen-B feels destiny drawing closer... because there, in the deserted, trash-strewn street, is a sign that this time, B-Dazzle is right!

An apparently derelict warehouse sits opposite them, one of its loading doors yawning open like the mouth of some great landed fish. Pulling into that dark interior is indeed a hulking, long-bearded man on a Harley, his bare arms wreathed in tattoos. And the patch on the back of his leather vest shows a blazing swastika flanked by a pair of angel wings, the symbol of the infamous biker gang known as the Free Radicals.

“Paydirt?” says Honey-B quietly.

“A strong possible, anyway.” Queen-B grips the hilt on her katana. “Let's go in for a closer look.”

The latex-clad lovelies try to look as inconspicuous as possible, each of them crouching slightly as they cross the street in pursuit of their quarry.

2

Miss Adventure looks around her in awe at the palatial mansion, the broad stairways and marble floors, the chandelier hanging from the sealing, the ballroom filled with many of Cruxton's wealthiest and most powerful people gathered in style for one of the yearly round of charity balls, the view of the sun setting over the vast waters of Lake Leary. She can hardly believe she's standing here: Cunnie Manor, one of America's most famous homes and a palace for the virtually-hereditary position of Mayor of Cruxton, head of the famous “Cunnie Machine” political organization for more years than anyone cares to count.

This whole place looks just like something off of CRIBS, she thinks as she takes a flute of sparkling fruit juice from the tray of an elderly waiter. It's unreal! But she tries not to look too overawed. As tonight's sole representative of the Masked Avengers here in the corridors of power – her first real assignment – she has to be on top of her game.

The teen beauty catches a glimpse of herself in a nearby mirror and smiles radiantly at the heart-stopping vision she presents in the costume she'd finally gotten a few days ago. Her look is certainly up to the challenge: she'd thought the old fart of a butler was going to faint dead away when he opened the door. And who can blame him? she thinks, eyeing up her athletic and yet jaw-droppingly busty five-foot-six 44DD-24-36 frame with satisfaction, noting the way her all-natural but preternaturally perky jugs sit nice and high on her chest, loving the radiance of her creamy complexion. Her short, light brown hair falls just below her ears in a helmet-like cut that frames an oval-shaped face of winsome beauty with soft, kissable lips. Her light silvery-blue eyes are hidden behind sleek blue goggles, while her amazing body is just barely clothed in a patriotic slingshot thong bikini, the stars coming up on one strap to cover most of the big pink nipple on her right breast, the stripes doing the same for the left. Blue thigh-high PVC boots with six-inch heels adorn her graceful gams, while fingerless blue gloves – and of course the blue leather choker sporting the silver letter 'A' at her throat – finish out the look, marking her out as quite simply a wet dream on legs.

After all, that's the idea, she thinks. Distract the men with this hot body, and while they're eyeing me up... POW! She catches the eye of a nearby party-goer – or more accurately catches him staring at her chest – and she can't resist striking a pose and playfully miming a lighting-fast right uppercut for him, her mouth-watering melons jiggling impressively as the rookie heroine grins at the feeling of strength and power suffusing her young form. To be making her public debut as an honest-to-goodness superheroine... she's been dreaming of nothing else for months. And now, here it is. Even if the circumstances aren't quite as she imagined them.

“You sure are something, Miss Adventure,” says a voice from beside her. “I'm so glad you were able to come tonight.”

Breaking from her reverie, Miss Adventure grins at Roger Cunnie, son of Mayor Dick Cunnie and a gangling rail of a young man, turned out in a very expensive tuxedo. A bit smarmy and aristocratic for her taste, Roger has a slightly creepy way of looking at her in what he seems to think is a surreptitious fashion, his flickering eyes stealing rapid little glimpses of her curvy body in a way that seems somehow more dishonest than the frank ogling she's used to.

But the sidekick reminds herself to act friendly; she agreed with her mentor that she'd do her bit at tonight's fundraiser. “Adventure,” the teen heroine says laughingly. “Haven't seen much of that, yet. I can't wait, as you can probably tell.”

“Well, I'm afraid Phoenix City usually doesn't have much to offer in the adventure department,” says Roger with a charming smile. “Too quiet by half, for the most part. The incident that your mentor and our Masked Avengers are dealing with is a very rare thing. Alien invaders in our airspace, of all things! We haven't seen its like here in quite a while.”

“So I'm told.” Miss Adventure tries not to let her worry for The Adventurist show in her face, but can't help saying: “I wish I could be up there with him.”

“Well, can't blame him for thinking you might need more experience first.”

That was indeed the explanation he'd given her, and although Miss Adventure had also heard rumours that the other Masked Avengers had vetoed her presence for some strange reason, she isn't inclined to put much credence in them. Though she's almost nineteen and ready in her mind to stand on her own, she knows Mister A has her best interests at heart. Still: attempted alien invasions are indeed a rare thing in the career of a cape – despite what comic books would have the public believe, they don't happen on average more than three times a decade – and being left out of this week's action is undeniably galling, rookie or not, good reasons or not.

But she can't say that. Instead, she says: “If Mister A were here now, he'd tell me that community relationships are just as important as derring-do. And he'd mean it, too.”

“Of course you're right. And besides, he's in good company; I'm sure Captain Phoenix and the others will take care of him.” The Mayor's son finally manages to refocus his eyes on her face, his look one of genuine curiosity as he asks: “Which reminds me, I've been wondering: how does a girl like you get to be a Masked Avenger, anyway? How did you meet the Adventurist?”

An even bigger smile comes to her lips at the thought of her first meeting with her mentor, the man who changed the course of her young life. “Oh, it was pretty much how guys and girls usually meet,” she says. “I was out walking, and he was cruising in his car...”

* * *

The 'car' in question was none other than the Adventure-Haul. The massive, sleek red vehicle – rocket- and solar-powered and easily the size of a tanker truck – serves as the mobile base of operations for the very man who several decades ago had created an organization called the Masked Avengers, a superheroes' union that now has chapters from coast to coast. For years the Adventurist had been based in Newvale City on the East Coast, but recently he'd made headlines with his decision to roam the country, seeking injustices to right and coming to the aid of his fellow Masked Avengers whenever and wherever needed. The Island City Times had trumpeted the news with the headline A NEW DAWN FOR HEROISM IN AMERICA!

When she'd first seen the Adventure-Haul, Swallow Dix hadn't seen those kinds of headlines yet. Her world had been small, limited to her own troubles. She was a seventeen-year-old runaway trying to hitch-hike her way out of Shennessee, leaving behind her dead-end small-town life to chase her dream of (what else?) becoming an actress in Hollywood. Already the dream had begun to go wrong: she'd originally been taking the bus, but someone had stolen all her money and clothes while they were at a rest stop, and as she'd been frantically searching for them, the bus had taken off without her. Her despondent face had been streaked with tears, her arms huddled around her, the tight little white cotton dress hugging her spectacular curves now the only article of clothing she owned. Still, she'd been determined. Given the choice between hitch-hiking and crawling back home to her parents, she hadn't hesitated to stand beside the highway and stick out her thumb.

Her jaw had dropped when the space-aged red monster of a machine pulled over for her. It had dropped even further when a chiseled, handsome man had leaned out and asked her where she was headed. His silver hair and wrap-around red shades had made him look bizarre, but also strangely sexy. And when she'd seen his muscular body sheathed in red spandex and realized he was a superhero, she'd been in awe.

So began her relationship with one of America's premier heroes, who'd eventually revealed his real identity as the secretive billionaire Peirce Busch. He hadn't tried to deter her from her Hollywood dream at first; he'd simply told her that he could see things about people, and that he saw “hidden potential” in her. And then he'd told her about the cosmic radiation that had given him his powers, how he'd fought evil with it on his own for decades before founding the Masked Avengers. A more recent experience, though – he never said what it was – had convinced him now that he needed a closer companion to support him in his work. He needed a sidekick.

Her life had changed when she heard him say that word; suddenly she'd felt the landscape of her dream shift. Why be another interchangeable starlet on the red carpet when she could be a heroine, admired for what she did and not just how she looked? And why be alone when she could be a companion for an extraordinary man – no, not a man, a hero, a legend, a god – like the Adventurist?

Over the subsequent weeks and months, she'd travelled with him as he took on missions in one city after another, learning as much as she could, soaking up the stories of his adventures. He'd told her frankly about the risks of becoming the next Miss Adventure, how several others had tried before her and met terrible fates as yet unknown... but even this couldn't deter her. Swallow knew by this time that God had to be on her side to have brought this hero to her out of the blue at her darkest hour, and a growing certainty of divine protection had matched her growing love and attraction for her mentor. No supposed 'curse' was going to make her give this up.

Finally, a few months ago he'd begun to train her in martial arts and criminology, and he'd revealed the Adventure-Ray, a device designed to duplicate the cosmic accident that created him, the device that could imbue an object with alien radiation and confer an echo of his powers on the one who wore it. Assenting eagerly, she'd begun to train with her powers.

The choker the Adventure-Ray created thrums its cosmic energy through her body now: charging her with the strength of five men, superhuman reflexes and agility, a healing factor that can repair any injury that doesn't destroy her brain, and ultra-senses that can detect a pin drop a city block away. The Adventurist taught her a careful mental discipline that keeps her focused and makes sure the rush of information from those senses doesn't overwhelm her. It had been the hardest thing to learn, but now she's pretty sure she has the trick of it.

I'm ready. She's been thinking it for some time now, every time she poses for herself in a mirror, dreaming of the awed headlines the papers will write about her. I'm ready to be the Damsel of Daring. But though she finally has the costume, it looks like her action debut is some way off.

* * *

She doesn't say all of this to Roger Cunnie, of course. As she tells him the tale she abbreviates the story of that first meeting, leaving out her desperation, or her later convictions and feelings. She keeps the focus on the adventures they've had: the Adventurist squaring off against the Nightwalkers in Vincent's Sound, against the ancient Claw clan of ninjas in the city of Los Diablos, against the rampaging Man-Dragon in Salishville. And her watching, learning all the while, learning to be his eyes and ears, learning to pilot his network of remote cameras and to drive and pilot his fleet of Adventure-Vehicles... learning to be what she is now, a butterfly ready to emerge from the cocoon.

She keeps Roger riveted with every word, and eventually a small audience of his friends and hangers-on gathers, too. This is partly what she's here for, she knows; not only to talk about her own debut, but also to burnish the legend of the Adventurist. But as Miss Adventure wraps up her tale to applause from Roger – swiftly followed by his friends, like a studio audience obeying an “applause” sign – her ultra-hearing picks up something quite by chance in the ballroom crowd. A whispered conversation of surprising intensity. Looking around as Roger gamely tries to keep chatting her up, she zeroes in on the source a ways across the room, and as her audience begins to melt away she moves a few steps closer under the guise of picking up a cocktail weenie from a nearby waiter.

She realizes it's Phoenix City's Police Commissioner, Frank Biggar. He's standing in his tuxedo, huddled in conversation with a uniformed cop. Cocking an ear subtly and focusing her attention, she hears him ask: “How long ago was this?”

“Several hours, sir,” the cop replies. “No luck on tracing the school bus yet... but we're pretty sure it's them.”

“Well, those cheeky bastards, I'll be damned.” The heavyset Commissioner shakes his jowly head. “We'd better keep this quiet for now.”

“Sir, the chief wants to know if we should bring the Masked Avengers in on this. He says it could get high-profile.”

“He's gotta be fucking kidding. This is going to be taken care of before a single one of the Masked Avengers gets back to town.” Biggar's whisper is emphatic. “The cleaner the better. And no way do we deal through the kind of weekend warriors they've left behind, much less the Adventurist's little bimbo spokesmodel. Understood?”

Miss Adventure's jaw clenches in anger at that last, but she conceals it, nodding at a pleasantry from Roger as she keeps listening. The cop is saying: “Yes, sir. We have units trying to track them down and officers canvassing all the likely suspects. But it'll take time.”

“Keep on it,” the Commissioner tells him. “You go on now, and wait for my word. I've got a charity poker tournament to win.” The uniform moves briskly to the nearest exit as Biggar plasters a smile on his face and heads back out into the crowd. Only someone who could actually hear his heartbeat would know how agitated he is... and he's breathing carefully, bringing it back under control.

Miss Adventure's own heart is hammering in excitement. Something's afoot! Small fry by Masked Avengers standards, obviously... but a big enough deal for the cops to want the collar all to themselves. Probably involving mundanes, easy enough to handle for someone with the training and the powers to take care of business.

Maybe a situation that a sidekick could cut her teeth on?

Should I do it? Miss Adventure knows she's strictly instructed not to go off alone. But she also knows that she might have to disobey the Adventurist once in a while to prove her capabilities to him. Is this that time? She's undecided about it all for a long moment until she remembers the Commissioner's term for her. The Adventurist's little bimbo spokesmodel. The anger surges again. I'll show that sexist bastard who's a “little bimbo spokemodel”!

She suddenly realizes that Roger is still talking to her. “Miss Adventure? What's the matter? You seem a little... distracted.”

Giving her head a little shake, she replies: “It's nothing, Roger. Except, you know, I just remembered I left something important in the Adventure-Haul.” First things first, check the computer. See what's going on. “I'd better run and get it. See you later?”

“Uh, sure... no problem...” replies Roger, looking confused. But his words are completely ignored. The young heroine is already striding away purposefully through the crowd, her hips swaying and her ass waggling and her mighty double-D's jiggling in time with her walk toward destiny, turning heads and quickening pulses all around her. Her resolve is as firm as her taut teen body, as clear as the eyes flashing behind her sleek goggles. Okay, world! It's time to meet Miss Adventure!

She doesn't see how the look of innocent confusion on Roger's face fades into cold calculation as she leaves. Neither does she see the way a young socialite nearby hops almost fearfully to grab him a drink when he snaps his fingers in her direction, his mind turning as he watches the door long after the voluptuous teenaged heroine is gone... and a huge crease forming at the crotch of his pants.

3

In the shadows just inside the warehouse, the B-Squad make the first discovery that confirms they're in the right place: an abandoned bus, just like the kind of charter bus the girls from Our Lady of the Sacred Heart would have been using. Creeping quietly toward it, Queen-B peeks in the open door... and blanches. The body of the driver is there, a lumpy silhouette slumped over the steering wheel, the window beside him spattered with blood and brains. The Free Radicals had clearly decided his usefulness was over once they had his precious cargo.

Honey-B lets out a gasp – swiftly stifled – as she comes up from behind. “Queenie... damn...” she whispers.

The leader tightens her jaw and gestures the other two back for a moment, the trio creeping back to the threshold of the warehouse. It's a moment of decision: the dead bus driver is an indicator that whatever is happening here is very heavy indeed. Should they go ahead? Or should they just report the find to the police and get lost?

Queen-B hates the notion of running, but she feels a sting of fear too. We have to make the decision together, she thinks, and she's opening her mouth, about to ask her friends the question, when the ringing sound of booted footsteps and a loud babble of voices suddenly sends them scurrying for cover, back behind the bus!

Peeping out around the vehicle's edge, the trio of heroines can see a flashlight approaching, and can just make out a group of three bikers coming from somewhere deeper in the building, with indistinct shapes slung over their shoulders and raucous laughter on their lips! The biker in the rear is illuminating the group's way with the flashlight. His companions are carrying what look like a set of lawn chairs in one case, and a six-pack of beer in the other!

The B-Squad exchange looks of amazed outrage. Cocky bastards, mouths B-Dazzle silently to nods from the others. Anger is written on all their lovely features as they look back.

The shapes over the bikers' shoulders are clearly recognizable now. They're schoolgirls, their white cotton panties visible under pleated skirts, their shapely forms soaked in sweat and apparently unconscious, their knee socks and demure pumps still adorning their firm legs, white shirts sheer and plastered to their firm young bodies with moisture, their heads lolling as they're deposited on the concrete floor. Their arms look as if they're bound behind them somehow. One is a voluptuous, tiny Asian girl, another a slender, freckled blonde with pixie-cut hair, the third an athletic and darkly pretty Italian-looking girl with a pony-tail. The bikers laugh and joke as they set up their lawn chairs and a couple of them open beers, the one with the flashlight moving off into the dark to rummage through some equipment.

The B-Squad look at each other again, their breath quickening. Some kind of party? Whatever is about to happen here, it isn't good... and this is their best chance to stop it. After a moment, Queen-B grips her katana and gives the nod. Let's do it.

B-Dazzle grins with delight. She's been waiting for months to try out her new catch-phrase. Her companions don't even have time to mouth “be careful” at her before, erupting from cover with a leap, a tuck and roll, she comes to her feet with a jubilant cry of: “B is for B-Dazzle!” The other two B-Squad members quickly shield their eyes!

“What the hell--” Beer cans clatter to the floor, their contents foaming out as the Free Radicals go for their guns. But even as they're moving, the young blonde heroine clashes the rings on her fingers together and unleashes her power: suddenly the interior of the warehouse is bathed in incandescent, blinding light! “Aggghhhhh!” The cry goes up from the criminals as their hands go up against the blinding, painful glare!

Even as it's happening, Honey-B is in motion, The Stinger coming out of its holster. The air gun – custom-designed for her by a Masked Avengers boyfriend – is almost perfectly silent. With quiet pffft! pffft! pffft! sounds, the nearest two bikers jerk and grunt as tranquilizer darts slam into them in rapid succession. Honey-B will be the first to admit that she's not exactly a crack markswoman, but the leather-clad bikers are close enough and big enough targets that it's not possible to miss them. The mocha-skinned beauty grins with fierce satisfaction as she pumps a half dozen darts into each of them, making sure enough get through their thick clothing to take them down.

Finally, as they twitch, gurgle and finally collapse like felled trees, the third biker comes roaring out of the recesses of the warehouse – where it looks like he'd been fumbling through a pile of lighting equipment – with a steel chain in his hands whirling viciously over his head. As he comes forward like a metal tornado of lethal intent, B-Dazzle and Honey-B fall back from him, the latter almost dropping her pistol – but Queen-B is already leaping into action!

“Hyyyaiiii!” she cries out as she leaps and rolls forward, ducking inside the perimeter of the whirling chain and unsheathing her katana in one smooth movement. She glimpses the man's berserk, blonde-bearded face and wild eyes for just a moment before she slashes the weapon at his midsection. At first he merely grunts at the blunt impact: Queenie's never sharpened the weapon, preferring to fight non-lethally. But she did have a besotted suitor from the Masked Avengers build the sword into a disguised stun baton, and even as she's slashing she clicks a hidden button in the sword's handle to activate it.

“Grrrraggghhhh!” The big blonde biker lets out a strangled sound as his body goes stiff with tens of thousands of volts of electric current. A moment later she pulls the sword away and lets him collapse to the ground, unconscious.

Panting with exhilaration, their gorgeous bodies limned by the slowly-fading flare of B-Dazzle's power, the three heroines look around them at the felled bikers and exchange radiant grins of delight. The fight is over almost as quickly as it began. Perfect timing, almost perfect execution: it went right! The B-Squad finally has a win! Punching the air, B-Dazzle lets out a whoop of delight. “Yeah, baby, that's how it's done!”

Furiously shushing her as Dazzle's light begins to die down around them, Queen-B says quietly: “Let's move fast. We don't have much time.” She jerks her head at the inert forms of the schoolgirls, to swift nods from her friends. At least they can rescue a few of these unfortunate girls, get clear and report what they've found. It's already a coup for B-Squad: no need to take any more risks.

* * *

Moving quickly and quietly, the heroines each take one of the schoolgirls. Queen-B has the blonde, giving her a quick tap on the cheek to try to wake her, and when that fails rolling her over to see about her bindings. The Latina lovely's heart pounds as she hears distant, echoing shouts of alarm from deeper in the building. No time, no time! She can dimly see the complicated knots of hemp rope binding the girl's arms from elbows to wrists, works at them frantically. She notices that the girl's hands are strangely clenched, almost white-knuckled. Some kind of muscular side-effect of whatever they've been drugged with? But the rest of her feels loose... The thoughts shred away as she can hear the shouts coming closer. She goes back to working at the knots. Leave the mystery for when we're out of here...

Seconds feel like days. It's with a palpable relief that she feels the knots finally come loose. As they do, though, she notices something underneath the girl's shirt – something against her skin, just at the small of her back above the waistband of her little pleated skirt. A tattoo... strange... She looks at the curlicued, elaborate writing, which seems to give off a faint glow. It spells one word: “Obey.” What—

“Got it,” says Honey-B with satisfaction from where she's just finished untying the Asian girl. Then, almost immediately, a surprised grunt: “Owwww! What the... fuuuuhhh...”

Spinning in alarm, Queen-B sees Honey rearing up from where she's been crouched, her eyes bleary and wild, reeling as if suddenly drunk. After a moment, she realizes there's a syringe sticking out from the mocha hottie's cushiony rump, embedded as if someone had rammed it home with maximum force! A little squeak of surprise comes from B-Dazzle, too, and turning in shock she sees her young blonde friend staggering away from the Italian girl, her hands full of the untied rope and a syringe protruding from the soft flesh of her bubble-butt too, driven right through the latex. The Italian girl is sitting up, suddenly conscious, her eyes like pinpoints of night, focusing on Queen-B with something like anticipation, or regret, or both.

Oh my God... it's a trap!

The realization hits far too late. The curvaceous Latina doesn't have time to turn or move before she feels something sharp prick her through the material of her own tight booty-shorts, and then a sudden wave of dizziness as some kind of alien substance slams into her bloodstream! Suddenly it's as if her limbs are disconnected from her brain, moving almost randomly. The world tilts around her, and she finds herself sagging to her knees as she just manages to turn and look at the blonde schoolgirl she'd just rescued.

The girl's eyes are open now: clear and blue and very sad. Her hands are empty, the weapon she was hiding already used. Meeting Queen-B's betrayed and panicked gaze, she simply says: “I'm sorry. We had no choice, they made us do it. We must Obey.”

My God oh Madre de Dios... The shouts of the bikers are drawing closer, almost on them. The world is starting to spin faster and faster. Looking drunkenly around her, she sees Honey-B slumped on her face with her juicy ass in the air, B-Dazzle sprawled in a tangle of shapely limbs with her ample tits jutting upward. The bikers they'd just taken out seem to be standing back up matter-of-factly, for all the world as if they'd never been touched, two of them brushing away the tranq darts from their torsos like men brushing away gnats. Impossible... this can't be happening... But clearly in this sudden nightmare, nothing is impossible.

The beams of flashlights are beginning to play over the scene, the other Free Radicals' harsh voices close. She has seconds left before... before... scanning around, her vision spinning faster and faster, Queen-B exerts a last almighty effort of will to focus on her katana where it lies on the ground near her, reaching out to paw clumsily at its hilt, just managing to press the second artfully-hidden button there. The Masked Avengers' emergency beacon. She's hit it. She thinks she's hit it.

The world lurches and suddenly her right cheek is pressed against the cold concrete, a horrible black void boiling up around her. Looking up, she sees faces gathering over her: the three schoolgirls, dispassionate and fatalistic, their cute faces distant beyond the spectacle of their beautiful legs and the little white cotton panties under their skirts. And gathering in around them, the bikers, at least a dozen of them, smug triumph written in their brutish expressions. Cold terror strokes her nerve-endings like an unwelcome lover as she realizes she can't move any more, can't even feel her limbs, realizes that of all the many mistakes B-Squad has made in their inglorious career, this might be the one they won't walk away from.

The horror... the horror... she thinks as the nightmare world above her shrinks to a pinpoint, the black welling up to claim her. Somebody help us... please... save us... And then all is blackness and she thinks no more.

Lights out.

4

As Miss Adventure climbs into the spacious interior of the Adventure-Haul, she can already hear the steady beep-beep-beep of an alarm coming from the computer that occupies a vast chunk of the trailer's leftward wall, a quiescent mass of monitors, wires, circuitry and sleek casing. The local Masked Avengers chapter had tied them into their emergency beacon system almost immediately on their arrival, and flashing light above one of its keyboards means only one thing. Masked Avengers in trouble!

A call that right now, nobody else is in a position to answer. And I'll just bet it's connected with that situation I heard about inside, thinks the sexy sidekick. “Computer, wake,” she says quietly as she sits in front of it in the chair hinged to the enormous mainframe's mass. “Identify signal source.”

There are butterflies in her stomach, she thinks at first that the signal must be coming from the Adventurist and the other heroes up in orbit, battling the legion of strange squid-like beings who've become the latest alien claimants to Earth real estate. But the computer says: “Signal originates in Phoenix City, Cruxton municipality.” One of the monitors comes alive, showing a street map with a pulsing red dot. Deep in the heart of what she's heard called the city's roughest neighbourhood.

Every Masked Avengers team has a unique emergency beacon configuration. As she queries the local chapter's database, she realizes that this configuration has been used frequently, more than two dozen times in the last two years: more than all the other local Masked Avengers groups combined. Frowning in alarm, she calls up a profile on the team: the so-called “B-Squad,” led by a Puerto Rican beauty named Gina Ramos (Queen-B), accompanied by Barbadian beauty Niko Maraj (Honey-B) and California cutie Tapia Leonard (B-Dazzle). She blinks when she sees the listing of their occupations: they're all waitresses at a Red Rooster in their normal lives. Only B-Dazzle has an actual superpower which the database classes as “minor.” It lists their training and expertise across the board as “minimal,” and in terms of on-call priority it lists them as “Priority Zeta.” The very lowest rung on the roster.

Fuck. Terrific. Just terrific. They're actually the Z-Squad. Miss Adventure's face is grim as she realizes that this is who the Commissioner must have meant by his “weekend warriors” comment. And this is far from the first time they've gotten in over their heads. But who are they in trouble with? “Computer,” she says, remembering something the Commissioner's cop mentioned to him: “Scan recent police band chatter for mention of the words 'school bus.'” As the computer complies and replays the police chatter from earlier in the day – mentioning the missing school bus from Our Lady of the Sacred Heart and then mentioning possible biker gang involvement – understanding dawns in the teen heroine's eyes. Those must be the reports that tempted the luckless trio of bunglers.

A dangerous situation, with possible hostages in the mix... but, although she knows she shouldn't think this way, Miss Adventure can't help but imagine the headlines that will greet the rescue of a trio of Masked Avengers plus a bus-load of innocent Catholic schoolgirls. Besides, biker gangs are just mundanes. And the barely-trained hobbyists of B-Squad didn't have the advantage of the cosmic power of Adventure thrumming through their veins, nor of having trained with the greatest living superhero in the world. Luckily, she thinks, their rescuer does. Those biker scum won't know what hit them!

“Computer,” she says with a smile of confident anticipation. “Prepare Adventure-Cycle for departure.”

* * *

Queen-B emerges from unconsciousness like a sea-shell emerging from a wave: stranded on the beach of reality with the comforting embrace of water receding into the distance.

The first thing she notices is that she's barely able to move. Face down on a rough wooden floor, her wrists tied to her ankles and her fabulous booty hoisted in the air, she's utterly helpless... though she at least has the comfort that her booty-shorts and tiny top are intact. Her head throbs, her vision spinning. She is clearly the captive of the forces of evil she came here to stop.

“Nnnghhh.” She tries to speak out, only to find her mouth stoppered by a ball-gag ensconced between her jaws. “Nnnnnghhhh!”

As her bleary eyes come into focus, she can see – rolling her head from side to side on the cold floor – that B-Dazzle and Honey-B have been bound in identical fashion to her on her left and right. Their eyes are opening, reflecting her own terror back at her, and their mouths are ball-gagged just like hers, the red rubber peeping out from their drooling lips. The brightly-lit space around them is just an oasis in what seems like a huge cavern, stretching far beyond what the harsh light reaches and echoing with the sounds of coarse male laughter, of loud metal music... and other sounds too, like occasional slapping, sucking, slurping, the smack of leather against flesh... sounds that send spikes of cold terror through the captive heroines and set them whimpering and struggling vainly against their strong hempen bonds.

“I got to admit it, ladies,” says a harsh-edged baritone voice from behind them suddenly. “You're my kind of superheroines. I love me some camel-toe... and you got plenty of it.”

The B-Squad freeze, Honey-B letting out a fearful squeak. Queen-B feels her whole body quivering in dread as a set of heavy boots treads from behind them... to reveal a huge biker more than seven feet in height, his long, black and greasy hair gathered into a single braid, clad in black leather with his bare arms wreathed in Satanic-looking tattoos. Tattoos that glow ever so slightly. Bizarrely, there's something that looks like a huge oxygen tank mounted on his back, shiny and brass with strange symbols carved all over it... and even stranger, there are four long silvery hoses emanating from it that wave in the air almost like tentacles. As the biker turns to face them, his eyes concealed behind enormous bug-lenses sunglasses, his crooked-toothed, gold-studded grin under his handlebar moustache sends a collective tremor of fear through the bound beauties at his feet.

“Bet you're wondering what these are, huh?” He gestures at the metal tentacles weaving in the air around him... tentacles with what look like needles at their tips. “Little present from a tattoo artist down in Mexico, who they say worshipped the Devil. The world's first and only supernatural tattooing rig, that's what it is. Wasn't easy to get it off him, either.” There's some laughter from the other bikers at that, but the big one quells it with upraised hands. “Anyway, my brothers in the Free Radicals call me Octavian now. I kinda dig that, so I'll let you call me that. When the time comes. Or hell, maybe you'll just call me 'Daddy.' ”

“Mmmmmphhh-hmmmmphhh-hmmmphhh...” The sounds of muffled defiance come from B-Dazzle. But she quiets down quickly as Octavian looks over at her and smirks.

“That's the way, ladies. Keep that fight in you... but it won't do any good.” His grin broadening, he looks at someone behind them and says: “You, come here. Let's show them why.”

Nearby, some of those strange sucking and slurping sounds stop – accompanied by a groan of disappointment from one of the bikers – and one of the Catholic schoolgirls steps into view. It's the busty little Asian babe from earlier, her ass and pussy naked now underneath her little pleated skirt, her juices forming rivulets from her shaven snatch and down her thighs, the intricate tramp-stamp on her lower back glowing, in a faint emerald green, the word “Obey.” Octavian gestures and she turns to face the captives, her face inscrutable as if she's sleepwalking. Her lips and her ample tits – her white blouse knotted just underneath them but pulled aside to reveal her perky D-cups in all their glory – glisten wetly with her spit and... and maybe with something else, too, dangling in a viscous dripping from her delicate chin. Queen-B shudders as she realizes what it must be. Oh my God...

“This here is Suki.” Octavian rests a hand on the petite schoolgirl's head, his shit-eating grin growing wider. “Suki, introduce yourself to the nice ladies.”

The girl's expression doesn't waver as she recites the phrase: “My name is Suki and I like to sucky-sucky and fucky-fucky.” The serious, intent way she says the ridiculous words is chilling in itself. How did they do this to her in just a few hours? Queenie wonders in fright.

“Okay then, Suki.” Octavian reaches down to his zipper, hauling out a thick eleven-inch slab of cock. “It's sucky-sucky time. Get on your knees and suck.”

The eyes of the B-Squad go wide behind their masks as Octavian unzips and they watch the schoolgirl promptly turn, sinking to her knees and taking the biker's big cock into her warm, wet mouth as she folds her hands behind her. Her head bobs and twists, loud “sllllucckhhh... sllluckkhhh... slluckkhhh...” sounds coming out as she worships the stiffening length of man-flesh sliding over her tongue. Her firm young body wriggles as she goes to work, her ass pushing out to give the bound heroines repeated glimpses of dimpled bunghole and sopping twat. And all the while, that “Obey” tattoo glows, its nacreous light making the whole scene even more surreal.

As his cock is sucked and slurped by the helpless little whore, Octavian keeps talking conversationally, almost as if nothing is happening, taking only occasional asides to instruct Suki on her technique. “See, that Mexican guy had this idea... something about the flesh and the soul being 'one,' or something like that. So he built this rig, dedicated it to the Devil... ahhh, yeah, more tongue, you little slut... apparently there's a story that he actually used babies' blood to quench the alloy, you believe that? Not sure I do, but whether it's true or not – okay, go down and lick those balls, bitch – whatever the truth is, his rig and special ink can make sure that I can force people to act and react according to whatever I write on their skin...”

For a moment, the biker leader breaks off, his mouth slightly open and his captive audience watching in horror as he brutally shoves his prick down “Suki's” throat, enjoying the feel of her choking and gagging and swallowing around his massive meat. After a long moment, he pulls back and lets her haul in a great gasp of air. She promptly resumes sucking, and he favours the heroines with a big crooked grin.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just like that. And you're gonna be the same way. Boys... prep 'em.”

“Nnnnnghhhh! NNNNGGGHHHH!” bawls Queen-B into the gag, wriggling helplessly as she hears more of the bikers move in around them. Abruptly, rough hands are digging into her taut, golden-brown flesh as the cold blade of a razor sharp knife moves against her skin – first up, to slice away her little top, and the down, to cut away the minimal protection of her booty-shorts, leaving her feminine treasures utterly exposed to the eyes of her villainous captors! “Nnnnghhhh! GnnnnnNNNggghhh!” She pulls desperately at the hemp cords around her wrists and ankles, hearing the others do the same as their bodies are similarly bared by the knives of the Free Radicals. But she stops as she hears low, salacious laughter around her and realizes that her struggles are effectively just wriggling and jiggling her fabulous booty and flashing her pussy for the delectation of her captors.

Looking up, she sees the familiar face of a big blonde-bearded biker looming above her, her guts churning as she sees a glint of payback in his eye and his big spittle-wet ten-incher swinging free from the zipper of his jeans like a yardarm. Oh God oh God NO this can't be happening, her mind babbles desperately as she looks around to see two more familiar bikers – the other two the heroines had seemed to take down in their first rush – crouched over each of her friends. Little whines escape from the heroines' gags as their smooth flesh is stroked and fondled, their fabulous rumps squeezed and playfully slapped.

“Mind if we have a little fun with 'em before you get started?” the big blonde one asks Octavian, and the leader – preoccupied now with Suki's whorish blowjob – gives his henchman an indulgent nod and a wave.

True terror courses through Queen-B now as she sees vicious glee come into her captor's eyes. “Nnnnghhhh... Hllllnnnghhh, nnnnghhhh....” No... please no... She looks up at him with her eyes as wide and pleading as she can make them. I'm sorry I'm sorry please don't do this please God this can't happen to me...

But his grin only widens as he looks up and gestures to one of the schoolgirls behind them. “Hey, you,” he says with a snap of his fingers. “Get over here and eat this bitch out. I wanna watch her squirm.”

She quivers in fearful anticipation as she hears the clip-clop of one of the girls' pumps on the floor, then tenses as she feels young, delicate fingers gathering her supple mounds of ass-flesh into big handfuls, prising them apart to expose her slit and tight brown star. “Ngggghhh,” she grunts as she feels hot breath on her asshole, feathering along her slit, and despite the sordid surreality of her situation, she's mortified to realize that she can feel herself moistening, the first hints of liquid heat beginning to rise inside her. She jumps at the first touch of the anonymous girl's tongue, shudders deliciously as it sweeps down along her sensitive pink slit and then up to dip into her vulnerable asshole, every muscle in her body tensing as the velvety, naughty touch of that tongue goes down and up, down and up, down and up... “Nnnngggghhnnghhh...” She can hear her friends' moans of unwilling pleasure echoing her own as licking and slurping sounds come from behind their hindquarters, too, all three of the B-Squad getting determinedly eaten out by fresh-faced Catholic schoolgirls.

“You like it, huh?” Queen-B feels strong fingers wrap themselves in her hair, jerking her head up at a painful angle to look into her blond captor's eyes as he kneels over her. His big, hot cock rubs all over her face, slathering her beautiful Latina features with second-hand spit and pre-cum as she gazes up at him, her eyes wide with disbelief at what's happening to her. “You like the way that little bitch is licking you, yeah, you fucking slut?”

“Nnnnnghhhh...” She moans in futile denial, her body proving the truth of his cruel words. The heroine is squirming now, even she doesn't know whether in an attempt to escape the unwanted pleasure the enforced lesbian licking is giving her, or to grind herself more forcefully onto the sweet face of her teen tongue-rapist. Got to fight it... she thinks desperately. Got to... hold out... But the tormenting mouth gets more ravenous in response, licking and gobbling and tongue-fucking her tight holes, going down now to suckle hornily at her stiffening clit, dipping between her moistening folds to taste her sweet nectar as it begins to flow more and more copiously despite all Queen-B's attempts to resist. “NNNNNggggg-HHHnnngghhh...” the helpless heroine whines as she feels the tongue thrust wetly into her ass and chills of delight begin to run all through her, realizes she can feel the stirrings of an orgasm starting to build in her hot, quivering honeypot. No... NO... fight it... FIGHT IT...

“Yeah, you love it, you little whore,” gloats the biker. His sweaty cock and balls press and rub even more firmly across the humiliated Queen-B's face as he leans across her, reaching one powerful arm under her body while gripping hard on one of her big, beautiful buttocks with his other hand. “Only one thing to do with a slut who likes being treated this way, huh?”

What... what does he mean... Queen-B's mind whirls in a moment of confusion before she feels his rough fingers coming up from beneath to slide over her burning clit. “NNNNGHHHH...” she moans as two of his big fingers suddenly invade her wet fuckhole, stretching it beautifully, their delicious intrusion amping up the quivering lust in her pussy even more as the schoolgirl begins to tongue-fuck her arse as deep as she can get. No... fight it... got to... to fight it... Then he releases her buttock for a moment, and...

SLLLLAAAAPP! “NNNNNNNGGGGGHHHNNNGGGHHHH!” Queen-B wails into her gag, tears springing from her eyes as the first stinging blow lands on her ass, setting the plump flesh jiggling like a bowl of Jell-O. The first smack is not the last: SMMAACCCKK! SLLLAAPPP! WHHHAAAPPP! WHHHAAACCKK! She mewls and writhes as the biker's big hand punishes her bodacious rump, the pain and embarrassment of being spanked mixing confusingly with the pleasure jolting through her as the schoolgirl keeps tongue-fucking her ass. The biker's fingers keep pumping her dripping poontang, his palm slap-slap-slapping against her clit as he drives her wild with desire. “NNNGGGHHHHH-NNNNGHHHH-NNNNGHHHH-NNNNGHHH-NNNNNNGHHHHH... NNNNNNGGGHHNNNNGHHHHHHH!”

Abruptly, a third finger invades and stretches her tight cunny as the slaps on her burning, wriggling ass pick up speed and force. Suddenly, Queen-B realizes she's going to lose her battle. The thrills of pleasure from the finger-raping of her cunt and the girl's tongue violating her forms a toxic cocktail with the pain of the hard spanking and the fear and humiliation of her bound helplessness, with a throbbing cock and pungent pair of balls shoved into her face. She scrunches her eyes closed, trying to get a hold of herself, but the wild, chaotic mixture of signals and sensations is breaking down her resistance with brutal efficiency... and her body is betraying her utterly. She can feel her pussy clutching wetly at the invading fingers, can feel her juices spattering her inner thighs, can feel the big blow building, building, building, clenching her teeth on the gag and whining in a last-ditch effort to hold out, but the smacks keep coming, the fingers keep pumping, the girl's wet tongue keeps slithering deliciously into her hot, tight ass, and... and... and...

“NNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHNNNNGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!” The orgasm slams through her like a bolt of lightning as her juices burst around the biker's plundering fingers, the slut sobbing in ecstasy as the pounding fingers and the stinging slaps on her ass come even harder and faster, drawing out the waves of pleasure crashing through her as she comes again... again... again. “NNNNNNNNNNGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! HHHNNNNNN-GGGHHHHNNNNGHHH! NNNNNNNNNNGHHHHHHHNN-NGGGGHHNNGGHHH!” Her tight pussy milks the biker's big rough digits as if yearning for them to be a big, hard cock.

As the spasms of pleasure gradually subside, she can hear more slaps and squelching sounds and muffled moans and squeals around her – and realizing that Honey and Dazzle are getting similar treatment somehow stokes the shameful, lustful molten heat in her own pussy afresh. Then she hears her biker, his voice thick and ragged now, tell the girl to get out of his way. Suddenly he moves away, bringing momentary relief as she's freed of his prick and balls rubbing themselves all over her face... but the relief is undermined by a terribly certain knowledge of what's coming.

“Nnnnggghhhh...” she moans despairingly as, sure enough, she feels one of his hands grip the soft flesh of her left hip as the blunt head of his big hot cock lines itself up with the mouth of her hungry sex. The feeling drives all thought from her mind as, weeping big tears of fresh desperation and practically hyperventilating through her nose, she sets to tugging frantically and uselessly at her bonds once again. The biker just laughs at her struggles, playfully stroking his cockhead up and down her dripping slit, tapping it against her stiff little clitty to make her jolt... and he says something to the schoolgirl that she doesn't quite catch. The girl comes into view a moment later – the very same blonde that Queenie had “rescued” earlier, slender and beautiful like a delicate freckled doll. The girl kneels near her face, looking down at her: her chin is wet with spittle, the lassitude in her dead blue eyes sending a shudder through the captive heroine.

Then the biker behind her says: “Alright, bitch. Time for the real party.”

“NNNNGGGHHHHNNGGGHHHH!” Queen-B bawls as the big cock suddenly skewers into her greedy gash, her eyes going wide in horror. No... I'm getting RAPED... NO PLEASE GOD NO THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING NOOOOOO... But it is, it is, it is. The enormity of what's happening – a nightmare deeper than any worst-case scenario she's ever dreamed – sets her mind reeling as the pulsating prick starts to thrust in, and in, and in and in and in, plundering her tight twat as the rude sound of his hips slapping against her jiggling ass-flesh begins to fill the air. As if they're coming from someone else, she hears deep, animalistic grunts – a confused mixture of desire and rejection – emerging from her throat in time with the crude thrusts: “NNGGHH-NNNNGHHHH-NNNGHHHH-NNNNGHHH...”

And as it all happens, she finds she can't take her eyes away from the blonde schoolgirl, who's watching her get fucked with all the emotion of a child pulling the wings off a fly. Please don't do this... please help us... PLEASE... OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD HELP US... The violated heroine pleads pitifully with her tear-filled, shining eyes. But the girl's only response is to flip up her pleated skirt to reveal a wet, shaven cunt, spread her firm young thighs and reach down to masturbate her young slit as she watches Queen-B take the unwanted cock deeper, deeper, deeper in her sopping, slutty little cunt. The heroine's grunts and moans rise as the biker's big balls slap repeatedly against her clit and his ten-inch length of hard white-trash dong stretches and thrills nerve-endings inside her that she hadn't known existed, sending bolts of hot lust through her tensing young body. She writhes and twists, but her motions only corkscrew that cock around inside her and stir the feelings in her honeypot to even greater intensity... and she feels the crushing weight of doom descending on her as she realizes she's being pounded swiftly toward another wet, soul-searing orgasm.

Then: SMMMAAACCKKKKK! WHHHAAACCKK! SLLLLAAAAPP! SMMAACCCKK! She squeals as the sharp, stinging hand-slaps on her soft ass begin again, forming a counterpoint to the hard fucking. “NNNNNGGGGHHHHHNNGGGGGHHHH-NNNGHHH-NNNGHHH-NNNGHH...” groans Queenie helplessly, her eyes rolling back in her head as the terrible chaos of mixed agony and ecstasy comes roiling up to claim her again. And deep inside, she knows this is just the beginning of a descent into hell.

* * *

“NNNNNGHHHHH! NNNNNGGGGH! NNNNNGGGGHNNNNNGHHHHHH! NNNNNGGGGH!” Honey-B squeals pitifully into her gag as wild sensations drive her young body toward the edge.

An anonymous schoolgirl is eating out her pussy from behind with loud slurps, alternately tongue-fucking her clutching love-tunnel and masticating her swollen clit while a pair of the girl's naughty, spittle-slickened fingers pump in and out of the helpless young heroine's ass. Meanwhile, the biker who's taken control of her is crouched over her, facing rearward and thoroughly enjoying her massively thick rump. He'd started out by gripping and mashing the huge, soft jellies of the mocha-skinned cutie's glutes, prying them apart and sandwiching them around his big, hot dick as he masturbated himself between them... but now he's revelling in simply whipping the supple, jiggling orbs with a leather belt. The pain of each crack of the leather rips through her to join in rapid pulsations with the forced pleasure emanating from her molested pussy and asshole, and poor Honey-B can't stop herself from writhing in tandem with the smacks. It's as if her blazingly sore red-striped ass is lifting itself up to kiss the punishing leather, her body sheened with sweat and bucking so violently now that her pussy-eater has to fight to keep on her holes like a cowgirl riding a wild bronco. Honey is humiliated to realize that her ass-cheeks are jiggling and bouncing around so violently that they're actually slapping together to make a rhythmic clap-clap-clap sound as she struggles, a counterpoint to the loud CRACK of the leather against her tender flesh.

She can't stop herself, though. Pain and pleasure have quickly become hard to distinguish, and the sounds around her are driving her even wilder. In front of her, she can hear the graphic gobbling sounds of Suki deep-throating the brutish Octavian's hard, veiny member. To her left, she can hear the unmistakable grunting, squelching and slapping sounds of Queen-B being spanked with an open hand and force-fucked by a big dick. They're sounds of feminine submission – in one case the sound of the breaking of her best friend, Gina, who'd convinced her to become a heroine in the first place – and they reach deep inside her lusciously tormented pussy to drive her rapidly and shamefully toward an orgasm that she's resisting with the last reserves of her strength. She thinks: I can't... can't let myself come... can't give them the satisfaction... But it's a losing battle and she knows it.

“NNNNNNGHHHHH.... NNNNNNNNGGGHHHHHNNNNNGHHHHHH!” she moans as the schoolgirl gives her clit an extra-hard suckling and drives those wicked fingers three knuckles deep in her tight ass. Time seems to stop for a moment as she suddenly realizes the moment is here, that the next hard slashing stroke of the belt on her ass will bring her off! No no no NO... WHHHH-CRRRRACCCKK! “NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH-HHNNNNNGHHHHHH!” she sobs into the gag as her body betrays her and her pussy explodes, squirting her juices all over the face of the girl behind her as she spasms in helpless rapture.

For a long moment, she swoons. When she finally comes back to herself, the bound heroine can feel the mouth and fingers have been pulled away, the whipping from the belt has finally stopped. A sweat-soaked wreck, Honey looks up as she sees the schoolgirl who's been tormenting her saunter into view – a slender, beautiful black girl with a fine-featured face sheened with pussy-juice, long hair falling down her back, full lips and dark, dark eyes, the girl is calmly licking two of her fingers clean, almost like a cat grooming itself. Panting through her nose, the bubble-butted mocha babe cranes her neck and looks around her: sure enough, she can see Queenie to her left, gazing up as if hypnotized at a pixie-haired blonde schoolgirl who's masturbating in front of her as she's spanked and pounded brutally from behind, her pussy squelching loudly around the invading dong. Beyond her, Dazzle's grunts and moans are barely audible as she, too, sounds like she's taking a hard cock. Meanwhile, in front of them, Octavian has finally pulled Suki's mouth off his dick and is hoisting her in the air to impale her young teen pussy on his hard-on. The “Obey” tattoo is glowing brightly on the Asian bitch's lower back as the biker plants her on his member, then begins to slowly pump her up and down its length. To Honey's eyes it looks like a portent of pure evil.

And all around them she can hear the other Free Radicals laughing, joking, cheering on their buddies and their leader as a busload of Catholic schoolgirl slaves entertains them. If an uglier, more soul-crushing predicament is possible, Honey doesn't want to imagine it. Is this how it's all fated to end for the B-Squad? We've got to find some way to get free before he makes us like these schoolgirls... she thinks frantically, but her thoughts run in crazed, hapless circles and nothing comes to mind.

Then her whole train of thought is abruptly derailed when she hears the belt-whipping biker's voice behind her. “Okay, Effie,” he says, apparently addressing the black schoolgirl. “Get yourself off on this bitch's face while I fuck her.”

Oh, shit... Looking up at Effie, Honey frantically tries to shake her head, to beg for mercy. “Nnnnnghhh... hhhllllnnghhhh... nnnnghhhh...” But deep down, she knows it's useless, and she's not entirely surprised when the black girl squats down over her, grabbing her hard by her short, sweat-soaked hair and forcing her head back and up at a painful angle. “NNNNNNnnnnghhh...” she moans as the girl flips up her skirt to reveal a well-trimmed snatch, its inner lips moist and bubblegum pink amid her chocolate-coloured folds. Honey strains and struggles to turn her head away, but is powerless to stop the wet, fragrant teen cunny from being pressed against her gagged lips, rubbing slick pussy juice over the ball gag, down over her chin and up over her nose. As Honey struggles to breathe, Effie starts to use her face like some kind of frottage sex toy, the enslaved schoolgirl rhythmically rubbing her dripping snatch all over the heroine's flawless features, using the protrusions of her snub nose and the ball-gag wedged between her drooling lips to pleasure that barely-legal twat!

As Effie works into her rhythm, Honey can feel the biker plant a boot on either side of where her splayed calves are bound to her wrists, grabbing her hips to hoist her rump higher as he crouches over her. It's the same rearward-facing crouch he used before, and at first as he gathers up big, painful handfuls of her whipped and burning ass, she thinks he's about to masturbate himself between her soft cheeks again. But then – as she feels him yank her hips as high as they will come and then pry her buttocks as wide as they'll go to expose her moist asshole to the cool air – she tenses in utter horror as she realizes he has a different intent entirely! Bending and angling his own body, he's turning his stiff dick down like a pile-driver... and she jerks as she feels the hot, blunt cockhead begin to probe at the rubbery entrance to her well-prepared asshole!

No no NO not there PLEASE not there PLEASE NOT THERE... “NNNNNNNNNNGGGHHH-NNNGGGGGHHHHHHHH!” she bawls, tears springing from her eyes as she clenches her sphincter and desperately tries to resist the cock beginning to shove its way inward at a painfully obtuse angle. For a moment she's able to hold him at bay with just the tip of his dick jutting into her ass... but her head is spinning as Effie's nasty little pussy slips and slathers over her face, half-suffocating her, and all it takes is a moment of disorientation, a drop in her guard, and... “NNNNNNNNGGG-HHHHHHHHHHNNNN-NGHHHHHH! NNNNNGHHHHH-NNNGHHH-NNNNGHHHHHHH-NNNGHHHH-NNNGHHHHH!” The huge cock skewers deep into her inexperienced poop-chute, stretching it painfully and shooting bolts of red agony up her lower back and through her shuddering body as the biker begins to crudely plunder her tightest place with long hard thrusts. The throbbing member feels like it's going to split her apart as it saws and grinds into her like a cudgel made purely of fiery pain!

At first there's nothing but the hurt searing through her, dominating her totally. But then, something starts to happen: as her ass gradually loosens and starts to welcome the invading cock, as her head spins when Effie's sweetly smothering snatch periodically cuts off her air, Honey is horrified to feel the liquid lust in her pussy starting to rise again, her body starting to betray her again. “NNNNNGHHHHhhhhhh...” she moans more throatily in vain denial as the prick pumping into her asshole starts to waken a dark pleasure deep inside her, and she feels fat droplets of fresh pussy juice start to slide down her inner thighs.

The biker fucking her ass laughs as he hears the note of unwilling pleasure creeping into her moans and sees her pink nether lips begin to swell. “Oh yeah,” he shouts gleefully to his buddies. “This one's a butt-slut for real! Yeah, bitch... come with my dick in your ass, you know you want it!”

“NNNNNNGGGGHHHNNNNGHHHHHH...” she moans helplessly in response. The hard ass-fucking has her so swiftly and utterly lost in carnal sensation that the bitch doesn't know whether she's coming or going. She can feel the muscles of her pussy clench as if worshipping a phantom dick... and her defences quickly begin to crumble. “NNNGGHH-NNNGHHH-NNGHHH-NNNNGHHHHH...”

Lost in lust, Honey doesn't hear the leather belt whipping through the air until it lands fiery pain across her wet labia. It's a light, playful slap by comparison with the vicious whipping he'd given her ass, but the sensitivity of her dripping sex magnifies the sensation a hundredfold! She squeals and bucks as a blend of erotic desire and wild agony erupts through her body with the first stroke, then the second, then the third, her every sinew tensing as the hard ass-fucking and the pleasure-pain erupting from her abused pussy send a riot of bewildering signals through her lusty flesh. The cock in her ass jackhammers faster and faster, the belt's slap-slap-slapping growing wetter with every stroke as her moans of ecstatic confusion are smothered by the increasingly frantic rubbing of Effie's slick poon all over her face, the bound heroine's rape building to a perverted three-way climax. Honey feels like every inch of her is alchemizing into pure sensation, her tender skin goose-pimpling in horny anticipation as she jerks and writhes under the punishment, until... until... until...

“NNNNNNNNGGGGGGHHHHHNNNNNGHHHHNNNGHHHHHHH!” The orgasm explodes through her without warning, radiating out from her raped ass and whipped pussy and ripping precious pieces of her soul away in a storm of ecstasy. There is no mercy: the leather belt smacks faster and faster against her squirting, spasming snatch, the cock powers faster and faster into her wrecked bunghole, the schoolgirl's pussy rubs faster and faster over her face as the devastating pleasure draws on and on, one climax blending into another: “NNGGHHH-HHNNNGHHHHHH! NNNNGGGHHHHHNNNNG-HHHHNNNGHHHHHH! NNNNNNGGGG-HHHHNNNNGHHHH-NNNGHHHH-NNNNGHHH!” The helpless heroine squeals like a stuck pig, like a damned soul in the hands of demons, as her abused quim erupts over and over in wild delight!

She feels the biker's big dick swell, powering deeper and deeper until finally the pussy-whipping stops as he slows and then sadistically grinds his throbbing member balls-deep in her tight butt. She feels his nuts, nestled just above her well-stuffed anus, start to jump as the hot, sticky bullets of his spunk flood her bowels. The sensation brings her off again even as Effie's tight little schoolgirl cunny swells and floods its fuck-honey all over her beautiful face. “NNNNNGHHHHHH-HHHNNNNNNNNNGHHHHHHHHH!” she mewls from the depths of her degradation, feeling utterly used and worthless and despoiled, but the punishment isn't over until the leather belt smacks into her pussy one last time, landing a blow squarely on her swollen clit that sets her off on a last round of spurting, slutty multiple orgasms, her pretty pink fuckhole clutching and spasming almost painfully: “NNNGGGHHHH-HHNNNNGHH-HHNNNGHHH-HHHNNNNGGHHHHHHH!”

Finally the storm sweeps over her, leaving Honey shivering and whimpering in the aftermath as she feels the cock pull out of her ass with an audible wet pop, a massive load of slimy spunk leaking and bubbling out of her gaped and ravaged butthole to slither down over her tingling pussy-lips as Effie releases her head and lets her slump to the ground. As she sobs mournfully, she hears the biker say: “Yeahhh, bitch, that's how it's done. You better learn to love it... but I guess you already do, you fucking whore.”

Her ears burn at the insult as he and Effie step away from her. She can hear coarse laughter and applause from the Free Radicals, Queenie's bereft and beaten snivelling beside her, and the wet fucking and slapping sounds of the servile, whorish Suki writhing and bouncing her way to completion on Octavian's cock echoing from in front of her. And she can hear the muffled squeals and mewls of hellish rape still coming from poor little B-Dazzle... but none of it seems to matter anymore. Her body is heavy now with despair and defeat, her amazing up-thrust glutes still blazing and burning from the belt and her cream-pied asshole and dripping pussy still pulsating with pain and lust. It all feels horribly, inescapable real, and Honey-B weeps, disconsolate in the certain knowledge that the soul-destroying ravishment she's just suffered is only the beginning.

5

Miss Adventure grits her teeth, concentrating to keep the vibrations of the Adventure-Cycle's mighty rocket engine from penetrating her ultra-sensitive quim as she idles the bike to a halt. She looks grimly at the Mustang sitting empty in an alleyway across from an abandoned warehouse, and she marks the golden B on its hood and the confidence-boosting phrases on its bumper sticker: B is for Bravery. B is for Brilliant. B is for Believer... Looking across at the derelict building, she feels certain she's found the place that lured the B-Squad.

Don't worry, girls. I'll get you out... and then we're going to have a good talk about training and discipline.

Killing the Cycle's power, she wheels it carefully into the shadows as she watches the warehouse, straining the limits of her ultra-senses. She can catch hints of sounds coming from its mezzanine floor... disturbing sounds. Raucous music, and just barely perceptible underneath it, a multitude of feminine cries and whimpers, masculine laughter and mockery, faint sounds of squelching and moaning and slapping. Her jaw clenches, her hands balling into fists of fury, her massive double-D's straining the straps of her tiny slingshot thong as her breath quickens. Yep. This is the place, all right. Those fucking pigs...

But she remembers the Adventurist's teaching. Never rush in headlong, he'd told her about situations like this one. If you absolutely have to go into the enemy's stronghold without backup, then your best backup is your instincts and your trained perception. Pay attention to everything, and never let your guard down.

So she's careful to listen for any tell-tale sounds of surveillance equipment around the building – the whirring of cameras, the subtle hum of digital eyes – and takes a minute to satisfy herself that there are none before she darts across the street, her breasts jouncing magnificently in front of her as she runs with the lithe agility of Adventure-strength in her stiletto heels. As she arrives at the shadowed maw of the loading-bay entrance to the derelict structure, she pauses carefully, listening again.

This time she hears something. Very faint, very low down. It's the quiescent humming of circuitry where there should be none, an electrical current running through something lying across the floor of the entrance. Crouching sinuously down to look, the gorgeous young heroine focuses her ultra-vision and, through a concealing layer of dark grime, spies a dull glint of metal.

Those sneaky bikers, she thinks. A pressure plate! Whatever else they might be, the Free Radicals are clearly no slouches in the technical department. She's willing to bet they have the plate rigged up to some kind of perimeter alarm system. B-Squad would have come in, mistakenly thinking they were taking the bikers by surprise, and tripped the improvised security system all unawares, never suspecting that it was they and not the criminals who were in a trap... until it was too late. But you won't get the Damsel of Daring that way.

Carefully, quietly, she make a tit-jiggling hop over the pressure plate and moves into the warehouse's interior. A dreadful smell assails her nostrils almost immediately: the coppery stink of blood mixed with a mephitic combination of ammonia and sulphur. She fights to keep her guts from heaving, realizing almost instinctively that it can only be the smell of death. Jesus, is this worse than I thought? Maybe the bikers put one or more of the girls down? But her ultra-sight adjusts swiftly to the gloom and puts that fear to rest as she lays eyes on the empty bus... and spies the slumped shadow of a man behind the steering wheel. Sadness and anger wells up in her. The bus driver. They shot a harmless school bus driver. Oh, these bastards are going to have to pay, but good.

Clenching her fists and calming her breathing the way her mentor taught her, Miss Adventure moves deeper into the warehouse. Past the school bus she finds rows of gleaming bikes – Harleys – each decorated with the winged swastika of the Free Radicals. She counts sixteen in all. A beatable number, she thinks. As long as I'm careful.

The sounds from the warehouse's upper floor are becoming clearer now. She can see faint light limning a set of rickety-looking metal stairs going up to a vast mezzanine. The Radicals sound like whatever party they're having is in a far corner of that cavernous space. New smells tickle her nose now: wafts of tangy sweat, smoke, a hint of something pungent and seaweedy, a faint trace of something slightly fishy. The raucous music is heavy metal of the kind that involves lots of atonal growling and rapid guitar work. There's a high-pitched whining noise that she can't quite identify, the sounds of muffled feminine whimpering, and she can hear the sounds of male voices... the voices of the Free Radicals.

She catches a phrase that stops her in her tracks for a moment. “Yeah,” she hears one of them say quite distinctly. “I think I've got just the right label for this one. 'Dumb Slut.' What do you think, boys?“ Her blood runs cold with anger as she hears the statement followed by a long, loud burst of raucous laughter. She feels her heart pound, her blood begin to race as adrenaline floods through her: her rich and sexy body readying itself for action. This time she doesn't bother with breathing exercises. It feels good to let the tide of righteous rage buoy her up, and she thinks of how much better it's going to feel as she plants her fists and feet in a few Free Radical faces.

“Time's up, shitheads” she say resolutely under her breath, stepping forward to ascend the stairs. “This ends now.”

She catches her mistake a split second too late: her ultra-hearing registers a subtle metallic click under her boot just as she realizes that in her anger, she's forgotten to search for more security devices. Looking down, she curses inwardly as she recognizes a second pressure plate set deep in the grime at the bottom step. A moment later she hears one of the bikers say: “What the--”

Never let anger get the better of you, the Adventurist's advice comes back to her. Shit, now they know I'm here. But the mistake doesn't deter her. If anything, it's a relief to be facing the prospect of a straight-up fight. She feels completely ready. “You may know I'm here,” she quietly tells the biker gang that she's shortly going to be taking on face-to-face. “But you have no idea what I can do. Get ready, 'Free Radicals.' It's time to meet Miss Adventure.”

Calmly and confidently, she starts up the stairs.

* * *

B-Dazzle had expected a lot of things when she first ran away from her home in small-town California, back when she'd just been plain old Tapia Leonard, daughter of a drunken bum of a father and a permanently Xanax-stoned mother. Even then, she'd known she was destined for something special, and at first she'd expected to find fame and riches in Los Diablos on the West Coast, to become an actress or a singer. That dream had died when she'd discovered just how many pervs and lowlifes infested the underbelly of that city's entertainment business, always on the lookout for a rich, curvy young body like hers and all the ways they could exploit it. By the time the fourth so-called 'producer' had tried to talk her into doing porn, grandly promising to get her a fake ID and to buy her “some even bigger tits” when she'd told him she was under-age and would never get naked for a camera anyway... by that time, she knew she had to get away.

And so she'd fled as far as she could get in the opposite direction and wound up a waitress in Phoenix City on the Great Lakes. And she'd met Gina and Niko, two of the hottest, nerdiest women she'd ever encountered. She'd gotten caught up in their dream of becoming superheroines, Masked Avengers, and it had been mere weeks before a consultation with one of the city's capes opened Tapia's eyes to her very own latent superpower. She of all people had a superpower! Granted it wasn't much, but still, to be a heroine, to be not only admired for her stunning beauty but also for her deeds... it had seemed like the call of destiny, like what she was meant for. Within months Gina and Niko were doing their first missions as Justice Queen and Honey Dream, and soon they'd begun to bring her along as Princess Dazzle. They were going to be the Sisters of Justice. They were going to save the world.

Sure, that hadn't quite worked out as planned either. All the mistakes, all the endless failures and humiliations, their getting labelled as the B-Squad and then embracing that label as a last resort – becoming Queen-B, Honey-B and B-Dazzle – it had all been hard. Some of it, the mockery and the sexist catcalling in the media, the way the other Masked Avengers so palpably looked down on them, had really hurt. But it had never shaken her faith. At least, she'd thought, there was nowhere to go from where they were in the heroine business but up.

Tonight has taught her how wrong she was all along. Tonight has finally shattered her faith.

As it was happening, Dazzle had thought that nothing could compare to the vivid terror that had gone through her when a needle plunged into her curvy ass and she'd realized that their first real victory was about to turn into their worst defeat of all time. But then she'd woken up bound and gagged in front of the evil Octavian, and then they'd cut the B-Squad's clothes off... and then the “fun” had begun, and she learned what terror really was.

Alone among the B-Squad, the barely-legal B-Dazzle had barely even had a boyfriend, let alone had sex, before tonight. The Free Radicals changed all that in a few terrible minutes. After her pussy had been eaten by a schoolgirl to an unwilling, humiliating orgasm, there had been the agony of a biker's cock ripping through her hymen – her very first time a brutal rape at the hands of a criminal – then the deepening horror as he'd invited one of his friends to join him and a second massive, spit-slimy prick had forced its way into her virgin poop-chute, the two hot throbbing members rubbing against each other through the thin membrane separating her ass and pussy, dominating her completely, stretching her inflamed holes wider with every thrust and teaching a new definition of pain as they'd violated the sobbing blonde with abandon. The biker underneath her was looking into her eyes, his beery breath exhaling into her face as he broke in her sweet, innocent teen pussy on his big dick, pistoning in and out and in and out with a merciless rhythm, revelling in her gagged sobs as her big soft double-D titties mashed against his muscular chest and he told her how fucking tight her cunt was.

“Oh yeahhh,” he'd said, and the words are blazed into her memory, cut into her soul with a knife of pure damnation: “It feels so good treating you like the filthy little bitch you really are. I love being your first boyfriend, slut.”

Desperately, she'd tried to pretend she was somewhere else, someone else, that it wasn't her pain-wracked body they were pumping between them like some glorified sex doll. But then she's learned how much deeper the pit of hell she'd fallen into could really go: as the pretty Italian schoolgirl she's “rescued” squatted in front of her, the schoolgirl grinding her pussy on the biker's waiting mouth as the “Obey” tattoo glowed ominously at the small of her back, Dazzle had felt the man painfully violating her ass lean forward and unbuckle her ball gag. Grabbing her sweat-sodden hair and pulling her head back, he'd shoved Dazzle's pretty face right between the schoolgirl's firm ass-cheeks and said quietly: “Eat that ass, bitch.”

She had mewled in confusion, not knowing what he meant at first, her head spinning with surreal disbelief as the agony radiating from her plundered holes grew even worse, the chafing strokes of the two log-like pricks growing even harder, more jarring. She'd strained her neck trying to twist free of the hand holding her head between the schoolgirl's smothering ass-cheeks, before finally he clarified: “I told you to lick Mia's ass, you fucking slut. I want to watch you lick it out good while I fuck you, or I'll whip you fucking raw with my belt.”

She could already hear the squeals of pain coming from Queenie, who was getting brutally spanked. It had suddenly seemed like the most important thing in the world not to get whipped on top of everything else. And so, in a moment of utmost shame and defeat and self-disgust, Dazzle had finally whimpered her assent, fought down a sick wave of nausea... and pushed out her wet pink tongue to take her first taste of another girl's tangy asshole.

Then she'd learned there was lower still to go. As she was forced to lick and suck and tongue-fuck the enslaved schoolgirl's tight ass, the chafing agony in Dazzle's holes began to be replaced by something else. Her pussy had begun to lube up, to ease the passage of the turgid man-meat stuffing it, her ass had begun to loosen up and accept its ravishment. As the fucking went on and on and her head swam and spun from the humiliation of being forced to eat out “Mia's” bunghole while the heavy cocks double-teamed her, she began to feel a confusing heat, a dark, tingling pleasure begin to rise in her rich young body. Her nips had stiffened against the biker's sweaty chest, her big tits swelling with sensation, her body lathering itself up in a sheen of sweet as her pussy got wetter and wetter and wetter, her quivering love-tunnel starting to respond to the perverted double fucking, her body starting to betray her. As her clit stiffened, each dragging withdrawal and inward thrust of the hot shaft plundering her poon set something terrible building inside her, a tingle of anticipation, a liquid heat like molten honey, a terrible building pressure like water behind a crumbling dam.

The first orgasm had seemed to explode spontaneously out from her ravaged holes through every nerve ending in her body, wreaking havoc on her mind even as it set her spasming and squealing into a hell of bewildered and horrified lust. Shame and terror and despair had whipped through her with hurricane force as each successive orgasm had seized her dripping holes and set her writhing and grinding and bucking and squealing for the pleasure of her rapists. How was it possible that she was cumming and cumming and cumming over and over again from what they were doing to her? How was it that she didn't need to be forced to lick out the schoolgirl Mia's ass anymore, or to be told to slide her mouth down to dip in for a taste of the girl's sweet pussy juice and to suck hornily on the tongue of the biker force-fucking her sopping teen twat? As the hollering thugs had finally painted her insides with spurt after spurt of slimy jism, as her cunt clutched and spasmed and her juices splashed and squirted around the veiny prick pumping her tight pussy full of boiling baby-batter, Dazzle had begun to wonder if deep down inside, she really was all the names her ravagers had kept calling her over and over: slut, bitch, whore, skank, pig. The words had whirled around and around in her mind even as the bikers finally finished, pulled their satiated cocks from her defeated orifices and jammed the ball-gag back in her mouth.

As she'd lain shuddering in a ruined, sweat-soaked heap in the wake of that rape, massive cream-pies bubbling and streaming from her holes to mix with the blood and pussy-juice staining her thighs, Octavian – having finished fucking the Asian schoolgirl Suki and left her lying on the ground, still twitching in the aftermath of her own climax and using her fingers to scoop up and eat the load of spunk he'd shot all over her belly and tits – Octavian had seemed to read Dazzle's tormented mind as he started to speak.

“There's one other thing my Mexican Satanist friend told me before he died. He told me this here tattooing rig works best if the tattoos are used to bring out evil and sin that's already there under the surface.” He'd given a gloating grin as he added: “So I wanted you all to know beyond a doubt, before we get started, that I'm not going to do anything to you with my needles that, deep down inside, you didn't want anyway. You may not have admitted it to yourselves before, but you all know now that you're not crime fighters. You never were. You're just sluts who want nothing more than a big dick plugging your every hole, and a big daddy spanking you and telling you how filthy you are. All I'm going to do now is force you to live out those desires... and make sure everyone around you knows all about them.”

Then he'd gone to work on them. He had started with Honey-B, towelling her off and then letting Honey's friends listen, terrified, to her moans and grunts and muffled shrieks of pain as Octavian's waving tentacles began to burn messages into her soft flesh. It was clear right away that his plans for the heroines were much more elaborate than what he'd done to the schoolgirls, and as his supernatural metal “arms” worked rapidly to cover Honey in lurid ink, he called out commentary for the benefit of his boys. “I think I'll put a nice big 'Butt-Slut' right here at the base of your spine,” she'd heard him say at one point, laughing. “And a little post-script under it that says 'Fuck My Whore Ass.' Would you like that, honey?” And all Honey-B had been able to do was sob in defeat as the bikers' raucous laughter echoed in her ears and the Satanic needles harrowed the words into her soft skin.

It had taken mere minutes for him to mark Honey-B up to his satisfaction, turning her over partway through the horrid process; likewise with Queenie. After he was done he had untied them and made them stand up, right at the front of the oasis of light in which the breaking of B-Squad had been carried out. A chill had gone through Dazzle at the way they'd simply obeyed Octavian when he told them to put their hands behind their heads and turn around nice and slow to show off the work. They're standing there now, legs planted wide apart, their bubble-butts thrust out and backs arched to push our their succulent tits, Honey-B facing forward and Queen-B facing backward. Soon Octavian will order them to turn around again, giving everyone in the room a nice eyeful of all their ink.

The work is amazingly elaborate given that it took mere minutes... and its content is terrifying. Each of them has been given a big tattoo on her collarbone, right over her tits – Queenie's says “Naughty Bitch” and Honey's says “Nasty Skank” – and they have matching tats around their belly buttons that say “Daddy's Slave.” Down at their pussies they each have an arrow drawn pointing to their cunts and a crude message, Queenie's saying “Cum Inside” and Honey's saying “Gimme Dick.” And they each bear similarly crude messages arching over their big, stiff brown nipples: Queenie's say “I Suck Cock” and “I Swallow Spunk,” while Honey's say “Fuck My Tits” and “Cum On Me.” On the backs of their bodies each heroine bears a massive tramp-stamp surrounded by intricate scroll-work: Honey's, as promised, says “Butt-Slut” and in smaller letters underneath, “Fuck My Whore Ass;” Queenie's says “Whip Slut” and underneath, “Beat Me Hard.” They have phrases curving over each of their hips that say “Wet For Your Dick” and “Ready To Fuck” for Queenie, and “Rape My Holes” and “Horny For Action” for Honey. And finally, their soft, shapely ass-cheeks bear tattoos too, much smaller ones, almost like branding marks: Queenie's are just legible as the phrases “Hit Me” and “Hurt Me,” while Honey's say “Eat It” and “Beat It.”

The tattoos all glow with the same terrible light they've seen before. Honey and Queenie are whimpering around their ball gags as tears roll down their faces and their rich, beautiful bodies quiver. It's clear that Octavian's supernatural tattoo rig is working all too well, that the crude phrases seared painfully into their skin are working mercilessly on the heroines' fractured minds and horny young bodies. Wetness from their hot pussies is clearly visible trickling down their inner thighs. The hopeful heroines that had inspired B-Dazzle when she met them are now all but gone, their lives and will steadily vanishing into the evil definitions of sluttiness and submission that Octavian has written all over them.

And now it's B-Dazzle's turn. The busty, beautiful young blonde realizes that for all the terror and horror she's endured so far, nothing compares to being subjected to what's just been done to her two best friends. As Octavian crouches over her, the metal tentacles of his tattooing rig making high-pitched whining sounds as they come closer and closer to her bound, defenceless flesh, the helpless heroine can only cringe and whimper, making one last futile attempt to tug at the ropes keeping her bound with her amazing ass in the air.

“Better hold still,” he advises conversationally. “You could get hurt if you struggle.” She freezes in fear, and then feels her heart sink in shame and despair as he says: “I'll start out with your tramp-stamp, I think.” And then, for his fellow bikers, he adds: “Yeah, I think I've got just the right label for this one. 'Dumb Slut.' What do you think, boys?” She sniffles in misery as their raucous laughter washes over her.

But then, suddenly Octavian pauses. “What the--” he says, fishing what sounds like a vibrating cell-phone out of one of his pockets. All the theatricality and cockiness seems to be forgotten as he snaps his fingers at one of his minions. Abruptly, the relaxation of the bikers vanishes. Dazzle can hear them hurriedly dressing and zipping up, all the sucks and slurps of the schoolgirls' ministrations stopping at once as one of the Radicals turns the already-loud music way up until it's positively blaring. A moment later after the sounds of low whispers, several of the nearest schoolgirls abruptly walk out into the darkness, into the cavernous space beyond the lights.

Someone's here! Dazzle realizes suddenly. The sudden tension in the air makes it obvious that whoever it is, they can't be a friend to the Free Radicals. She feels a sudden bright spark of hope in her heart, a feeling she'd almost forgotten existed. “Mmmmmmphhhh-hhhmmphhhhh!” she moans as loud as she can through her gag, a cry from her heart: Help us! Even as Octavian quiets her with a quick slap on the ass, the tiny spark of hope stays alive. And looking up, she sees little flickers of hope begin to show themselves through the looks of shame and despair on Honey and Queenie's faces.

But Octavian isn't waiting to see what happens with whoever-it-is out there in the darkness. “Nnnnnnghhhhhh...” moans Dazzle in pain as she feels the red-hot, burning touch of his four tattoo needles going to their infernal work at the base of her back, bringing blurring tears into her eyes. Whoever you are, she prays desperately to the unknown figure out there in the dark: Hurry... please hurry!

* * *

Even as she climbs the stairs, Miss Adventure can hear the Free Radicals jumping into action. There are no words though, at least not ones audible even to her ultra-hearing. Whatever they're saying to each other, they've cranked their music up even higher to obscure it. She can just make out a few low mutters, but nothing intelligible. Nevertheless, the Damsel of Daring is ready for them to send a few bruisers out to stop her.

The first surprise of the night is that the first four figures she sees coming toward her – out of the patch of light where the bikers have congregated – are young, slender and female. Their taut bodies are soaked in sweat, and in other fluids to judge by the scents she catches from them; their white blouses are knotted between their breasts and pulled down to show off the full glory of their perky titties, and their short pleated skirts show flashes of naked pussy with every step. In the lead is an adorable freckled blonde with pixie-cut hair, behind her a dusky-skinned Italian girl, a sexy black babe and a busty Asian cutie whose tits catch the light from behind her and show off a sheen of moisture. For a split-second, she's transfixed by the spectacle of their sexiness... and horrified by the implications of their look.

As they draw closer, her attention is diverted for a moment by the clear sound – just audible over the blaring music – of a feminine voice trying to call out from the light behind them, a voice clearly muffled by some kind of gag. The cry is cut off swiftly by the sound of a sharp smack of a hand hitting soft, supple young flesh. Miss Adventure finds herself transfixed by that sound, her anger rising again... but she fights it down as she tries to refocus on the phalanx of young girls advancing on her.

“Wait,” the busty Damsel of Daring calls out to the girls as she tries to devote her attention to the task at hand. “Just wait for a second.”

Obligingly, the quartet of schoolgirl babes stops a few steps from her. Miss Adventure watches them warily, trying to read them and noticing something subtly off about them... are their heartbeats strangely calm? This is weird, she thinks: something's not right. But she can't quite put her finger on it before the girls abruptly start walking toward her again.

She's not quite sure what to do as they press in close. Their firm flesh rubs distractingly against hers, and she fights the stimulation as she hears them say things like: “Please help us,” and “We need you” in breathy, seductive voices. Something sounds off about that, too, as if their voices are somehow... dead, or utterly devoid of hope. Their behaviour is bizarrely sexual. Why? And what to do about it, how to get past them without hurting them? She's acutely aware of the Free Radicals still out there, but as she tries to work out a strategy, the distractions only get worse: the heady scent of the schoolgirls' skin is making her head spin – the smell of sweat and pussy juice and something else more pungent mixing with the teen babes' natural bouquet – and the friction of their taut bodies against hers is disorienting her. She finds herself fighting just to keep her sensory discipline in place, to keep the feelings from overwhelming her.

“Okay, it's... it's okay, just...” she tries to say, but finds the sentence trailing off as one of their hands slides up to grab a big handful of one of her big, beautiful tits. “Ohhhhh...”

The doll-cute blonde is right in her face. “Please...” the girl says huskily, and before the heroine can react, those sweet lips are pressed against her... they're melting into a hot, probing kiss. “Mmmmph...” the Damsel of Daring moans in confusion as wicked hands start to slide more aggressively all over her body, dipping between her firm thighs to stroke against the fabric covering her soft cunt, sliding up again to claim big, groping handfuls of her hot double-D's, squeezing them, manipulating them as she unconsciously starts to grind against the sexy young bodies gathering all around her. They're pressing in, twisting sinuously, soft and slippery and devilishly arousing. “Mmmmmm-hmmmph,” she moans as the hot blonde's tongue invades her mouth, their tongues dancing.

But her mind is still working. This is some kind of diversion, she's thinking, and then realizes with regret: I'm going to have use force to push them off me. What have those bastards done to these girls? She gets ready, tensing her muscles, preparing to shove the girls back with all her strength... then gasps into the blonde's mouth as someone's fingers find her ultra-sensitive clit. As those naughty fingers start to rub, the Damsel of Daring goes rigid for a moment as she feels a liquid heat rising in her sex, the nubbin of her love-button swelling and stiffening at the touch, the crotch of her thong growing warm and wet.

“Mmmmmmphhhhh...” she moans again, her sensory discipline wavering dangerously as tingles of pleasure race through her rich young body. Okay... okay, focus, girl... focus, got to push them off... oh... oh God that feels good... no, focus... focus!

She suddenly becomes aware of something: there are four hands stroking her. The girls crowded around her are each holding something back in their other hand... and she can hear the tension thrumming in the muscles of those arms! They have weapons! It's a trap! The realization sends a bolt of urgency through her... in the very moment that all four of the girls' arms come around to strike at her fabulous flesh with the instruments they've been concealing!

Galvanized into action, Miss Adventure moves with blinding speed, planting her left hand between the blonde's perky titties and shoving her back, and in the same motion jack-knifing her body, kicking her legs out from the entwining pressure of the black girl's thighs on her left and the Asian's on her right and sending both girls tumbling to the ground, the items in their hands skittering uselessly away. She swings into a backflip over the Italian girl behind her, landing on her feet and dancing further backward to put some distance between them as the girl turns to regard her with dark eyes, her friends getting up and moving to retrieve their own weapons. Syringes, the heroine notes with alarm, all-too-aware that her clit is still pulsating, her body still tense and echoing the pleasure of the girls' caresses like a plucked string. Wow, that was a close one! They molested me... damn near seduced me and took me down! If one of them had stuck me...

Even as she's thinking it, a weird, giddy sensation sweeps over her. Confused, the heroine frowns and looks down at herself. Running her hands over her hot and sensitive flesh, she finds something sticking out of the soft meat of her right breast. She pulls it free and looks at it disbelievingly.

A syringe. And it's empty.

“Oh,” she says matter-of-factly. “Shit.” The world takes a sudden lurch around her as she fights to keep her feet and looks back up at the Italian girl, whose hands are empty. One of them stuck me after all... shit... I'm in trouble here...

“We're sorry,” the Italian-looking girl says as her friends, their syringes back in hand, advance on the staggering heroine. “We have no choice. We must Obey.”

The world takes another wild lurch, and Miss Adventure just barely avoids tripping over her own feet. She feels more than drunk, like her limbs are detaching themselves from her control. Her sensory discipline has been swept away by the drug... the blaring music from the Free Radicals' oasis of light in the recesses of the warehouse is hammering mercilessly into her ears, the scent of schoolgirl bodies washing over her in a wave. She can see more and more of the schoolgirls coming out of the light, all of them with syringes glittering in their hands... she can't focus enough to count them, but knows they must outnumber her more than twenty to one.

Oh, fuck, the thought wanders through her reeling brain as she runs her hands through her short brown hair in distraction. Fuck, I'm so screwed...

She's suddenly conscious that the sexual heat those girls awakened in her is still screwing with her body, moreso without her sensory discipline to keep it in check. The feel of her stiff clit and nipples against the fabric of her thong is a sudden torment, and as she watches the girls approach her, she's barely conscious of reaching up to liberate her big tits from their minimal confinement, pulling the straps of her slingshot thong out and aside. She sets her massive mammaries bouncing free in all their naked glory, their big pink nipples growing even stiffer in the cool air, as she reaches down to pull aside the gusset of her thong and let her wet pussy breathe.

“Wha...” The world takes another giddy lurch and almost spills her on the ground again. The Damsel of Daring can just make out the blonde, Asian and black girls closing in on her, and as she staggers back she can see the rest of the schoolgirls are not far behind them. Can't fight anyone like this... can barely stand... All she can do is try to delay the moment when they take her down. Not knowing what else to do, she tries speaking again. “What... what did they do... to you...”

“We're not allowed to tell you,” says the blonde promptly, her syringe poised in her hand and a note of sadness in her voice.

“But you'll find out soon enough,” adds the black girl beside her. “He'll do it to you, too.”

Even as she's speaking, a chance lurch in Miss Adventure's drugged and failing vision brings the big-titted Asian girl into focus... as she's lunging in from the right to bury another syringe in the heroine's supple flesh! The Damsel of Daring is barely aware of reacting, moving out of pure instinct shaped by intensive training, watching as if from outside her body as her right hand comes up and catches the girl's hand, grips the syringe and twists it and shoves it down and away from her, pushing down the plunger as the needle hits resistance. The Asian babe's eyes widen as she staggers backward, looking down with surprise at the syringe protruding from her own thigh!

“Ukh...” the girl says, her almond eyes going glassy as she looks back up at Miss Adventure. “Unnghhh...”

The heroine, still blearily struggling to keep her feet, is almost as surprised as her attacker. She watches in dread fascination as the drug ravages its way through the girl's bloodstream in no more than a few seconds, her eyes slowly rolling back in her head until, a moment later, she collapses in a heap.

The other schoolgirls pause for a moment, looking at their felled friend and back at the drunkenly-reeling heroine. “You shouldn't make this difficult.” There's an almost aggrieved tone in the blonde's voice now. “He'll be mad at us if we don't do what he said. We must Obey.”

Miss Adventure is vaguely aware now of the girls fanning around her, encircling her. Shit... She knows she can't count on that lucky break against the Asian girl to repeat itself. The world is lurching and spinning still... and she can feel a curious weakness washing through her as a feverish mixture of heat and chill washes through her body. She can feel herself breaking out in a sweat now, the pores all over her body suddenly seeming to open up and cover her in a glistening coat of sexy moisture as the chills sweep forcefully through her. Unable to stop herself from running her hands all over her nude body, over her heaving breasts and through her suddenly sweaty hair, the Damsel of Daring realizes distantly what's happening.

My healing factor... it's trying to sweat the drug out of me! Can it work? It won't make much difference if she gets slammed with half a dozen more doses, and the healing is sapping her strength to do its work. How to keep them at bay and buy enough time for her power to save her? Her fogged brain has nothing to offer except keep them talking.

“Why...” the heroine enunciates carefully as she tries her best to pull her hands away from herself despite the way the feverish sensation in her flesh is wracking her body. “Why do you have to... Obey?”

“Because... it's written.” The blonde's eyes shimmer. For a moment, just a split-second, naked horror looks out through them. “We have to do what's written.”

“Can't... can't you fight it?” Miss Adventure wipes an arm across her dripping brow, tries to keep an eye out for the girls circling behind her. She knows she's a goner for sure if they decide to rush her. Her legs are shuddering with the effort of keeping upright, her naked pink slit pulsing between her firm thighs, her body weakening in its battle to keep her conscious as it cleans the drug from her bloodstream.

The blonde shakes her head sadly. “It's written. If we're ordered, we Obey. That's what we are now.”

There's something... curious in the blonde's eyes as she says that last. The heroine's mind focuses through the confusion of feelings and sensory data swamping it and makes a wobbling attempt to grasp the insight, scrabbling in rising panic as she can hear more of the girls edging closer and closer. Then, suddenly, it hits her: the girl hasn't said who the order has to come from! And the way the girls had reacted to the very first thing Miss Adventure had said to them...

“Wait just for a second,” she'd said. And they had. For precisely a second, they had Obeyed.

No... no way... could it work? Not like there's anything to lose... Straightening up with as much dignity as her gleamingly naked, unsteady, sweat-soaked condition will allow her, Miss Adventure fights to keep her focus and says clearly and slowly: “Girls of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart Academy, I order you to stop and stand where you are.” No, surely it can't work...

She shuts her eyes, waiting for them to rush her, to tackle her and rub their hot young bodies against her again, waiting for them to molest her big breasts and frig her dripping cunt to orgasm while they pump her so full of the drug in those syringes that even her healing factor won't be able to fight it off, waiting for her own reeling brain to drag her down into the dark and her own body to fail. She waits a second, three seconds, five... and nothing happens.

Opening her eyes, Miss Adventure looks around in slack-jawed amazement at the schoolgirls standing frozen as if cast in wax! Almost collapsing with relief, the heroine feels some of her hope resurging even as the world keeps spinning and lurching around her. Wiping the sweat from her lovely face and from between her hot, exposed and slippery mammaries, Miss Adventure realizes the huge opportunity she's been handed. In whatever they did to these winsome young babes, the villains have left an accidental loophole. She can rescue them, order them to leave the building, can get them to safety and away from whatever hellish plans the Free Radicals have for them!

Her heart thumps wildly as her mind races. She's sure she has only a few seconds to decide how she wants to use this unexpected break. She briefly wonders about fleeing with them, regrouping and regaining her strength... but she guesses the girls will have no chance of outrunning the Free Radicals without someone covering their backs. And as the high whirring sounds and gagged moans of pain come from the circle of light yonder, piercing through the raging heavy metal music that batters her ultra-sensitive eardrums as her sensory discipline struggles and fails to reassert itself, the heroine knows she can't just leave the B-Squad to the bikers' tender mercies.

Not cheerful thoughts, those last. The prospect of confronting sixteen bikers in this condition makes her guts watery with fear. But there's no turning back now... and maybe she can find a way to even the odds. Stepping forward, staggering and recovering just in time from another near fall, she waits for her big wet tits to stop jiggling before says very quietly to the blonde: “Tell me your name.”

“Gemma Lee.” The blonde's voice is breathy, matching Miss Adventure's quiet tone.

“Okay, Gemma... I order you to and the rest of the girls of Sacred Heart to leave this building immediately, do you understand?” As she's speaking, the Damsel of Daring braces herself shakily on one of the girl's shoulders as she reaches down to unzip one of her PVC thigh-highs.

“I understand,” the freckled schoolgirl answers. “And I will Obey.”

“Good. Good girl.” Miss Adventure kicks away the first boot and switches sides, bracing herself on the girl's opposite shoulder as she starts unzipping the other boot. “When you get outside, I want you to go to the...” She pauses and closes her eyes to let a spell of dizziness wash over her, then goes on. “To the District 9 police station... it's just... about eight blocks from here, I'll give you directions... and when you're there, tell them you have... a message for Commissioner Frank Biggar. You got all that?”

“Yes, we will Obey.” Gemma's eyes are shining, and as the tears spill down her face, Miss Adventure is moved to see some humanity coming back into her eyes. The poor girl, she thinks. She probably thought it was all over for her. “Thank you, Miss...”

“Miss Adventure.” The now barefooted heroine gives the schoolgirl a gentle smile, then adds: “Make sure you, uh... pull your blouses up before you go. Avoid the bottom step on the stairs. Oh, and...” She casts a bleary but determined glare toward where the Free Radicals are. “I'm going to need you... to leave me the rest of those syringes.”

6

The searing pain wracking the young blonde heroine's body seems never-ending. The tears streaming from behind her mask are as hot as the drool dripping from her ball gag to slather her chin. She looks up at the blurry image of the dark, evil biker crouched over her bound body, his metal tentacles carving words into her swollen, sensitive double-D melons as the tattoos on her back and ass pulsate a spell of insidious corruption through her mind and body.

She had a name once. She's trying to remember it, but her brain is all foggy and the effort is making her cry. A new name is written across her broken mind in glowing letters: DUMB SLUT. That's her name now, but she had another name once, now fading into a lost dream... especially since her train of thought keeps diverting to the horny throbbing in the dripping, greedy little gash between her taut teen thighs. She keeps trying to think, but all she can wind up thinking about is how much she wants a cock in her tight love tunnel, how good it would feel to have another one in her ass, how much she wants hot cum inside her.

A little corner of Dumb Slut's mind screams in horror at the perverted obsessions claiming her tender flesh. This isn't me! Oh God, this isn't me! Please, somebody help me! But even that remnant of her old self is fading into the steadily thickening mental fog, and more and more, only the simplest thoughts can find their way through. Mostly she looks up at her tormentor, her tears increasingly becoming tears of frustration that he's hurting her instead of fucking her. God, I need to fuck. The thought emerges unbidden from the fog time and again. I need cock, I need it hard, I need a real man to pound my pussy and call me a slut. Doesn't he know what a good fuck I am? I'd love to fuck you, mister... please fuck me like a slut... owwww... the needles hurt...

She learns something new about herself as the searing needles finally finish their work on her tits. The words “Suck Them” cut through the mental fog, emerging from her right breast through a warm afterglow of pain, while the words “Spank Them” radiate from her plump left breast. “Hmmmmmphhhh...” Dumb Slut moans helplessly, writhing and straining against the bonds tying her wrists to her ankles as the yearning to have her proud titties sucked and slapped, pleasured and punished begins to riot through her young body, stoking the molten heat in her pretty pussy even more. She can feel her tits growing even more sensitive as her nipples go bullet-hard and her hot juices drip down into her tight bunghole. “Hmmmmm-hmmmmphhhh...”

Even as it happens, she's bracing herself for the needles to go to work again. But the man above her is looking up now as if remembering something, and he says: “What's going on out there? They should've brought her back by now.”

Brought her back? Dumb Slut wonders in confusion. Who? She finds she doesn't really care, that she can't be bothered to hide the pleading in her voice as she wriggles seductively and lets out a come-hither moan for the biker's benefit. “Hmmmmphhhhh...” Come on, forget about it and just fuck me... my pussy's so fucking wet...

“They're probably still messing with her,” says a male voice from behind him, not sounding very sure of itself. “Like we told them to.”

But the tentacles have paused, hovering just above her belly button as he gazes suspiciously out into the dark warehouse. “No, something's wrong,” he says after a moment. “Check it out, boys. I'll finish up here.”

The other men who'd been lounging nearby get up with low mutterings of discontentment, moving out into the darkness as their boss turns back to his subject. Dumb Slut can only give a moan of mingled frustration, pain and yearning as the hot needles begin to cut into the soft skin around her belly button. A wandering fragment of a thought skitters across the suffers of her mind: Whoever's out there can still save us. But like a pebble skipping on a pond, the thought leaves only a scattering of ripples before it sinks without a trace, the heated lust in her wet feminine core rising up to claim her again.

“Hmmmmmphhh...” moans Dumb Slut pitifully as the tattoo needles keep working on her. Fuck me, she prays to the man above her, to anyone at all: Please... fuck me... I need a hot cock in my fuckhole... I'm such a fucking slut... She no longer knows why she's still crying.

* * *

Miss Adventure's heart races as she crouches deep in the tangle of greasy machinery and abandoned spare parts on the warehouse's shadowy lower level. Sure enough, she can see the beams of flashlights and hear the bikers starting to call out to each other as their boots thump around the floors of the mezzanine. Their voices are bewildered and angry. They've figured out that the schoolgirls are gone. In moments, they'll be thundering down the stairs. And the Damsel of Daring is going to have to take them out... somehow.

She tries to work up some of the confidence she'd walked into this building with. But it's not easy as she fights the dizziness and weakness washing through her as her sweat-slick body determinedly fights off the Free Radicals' knockout drug cocktail. She's shivering with fear as the cool air plays over her bare flesh, and though she concentrates hard on trying to regain control of her ultra-senses, it's an uphill battle. Her goose-pimpled skin is still ultra-sensitive with the memory of sweet schoolgirl caresses, her hard nipples and stiff clit still too aroused to endure the friction of her slingshot thong's straps, the smells of motor oil and the stench of the bloating corpse in the nearby schoolbus still overwhelming. It's a hell of a way to have to fight off sixteen hulking, ruthless bikers. But she has no choice.

When you can't fight straight ahead, she remembers the Adventurist's advice. Use stealth, and craft. Fighting successfully is more important than fighting fair. The sexy sidekick knows it's her only chance now. And though she might not be able to use the straps of her bikini to provide any modesty to her big, wet breasts, she's found another use of them: through each strap, she's pierced ten of the drug-filled syringes the schoolgirls had been ordered to use on her, the needles facing outward so they don't accidentally poke into her skin. Having seen what those syringes can do to a mundane human, she's gambling that with a little stealth and a little luck, she'll have enough of them to take out all or most of the bikers. You can do this, she thinks to herself, trying to quell the butterflies in her stomach as she hears the bikers begin to come thundering down the stairs, the fury and frustration in their voices clear. You can do this...

She quails back into the shadows as she sees the first of the bikers come into view. They're all big, not one of them under six feet. And her senses are definitely out of whack: the colours of the multichromatic tattoos wreathing their arms are so vivid that they look like they're glowing faintly. Not unlike the tramp stamps she'd noticed on the schoolgirls as they'd left – funny how even Catholic schoolgirls were into trashy fashion these days – though her vision had been too blurred by sweat and she'd been too distracted to actually read them clearly. Shaking her head and blinking, she inwardly curses her shredded sensory discipline.

Well, can't wait until everything's normal again, she thinks, crouching behind an indistinct mass of machinery as a flashlight beam plays over her position. I've got to roll the dice. As the bikers start to fan out, she focuses as best she can on one who seems to be passing near her position, separated from the others. Taking a few more breaths, she steels her resolve and thinks: Here goes nothing.

Her big double-D's bounce and jiggle as she leaps into action, padding as fast as she can on her bare feet toward the target biker's position. She feels a moment of panic a few steps in as the world reels dizzily around her and she nearly stumbles and takes a crashing fall into a nearby pile of rusted metal parts... but she recovers just in time, regaining her forward motion and keeping her balance with an effort of will as she covers the remaining distance in a sexy, sweaty, breast-bouncing sprint. Her eyes gleam with desperate courage behind her sleek goggles as she closes on her prey.

She can see the biker there, just a few feet in front of her, waving his flashlight aimlessly at the shadows and cursing violently under his breath. He registers the footfalls behind him a second too late, and she catches a glimpse of his dumbfounded face as he whirls to see the busty, almost totally naked teen heroine bearing down on him. At precisely that moment she gathers all her strength into a leap, pulling out and planting a syringe smack in his carotid artery as his eyes bulge and his cry of alarm dies in his throat. She plants her bare feet on his chest, riding his collapsing form to the floor as she hammers the plunger home, kicking her way free of him as he hits the concrete with a muffled thud, the beam of his flashlight whirling around and around as it skitters away from his fingers.

“Cllllccckkhhh...” he makes a strangled, faint gurgling noise as she moves back off into the darkness. She doesn't wait to watch the drug knock him out; she has to get as far from his position as she can with all due speed. Fighting extra-hard to keep her legs from wobbling, her muscles burning with the stress as she digs deep into her waning reserves of strength, Miss Adventure keeps running as the bikers turn with alarm, shouting out “Snake!” to their fallen companion as several of them converge.

Finally she slides like a ballplayer coming in to home base, vanishing behind another pile of machinery further from the stairs and most of the bikers than her first hiding-place. As she gathers into a crouch, she pants from the exertion and feels her pulse race with excitement. One down! She thinks triumphantly, half-disbelieving that she's pulled it off. Only fifteen to go!

She tries not to think about the rubbery feeling in her limbs, about whether she really has the power to pull off that kind of ambush more than a dozen more times. There's no point thinking about it: she'll just have to do it. She huddles in her new concealment, focusing on fighting down dizziness as her healing-factor-weakened body informs her of just how much of a toll that brief burst of energy has exacted. Calming her breathing with careful exercises, she listens for a moment to the bikers arguing loudly with each other, several of them voting to head back up the stairs, several more saying “Screw that, Octavian'll kill us,” and “Let's just get this bitch!” Like a stirred nest of hornets, the hulking brutes run this way and that for a minute or two as if hoping to find her hiding under the nearest sheet of scrap metal.

Finally, they begin cautiously to fan out again. It's far too soon for her liking when she hears another one approaching close to her position, but she shakes the sweat out of her eyes and gathers herself for action again. Pulling out a syringe, taking a few deep breaths to steady herself, she feels a wobble in her knees and closing her eyes briefly, she prays for her strength to hold up. Then she opens them again, and though she feels no steadier, there's no more time to delay.

“Time to roll the dice,” she mutters to herself. And as the biker's nervous-sounding heartbeat and heavy steps close on her position, she explodes into action!

* * *

Sprinting just as before, she swings out to the oncoming biker's right, ducking and dodging her way through the anonymous piles of metal parts with a semblance of the trained agility she would've had at full strength, just barely keeping from crashing into anything en route. She quickly circles round behind her target, and as she runs toward him, she prepares herself to duplicate the leap she's used to take down “Snake.”

Then it all goes wrong.

A wave of dizzy weakness sweeps over her just as her new target turns to confront her, and she finds herself tripping, stumbling and falling towards him, her arms windmilling and her eyes wide with alarm as his face is revealed... and it's the same biker she just knocked out a minute ago, grinning viciously!

What the – she barely has time to think before his knee comes up, hammering into her off-balance form right at the solar plexus! WHHHAAMMMM! “Whuuuughhhh!” she feels the air driven from her lungs and several of her ribs cave under a blow more powerful than she'd dreamed possible, and her syringe spins free of her hand and shatters as she folds around the pain, dropping tits-first like a stone! “Uhhhhhuuuuughhhhh...” the teen beauty moans helplessly as agony knifes through her when she tries to draw in air, the world reeling dizzily around her as her soft breasts press into the cold concrete, her ass wiggling in the air behind her as she abruptly, miserably vomits up the contents of her belly.

“Not quite what you expected, huh, bitch?” Snake's voice above her seems to come from far away. “Yeah, you'll find us Free Radicals are a little tougher than your average goomba. A lot tougher, actually. We got us some... advantages, see?”

The teen do-gooder coughs and splutters at his feet, the stink of her own vomit almost making her pass out as she shudders around the unbearable, piercing agony in her abdomen. She feels the world ebb dangerously close to unconsciousness as an icy chill suddenly sets in at her broken ribs and nearly-crushed diaphragm, and her muscles spasm weakly as her healing power raids yet more of her precious strength to go to work on the new damage. Slowly, the pain begins to ebb, but her innards still feel like they've been filled with broken glass as Snake takes slow, heavy, gloating steps around her, admiring her taut, naked, vulnerable form.

“Think I'll call the other boys over in a sec,” he rasps quietly. “But not before I have a little fun of my own. I owe you, see... 'cuz tough as we might be, what you just did over yonder still hurt like hell.”

Miss Adventure's reeling brain tries to grasp on to the import of his words. How... how could he... what does he mean, 'advantages'... After a moment she flashes on an image of the bikers coming down the steps. The way their tattoos had seemed to glow... just like the schoolgirls' had. The truth hammers into her like another gut punch: The tattoos... shit... that wasn't an optical illusion! They're supernatural! The Radicals were using them to control the girls... and they've used them to make themselves far stronger and tougher than a normal man! The full import of the realization makes the sexy sidekick whimper in terror. The Free Radicals aren't mundanes at all! Coming here alone to confront them... she's like a rabbit that's just raced into a den of wolves! Oh my God... I should've run when I had the chance!

But it's too late now. “Alright, girlie,” says Snake, fishing in one of his leather jacket's pockets. “Let's quiet you up some.” He kneels beside her, and she can only gasp in horror as she feels a leather harness going around her head, a rubber ball-gag being wedged between her teeth!

“Nnnggghhh-hhhhnnnghhhh...” she moans in anguish as he buckles the gag into place. She has no strength to resist; indeed everything around her seems to waver as her healing-factor steals yet more of her strength. For a long moment the world fades out...

... and then fades in. The sexy sidekick has been dragged a half a foot from where she fell, but is still ass-up on the cold concrete floor, her wet, naked sex peeping rearward as she feels the big biker's warm, frightening presence taking up station behind her. “Hmmmmmm-hhmmmppph!” she mewls pitifully into the gag as she feels him yanking her arms from their protective huddle around her midsection. His strength is total and irresistible, and the terrified teen heroine is weak as a kitten. He folds her arms across her back, holding them in place effortlessly with one hand... and she tenses in dread as she hears his zipper coming down. Oh God no no NO not that NOT THAT...

Her horror deepens as she feels the hot, blunt head of a big hard-on lining up with the mouth of her pussy – her untouched, virginal pussy – and realizes with a wave of shame that she's still dripping wet down there from her encounter with the schoolgirls, exquisitely ready, her pink gash tingling with anticipation. “Hot for me already, huh, bitch?” the biker teases her, and tears roll down her beautiful face from beneath her sleek goggles as she tries to shake her head. “Well, time to take it all!”

“NNNNNGGGHHHHHNNNNNNNGHHHHHH!” The ten-inch length of his dick takes Miss Adventure on a terrible journey as it skewers home. The forced entry ripping bloodily through her hymen has her squealing with horrific pain, but as the blunt, hot prick batters its way into her, the way it's stretching her ultra-sensitive, ultra-tight sugar walls has her body betraying her almost instantly! A wild pleasure crests along with every inch of that first plundering thrust until finally, as the root of his cock grinds against her pelvis and his sweaty sperm sacs slap hard against her stiff little clit, the heroine's pussy explodes in a devastating orgasm! “NNNNNNGHHHHHHH! NNNNNNGHHHH! NNNNNGHHHHH!” she sobs as her sex spasms over and over around the hot, throbbing shaft, writhing helplessly as she cums in wave after wave, plunged with that single thrust into a hell of pain and shame and hot, squirting lust!

She hears Snake grunt with surprise. “Damn, girl...” he grits through his teeth. “A virgin and you're fucking cumming already? I can feel you choking my fucking dick, you slut... you heroines really are all just little whores, huh?”

“HHHHNNNNNGGGGHHHNNGGGGGHHH!” she mewls again as, with the word whores, he starts pumping his prick into her tight cunt! Her ultra-sensitivity continues to betray her, the sensation of his invading shaft setting her off over and over again as he drags out and plunges back into her wet depths, banging her hard like a bitch in heat! Oh God oh God oh God... cumming... cumming so hard... can't stop... can't stop CUMMING! Her eyes are wide with horror as he takes a handful of her sweaty hair and holds her in place for the hard reaming, her magnificent tits swaying and jiggling with every thrust, the slapping of flesh and the squelching of her stuffed cunt filling the air as she writhes in the grip of merciless lust, her pussy clutching and spasming and squirting wetly around his cock as she cums again and again! “NNNNNGHHH-NNNNNGHHH-NNNNGHHHH-NNNNNGHHHH-NGGGHHHHH-NNNNGHHHHNNNNGHHH!”

“Fuck...” he moans in appreciation. “Fuck... you're staying so goddamn tight... holy fuck... milk that cock, you dumb little slut...”

“NNNNNNNNNGGHHHHHHHHH!” Miss Adventure realizes with horror that her healing factor is trying to repair her pussy even as it's brutally plundered, keeping her supernaturally tight and giving the biker an extra-wild ride! Oh no... NO!!! Picking up speed, Snake hammers relentlessly into the quivering, clasping, vise-like tightness of her velvety cock-socket, revelling in the gagged squeals of his teenaged victim as her squirting, orgasmic juices begin to form a pool underneath her, her eyes starting to roll into the back of her head as the multiple climaxes drive her to the edge of passing out!

But there won't be any such reprieve. Unable to hold out for long against the incredible pleasure her ultra-responsive pussy is giving him, her rapist quickly tenses up, drives his weapon home and lets out a long groan of satisfaction, his nuts jumping as he pumps her teen honeypot full of hot spunk! “NNNNNGHHHHHHHNNNNNNNGHHHHHHH!” she sobs, wriggling and squirting as the spurting jism drives her over the edge yet again!

Finally he pulls out, releases her arms and lets her head slump to the floor. Hugging herself, she sobs disconsolately as the full horror and humiliation of the situation – that her first time with a man should consist of being defeated and raped to multiple climaxes by a filthy lowlife – washes over her. The teen's body shudders in the wake of the amazing waves of unwanted pleasure that swamped her in the act, her cream-pied twat clutching and spasming as if yearning for the rapist's big hard dick, the spunk oozing down her thighs and dripping down to mix with the puddle of her squirted pussy juices beneath her. In all her daydreams about being a superheroine, the Damsel of Daring had never pictured ending up like this!

At least he's done with me now... she starts to think – but then whimpers in fresh terror as Snake suddenly grabs big handfuls of her supple buttocks, yanking the heroine's hips back up and prying her cheeks apart to expose her tight brown starfish to the cool air – and she feels the head of his still stiff cock probing at the rubbery entrance to her inexperienced asshole! “NNNNNNGGGGGHHHHHHHH! HHLLLLNNGGHHH-NNNNNNNGHHHHH!” she desperately pleads with him through the gag, looking back over her shoulder in wide-eyed fear and trying to ward him away from her with fluttering hands.

He just laughs. “Nothin' you can do about it, slut,” he says, pressing inexorably at her clenching sphincter with his slick cockhead. “Like it or not... this dick... is going in your ass!”

“NNNNNNNGGGGGHHHHNNNNNNGHHHHHH!” she bawls as the slippery prick forces its way painfully into her poop-chute. Big tears slide down her cheeks as Snake's thick, throbbing member spears into her, feeling like it will split her apart as it goes in two inches, then five... then eight... until finally his balls are nestled against her rim and her tender bunghole is stretched painfully around ten full inches of hard man-meat. “NNNNNNNGGGH-HHNNNGGGGHHHHHH! NNNNNNGGGH!” she mewls in pure agony as she thrashes her head from side to side, kicking her legs weakly and beating the ground with her fists, beside herself with the pain and horror of the crude buggering. But there's nothing she can do to stop it... Snake's cock pulls back, and thrusts home again, out and in, out and in, little farting sounds coming out as Miss Adventure's tightest hole is forced with slow, sadistic delight! “NNNNNNNNGGGGGHHHNNNGGGGHHHHHHHH!”

“Ohhhh yeaaahhhh,” rasps Snake as he begins to work up a rhythm. “You're even tighter here, you little cunt. You love it in your ass, huh?”

“Nnnnnnnnghhhhhh-nnnnghhhhh-nnnnghhhhhh,” she grunts helplessly, all resistance failing as the cock starts pumping her tender teenaged butt harder and harder, jolting her as Snake grabs her hair again and yanks her head back. She moans as he reaches a rough hand underneath her and cops a feel of one of her jiggling tits as he savors the tight channel of her no-longer-cherry ass. The young heroine feels utterly degraded, reduced to nothing more than a fuck-toy used for someone else's pleasure, able to do nothing but snivel and sob as her big tits are fondled while she's raped hard like a prison bitch. “Nnnnnngghhhhh-nngghhh-nnnnnnggghhhhhh...”

“Yeah, bitch,” the biker says as he plows her. “Yeah... you love it... bet you love the way I play with your tits while I fuck you like the slut you are, huh?”

“Nnnnnnnnnghhhhh...” She moans in denial, gritting her teeth around the gag as drool drips down her chin... but the truth, she realizes with rising horror, is that he's right. Her ultra-sensitive body is betraying her again, the play on her tits sending confusing signals through her wracked body and down to her raped ass and oozing cunt. She feels the tingling and wetness begin to rise between her legs again, and her moans gradually shift from denial into despair as she feels her hot sexual nectar beginning to drip in rivulets down her inner thighs... and as the sensations radiating from her violated rectum begin to alchemize from pain into a strange, dark pleasure-pain that makes her pussy wetter, and wetter, and wetter with each thrust. Unconsciously, she starts to pump back against the biker's domineering dick as the bewildering feelings start to take over. “Nnnnnghhhh... nnnngghhhhh... nnnnnnggghhhhh...”

“Unnnghhh, yeahhh,” breathes Snake in perverted delight. “That's it... fuck, so fuckin' tight... play with your pussy, bitch... play with it and get yourself off, you fuckin' whore...”

As he says the words, Miss Adventure feels a powerful urge to reach back between her legs and frig her swelling clit. At first she resists it, but then he lands a hard slap on her ass as punishment for her disobedience, then another, then another as he starts to pound her bunghole harder, and finally she relents. Whimpering with shame and defeat, she slides a gloved hand between her firm young thighs, finds her hot clit among her dripping wet folds, and... “Nnnnnnnggghhhhhhhh!” Her eyes go saucer wide and her back arches, affording even deeper penetration for Snake's ten inches into the dank, tight heat of her ass as the intense pleasure jolts through her!

“Fuck yeah, take it you fuckin' slut,” exults Snake as his thrusts get faster and harder, viciously tearing up her ass as she's unable to keep her fingers from working on her vulnerable clitty. She takes it, and she writhes and moans in unwanted desire as she can feel the unmistakable rush to climax building, building, building as she frigs herself frantically while Snake grabs both of her hot tits and mashes them together, growling deep in his throat as he leans into his ass-fucking with greater and greater abandon. Shamed and despairing as she collaborates in her own corruption and submission, the degraded young slut still can't stop, her pussy getting wetter and wetter as she diddles and strokes it, until finally she sticks a finger right into her hot, tight, spunk-soiled cunt and her eyes roll back in her head and....

“NNNNNNGHHHHH! NNNNNGGHHHHNNGGGHHH! NNNNNNGHHHH!” Her helpless squeals of pleasure join the biker's grunts of satisfaction as her ass is abused and her pussy explodes wetly under her probing, rubbing fingers! The heroine writhes and wriggles and squirts and squirts as her ass gets soundly fucked and one climax blends into another, until Snake tenses up and buries his cock deep in her tightest hole, his slimy spunk splattering deep into her bowels as she cums hard again, jamming three fingers into her sopping cunt and sobbing and moaning her way to completion! “NNNNNNNNNNGHHHNNNNGHHHHHH! NNNNNNNGHHHHHH!”

For a long moment the two lie there, Miss Adventure shuddering weakly in the wake of devastating pleasure, aghast at the terrible realization that she has actively taken part in her own rape. Snake is panting and sweating atop her, for the moment overcome. She gives a little whimper as his cock withdraws from her ass with an audible pop and a river of his splooge sluices from her gaped rectum. “Fuckin' awesome,” he breathes, rolling away to lie beside her and bask in post-coital bliss as the broken heroine cries quietly beside him. She can feel the cool tingle of her healing factor going to work on her wrecked and spunk-filled holes, her head slumping as a sense of hopelessness and lassitude starts to wash over her.

After a moment, Snake says quietly: “Well, can't keep you to myself all night. It's time to call the boys over.” As she quivers in new terror, he reaches over and pulls one of the syringes free from her right bikini strap. “Better keep you nice and gentle for them, though.”

“Nnnnnghhh, nnnnnghhh,” she shakes her head desperately at him, cringing in fear, trying to convince him with her wide eyes that she'll be good, that she doesn't need to be drugged again. But it's no use. Snake simply matter-of-factly jabs the needle home in her fleshy tush, pushing the plunger down and setting the world swiftly reeling around her once more! “Nnnnnghhh-hhnnnghhhhh...” she moans pitifully as her mind lurches toward the blank borderlands of oblivion.

But again there is no reprieve. Staying barely conscious as her healing factor goes doggedly back to work against the powerful knockout cocktail ranging through her bloodstream, she hears Snake call out loudly to the others: “Hey boys! Look what I got!” And the heroine sobs as she realizes her situation is only going from bad to worse.

Deep inside her, though, a tiny spark of hope remains. She remembers the schoolgirls, surely at the police precinct by now... and the rescue heading her way under wailing sirens! I just have to hold out, she thinks desperately, until the police come and get me. They won't miss the chance for glory... they've got to come for me... oh please God, let them come for me...

7

Butt-Slut moans as she sticks her long tongue into her friend Whip Slut's honeypot, the sweet savour of her friend's juices thrilling her tastebuds, the slightly-fishy scent of wet, horny pussy setting her head spinning as she grunts in time with the big hard cock fucking her ass. “Mmmmmaaannnghhhhh-mmmmmmm-MMMaaaammmmmm-nnnnlllaaannghhhhhh,” the moans of desire are ripped from her throat as perverted pleasure radiates from her stretched asshole up her back, and down to the hot dripping slice of sex between her legs; and her eyes are wide behind her mask, almost disbelieving as she buries her face into her friend's up-thrust rump and tongue-fucks her torrid pussy.

“Good girl,” comments Daddy behind her, praising her obedience even as he slaps her big, soft ass hard between thrusts. “Now beat that bitch's ass... make her love the punishment... do it!”

Oh, poor Queenie... The thought skitters randomly across the mind of the slut who used to be Honey-B; but the fragmentary sentiment, a last firing of synapses in the old patterns, is gone as quickly as it came. The eldritch words burned into Butt-Slut's skin now bind her mind and body like a set of terrible chains, and the “Daddy's Slave” tattoo at her belly button glows now as it forces her to obey Octavian's command.

Reaching up to grab and maul the impressive glutes of Whip Slut, who used to be Queen-B, she obligingly begins to pound the soft orbs with the hardest slaps she can muster. WHHAAPP! WHHAPPP! WHHAAAPP! WHHHAPPPP! WHHHHAPPP! The blows bring muffled squeals from the Latina lovely – Whip Slut has her face buried between Dumb Slut's wide-splayed, barely-legal thighs – as her glutes are set to dancing and jiggling around the mocha-skinned cutie's face, reddening under the punishment as she mewls in a bewildered mixture of pain and fear and desire.

“Nnnnaaaannnngghhh AHHHNNNnnngnhhhh nnnggglllaannnghhh Auunnghhhhhh,” moans Butt-Slut as she feels Whip Slut's sweet juices starting to flood her skewering tongue. The combined stimulation of the hard spanking and the oral attention is starting to bring her off as her hips writhe, grinding her dripping sex all over Butt-Slut's face, nearly smothering her. Just as surely, as Daddy's massive dick hammers even deeper into Butt-Slut's willing ass – bringing crude farting sounds out of her, twisting and turning to find new angles from which to punish her tightest hole while his hanging balls slap wetly against her juicy slit – she can feel her clit swelling, her nectar starting to spatter down her thighs as the dark delights of her raped poop-chute start to overwhelm her. Yeah FUCK my whore ass gonna cum gonna cum gonna CUM... babbles the refrain in the bitch's overwhelmed and shattered mind.

“Oh yeah...” Daddy moans as he starts to fuck her faster and harder, rutting into her like a beast as he brutally grips big handfuls of her prodigious ass-flesh. “Yeeeahhhh... I'm gonna fill you up... gonna fill your ass full of spunk, bitch... swallow your friend's cum while I spunk up your fucking ass...”

“NNNNGHHHHH-AAAUUUNNGHHHHH-GLLLAAANNGHHH-ANNNNGHHHHH-ANNNNNNGHHHH-ANNNNNNGHHHH...” Butt-Slut moans in helpless depravity as she wriggles her stuffed ass and keeps slapping her friend's butt and tongue-fucking her juicing love canal. She can feel the tide of climax rising in her throbbing cunt, the pressure building and building and building which each plundering thrust of Daddy's hot man-meat in her cornhole until, until, until... “AAAAAHHHHAAAAANNGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH! NNGAA-GGGHHLLLAAAGGGHHHLLAAGHHHHHHAAAAGHHHHHHH!”

Her eyes roll back in her head, the ass-fucked slut's whole frame going rigid as a massive orgasm rips through her and her friends' squeals of climactic bliss rise to join her own! Through it all she keeps up the hard spanks on Whip Slut's ass, licking and sucking and tongue-fucking her friend's hot pussy as it clutches around her tongue and squirts and squirts and squirts all over her face, drenching her in girl cum as she fights for breath and her head spins from the climactic spasms rocking her young, sweat-slicked flesh!

“Yyyyeeaaahhhhhh...” Daddy gives a long groan of appreciation as, true to his word, he rams his cock home one last time, holding it still as his jumping nuts splatter their cargo of slimy jism into Butt-Slut's quivering ass. Butt-Slut gives another squeal as the feel of the pumping jizz inside her sends her right back over the edge, shuddering and shaking as her pussy squirts all over the floor beneath her and hot spunk starts to overflow around the big hard-on plugging her butt. “Yeah...” he repeats, slapping her ass and savouring the moment. “Good... good, that was... good...”

After a moment, he notices that Whip Slut and Dumb Slut's orgasmic squeals are still going, and he breaks up the daisy chain with a couple of curt orders. “Butt-Slut, you can stop what you're doing now... put your head on the ground and your ass in the air,” he says as he pulls out, his creamy load streaming out of her gaped ass as she numbly complies. “Dumb Slut, Whip Slut, break off what you're doing and crawl back here... you're gonna lick and suck every drop of jizz out of Butt-Slut's ass, and feed it to her until she swallows it all,” he tells her friends crudely. And slowly, their young bodies quivering like plucked strings in the wake of consuming passion, the two former heroines get on all fours and obediently crawl back to where Butt-Slut's whimpering form and cream-pied ass is waiting for them.

Looking up, Butt-Slut can see confusion and disgust and despair written on Whip Slut's gorgeous face as she crawls past... but as with all of them, the slave tattoo at her belly button has the Hispanic hottie mastered. She can do nothing but obey. Likewise, Butt-Slut's stomach flops at the thought of being forced to eat jism out of her own ass, but she's powerless to stop it. What's worse, that's not the only thing on the menu; a moment later Octavian is crouching in front of her, his pungent, still-stiff dick in hand, his member smeared in a mixture of blood and cum and tiny dark speckles of shite.

“And in between helpings of my cum,” he instructs her coldly: “You're going to lick and suck my cock and balls clean. Get to it, Butt-Slut.” Whimpering in helpless horror, tears streaking down her face, Butt-Slut opens up and lets the soiled, sour-smelling and vile-tasting cock slide into her mouth, feeling him stroke his fingers through her sweat- and girl-cum-plastered hair. As she does it, she can feel two tongues sliding into her wrecked bunghole, her friends loudly and obediently licking and felching up big mouthfuls of spunk from her ass... and incidentally making her pussy heat up and swell again with perverse lust.

“Mmmmmmhhhhmmmmmm,” she moans around the filthy prick as the total degradation sets her head spinning. Her moans get deeper, throaty with arousal as Octavian pulls her mouth off his dick for a moment to force her to suckle on two of his fingers, adding the flavour of droplets of pussy juice he's taken from her dripping chin to the sensually overpowering cocktail on her tongue. “Mmmmmmnnngghhhmmmmm...” she moans again as he shoves her mouth back onto his cock and she begins to bob wetly up and down, panting through her nose as she feels her attentions making him stiffen and swell anew.

Then he abruptly grabs her hair and yanks her off his cock again, painfully forcing her head back and up: “Open your mouth, Butt-Slut.” As she does so, she sees a miserable-looking Dumb Slut bending over her, a big rope of slimy jism dangling from her mouth. As the mixture of seaweedy spunk and blood and spittle dangles into her mouth and hits her tongue, Butt-Slut fights to keep her guts from heaving as she slurps and swallows the mouthful of corruption and feels it slide slowly down her gullet. Forced to open her mouth again as Whip Slut leans in to provide her contribution, Butt-Slut gurgles and almost retches, her body jerking and her stomach on the verge of rebellion as she chokes down her second helping of ass-flavoured baby-batter. A moment later, Daddy is shoving her mouth back onto his cock as her friends' wet, wicked tongues invade her ass again, her pussy heating up despite everything as she sucks and sucks and plunges deeper into a hell of lust and despair.

Octavian doesn't break the rhythm of this degrading procedure when the cell phone in his pocket buzzes. He pulls it out and activates it, his voice barely betraying the way Butt-Slut's warm, wet mouth is working on his meat. “Yeah, it's me.” He's silent for a moment, then says: “Yeah, my guys just signalled me a minute ago, they've got her down below. Prepping her right now.” Another pause: “Hey, look, so she pulled off a bit of a surprise, which I promise you she's gonna pay for. Shit happens sometimes, alright? Least she sent them right to your guys instead of sending them home, otherwise they'd really be out in the open...”

Then he pauses again, differently now as the faint sounds of someone shouting come out of the phone. Octavian's hand tightens painfully in Butt-Slut's hair, pushing her down to the root of his prick and holding her there, gagging and choking as his jaw tenses in anger. “Look, asshole,” he grates, his voice deadly quiet: “The Free Rads ain't nobody's errand boys, got it? When you talk to me, you remember you're talking to a free Anglo-Saxon motherfucking warrior, understand? Now you want the rest of your fucking packages or what?”

Butt-Slut's body jolts, her nose buried in the biker's reeking pubes, struggling to pull in air as she gurgles miserably around the cock in her throat. To top it all off, one of her friends has started diddling her stiff clit while licking out her ass, and the horniness in her wet pussy is rising irresistibly!

“Alright, then... alright. It's cool... long as you understand. Huh? Oh yeah, the Slut Squad's working out nicely, real obedient. They'll be money-makers for sure. As for your boy's package... yeah, I remember what he said. He'll get his money's worth.”

Butt-Slut's head starts to spin from air deprivation, a ccccckkllhhhhh sound emerging from her throat, the slow suffocation stoking the vulnerability of her clit as wicked fingers frig her relentlessly toward another orgasm...

“Yeah sure, okay, why not? Have them come on by. Yeah, okay... fine, fifteen minutes.”

Butt-Slut lets out a huge, grateful gasp as he finally yanks her mouth back off his dick. “UUUGHHHH,” she moans as he tilts her head back to receive another disgusting offering of anal sperm from Whip Slut's lips. She can feel Dumb Slut still felching her asshole, those naughty fingers diddling her clit and making her hot juices flow. Oh God... tongue in my whore ass... rubbing my clitty... feels so good... gonna cum again... oh God I'm gonna cum again... “GLLLAAAGGGHHHH...” she moans as she chokes down the fresh helping of jism, her eyes seized by Octavian's blank shades as she begins to writhe in the grip of rising passion. Oh God... it's coming... it's coming... I'm gonna... “AAAAAGGGLLLLCCCCKKKKKKKKHHHH!” she lets out a choked squeal as her hot pussy explodes wetly at just the moment that Daddy rams her mouth back onto his cock! She wriggles, squirms and squirts deliriously, the spasming climax wracking her cunt and making her suck the cock all the harder! “AAAAAGGLLLACCKHHHH-GLLLCCCKKHHHHHH-UUUUGHHHCCKKHHHHH!”

“Oh yeah, bitch,” breathes Octavian in evil delight, his balls tightening against her drool-dripping chin: “You're gonna make me so much money...” And he forces her head back again, where she finds Dumb Slut waiting, her eyes glassy as she spits the biggest load of felched slime yet into Butt-Slut's mouth, a ropy, stringy mess of filthy cum that almost makes her stomach rebel again. As the pungent slime slides down over her tongue and into her gullet, Octavian suddenly wanks his cock furiously in front of her mouth, and a moment later grunts in satisfaction as he sends spurt after spurt of fresh spunk volleying down her throat to chase Dumb Slut's vile offering, the bitch miserably gurgling and swallowing it all down as her body quakes in the aftermath of her hard climax.

Finally the biker lets her hair go and lets her subside, shuddering, to the floor. Dumb Slut and Whip Slut come forward to crouch beside Butt-Slut's exhausted form like dogs waiting for instruction as he fishes his phone back out of his pocket, absent-mindedly stroking his amazingly still-stiff cock. “Yeah... it's me,” he says into the phone. “You working on her? No, no, keep at it... just keep a couple men back at all times and keep your eyes open. Client's coming down in fifteen, he's pissed about the schoolgirl bitches and I don't want him trying any double-crosses. Alright... bring her on up when you're done.”

The Slut Squad watch him numbly as he finishes up the conversation and hangs up the phone. He looks pensive for a moment, but shakes it off as he looks back and sees the trio of inked beauties looking up at him in mingled fear and anticipation. “Hey, I didn't tell you bitches you were done,” he says roughly. “You two, I'm betting there's still some spunk to suck out of that ass, I want all of it down her fucking throat, understand? And you, Butt-Slut, you ain't cleaned my balls yet. Get on it.”

Despairing whimpers come from the throats of the Slut Squad as they move to obey. As Octavian's soiled, sweaty balls loom large in her vision, Butt-Slut feels a sense of vertigo, a horrid sense of loss, of something wonderful having come to a terrible end. It wasn't always like this – she'd had another name once, what was it? It's gone, lost in the fog of her ensorcelled mind, and all that's left is the command. Pushing out her tongue and snivelling in sorrow, she obeys.

* * *

“NNNNNAAAANNNNGGHHHHHHHHHHH!” Miss Adventure can't stop herself from squealing around the big, salty cock in her salivating mouth as her slick, virgin-tight cunt completes another trip up and down the prick of the biker lying underneath her, her deliciously full and stretched pussy bursting with juice as her clit smacks against a set of pulsing testicles and another orgasm slams through her! “NNNNGGGLLAAACCCKKKKHHHHH!”

The world spins blearily around the Damsel of Daring, disclosing a landscape of leering, brutish faces and big, waggling, tumescent dicks. Feverish chills mix with the enforced pleasure mastering her taut teen body, sweat blurring her vision and slicking her flesh as her healing-factor saps every ounce of her power to battle the dose of knockout cocktail in her blood and to try to repair the ravaging of her cock-socket. Her beautiful double-D's, glistening with her sweat and dripping spittle, dance and jiggle and bounce for the pleasure of her captors as she's forced to ride the man beneath her reverse-cowgirl style, his calloused hands digging into her soft ass and occasionally giving her hard slap on the rump as her control over her ultra-senses is shattered anew by every plunge of that hot meat-pole into her multi-orgasmic twat. She mewls and moans in misery and desire as rough fingers tangle themselves in her short hair, forcibly corkscrewing her wet mouth up and down one cock, then another, then another as more of them grab her wrists and guide her hands to wrap themselves around a pair of throbbing fuck-sticks.

She's helpless, the nightmarish situation fucking with her reeling brain as pleasure swamps her ultra-sensitive body. Weakened by repeated encounters with the drug and the way Snake had nearly snapped her in half before raping her into submission, she knows she has no hope of fighting the bikers' augmented muscle. If she tries, they'll simply break every bone in her body. Her strength gone, her skills useless, the sexy teen sidekick is a plaything, nothing but a busty, taut-bodied fuck-toy in their merciless hands.

But she hasn't entirely given up. A last-ditch plan has taken shape in her reeling brain; a final hope. She has to hold out – to delay them long enough for Commissioner Biggar and his cops to get here. If she can keep the bikers engaged long enough, keep them playing without their completely breaking her will, there's at least a hope that she'll be rescued before their leader can use against her whatever process they used on the schoolgirls. And if she can somehow keep them from fucking her too roughly, her body might recover enough for her to manage a surprise or two of her own.

The key to this plan is to suck. Suck like she's never sucked before. And she can do it; virgin though she is – was – she'd had plenty of oral experience at high school, enough of it that some of her peers had joked about the aptness of her name being Swallow Dix. She's putting some of that practice to use now, flickering her tongue saucily along the undersides of the cocks being forced crudely into her mouth, putting a subtle flick of the wrist into her wanking of the big stiffies in each of her hands, trying to focus on the task at hand and block out the utter misery of knowing that her only hope to continue being a heroine is in giving blowjobs like an expert whore. If she can just keep them distracted, hopefully wear a few of them out, she might at least be able to keep them from fucking her ass the way Snake had done.

It's not much of a plan, admittedly. But it's all I've got, the Damsel of Daring thinks as she sucks frantically, spit slopping down her chin and onto her bouncing breasts. The trouble is that she's battling just to keep conscious as her ultra-sensitive body betrays her, each trip up and down the turgid dick beneath her hitting squarely on her G-spot and sending endless waves of spasmodic pleasure radiating through her stuffed pussy and washing out to the soles of her feet, the tips of her fingers, her tingling scalp... her whole body jolting with climax after climax as she sucks and fucks with wild abandon. The truth is, it's the pleasure itself that's making her suck like a whore. She doesn't know if she's just rationalizing that as a “plan” in the corners of her mind... and she's not sure it really matters anyway. She just needs something to cling to. As her pussy squelches and squirts around the cock again, she holds on to the thought: Just hold out... hold out somehow and they'll rescue me...

“Uggghhhhh,” groans the biker underneath her. “So good... so tight... gonna...”

“NNNNGHHHHGGGLLCKKHHHHH!” she gurgles around the prick pumping into her throat as she feels the dick swell inside her. No... oh no, if he cums, I'm gonna get off even harder... Even as the thought begins to form, she can feel the hot jets of spunk spurting out, drenching her inner walls as her cunt clutches in the almost painful throes of her most powerful orgasm yet. She's not even conscious of grinding down on the erupting tool, drawing out her own pleasure even as the cocks in her hands begin to twitch and the member thrust down her throat begins to swell yet larger. “NNNGGGLLLCCCKHHHHHH! GGGGLLLCCKKKHHHHHH! HHLLLLAGHHCCKKHHHH!” She squeals helplessly as the amazing orgasm rocks her world.

A moment later, she's swallowing desperately as the cock in her mouth fills her throat with jism, choking it down as she feels hot ropes of spunk anointing her from either side as the cocks in her hands begin to jump and spit all over her. The load in her mouth is a bit too much, and she feels a stinging pain as it bubbles out her nose and bursts from her mouth to slop down between her titties as the biker pulls out, leaving her gulping in air as he wanks the last few splatters of his slimy cum all over her face. “Ahhhhhh... gaaahhhhh...” gasps the overwhelmed young heroine in shock, her mind reeling from the filthiness of her situation even as she unconsciously reaches up to smear the hot sperm all over her soft skin, rubbing it over her gleaming mammaries, wiping it from her face and licking it from her fingers, her pussy clutching in a mini-orgasm as the seaweedy flavour unaccountably thrills her tastebuds.

Well... at least they're done... she miserably tries to tell herself. Only like... a dozen more cocks to go... But now she remembers how Snake had stayed rock-hard when he was raping her, and realizes with a soft moan of despair that the cock inside her now isn't slackening one bit, despite having pumped her womb full of a massive load! Looking around she, she gapes as she sees that the cocks that have just drenched her in jizz are all still tumescent and waggling at her... and that more are coming forward and joining them! The horrified realization suddenly hits her: Oh God... No! Sexual stamina is part of their powers! None of them are going to let up... none of them!

“Sorry boys,” a voice she recognizes as Snake's says from just behind her. “I have got to fuck this ass again.”

“No... no please... have mercy... PLEEE-heeeaase...” she whimpers as she feels his greasy digits prying her buttocks apart and fingering her pucker. But the others just laugh and cheer him on, saying there's plenty to go around, and a moment later she can feel his hot cockhead pressing against her tight sphincter and realizes that, for the first time, she's about to take cocks in both her pussy and her ass! “No... NO-hooooo... noooo-MMMPHHHHHHH!”

A fresh cock plunges past her salivating lips just as Snake rams his way back into her ultra-tight teen butthole! “MMMMPPHHHHHHHH!” she squeals as the feeling of both her bloated holes being invaded sends her well-stuffed pussy back over the edge. She feels someone reach down and flip up her goggles, the bikers savouring the priceless look in her eyes as the bitch takes her first double fuck, mewling helplessly around the meat stuffing her mouth as she cums hard!

Meanwhile, a second prick is prodding at her face, and the biker in her mouth pulls out a bit to allow his buddy to fish-hook her cheek and make room to stuff his sausage between the rookie do-gooder's lips, sliding in alongside his friend's shaft! The Damsel of Daring's eyes go even wider as the two men grab her wrists and force her to suck and wank two dicks at the same time, the perfect counterpoint to the double-stuffing of her slick, tight nether holes!

“MMMMPHHHHH-MMMPHHHHH-MMMMHHHMMMPHHHH-MMMMMMPHHHHHHHH!” the slut moans, disbelief and horror written all over her lovely features as she mouths and licks the hot double helping of man-meat while her body jolts with the dual rifling, the new sensation swiftly driving her into yet another explosive orgasm that makes her wank and suck all the harder: “MMMMMMHMMMMMPHHHH! MMMMMHHHMMMMPHHHHHH! MMMMMM-MMPHHHHHH!”

Before long, she can feel her rapists quickening toward another sticky explosion of cum, and knows that the feeling of having her insides painted with jism will drive her wild even as she tries to choke down a double helping of hot spunk. And she can sense the bodies of more of the rapists crowding in behind the ones taking her now – all of them sporting throbbing hard-ons, supernatural stamina and the worst of intentions. They'll destroy me... she realizes in terror. They'll ruin me! They'll fuck me until I can't remember my own name! Oh God... please, Commissioner, you've got to help me... please save me...

Then she feels the cocks ram home deep in her ass and pussy, the bikers hollering as they cream her with blast after blast after double-barrelled blast of boiling spunk... and all thoughts of rescue are shredded away by the blindingly intense climax ripping through her. “MMMMM-HHHHHMMMMPHHHHHHHHHH!!”

* * *

What follows is a disoriented blur of positions, of penetrations, of orgasms and humiliations that seems at once to last forever and at the same time to pass in an eyeblink. Miss Adventure only remembers snatches of it: squealing at the top of her lungs the first time two cocks stretch her pretty pussy to the limit; nearly passing out when she's forced to take a double-penetration in her ass; cringing from the bikers' laughter and insults and kicks and slaps; one of them rutting away on top of her with her thighs spread wide, spitting in her face and calling her a slut as she grinds against him and cums unwillingly on his dick... it all blurs together into a pastiche of brutal, spirit-crushing multi-orgasmic sensual torment. Her fracturing mind prays for it to end even as her wanton, traitorous ulta-sensitive body offers up its squirting, clutching, writhing, degrading surrender over and over again.

When the interruption finally comes, she's just endured another face-down, ass-up rape of her tightest hole. As she trembles in the aftermath of the latest wave of orgasm, one of the bikers has wrapped a chain around her neck and forces her to crawl on all fours over to the puddle of jism and squirted cuntal nectar that had pooled under her on the concrete. Her stomach rebels at his curt order to lick it up, but she remembers the last one who'd aimed a playful kick at her – nothing like the mighty blow Snake had used to fold her, but it had winded her and damned near re-broken her ribs – and shivers with fear. She can't take the pain, the humiliation of being kicked and cursed like a dog... and snivelling, she bends down, miserably extending her tongue... disgust and nausea making her head swim... and finally, swallowing the last remnants of her pride, she begins to lap at the puddle.

It's in that moment that she hears something, at the entry to the warehouse. A sound that brings hope soaring back into her heart: the chatter of police radios! The police... oh thank God... the police are here! She'd forgotten they were coming! I don't care what powers the Free Radicals have... they can't fight off the entire PCPD... I'm saved! It's over, oh thank God thank God thank you God it's finally over... Tears of relief course down her face as she lifts her head up hopefully, and a moment later she hears one of the Free Radicals' voices – a lookout, perhaps – shout: “Comin' in!”

As she hears the footsteps of the cops moving in, she looks around her, waiting for the Free Radicals to react with alarm, to flee, to pull their weapons, to alert their boss. But confusingly, none of that happens. The bikers straighten their clothes and tuck their members back into their pants, zipping up but otherwise not bothering to conceal the impressive bulges. They seem almost nonchalant. Her ultra-senses may be haywire, but she can still make out their heartbeats thumping all around her, accelerating slightly – but not in fear, much less in panic. Just caution. They all seem eerily calm. The teen heroine blinks in confusion. Maybe they're just... just being overconfident...

Gathering her courage, the Damsel of Daring calls out in a quavering voice: “Officers! Help! Over here! A Muh – Masked Avenger needs your assistance! And b - be careful!”

Her consternation deepens as, to her surprise, the bikers just chuckle all around her. “She's ruh - right, uh - officers,” Snake drawls in mockery of her fearful stammer. “We're over here.”

The cops come into sight, more than two dozen of them, most of them in SWAT gear carrying rifles with flashlights mounted on them. Leading them, still dressed in his tux from the party at Cunnie Manor, is the heavyset form of Commissioner Frank Biggar himself. As they come into view of the cluster of bikers and the naked and abused form of Miss Adventure in their midst, she can see some of the cops check themselves for a moment in surprise.

But others show no surprise at all. And one of those others is Frank Biggar. As he comes to a halt in front of her, looking down at her sweat- and spunk-soiled body from his jowly Basset Hound-like features, Miss Adventure finds his face inscrutable. Even cold. A terrible premonition begins to flutter in her stomach... but she breathes slowly, trying not to panic. Easy girl... don't jump to conclusions... they're here to help you, of course they are, they're just... just lulling the criminals into a false security. Yeah, that must be it!

Biggar is silent for a long moment before he says: “Jesus Christ, she's a mess.”

“Part of the process, brother,” replies Snake. “We've got to shake 'em up before Octavian and his rig go to work. Best way for it to take.”

“I'm not your 'brother,'” Biggar says sharply. “And I don't know that I'm buying that 'process' shit, either. You ask me, I think you people just have no self-control.”

Bewildered at how the conversation is unfolding, at why the bikers aren't just being arrested, Miss Adventure tries to steer it back to where it should be. “Uhhhh, Commissioner Biggar,” she says, hating how small and fragile she sounds: “I w – wish to report that these men have... have attacked and... uhhh... s – sexually assaulted me...”

“You don't say.” There's clearly a sardonic note in Biggar's voice now. “Tell you what, sweet tits: shut your pie-hole and let the grown-ups talk for a second.”

The abused teen heroine is shocked into silence. What the – But then the biker holding her chain leash says, “Yeah, bitch, and you still have some floor polishing to finish. Get the fuck back down and keep licking.” As he grabs her hair and forces her head back down, she tries gamely to resist, looking around at the cops and pleading with her eyes, terrified at being forced to abase herself so utterly in front of the city's finest. But nobody says anything or moves a muscle, and whimpering as the biker gives her a hard slap across her ripe ass, Miss Adventure miserably bends down to continue lapping up the puddle of her own juices. A humiliation deeper than she'd thought possible makes her head spin... she simply can't process it. And she can't give up the idea that their weird show of indifference must be some game the cops are playing with their quarry. That must be it... they've got to help me...

Biggar, meanwhile, turns back to Snake. “Look, 'process' or not, we don't have an infinite amount of time for you Neanderthals to spend getting your rocks off here. You made trouble when you let this bimbo somehow steal those schoolgirls from you. They were seen walking into the Ninth District station, it'll be tricky to just make them disappear now.”

“That's your problem, pal -- “ starts Snake, anger in his voice now, but Biggar cuts him off.

“No, it's your problem, actually.”

As he talks, Biggar's eyes slide over Miss Adventure's submissive nakedness, making her want to shrink into herself as he watches her cleaning the concrete with her pink tongue like a cat licking up spilled cream, a disturbing gleam in his eye. She desperately tries to work out what's going on here, what kind of mind game the Commissioner is playing with these villains. The sweat on her flesh is chilling her as she pauses to choke down a mouthful of noisome fluid, stealing quick little glances as she does so of the bickering men, the hard expressions on the bikers' faces, the cool calm on the cops' features. Then the biker's boot nudges her arse, and she bends miserably back to rasping her tongue along the filthy ground.

Biggar goes on: “You see, we had to process them as kidnapping victims. Now we can't hide the fact that they all came in wearing supernatural ink that allows strangers to control their actions. When it goes public, and we're talking hours here, it means the beginning of a manhunt, which eventually will have to look for a group of paranormal bikers... an investigation I can't hinder.” Looking back up at the bikers, he adds: “The Free Radicals will be fugitives in a matter of days, and that's being generous. Plus, the Adventurist will be back.”

“The Adventurist,” scoffs Snake, but there's a tell-tale uncertainty in his voice now. “He doesn't scare us. We're free Anglo-Saxon...”

“Free Anglo-Saxon warriors, yeah, I remember hearing that somewhere. But he should scare you.” Biggar smirks humourlessly. “After all, he's one of the best who ever lived, and he has twenty times the power of the little bimbo spokesmodel who just made all this trouble for you... for us. And our Masked Avengers will have to back him, at least publicly. There aren't enough kickbacks in the world to get even the most corrupt capes to openly take on the Big Red Retard. It's a risky situation for everybody.”

“So...”

“So, we get this show on the road as quickly as possible, that's what.” The Commissioner looks down at her again, his eyes like chips of stone under his heavy eyebrows. “Get her processed, get her out, get the schoolgirl bitches back under wraps. We've moved the whole timetable forward. The auction happens tonight.”

Shivering in dread now, it begins to dawn on the Damsel of Daring that Biggar might actually not be playing some elaborate game with the Free Radicals. But it's crazy... he's talking like he's in league with them... like the whole city government is in league with them, and the local Masked Avengers, too! They can't be... can they? The dread begins to deepen. Breaking off from her enforced licking of the concrete, the heroine looks up at him in utter horror. Oh God... oh my God no... no, it can't be... back at the Manor... he wanted to arrest these men, to get here before I did... didn't he? And what does he mean... “auction”?

Biggar seems to see the question in her wounded look. “Awwww, don't be like that,” he mocks her with a cold, brutal smile. “We've been running a file on you and your man long before you got to Phoenix City. Getting the Adventurist out of the way, staging a conversation to lure you in... it was easy as pie. Orders came from the Mayor himself.” And she recoils as he reaches down to cup her chin in a pantomime of affection. “Oh yes... and I'll tell you something else, free of charge. I've always hated you busybody Masked Avenger heroine cunts. A lot of my cops feel the same way. Dressing like fucking dirty sluts, stealing the glory from real cops, making a mockery of justice... I love seeing you get treated like you deserve. Hell, I almost wish I could keep you for myself.” He rubs at his crotch suggestively, chuckling as she tries to recoil again in disgust. “Too bad that's not on the cards,” he adds: “But not to worry... there's someone special waiting on you, you'd better believe it.”

Her stomach flops as the full import of what he's saying hits her. She remembers suddenly the way the Free Radicals had turned their music up when they'd been alerted to her presence... as if they were ready for her. As if someone had told them she was coming, told them all about her powers and abilities...

... as if she'd been betrayed long before the thought of going after these criminals had even entered her head!

Oh my God... they were all in on it from the beginning! They're evil... all of them! We've all been claimed by pure evil! Oh my God oh my God... we're all doomed! There's no way out! Nausea sweeps through her as the totality of the betrayal comes clear, as it becomes obvious that there will be no rescue coming from the police, no escape from the hideous fate they've planned for her. A moment later, the sick horror of her situation overwhelms her and she abruptly finds herself leaning forward and vomiting up what little is left in her stomach. Her head spinning as the biker with the chain at her neck yanks it back, she looks up to see the Commissioner has stepped back fastidiously, preserving his expensive patent-leather shoes and curling his lip in distaste.

“Alright then,” she hears Snake say. “Come on up and talk to Octavian. We can work it fast if we need to.” And then to her: “Okay, baby. Time for your makeover. Nighty-night...”

No no no NO... she struggles weakly, but is helpless to stop the syringe full of knock-out drug from being rammed into her fleshy butt-cheek. The world is set to reeling again as the plunger on the syringe goes down and the cocktail slams into her bloodstream. Her healing factor is still fighting, but the third consecutive injection of the powerful drug is too much for it to handle on top of everything else. The world spins, getting dimmer and dimmer as she prays to her last hope: Please, Mister A... please find me... please help me... please save me...

And then the world dwindles to a pinpoint... and vanishes. Lights out.

8

Whip Slut once had a name... a real name. She's been trying, trying to remember what it was, trying to remember who she had been... but it's gone, locked away deep inside her. All that defines her now are the tattoos on her skin – all the crude and vicious sexual demands and vulnerabilities they dictate. The persistent horniness in her rich, curvy body, the need to obey her “Daddy,” the yearning to be whipped and spanked that tingles constantly through her soft, smooth flesh, prodigious glutes and dripping pussy... these things are what it means to be Whip Slut. Even as she kneels as ordered to one side of the space in which her “Daddy” had broken her, had broken and tamed and claimed all the members of what he calls the Slut Squad, she squirms unconsciously as if her booty is being spanked by an imaginary masculine hand.

She observes what's going on around her as if from a great distance. She has a vague sense that it might be important, but isn't sure how. The bikers are gone now, the roar of their bikes heading out of the warehouse shaking the building a few minutes before... all of them except “Daddy.” They've been replaced by rifle-carrying cops in ceramic body armour with the letters PCPD on their bulletproof vests, accompanied by a heavyset, jowly-looking man in a tux. The fact of their all being men means cocks inside their pants, means balls filled with tasty sperm, and the I Suck Cock and I Swallow Cum tattoos on Whip Slut's titties glow slightly as her mouth waters at the thought. A vague wail of humiliated horror echoes somewhere in the depths of her lost and shattered soul, but then it's gone.

The men are all chatting quietly, some of them openly admiring the bodies of the three Slut Squad members who kneel demurely with their hands behind their heads, thrusting their tits out for male appreciation the way Daddy told them to. The sumptuous blonde Dumb Slut lets out a moan of wanton pleasure as one of the SWAT team members cups and fondles one of her sexy double-D's out of curiosity.

Daddy, meanwhile – Octavian – is crouched over the form of a new girl, a shapely-bodied, creamy skinned babe with huge tits for her petite frame, indeed huge tits by any standard. She's unconscious, her head lolling, her face beautifully sculpted with soft, kissable features and pouty lips, her hair a kind of light brown or dirty blonde in a short cut that would normally hang just below her ears, but is now thoroughly messed and plastered down with sweat. A sopping-wet slingshot thong in patriotic colours had been her only real attire, pulled aside to reveal her breasts, sex and ass in all their glory – but Octavian had quickly removed it along with her fingerless blue gloves and blue choker, leaving her utterly naked except for the sleek blue goggles perched atop her head. A cute little fleece of dirty-blonde pubic hair at her crotch had quickly been shaved away with the sharp blade of his knife.

And now Daddy is doing what he does best: burning colourful ink into her skin with the nimble tentacles of his supernatural tattooing rig. He's talking to the man in the tux while he works. “I'm trusting you, Biggar,” he says, and there is menace in his voice. “My boys had better not run into some kind of ambush while they're over there retrieving your schoolgirls.”

“There'll be a few cops around,” says the tuxedo-clad man, Biggar. “But I've got most of them out searching some warehouses far from here for Miss Adventure and the Slut Squad over there. It'll be minimal resistance, and besides, everyone in my Department who isn't a beat cop already knows you're protected. If your boys are as tough as you claim, they should be able to handle a few uniforms.”

“So, what then?”

“Simple enough. We hide your bike and your rig in the back of a paddy wagon and drive you and your latest masterpiece here over to the site to meet up with your crew. We'd planned the auction for tomorrow, but we won't lose much by stepping it up to tonight. Once it's done, you all take your cut and skip town. We do what we can to cover your tracks, we blame the disappearances on you, and we handle transporting the girls to their new owners from here.”

“And from there on, we're on our own, right?” There's an edge of bitterness in Octavian's voice. “Fugitives. Taking the heat off you and your Machine.”

“Wealthy fugitives, don't forget. And hey, the plan wasn't for you to be under any heat, but you blew that, didn't you?” Biggar looks at the biker's tattoo work curiously. “Besides, you prefer it this way. 'Free Anglo-Saxon warriors' and all that jazz, am I right or am I right?”

Octavian just grunts at the edge of mockery in Biggar's tone, and says nothing more.

Whip Slut hears all the words, but they mean little to her. Mainly, she's watching in fascination as the tattoos take shape on the taut-bodied teenaged beauty's pale skin. One at her collarbone says, in ornate script, “Just Another Victim”. As the needles work with their unnatural rapidity, more messages appear. Each of the girl's tits acquires the word “Milk Factory,” and as the tattoos appear, they begin to glow slightly; the huge double-D's they're adorning swell even bigger as trickles of pale liquid begin to leak from the stiff pink nipples, the unconscious beauty moaning faintly as it happens. Just across her ribcage appear the words “Milk My Big Tits & Make Me Cum” in a small, spidery script with flowery scroll-work. Around her belly button appear the familiar words “Daddy's Slave,” and an arrow appears just above her shaved cunt with messages above it: “I ♥ Black Dick” to the left, and “Fresh Cherry Pie” to the right. He scrawls something on either side of her denuded labia which can just be seen to read “Multi-” and “-Climax.” At each of her hips is scrawled a message, one saying “I'm a Screamer” and the other – Daddy doesn't stop Whip Slut from craning to see it – saying “I'm a Crybaby.”

Now the girl gets sleeve tattoos all the way down her arms, and Whip Slut gasps at the ornate and brilliant work the Satanic needles carry out. On the girl's right shoulder, the needles harrow out the message: “My Fave Perversions.” Then down her arms, intertwining with numerous tiny, detailed pictures of fornicating figures – men and women of every race, dogs, octopi, weird monsters all screwing the hell out of identical tiny female figures that look like miniature versions of the girl – are small scrolls detailing various sex acts. “Gang Bangs.” “Bestiality.” “Golden Showers.” “Anal Rape.” “Water Bondage.” As he pulls her left arm across her breasts to work on it, Whip-Slut can see similar decorations taking shape, along with another suite of phrases: “Donkey Punching.” “Cum Eating.” “Tit Torture.” “Salad Tossing.” “Foot Worship.” There are admiring grunts from the various cops and even from Biggar himself as the sublime, terrible, vicious body art takes shape.

Octavian is sweating with the intensity of the work as he flips the unconscious girl over to work on her back. The first tattoo is a big, splashy piece between her shoulder-blades that says “Ready to Fuck” in elaborate Gothic lettering. Surrounding the message, intricate pictures of enormous penises appear, virile and veiny members of every shape and colour twining through and between and around the words like tentacles, spewing out white froth that forms a dripping border around the text. Nodding and looking impressed, the cops actually greet the completion of this piece with a smattering of applause. But Octavian isn't done yet: at the base of the girl's spine he places the words “Filthy Whore,” and above and below them in much smaller lettering the messages “Everything You Want $5” and “My Pussy's Wet For You.” And then, on each of her supple ass-cheeks, a series of three arrows point at three different angles inward, oriented straight at her tight pucker. Above each of the arrows is a different message: “Spunk Goes Here,” “Hurt Me Hard,” “Make Me Squeal” on the left; and “Wreck My Ass,” “Cock Wanted: Apply Within” and “Go Balls Deep” on the right.

As the last of it is finished, Biggar can't help but give a low whistle of appreciation. “Hats off to you, Octavian, I've got to admit it. That is some truly nasty shit right there.”

“Yeah, well, your precious Mayor didn't hire me for nothing.” Whip Slut notices the way Biggar's jaw tightens at that remark. She wonders why Daddy doesn't seem to notice it, but then the artist is focused on his work. “Anyway, I'm not done quite yet. Get your boys to hold her arms and legs down. It's time for the final flourish... and this may wake her up.”

After a moment, Biggar nods to a few of the cops, and four of them come forward, each grabbing a limb, turning over and splaying out the hapless captive as Octavian looms over her. Sweat dripping from his face now, the ominous-looking biker wears a look of intense concentration. “What did that Spic bastard say?” he mutters aloud to himself. “Think heat, and...” And a high-pitched whirring sound comes from the needles on each of the four metal tentacles as they hover menacingly over the creamy-skinned teen hottie's defenceless flesh!

After a few moments, the needles start to glow, coloured first red and then white with incandescent heat! Gritting his teeth, Octavian concentrates for a few second more... and then fishes something out from a pocket of his leather vest. He lunges forward now, gripping the unconscious babe's jaws and prying them open, pulling out her pretty pink tongue between two powerful fingers and...

“Nnnguuuhhhhhhh...” moans the drugged beauty as one of the white-hot needles stabs through her tongue! She thrashes weakly as Octavian thrusts something through the hole he's created, and just like that, her tongue has been pierced through and decorated with a tiny metal barbell! Open laughs and cheers come from the group of cops now as the degrading oral decoration is fixed in place!

The ritual is repeated with the busty beauty's left tit, and then the right, each resulting in a ring dangling from a bullet-stiff, leaky nipple as her moans grow louder, the captive's eyelids starting to flutter. They flutter again, more pronouncedly yet, the young slut's muscles going rigid as the white-hot needles pierce her navel and Octavian decorates it with a dangling rhinestone stud. “Yeah... that's it...” mutters Octavian: “Gonna make you nice and pretty, bitch...” As he says it, his tentacles are moving up to pierce the base of the girl's nose, allowing him to insert another, bigger ring through it.

Finally he moves a hand down, caressing slowly and sensually at the juncture of the teen's splayed thighs. Her head begins to roll back and forth as her hot little clitty visibly swells and stiffens, juices starting to leak from her hot pink cunt. Whip Slut finds herself wincing as she watches the white-hot needles hover, moving downward over the taut young flesh lying at their mercy. For a long moment, Octavian seems to hesitate... and then one of the tentacles snaps forward in a sinuous motion like the strike of a cobra!

“AAAAUUUUGGGGHHHHHHH!” A deeply sensual moan erupts from the young girl's throat as the white-hot needle jabs right through the hood of her love-button! Her eyes flutter open, her whole body going rigid, writhing as Octavian slides another small metal barbell into place, decorating her vulnerable clit as she cries out! “UUUUUGHHHHHH... AAAAAGHHHHHH... AIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!” she gives a piercing full-throated scream, thrashing helplessly against the powerful grip of four hulking cops as her pussy erupts in orgasm, clutching and squirting repeatedly as an overwhelming mixture of agony and ecstasy wracks her young body! She wriggles and cums over and over, shuddering with sensation and splashing Octavian repeatedly with her sweet teen juices before her eyes roll back in her head and, giving a final groan, she subsides back into drugged oblivion! Whip Slut's own wet pussy quivers inside in sympathetic envy.

Octavian.. Daddy... is panting as his work of art reaches completion, his hard-on fairly bursting through the crotch of his pants as he looks down at the inked-up, multiply-pierced whore his Satanic powers have created. He seems transported for a long moment, then comes back to himself, shaking his head to clear it. Finally he looks around at the cops and gives an evil, crooked grin.

“There you have it, gents,” he says grandly. “One Filthy Whore delivered as ordered. You can thank me later. Let's give her back her choker, now... this bitch is done.”

Wow... so hot... is all Whip Slut can think as the cops burst into a spontaneous standing ovation, even Biggar grinning and joining them in exultation at the young beauty's utter ruination. She's so lucky to have Daddy's ink all over her... Daddy's so good to his sluts...

The thoughts feel terribly wrong. And yet they feel so very, very right.

* * *

Miss Adventure drifts in a netherworld of terrible nightmare.

She dreams that she's in the grip of a group of horrific, horned demons. They hold her arms and legs immobile, splaying her out as they slaver over her bared, taut flesh, laughing as a weird creature made of horrible white-hot tentacles burns her over and over, writing terrible curses into her skin and seeming to set iron bands around her mind and soul at the same time. Its searing attentions torment her, making her writhe as the commands it sets in her flesh make her hot and horny, her pussy suddenly swelling and dripping as her mind conjures spectres of a horde of night-black demons in the shadows behind it, breathing heavily, waiting to rape her with enormous, steel-hard members as she screams and sobs in desperate, hysterical denial.

All the while she can hear a distant echo of the Adventurist's voice echoing through the darkness. “Know your enemy's capabilities,” he lectures her from far, far away. “It can be a very unpleasant surprise to discover that a villain is stronger than you'd thought he was.” And: “You can use your beauty to distract male enemies... but when doing this, make sure they never gain the upper hand. The consequences can be terrible.” And: “Be careful whom you trust. Sometimes your greatest enemies will present themselves to you as allies in a cause.”

As he says it, her big tits begin to swell. She feels them growing heavy, starting to leak an acidic fluid that burns her skin and burns her even deeper with humiliation. “Why are you just talking?” she pleads with the disembodied voice of her mentor. “Why won't you help me?”

The Adventurist's deep, rich voice had once inspired confidence and even worship in her. She'd dreamed long ago of being his companion. But now the advice is bitter, a mockery, too little and too late to help her deal with her captivity in the hands of horrible, hideous demons. He talks and talks, seeming to comment on her plight until: “Shut up,” she finds herself praying. “Shut up... shut up... either help me get free or stop lecturing me, you son of a bitch...”

But he certainly doesn't help her get free. Suddenly, the tentacle demon begins to stab her with white-hot energy: ripping her tongue asunder, jabbing both her nipples, her belly button, the base of her nose... and tearing into her clit, making her explode with passion as huge, distending objects are thrust into the holes in her flesh, weighting her down as she thrashes weakly against the grip of the terrible demons.

Finally she feels something even more terrible: a collar clamping around her neck, feeling somehow like a part of her, a terrible power thrumming through her, a power that recognizes the deforming and vicious abuses meted out to her body as being part of her now, a power that will defend the outrages committed against her flesh as if she was born with them. “Your healing-factor is a great advantage,” lectures the Adventurist's deep, rich voice as she weeps with terror. “But it can be perverted into a great disadvantage by a canny and immoral enemy. Always be on your guard.”

She might be strong enough now to shake the demons loose... except that the swaddling darkness prevents her from moving. And somehow, she can't muster the will to do anything anyway. “I'm just another victim,” whispers a sinful spell inside her head. “It's no use fighting. I'll always lose.” And another insidious whisper says: “I'm just a Filthy Whore. I'll do anything for five dollars. My pussy is so wet for dick.” She sobs inwardly, trying to deny the eldritch powers ensnaring her... but as the demons let her go and the darkness embraces her, she realizes she doesn't have the strength. There's no point in resisting. Victims submit, they give up, they bow down. She's just another one. Even with strength coursing through her, she has no strength.

She feels herself floating, then. Drifting down deeper into the abyss. Yet as if they're right next to her, she can hear two of the demons talking to each other.

One says: “Okay, Biggar, I've done my bit. I'm expecting you to do yours.”

The other says: “Don't worry. Just wait here for a second. Once we've got your bike and the girls secure in the wagon, I'll call up. My boys here will take good care of you.”

Heavy footsteps. As she floats, she can see the squat, paunchy form of a demon in an expensive tux walking behind her. Its face is the face of a dog, its eyes glow with malice, foam drips down its chin. It follows her down and down, its tongue slavering, its breath reeking of motor oil and corruption and death. Finally, whatever is carrying her sets her down on a hard, cold surface, like the floor of a stage coach. There are other girls here, too, with her. Three of them, victims like her. She can smell them, taste them, hear their hearts beating. None of them says anything. Maybe they can't see her through the floating darkness wrapped around her. As metal doors clang shut behind them, the shrieking of hellish horses rises to pierce her ears as the coach's driver prepares for departure.

But she can hear other things too, from all around the demonic, abyssal palace they're in. The power radiating from the collar at her neck... it lets her hear things, smell things, feel things, everything with ultimate clarity. She remembers somehow that there used to be a way to control the power. But the details are gone from her memory, locked behind a wall of curses. She's just a victim now, and a victim doesn't know how to control anything at all.

So she hears the demonic voice that had addressed 'Biggar,' the voice now muttering as if to itself, sounding almost like it's right next to her. “What's taking so fucking long,” it mutters. “Should've never let him talk me into sending my boys off like that... fuck. Got to keep it together. Things are moving too fast. That bastard's gotta be planning a double cross. But you're all in for a surprise if you think you can cross the Free Rads. We'll rip your whole goddamned city a new asshole... I'll bury every goddamned one of you. We go down and you all go down...”

Cutting over the constant muttering comes the louder, closer voice of the dog-demon named 'Biggar.' He's speaking to someone. “Okay,” he says. “Packages are secure. Do him, retrieve the rig and torch the building. I want his body and his bike at the bottom of the Lake in fifteen minutes.”

Another demon's voice replies neutrally: “Yes, sir.”

The nervous mutterer suddenly breaks off, then says in confusion: “Hey, what the fuck – no, wait, you can't – you're cops!” The sounds of a violent scuffle break out, the smack of fist against flesh, again and again, the sounds of men crying out and cursing, the sickening crunch of breaking bones... and then a burst of gunfire cuts it all off. Scattered curses from some of the demons: “Goddamn, he broke my fucking nose!” “Fernandez is down!” The muttering voice, meanwhile, is wheezing brokenly now: “Fucking... pigs... fuck you...” Another burst of gunfire. The voice has stopped talking, replaced by gurgling breaths. Another burst of gunfire and the gurgling has faded to a series of small, rapid gasps. A final burst of gunfire... and the voice is silent.

She hears 'Biggar' give a low chuckle. “Too bad, tough guy,” he says, his brutish voice dripping with satisfaction. “You sure as shit weren't bulletproof.” His voice seems to grow slightly more distant as his heavy footsteps sound in the echoing galleries of the demonic palace. He's speaking to someone else now. “Report... okay, that's good. Any casualties? ... Ahhh, too bad, he was a good kid. I'll have to pay his parents a visit.” The demon's voice is almost absent-minded as it says this, but then it grows intense. “Now, let's get to business. I want you to converge all available tactical units on the drop location we gave them. I mean everything we have, understand? Once you have the cargo in hand, bring the hammer down. I don't want any loose ends on this... Alright, good, I'll hold you to that. And bring the cargo to the Manor, they'll be starting up the auction soon.”

She floats, floats in the darkness as she feels the coach begin to move, its infernal horses shrieking. Lassitude and despair have her in their grip... but those words “the auction” still send cold fingers of fear dancing across her flesh...

* * *

The girl's eyes open blearily as she emerges back into consciousness. Looking around her, she sees a room – a strikingly normal-looking room, a study tastefully decorated in warm rosewood panelling, with a plush white carpet. She's lying on the plush white carpet. She can feel it, soft against her skin. And somewhere nearby, muffled, she can hear music... familiar-sounding music. There's a desk across from her, and looming high over it, a portrait of an intense, athletic-looking man with grey hair and severe features. The nameplate at the bottom of the portrait reads: Peter Cunnie.

It's a name she recognizes. Peter Cunnie was the patriarch of Phoenix City's most powerful political clan and founder of the famous Cunnie Machine. She's in Cunnie Manor! A wave of relief washes over her as she thinks for a moment that she's woken up from a nightmare, that she'd had a horrible dream of being betrayed and overcome by evil adversaries, but really she'd been here all this time in a normal place with a normal-sounding cocktail party close to hand.

Thank God, she thinks. Wow, to think I was tempted to go off alone... I sure won't be doing that! Nothing but playing by the book from now on for this Filthy Whore...

... wait, what?

She tries to remember her name again. My name... what's my name? Oh God... what's my name? As she tries to think of it, the answer keeps coming back as if blazoned across her brain in burning letters: Filthy Whore. My name is Filthy Whore. There was another name, once, but it keeps vanishing into the fog. Icy terror courses through her veins as she senses more and more messages seared into her consciousness, like chains wrapped tight around her mind. I'm Daddy's slave. I'm a screamer. I'm a crybaby. I love black dick. My pussy is wet. I'm ready to fuck. Hurt me hard. Make me squeal. Wreck my ass. They go on and on, accompanied by image after image of the teenaged beauty being defiled by everything from big swarthy men to tentacled monstrosities... and accompanied also by terrible memories of being defeated, captured and broken in an abandoned warehouse. She feels tears well in her eyes – and hot wetness in her pussy, and tingling horniness all through her taut body, and a swollen pressure in her big, beautiful tits.

Terrified, she looks down at her naked body, giving out a little shriek as she sees the tattoos, the rings in her stiff nipples, the words “Milk Factory” written on the top of each breast, the pale droplets of fluid leaking out. No... NO!! Clapping her hands over her mouth, she swallows a full-throated scream... along with an unusual amount of saliva. Her eyes go wide with horror as she works her tongue around inside her mouth, feeling something metallic scraping her palate and clicking against her teeth. Reaching up, she feels a big ring dangling from her nose, like something you'd use to decorate a cow. The capture... the rapes... the horror... it was all real! Oh my God, what have they done to me?

Sitting up awkwardly as she feels fluid sloshing around in her teats, the young hottie suddenly feels the world rushing in around her. She can feel every prickle of the carpet's fibres with clarity and intensity. From the nearby cocktail party she can hear people talking... audible, but deadened, and as she looks around at the leather padding all over the walls she realizes with dread: sound-proofed. Normal hearing won't be able to detect what happens in here, but ultra-hearing can still penetrate beyond to an extent. And so from the wall opposite her, she can sense a hollow space... and hear echoing sounds in another room below. Sounds that her horrified mind shies away from. Climbing to her feet, clutching her arms around her naked form, she feels panic rising.

I've got to get out of here! I've got to get away! She can feel strength suffusing her limbs, turns and looks at the heavy oak door that's the only visible exit. Even if it's locked, she somehow knows that she could break it down... and she feels an animal urge to flee from that hollow wall and the horrible sounds beyond it. But even as she thinks of fleeing, more memories come swarming back unbidden. Memories of pain, of being beaten, of being raped and buggered and humiliated at the hands of uncouth criminals. What if... what if I make these people mad if I run? She swallows a whimper of fear. I'm just another victim... they'd just catch me and hurt me even worse... wouldn't they? Oh God, I couldn't take it...

She stands there for what seems like an eternity, her thoughts a frantic whirl of indecision and confusion, before she hears footsteps approaching the door. She quails back as it opens, half-expecting to see one of the demons that her mind had conjured up in her drugged, semi-conscious nightmare... but instead, it's a gangling, rail-thin youth in an expensive tuxedo, with a martini glass in hand. He smiles pleasantly at her, but she shrinks from the coldness in his eyes and hugs her arms more tightly around her fabulous tits.

She remembers his name, though. “R – Roger?” she says timidly. “What's... what's happening?” She can hear herself lisping slightly because of the foreign object stuck in her tongue.

Roger Cunnie ignores the question as he shuts the door, frankly ogling her piercings, her perverted tattoos and spectacularly nude flesh as he walks around her. “You sure are something,” he muses, echoing the first words he'd said to her at the cocktail party a few hours – or a lifetime – before. “Looks like you've had quite a night.”

She shudders in revulsion at the greedy look in his eyes... and in denial of the equally-greedy throbbing in her clit, the vulnerable wetness in her soft, shaved slit. Disoriented by the thought that keeps popping into her mind that she would do anything he wants for five dollars, she fights to get her head around the situation. “Please,” she implores him. “Please... I don't understand...”

“I have to admit,” he goes on, still ignoring her words. “I wasn't sure it would work. After all, who would really be stupid enough to take on a whole gang of bikers all by themselves?” He smiles, stepping closer to her, making her shiver deliciously as he runs a finger ever-so-lightly down her spine. “But the Old Man knew, he really did. He said there's nothing vainer or dumber than a rookie superheroine... and it looks like he was right. Doesn't it?”

Her breathing quickens as she tries to fight down the constant horniness in her body. She stifles a gaps as his hand slides down to the base of her spine... and then down further to clasp and squeeze a soft buttock. She feels a rivulet of hot pussy juice begin to trickle down her thigh. Squirming slightly, she murmurs: “Roger... please... don't do this... you're... you're a good person...”

“Good person, am I?” Roger's laugh is humourless, chilling. He releases her buttock for the moment, stepping back around in front of her. “The Old Man wouldn't agree with you, you know. He wasn't too pleased when he found out about my... particular sexual tastes. The great Mayor Dick Cunnie might screw the voters at the ballot box every few years, but his son tying up and screwing their daughters is over the line.” He grimaces briefly. “For a while I thought he even hated me... until he set all this up. He said if he couldn't change what I was, he'd at least help me to be the best at it.”

For a moment he seems lost in thought, as if trying to work out what had changed his powerful father's attitude. His captive stands quivering, her clit pulsating, her buttock hot where he'd fondled it, her heart pounding. She can't think of anything to say.

His expression clears quickly as he takes a sip of his martini, looking into her terrified eyes, and goes on: “Anyway, it's done, sister. There's no going back now, not for either of us... and I wouldn't have it any other way.” His gaze drifts back down her body, and he actually licks his lips like a wolf about to bite into a deer carcass. “You have no idea how hard it made me, watching your sexy ass sashay out of that party tonight to go fight evil, wondering if they'd bring you back to me just the way I ordered you. Picturing you, just like this. All mine.”

She looks fearfully at the massive tent growing in his pants as he speaks these words. Seeing the outline of his cock – a prodigious one, maybe even bigger than the flesh-poles the bikers had unleashed on her – makes her stomach flutter and her flesh tingle all over in anticipation... and dread. “The... the Adventurist...” she quavers, without conviction. “He'll come back, Roger, he... he won't let this happen...”

“Oh, I wouldn't worry about that.” Roger's hand comes up to stroke at his crotch as he talks. “The Old Man's got an... understanding with the Masked Avengers here. I'll bet your precious Adventurist is due for a little accident in the line of duty, but that's not your concern any more. And as far as you are concerned, my name isn't Roger.” He grins and says: “It's Daddy.”

The teen beauty freezes as she feels a new clamp descend around her mind, emanating from the eldritch writing at her belly-button. I am Daddy's Slave. The cruel light in his eyes makes her tremble. Oh God... I'm so fucked...

Stepping closer, he says: “Say your name.”

“My name is Filthy Whore.” The words come out of her mouth automatically, burning themselves into her mind at the same time. A tear slides down her cheek, a helpless part of her wailing in horror. God... that's really my name now... my name is Filthy Whore... what's going to happen to me...

“Really.” Roger is stroking at his bulging crotch more earnestly now. “Put your hands behind your head and show me your big tits, Filthy Whore. And spread your legs.”

She sniffles as her body, again, obeys the command instantly, her arms uncrossing from in front of her swollen, lactating breasts, their movement behind her head arching her back to thrust out the mouth-watering mammaries for inspection, while her arse thrusts out as she walks her legs wider apart, giving an enticing rearward view of her tight star and glistening gash. Roger gives a low whistle of appreciation, walking around her again and then stepping forward to examine her magnificent tits. She moans as he tugs at first one nipple ring, then the other, sending little bursts of sensation racing from her bullet-hard nipples down to her stiff clit, making her heart race and her pussy juices flow even faster. Rivulets of milk drip down from both nipples to spatter quietly on the carpet.

“Hmmmm,” he says, his tone playful. “What's that dripping from your nipples, Filthy Whore?”

“It's milk, Daddy.” Her voice is unsteady, tearful with helpless horror as another of the sorcerous tattoos seems to seize control of her mouth, and she goes on to explain: “My titties are milk factories, Daddy, and it makes me cum so hard when someone milks me.”

“You don't say. Let's see about that.” Roger gives a shit-eating grin as he drains his martini glass and sets it on the desk. As he steps in behind her, his hot, throbbing fabric-covered erection nestles in between her soft glutes, her whole body quivering as his masculine warmth amps up the lust in her lubricious cunt. She whimpers as one of his hands comes up, a large silk handkerchief in its grip, and he says: “Open your mouth, Filthy Whore.” More tears of shame streak down her face as she obeys, and balling up the fabric, he shoves it firmly between her drooling lips, gagging her and ordering her to bite down on it. She obeys.

And she lets out a muffled whine through the gag as his hands come up to maul her sensitive breasts. “Nice,” he breathes into her ear as he hefts the hot, supple, fleshy orbs in each hand. “These sure do feel full. Let's see what happens... if I do this.”

“NNNNNNnnnnngghhhhh...” the bitch moans lustily as he squeezes her pierced, inked, milk-filled mams. His hands grip and squeeze and slide forward on her amazing tits... first one, then the other, then one, then the other... the perverted sensation of his molestation making her breasts well and her nipples stiffen even more... the slut gasping as a stream of warm milk suddenly squirts out of one of her breasts! “NNNNNGGGGHHHHHHH!” she mewls, her eyes opening wide... it feels like her double-D boob is wired straight into her swollen love-button, and her sugar walls quiver, her juices dripping as another squeeze brings milk spurting out of her other breast! “NNNNNNGHHHHNNNGHHHHHHHHH!”

Her back arches, her plump ass squirming against Roger's throbbing hard-on as he milks her, driving her further toward a mind-blowing orgasm with each tug on her yummy tits. She writhes shamelessly in his grip as he pulls and pulls on her udders in earnest, his grip growing firmer, his pace picking up, each motion of his hands bringing out another squirt of sweet milk! And every squirt sends a bolt of lust deep into the torrid teen's quivering, dripping cunt as he drives her closer and closer to the edge!

“Yeah...” the pervert groans as his naked young sex slave grinds against him, her forced milking sending her deeper and deeper into the throes of helpless ecstasy. “You do love being milked like a fucking dairy cow, huh? Cum for me, you Filthy fucking Whore...”

“NNNNNNNGGGGGHHHHNNNNGHHHHHHH!” The Filthy Whore bawls her little lungs out, tears of confusion and despair and bewildering desire coursing down her cheeks as her ultra-sensitive cunny rubs against the hard lump at his crotch, the milking of her tits sending overwhelming waves of sensation from her tits right down into her tight twat over, and over, and over again until, until, until... “NNNNNNNGHHHHNNGGHHHHH! NNGGHHHH-HHNNGHHH! NNNNGHHHHHHNNNGHHHHNNGHHHHHHHNNNGHHHH!” She goes rigid as the spurting of milk from her big tits sends her over the edge, her pussy clutching and squirting as she drenches Roger's expensive tuxedo in her cunt nectar, screaming and squealing into her gag, her head spinning as wave after degrading wave of climax washes through the hot teen's body. “NNNNNNGGGHHHHNNGHHHHHNNNNNNGHHHHHH!”

Finally, after the first climax blends into a second and a third, the Filthy Whore buckles at the knees and sags to the ground. Chuckling, Roger pulls his improvised gag from her mouth, letting her slump down into a patch of carpet now soaked with her milk and pussy nectar, panting and sobbing in the aftermath of unwanted ecstasy, her eyes shut tight as if to shut out the nightmare. But she can feel a cool tingling in her tits... remembering it as something called a 'healing factor,' working to restore her body to 'normal.' In this case, what 'normal' means is replenishing the milk that Roger just squeezed from her breasts... and she lets out a loud whimper as she feels her huge udders swelling up again until they're just on the point of bursting, her pierced nipples once again letting loose stray droplets of fluid.

Oh God... my tits are always going to feel so full... so hot... so sensitive... She reaches up to fumble at her neck, feeling the last article of clothing left to her from her old life, the blue choker radiating the power of... of Adventure. A power that's been turned against her now, and she feels a giddy, desperate urge to rip it off. But Daddy hasn't told her to. Daddy might get mad. Miserably, her will failing, she lets her hand fall.

“That was fun, wasn't it?” says Roger. “But we're just getting started.” The sound of his zipper coming down makes the Filthy Whore jolt and look up in sudden fright... and gasp as the coldly-grinning deviant hauls out his cock! Thick as a baby's arm, crooked, slightly mottled and with a bulbous, grayish head like the cap of a mushroom, his ugly member is easily thirteen and a half inches long! Oh my God... he's going to make me take THAT? It'll rip me in two! She claps her hands over her mouth to stifle a squeak of horror as he strokes it, looking at her with evil in his eyes. But her tattoos are already glowing, mercilessly working on her. Wreck my ass. Hurt me hard. Make me squeal. My pussy's wet for it. I'm ready to fuck. I love eating cum. The phrases blaze into her broken mind, and she can feel her pussy heating up again, molten fuck-honey starting to drip from between her perfectly-formed nether lips.

“You like this? It's the Cunnie family heirloom, you know.” Roger gives his massive, almost deformed prick another admiring stroke. “All the way back to Grandpa Pete, all the Cunnie men have been hung like ponies. The Old Man always said he had the biggest balls in politics, and he wasn't lying. Now... what can I get for this, Filthy Whore?” Reaching into one of his pockets, he pulls out a five dollar bill.

Pulling her hands away from her mouth, she answers automatically: “You can have everything you want for five dollars, Daddy.” She feels utterly cheap and humiliated as she speaks the words, her voice quavering as she finds herself back on the edge of tears. I was a heroine... now I'm just a five dollar whore... please God let this nightmare end...

He laughs, tossing the bill at her. “That's a good Filthy Whore.” He grabs her hair and yanks her head toward his nasty dick, her nose wrinkling at the stink of sweat and piss rising from his genitals. “You know, there's no better feeling than owning a whore's pussy so totally that you can sell it to the highest bidder... but before I do that, I'm going to make sure I enjoy every one of your wet little fucking holes. Now... start sucking, slut.”

Big tears streak down the former teen heroine's cheeks as she opens her mouth as wide as she can get it. As the massive, salty dick rams its way into her salivating maw, twitching as it glides across the stimulating pressure of her pierced tongue, her eyes go wide as saucers. Is this it? the Filthy Whore wonders in despair. Is this the rest of my life? Please... please let Mister A come back and save me... oh God, I beg you... please have mercy...

9

When Gemma Lee had started the day, it had been completely normal. She'd gotten up, dressed in her cute little schoolgirl's uniform, eaten a bowl of cereal and kissed her mom and dad goodbye, daydreamed her way through classes as thoughts of pop star Dustin Greiber had made her all tingly-down-there. When she'd climbed on the bus for the field trip to the Natural History Museum, laughing and joking with her friends Effie and Mia and Suki, none of them had had a thought in their heads except how best to flirt with boys without their chaperone, the elderly Sister Mary Hartigan, catching them.

It had all turned into horror so abruptly that she still, from time to time, prays she's dreaming. The moment the bus had lurched to a stop, the driver shouting angrily at someone before the doors had been forced open and a gunshot had silenced him. Poor Sister Mary Hartigan screaming as the bikers had wrestled her off the bus and promptly thrown her into the river. The awful journey in the hijacked bus with a group of leering bikers aboard, laughing with each other as they fondled one and then another of the intimidated schoolgirls, the promise of hell in their brutal eyes.

And they'd delivered. Oh, how they'd delivered.

At first she had thought – when their leader burned his evil tattoo into her, the Satanic ink that forced her to Obey any command anyone had given her – that she would never escape the netherworld of brutal forced sex that had claimed her in that abandoned warehouse. She had sucked when they told her, fucked when they told her, thanked them and begged for more when they spanked her and slapped her and spat on her, couldn't stop her tight pink pussy from getting wet and cumming at their command. The bikers had seemed never to tire, never to run out of lust or spunk or cruelty. She had been used and abused, soiled and ruined, the virginity of her every orifice taken... and when they'd used her and her friends to draw in and entrap the brave group of heroines that tried to rescue them, she had Obeyed, leaving a terrible wound in her soul that might never heal, a wound even worse than the first agonizing violation of her pretty pink slit.

But then bright hope had come. The hope that was Miss Adventure, who had fought off the effects of a drug cocktail that could drop an elephant, somehow worked out what was happening to Gemma and her friends and commanded them to escape. During the long walk from the warehouse to the police station, their arms huddled about themselves – and carefully avoiding contact with anyone they saw – the schoolgirls had looked at each other almost in disbelief. Could it really be over? As they'd walked into the station house where a sympathetic lady cop had the traumatized teen hotties quickly bundled into blankets and ensconced on couches in the break room where their statement would be taken, the surreal dream of freedom had seemed to take on solidity. When the lady cop had finally come to take their statements, Gemma had Obeyed Miss Adventure's last command – telling her about the Free Radicals' perverted rampage, the predicament of Miss Adventure and the B-Squad, asking her to get the message to the Commissioner himself. And then the dam had burst and she and the other girls had dissolved in tears as they told the rest of their story: their capture, their repeated rape... and the horrible tattoos, the things the ink of the devil had made them do.

“There, there,” the lady cop had said, holding Gemma as she'd sobbed. “It's going to be alright, it's over now. We'll find a way to make you better, you'll see. Don't cry.” She probably didn't even realize what she'd done when Gemma had Obeyed, the flood of her tears abruptly dammed up and halting despite the anguish still howling inside her, making her want to scream. But she'd bitten her lip as the pain had bottled itself up.

At least the woman had meant well. At least they were back in the hands of good people.

But a few minutes later, the lady cop had been called away, had come back to tell her that the Commissioner was authorizing a full emergency search of the neighbourhood for the Free Radicals. With her had been a young cop, clearly a rookie, a smooth-faced and disturbingly handsome boy who was going to stay behind and protect them. “Best shot in the Academy,” the woman had boasted of him with clear fondness, making him blush faintly. He had looked at Gemma with clear blue eyes... and wakened a terrible sadness in her at the thought of how she would have gone head over heels for someone like him before all this had happened.

And then... the long waiting. The silence shading almost into boredom. The sudden explosion that had shattered the silence and rocked the building to its foundations. The shouts. The gunfire. The hollers of familiar, crude and brutal voices that immediately set all the girls shrieking in fright and scurrying for hiding places under the break room couches as their young protector unlimbered his pistol. The door bursting into splinters, and then the similar sound of the young cop's bones breaking, his shrill scream of torment and fear as a biker was on him before he could even aim his gun... the beautiful young man's last, burbling breaths as impossibly powerful arms wrapped around him like twin anacondas, as his spine and his ribs snapped like so many twigs, his lungs bursting wetly as his chest cavity was crushed in a bear hug, his legs quivering and piss pooling underneath him in his final throes as Gemma had watched. The awful sound of his broken corpse dropping to the floor as the schoolgirl had desperately stifled her screams and prayed the bikers wouldn't find them, prayed that someone else would come to their aid.

The heavy tread of biker boots on the break room's lino floor. The all-too-familiar mixture of musky sweat, smoke and booze that seemed to cloak all the Free Radicals in a reeking haze. The boots stopping right in front of her... and the biker abruptly kneeling down to reveal himself. The most vicious one of them all, outside of the leader: the one called “Snake.”

“Hello, girlie,” he'd grinned. “Long time no see.” And the nightmare had reached out to claim Gemma again... to claim them all.

* * *

It was a small mercy, at least, that for the time being the schoolgirls had been spared any more rape or abuse. The Free Radicals had clearly been on a clock, racing out of the wrecked and burning police station with schoolgirls thrown over their shoulders or trailing Obediently behind them at their command. As they'd taken off into the night, Gemma mounted up behind Snake on his motorcycle with her hands tied behind her, she had been numb with the shock of their reversal of fortune. As they'd wound their way through the city to a Lakeside dock, all she could do was brace herself for the nightmare to go from bad to worse.

Then they'd come to a rendezvous with a series of armoured cars, with hard-eyed men in Kevlar body armour and rifles who'd watched everything with hard eyes. They'd looked like cops except that there were no badges in evidence, and as the Free Radicals had talked to them, Gemma could hear nervousness in the bikers' voices for the first time. It ought to have made her feel better to hear her rapists frightened, but it didn't. Her heart had pounded, her stomach fluttering in fear as Snake hauled her off his bike, set her down feet first and ordered her to go climb in the nearest armoured car. The fear had deepened at the way the heavily-armed men's eyes drank in the spectacle of her luscious teen body as she Obeyed, staggering clumsily toward the armoured car and climbing in with the help of a rough hand's shove on her rump.

There had been more talking outside, the biker's voices climbing into shouts. She could hear Snake yelling: “Enough bullshit! You got your goods, now give over the fucking money or we'll just fuck you up and take them right back!”

Someone had replied coldly: “I'd like to see you try that, scumbag.”

“Think we can't do it?” Snake had raged. “You have no idea who you're fucking with! I will rip your head off and shit down your--”

The first burst of gunfire had cut him off mid-threat. Soon the whole world outside the armoured cars had seemed to erupt in the chatter of automatic weaponry, the schoolgirls huddling and shivering in fright as their purchasers pumped enough bullets into the Free Radicals to kill a herd of rhinos. Several minutes later it had stopped. Incredibly, some of the bikers could still be heard moving around, moaning and gurgling weakly. A few pistol shots had put an end to that, and then there were creaking and splashing sounds as they had, by the sound of it, thrown the bikers and their vehicles into the water.

Then the hard-eyed men – the murderers – were climbing into the armoured cars with their fresh-fleshed acquisitions, their cold gazes sending tremors through firm teen bodies as the cars sprang into motion. Gemma was daring to pray that these ones might have some kind of good intentions... but she was quickly disabused of that notion when the first words out of the mouth of the one nearest her were: “Nice tits, babe. Show 'em to me.”

Tears had rolled down the blonde's face as she'd Obeyed.

* * *

The schoolgirls had been sore and crying when they arrived at their destination, but at least these men didn't have the staying power of the Free Radicals. Multiple loads of semen leaked from the babes' inflamed, violated holes, but the torment had been relatively brief by comparison with the earlier ordeal... and it had been a strange relief that their masked, armoured abusers hadn't thought to order them to cum. They had been spared the soul-wrenching horror of being brought off by the forced sex. As small a mercy as could be imagined, but it had been something.

But what awaited them? The limping schoolgirls had been packed out of the armoured cars and sent through the rear entrance of an imposing mansion, there to be received by a group of young men and women in fancy suits and evening gowns, all perfectly coiffed and made up... and all looking strangely scared. One of the girls, a porcelain-doll beauty with tiny tits and long brown hair clad in a glittering black dress, had taken charge of Gemma, guiding her into a huge brightly-lit bathroom and standing her beside a sink, tenderly cleaning her, telling her to stand still.

As Gemma had Obeyed, she'd been almost soothed by the soft, wet touch of a moistened paper towel cleaning between her legs. “Ssshhh... just let the pain go...” The girl had said, and her body had Obeyed, the pain of ravishment deadening and fading. But the girl had kept talking, and the fear in her low voice had chilled Gemma to the core. “The thing to remember,” the young socialite had told her, “is that he knows everyone, he has all his father's connections. He's capable of... of anything. Just do whatever he says, whenever he says it, and you'll be... you'll be safer.”

Of course I'll do whatever he says, Gemma had thought bitterly. But she'd wondered at what kind of person could strike such fear into this perfectly put-together child of wealth and privilege. “You'll be safer.” She couldn't bring herself to say “You'll be okay.” Eventually curiosity had prompted her to ask: “What's he going to do to us?”

The girl had paused. “He... he probably won't have sex with you.” She trembled as she said it. “We think he has... someone else for that. Believe me, that's good. If he doesn't try to put that... thing of his in you... that's good.” She'd seemed to choke something back, her eyes closing as if at a memory of ultimate horror. Then she'd shaken her head and said: “All he's going to do is dress you up and parade you for... for his buyers. And make the rest of us... do things. You'll come through it, and afterward... you'll be away from here. Away from him.” The way the girl had said this made it sound frighteningly like envy, as though it was the best thing she could imagine.

Still, the word buyers had rung through Gemma like a knell of doom. Oh my God... Only the fear of what this unnamed person's connections might do to her had kept her from a mad attempt at breaking away and fleeing. She'd floated in a cloud of almost-perfect hopelessness as the girl had dressed her in her new clothing: a pair of patent-leather pumps with punishingly high heels, and a tight dress in loose pink fishnet that left no part of her unexposed, that left nothing at all to the imagination. Her friends had been in that bathroom, too, each of them being cleaned and primped and dressed by a different socialite, exchanging looks of terror at what was to come.

Then they'd been escorted out into a big room, a room full of thumping music and more of the city's young and rich glitterati – all sumptuously dressed and wearing domino masks – and handed trays full of cocktails. “Carry these around the room, and don't drop them, whatever you do,” someone had told them. And the tarted-up schoolgirls had, of course, Obeyed.

Gemma has been carrying drinks around the scene of the hellish party for what seems like forever, now. And a terrible sorrow assails her as she looks around her, realizing that everyone here is a prisoner. The socialites, all of them, men and women, know what it is to be forced into unimaginable deeds – all they're missing is the Satanic ink that commands those deeds. Their smiles are hollow, forced, dead. They laugh too brightly, too loudly, their voices brittle and frightened. They are people who've betrayed everything they know of morality while in full command of their own will. It must be terrible. Despite what's happened to Gemma, what is happening to her at their hands, she almost feels sorry for them.

Of course, their fear doesn't stop any of them. They're delivering a very convincing impersonation of a room full of perverts revelling in the availability of helpless female flesh. The party's centrepiece is a big table in the middle of the room... and on it, their skin blazoned with multiple crude and explicit tattoos, are the three heroines that Gemma and her friends had helped to capture. Like the schoolgirls, they've been dressed up in cheap, whorish, hide-nothing fishnet dresses and pumps and nothing else, and they're waggling their asses and bouncing their big tits and showing off their fabulously curvaceous bodies gamely to the rhythm of the thumping music, their eyes glazed and distant and half-disbelieving.

As Gemma passes nearby, not even flinching now at the multiple hands that cop feels of her supple ass and tender slit, she sees a by-now-familiar scene play itself out: one of the young men hops up on the big table with a drunken abandon that looks only partly feigned. Unzipping and pulling out his floppy dick, he grabs the nearest ex-heroine by her hair – the busty blonde with the word Dumb Slut in her tramp-stamp tattoo – and forces her to her knees, revelling in the sloppy, spittle-soaked blowjob he forces her to give him as her friends, heedless, shake and shimmy and pose with vacant expressions only a few feet away.

As he gets hard, his cock swollen and rampant and dripping with spit, he pushes the blonde onto all fours and mounts her from behind like a bitch in heat to only slightly forced-sounding cheers and laughter from his crowd of friends. “Wooo-hoooo!” he hollers, waving one hand in the air like a bronco rider as he pumps his turgid prick into the Dumb Slut's sopping gash. “Fuck this bitch loves my dick! She's so wet... she fuckin' loves it!”

“Ughhhh-unnnhhhh-yeeahhhh...” agrees the hapless blonde in a high, vapid-sounding bimbo voice, grinding back against him, her eyes wide as her soft ass jiggles and her hanging tits sway from his hard, rapid thrusts. “Loovve-dick-yeahhhh... I love getting dicked... unnnnnggghhhhh-unnnnnnhhhhhhh...”

Looking down and reading the blonde's gleaming tattoos, the rich kid grabs his fuck by the ears and leans forward. “Yeah? Where do you want my cum, you little slut?”

“Cum inside... unnghhhh-unnnnnghhhh-UNNNGGGGHHHhhhhhh cum INSIDE me...” comes the answering cry to another round of cheers and laughs from the audience. “All I want is CUM inside me-UNNNNNHHHHHHHHH...”

He laughs, his cruelty utterly convincing now, his lust taking over as his thrusts get harder, faster, deeper, drawing wet squelching sounds from the dripping pussy clutching at his hard cock. “Fuck... you really are one dumb fuckin' slut, huhhh? Dumb Slut wants my fuckin' cum, yeah?”

“Yessss-unnnghhh-UNNNGHHHHH-YEESSSSSS...” The blonde's eyes roll back in her head as her sweat-sheened body starts to writhe, the brutal plundering of her barely-legal cunt clearly driving her to an explosion of ecstasy. “I'm a Dumb Slut I'M SUCH A DUMB FUCKING SLUT gimme your fucking CUMMMM-UUNNNNGHHHHH-UUUUNNGGHHHH-UUUNNNNNGHHHHH-AIIIIIIEEEEEEEE!” Her voice rises to an orgasmic squeal as her rich young body goes rigid, shuddering as spasms of climax rock her to the core, her pussy squirting as her paramour rams his meat home and groans in release, bringing the bitch off again and again as spurting spunk inundates her clutching fuckhole!

The sight is nothing new. All three of the debased beauties have been through multiple rounds. As the other two wriggle and gyrate and look at their overmastered friend with a mixture of horror and envy, a discerning eye can glimpse the drippings of jism sliming their inner thighs, bubbling out from inside their swollen slits and gaped asses. And even now, as Dumb Slut wriggles to completion on the latest length of man-meat to pound her, two more young men are climbing up behind Butt-Slut and Whip Slut to take their turns. The Slut Squad is being thoroughly put through its paces.

The schoolgirls have gotten light treatment in comparison, mostly fondled and occasionally spanked by the partygoers who are more focused on the spectacle of the three table-dancing beauties. Gemma has only found herself bent over and fucked a handful of times, and most of those have been incomplete, a kind of quick warm-up for a guy getting ready to mount up one of the sluts in the big show. It's horrible, but she's already been through worse in this endless, surreal day. She can get through this.

Except that she finds herself looking around constantly, fearfully, waiting for signs of the auction that her attendant socialite had implied is going to happen. She hasn't seen much yet: just noticed webcams mounted discreetly in various parts of the room, filming the action from every angle. That in itself is a frightening sign: is this dreadful party all a show for some anonymous buyers watching over the Internet? The thought makes her quiver, only her supernatural Obedience keeping her from dropping her drink tray. A traumatic day is one thing – but to be sold into white slavery? To be helpless forever to resist the perverted commands of others? What if this is all just a prelude to a lifetime of Hell, a lifetime without hope or rescue or relief?

No... it can't be! There has to be someone good in Phoenix City who can save them from this horrible fate. But who? The way the bikers had showed up at the police station has to mean that Miss Adventure failed... maybe found a merciful death instead of this kind of humiliation and debasement. But the Adventurist and the rest of Phoenix City's heroes are still out there somewhere. If they come back soon enough...

The thought is cut off by the sight of someone descending a staircase at the far side of the room. No, two someones. And Gemma catches her breath as she realizes who it is.

In front, wearing a mask like his party guests, is a tall, thin young man clad only in expensive shoes and a pair of silk boxers. He's mostly forgettable in appearance, except that protruding from his underwear is the most obscene and ugly prick Gemma has ever seen, flopping back and forth like an enormous, crooked, misshapen sausage. It's bright with fluid... and streaked with blood. That fact, combined with his grin, makes Gemma swallow hard as she looks at the woman he has in tow... and it takes her only a moment – a despairing, horrified moment – to recognize Miss Adventure. Or what's left of her.

The schoolgirls' former saviour has paid a steep price for her heroism. Only her blue choker has survived from her former costume. Otherwise utterly naked, tattooed more lavishly and viciously than any of the others, piercings decorating her nipples and belly-button and clit, she has her arms tied behind her and tears of shame dripping down her cheeks. The young man is tugging her along by a length of fine gold chain strung through her nipple rings, pulling her huge, swollen titties into soft cones of creamy flesh as she stumbles along behind him. Her breasts look weirdly swollen, and moisture drips in little rivulets from her stiff nipples. Her legs tremble weakly, and Gemma can see that most horrific of all, streams of blood can be seen emerging from between her legs, caking on her inner thighs.

Lots of blood. Looking at the red streaks on the young man's organ, Gemma flinches from imagining the brutality he must have inflicted on the heroine with that grotesque thing. That bastard! He pauses for a moment, gesturing one of the young socialites over with an imperious... the brown-haired girl who had cleaned and dressed Gemma. The girl goes to him, her every movement shouting fear as she takes a damp wash-cloth with her and bends to the task of wiping the blood from Miss Adventure's thighs. As she works, the new young man – who Gemma suddenly realizes must be the Mayor's famous son, Roger Cunnie – looks around companionably at everyone, waving hello to a few of his 'friends.'

Gemma suddenly looks away, fearful of catching his eye. She remembers the socialite's words: If he doesn't try to put that thing of his inside you, that's a good thing. She shudders in understanding of what the girl had meant. Roger Cunnie is clearly a true sadist... someone who enjoys hurting women, especially with his hideous member. If we're away from him... well, maybe then there'll be some hope. The thought carries no conviction... only fearful need. And fearful fascination that finally makes her look back.

Before long, Miss Adventure's cleaning is complete – and Roger's member gets a cleaning, too, this one from the captive heroine's warm, wet mouth as her forces her to bend over and suck him, her proud rump high in the air, her tears flowing as she's forced to suck and swallow her own blood and juices off the instrument of her brutal violation. With his mushroomy man-pole hugely erect, he finally pulls her off and gives her a terse command... and she climbs up on the big table to join the Slut Squad, her short brown hair framing a fearful face, her huge, lactating breasts rising and falling with terrified breaths as she looks around and listens to the jeering shouts rising from the crowd.

Roger Cunnie gestures to someone else, who produces a mic. “Hello, everybody in my 'Too-Live Crew'! How you doing tonight!” A facsimile of joyous cheering greets him, flicking off at his next gesture as if at the flip of a switch. “And hello to all our distinguished viewers from around the world! I hope you've been enjoying our free preview of this world premiere of our Meat Market webcast... because now it's time for the main event! Tonight we have for your viewing and purchasing pleasure a set of acquisitions you won't find anywhere else. Get ready to hit the 'purchase' button on your screen and get yourself your very own Inked-Up Sex Slave!” Another round of forced cheers before he goes on: “Keep in mind these aren't just any tattooed ladies. These are part of a very special process, commissioned exclusively for Meat Market. These are sluts who have no choice but to act out whatever wild, perverted command we've had written on their skin.”

He looks around, clearly picking out a subject for demonstration... and Gemma's belly does a flip-flop as his eye lights on her. “First up... our Obedience School Bitches, starting at five thousand dollars apiece. You,” he points at Gemma. “Drop what you're doing and come here.” She Obeys, literally dropping her tray of drinks in the middle of the floor as she walks over to stand by Roger, her heart hammering at the cruelty in his eyes. He doesn't waste time: “Get on your knees and lick my balls, bitch. Make sure you don't miss a spot.”

Gemma's mind wails as she can only Obey, kneeling automatically and sticking out her tongue to lick at his huge, sweaty ball-sack, running her tongue all over it as she wrinkles her nose in disgust, his massive member slapping against her forehead as he goes on talking. “These bitches are all about Obeying any command you give. I think you'll agree that feature alone is worth a few extra thousand on the price tag.” With that, he orders a second babe over, and then a third, and before long Gemma realizes that her black friend Effie is above her, licking and kissing Roger's shaft while olive-skinned Mia works its disgusting head into her pretty mouth. The three teens share a look of helpless dismay as their tattoos force them to carry out the revolting work... a dismay that deepens when Roger orders all of them to masturbate their tight little pussies.

The blonde teen beauty can feel herself getting wetter as Roger's words continue to ring out. “Ohhh, yeah! These Obedience School Bitches can suck a dick! Put your bids in now!” His voice grows a little ragged as Mia, her eyes rolling as her own fingers work their magic on her hot, swollen clitty, forces his dick even deeper into her mouth. “And while they're showing off their skills... I'd like you to meet... the Slut Squad! Ex-Masked Avengers who've found their true calling... as some of the dirtiest little pigs on the planet! Just seven thousand dollars each! Let's have some more of the Crew up here to show what they can do!”

Gemma can hear the Slut Squad's moans of helpless desire as men scramble with alacrity toward the stage. Before long she can hear Dumb Slut crying out in ardour, Butt-Slut groaning gutturally as a hard, hot shaft shoves its way into her willing ass, Whip Slut shrieking and bucking as a stiff prick rams into her poon while a leather belt bites into her soft glutes. The sounds rise in tandem with the cheering of the crowd as Roger adds: “Look at how they take it... how they love it! Place your bids, viewers, place your bids.... ahhhhhhhhh!” Mia makes a gagging sound as the pervert's hips jerk in pleasure, Gemma and Effie still gamely licking and sucking his dripping balls and shaft. “And don't forget our Obedience School Bitches... perfect sluts at any price! Work those little clits for me, you bitches... rub 'em until you come!”

“Mmmmmmm-hmmmmmmm...” Gemma moans in misery as her body Obeys the command, making her pussy wetter, hotter, more sensitive as she frigs it while she licks and kisses and sucks at Roger Cunnie's huge, lumpy, speckled sac. There's no mistaking the tingles running through her, the way she finds herself writhing and sucking and licking with increasing passion. The orgasm he's commanded her to have is rising inside her... getting ready to swamp her in squirting, clutching, humiliating ecstasy! “Mmmmmmmmm-mmmmmmmmm-hhhllmmmmmmm-sllllckkkhhhhh-hhhhllllckhhhhh-mmmmmphhhhhhh...”

“And don't forget our final exhibit... our Inked-Up Sex Slave to end them all...” Roger's voice is distinctly ragged now as he tries to hold back his nut: “Her name used to be Miss Adventure... but I'll tell you what it is now... or better yet, she'll tell you!” Almost panting as he hands off the mic, Gemma can just hear him speaking what commands he can manage for Miss Adventure, just before he hands her the mic and says more loudly: “Tell everyone your name... and tell them what it means.”

The former Miss Adventure takes the mic, her voice quavering as she says clearly into it: “My name is Filthy Whore, Daddy. It's my name because I'm ready to fuck, and so wet for dick, and I'll do anything for five dollars.” The words come out despairingly, like the confession of a criminal on the verge of execution.

Roger takes the mic back, grabbing Mia's hair and corkscrewing her mouth forcibly up and down his dick as he adds: “You heard her, viewers... one Filthy Whore, made to order! Starting bid is fifteen thousand dollars... a bargain price for the world's most obedient super-powered fuck-slut! And let me tell you... she's very special!” Gemma can almost hear his self-satisfaction as he adds: “The choker around her neck, by the way... it makes her the best whore of all time! It keeps her clean of any disease as long as she's wearing it... and it makes sure that if you wait long enough to fuck her... she'll always be a virgin, ready for breaking. Crew... get up and show our viewers what I mean!”

The room seems to surge into motion as a half dozen guys and girls come forward. Gemma looks up, and in between the movements of Effie and Mia's heads she can just catch a glimpse of Miss Adventure – of Filthy Whore – over Roger's shoulder. Her tear-streaked face is frozen in a look of utter horror as a pair of hands come around her to maul her huge titties from behind, the milk bursting from her nipples as a wanton cry is ripped from her throat and she contemplates the room full of hard dicks about to be unleashed on her. That single glimpse is unforgettable: a look of perfect hopelessness, of utter defeat. A look that robs Gemma of whatever tiny embers of hope had remained alive inside her.

Then she feels Roger's balls begin to tighten, the pervert gasping loudly in pleasure... and feels her own wet pussy coming to the verge of exploding under her rubbing fingers! “Mmmmmmmm... MMMMMmmmmmm... MMMMMHMMMPPHHHHHHH...” she moans, feels the balls in her mouth start to twitch ever so slightly, seeing Mia's eyes go wide as the head of the huge prick erupts in her mouth, gurgling as she tries to swallow down the big bullets of slime! “MMMMMMMPHHHHHH!” Gemma's back arches, her fingers blurred in their motion over her clit as her pretty pink twat bursts in juicy ecstasy, her head spinning as she tastes the mixture of Roger's pungent spunk and her own friends' spit sliding over her tastebuds, a disgusting sauce for the sweaty nuts she can't stop licking. “MMMMMHHMMMPPHHHHHH!”

I'll get through it. She clings desperately to the thought. I'll get through it, and then I'll be away from here... away from him... whoever buys us can't be any worse than this... can they?

10

Mayor Dick Cunnie is careful to rehearse the coming conversation in his head as the elevator opens into the Intensive Care Unit of Phoenix City General. He practices the breathing exercises that he and Frank Biggar learned from Phoenix City's lead hero, Captain Phoenix. Remember, the cape had told them. The trick is not to hide deception or nervousness from him. You won't be able to do that. The trick is to skate just close enough to the truth to make him misinterpret your deceptions. That's something you can do... with a little luck.

The disturbance in the skies over Phoenix City had turned out to be an automated weapons drone sent by an alien enemy that Captain Phoenix had faced before. Not as dangerous as a real alien invasion, but still enough of a threat to warrant the city's fullest heroic force. Only Mayor Cunnie knew that it was Phoenix himself who'd signalled the drone and arranged the diversion. Only Mayor Cunnie knew that the blast of Phoenix Fire that had “accidentally” nearly killed the Adventurist close to the end of the mission had been no accident at all. He finds himself wondering how Phoenix had pulled off that deception... but stops that train of thought. Got to focus on the present to make this work. Nodding to the doctor who points him at a nearby room, the corrupt Mayor readies himself. Okay... here goes nothing.

No amount of preparation can keep him from amazement at the sight of the recovered Adventurist. So burned that he'd barely been recognizable as human when he'd been brought in, the great hero is so flawlessly recovered that he looks for all the world like he'd never been injured at all. That healing-factor is really something. Nothing to be done about the incinerated costume, of course; the Adventurist is in a hospital gown, and wearing a pair of cheap plastic shades that he must have borrowed from one of the nurses.

“Mr. Mayor,” the Adventurist nods to him. For all his hale appearance, there's a hint of fragility in his gestures. The healing-factor draws enormous amounts of power to make it work, Captain Phoenix had told them. If he survives his “accident,” he still won't be at full power for at least a day or so afterwards. “I'm honoured by the personal visit.”

“Least I could do for the man who nearly gave his life for Phoenix City,” replies Dick Cunnie, holding out a meaty hand and almost flinching from the strength of the hero's return grip. “We're in your debt.” Which, strictly speaking, is true, but to keep things moving right along he adds: “What happened up there?”

“What always happens on a mission, Mr. Mayor. The unexpected.” The Adventurist shakes his head. “Turns out the thing we were fighting was just a drone weapon... but it was still infested with Squid-Droids, more than enough of them to rip the city apart. We'd taken most of them out before one of them got hold of Jungle Jane, looked like it was trying to, uhhhh, insert some kind of probe in her... and Captain Phoenix and I went for it at the same time. I stepped right into the path of his blast.” He shakes his head again, almost disbelievingly. “Decades on the job and you can still make a rookie mistake. I'm just lucky he didn't totally incinerate me.”

Yeah. Lucky. Or maybe Captain Phoenix just hadn't been able to go through with it. “Lucky for us all, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mayor.” The Adventurist looks around. “I thought I told the hospital staff I was ready to receive visitors. Where's Miss Adventure?”

The wave of sympathy Dick Cunnie feels for the Adventurist in that moment is almost entirely genuine. As he clears his throat uncomfortably and sees the hero go pale, a look of terrible premonition in his eyes, he draws on that sympathy. It makes him feel almost like someone who really is on the hero's side... and hopefully his target will read it that way. “I'm afraid I have some bad news on that front. We had an eventful night here in the City, too.”

“Oh, God...” The Adventurist buries his face in his hands momentarily, leaving the “Not again” implied. Then he looks up, intent now, and says: “Tell me everything you know.”

Showtime. Mayor Cunnie proceeds to spin out an expurgated version of the night's events. The hostage taking. The mayhem erupting in Cruxton, the exact sequence of events still hard to work out... but with substantial evidence of actions by a rogue element of the police force. A warehouse consumed in flames... with the Adventure-Cycle and the B-Squad's B-Mobile found nearby. An attack on a police station. Evidence of blood and violence at a lakeside pier. One cop confirmed dead, the Commissioner himself and four superheroines still unaccounted for (the Mayor doesn't mention that it's by his own order that Frank Biggar is laying low), and the kidnappers themselves vanished, possibly double-crossed and murdered by whomever had hired them. Evidence of some kind of online auction whose video footage has since been purged from the web, but which had been viewed apparently from sites in Germany, Japan, Africa, the Middle East, Thailand, Indonesia. The Mayor wraps up with a tentative conclusion, and a carefully-planted hook: “I think one of my officials may have gotten mixed up with a white slavery operation, and may have facilitated the overseas sale of kidnapped girls... along with anyone who tried to rescue them.” All of which is technically true, or at least partly true.

“My God...” The Adventurist is frowning, a look of suspicion breaking through the horror on his face. “And all of that just happening to occur on a night when Phoenix City's Masked Avengers were off battling a different threat. That's quite a coincidence, wouldn't you say, Mr. Mayor?”

The Mayor swallows. “Not a coincidence at all, probably. I'm betting the kidnappers had a line into the police department. That someone... maybe even Biggar himself... tipped them off as to when would be a good time to move. They must have known you were gone.” All of which again is technically accurate... but is it enough to deflect the Adventurist's suspicions from the Masked Avengers themselves? “Wherever he is, I think my former Commissioner Frank Biggar has the answers.” Which also is perfectly true...

After a moment, the Adventurist nods. “I agree, Mr. Mayor.” After a moment, he adds: “I suppose you won't mind if I investigate further? I'd like the chance to track down Commissioner Biggar and get his story myself... and see what other elements of corruption he might be linked to.” A slight tremor beneath the surface as he adds: “And those... overseas sites that linked in to this online auction... I'd like to see that data. I may be able to track them.”

“Absolutely.” The Mayor hopes his relief scans as comradely enthusiasm. “My office will support you any way we can.” Especially if it keeps you looking in the wrong places!

“Thank you, Mr. Mayor.” The Adventurist's look turns inward, his big arms wrapping around him as he says: “If you don't mind, I just... need some time to process all of this. Thanks again for your visit.”

“Think nothing of it, Mr. Adventurist. I'm sorry not to have brought better news.” The only complete lie he's spoken since coming here, but the Adventurist, closing in around his grief, is barely listening anymore. The Mayor nods cordially and lets himself out... breathing a huge sigh of relief as he finally steps back into the elevator and heads for the parking garage. It worked... hot damn, I actually think it worked!

The night had been an expensive, risky gambit all around. The dummy “buyer” sites all over the Eastern hemisphere had been hell to set up, their re-routing of financial transactions through multiple satellite hops from America, across the planet and back again an almost back-breaking venture. It would be a job in itself concealing just how much money had had to be diverted from the municipal coffers to make it happen. But if it worked, it will be impossible even for the Adventurist to unearth the truth: that most of the sex slaves at that online auction were bought with money from right here in Phoenix City. A city most of them have never left. Let the search for the missing women range all around the globe... the further afield, the better.

Only one “buyer” had actually been from overseas: and that was a dummy corporation set up with Mayor Cunnie's offshore savings, in a country entirely different from any of those that would show up on the online “purchaser” records. Another necessary expense. Embarrassments to the family had to be kept at arm's length; but in an overseas paradise with a private plaything to keep him company, the Mayor's idiot son will hopefully be able to cause no more problems. The boy had never figured out that his father didn't disapprove of him getting his rocks off, as long as he didn't pick the daughters of powerful men for his perverse adventures. It was his indiscretion that had made him a liability. The daughters of nobodies could disappear without leaving hardly a ripple... it happens every day. Dick Cunnie should know.

As he climbs into his limo, the door held open by a blank-faced chauffeur, the Mayor's thoughts are swinging to more pleasant things, like what to do with his latest acquisitions. Settling into the deep leather seats, he looks down at the pair of them that he's had chained by leather dog collars to the floor at his feet – additional seats taken out specifically for the purpose – and smiles in anticipation, his massive prick stiffening. He'd “bought” them last night, along with all their friends, through a dummy site in the United Arab Emirates. They've already proved gloriously obedient and pliable in the morning he's spent with them... his prick stiffens further at the memory of waking up with twenty-two naked nubiles lined up on their knees in his living room... the wet little sounds their mouths had made as he'd forced each of them to suck his meat in turn.

“Hello, girls,” he says. “You'll be pleased to know my little interview went well.”

Looking up at him with fear in their eyes, the two former schoolgirls – one blonde and one brunette – answer meekly as they've been told: “Yes, master.”

“Let's celebrate.” Pulling down his zipper, he frees a fine specimen of the herditary Cunnie cock: ugly, grayish, bloated and huge. “Crawl over here and suck my dick, girls. And make sure you swallow.”

“Yes, master.” Their voices are miserable, listless, but they start crawling immediately as the limo glides into motion. Before long they're kissing and licking his bulbous shaft with abandon, the blonde suckling hornily at his balls. Sighing with satisfaction, he thinks of all the delights awaiting him at home with his bevy of teenaged sex-slaves. The French maid outfits... the pony-girl costumes... the whips... the paddles... the ropes and chains... the dildos he'll make them shove up each other's holes... all of it makes his cock swell to aching hardness with anticipation.

He's still pleasantly daydreaming as the limo phone rings. Wrapping his fingers in the brunette's hair as she pumps her mouth wetly up and down on his cockhead, he answers it: “Mayor Cunnie here.” He listens, and then businesslike edge creeps back into his voice – though his hard-on doesn't slacken – as he says: “Okay, good. Excellent... just as we'd hoped. And I'm glad to hear you're enjoying your prizes... now, is our mutual friend there with you?” The blonde gives an extra-loud slurp on the Mayor's misshapen balls, the brunette's mouth sliding further and further down his shaft, and he closes his eyes, grinning in pure, perverted bliss as he goes on: “Good... good. See to it that he's well-taken care of, would you? We don't want any loose ends...”

* * *

In a bunker deep underneath Phoenix City Trade Centre, in a small office inside the city's secret Masked Avengers headquarters, Captain Phoenix sets down a phone in its cradle. The city's premier superhero might be clad in outlandish tights and cowl of red sequins and gold lame worked into intricate fire patterns, but the face under the cowl is no-nonsense, the eyes as hard as chips of obsidian. He looks across his desk at his guest, a sweating fat man in a rumpled tuxedo who's trying to look nonchalant.

“Heck of a world, isn't it?” he asks Frank Biggar.

The Commissioner's jowly face is non-committal, his voice straining for a casual tone as he replies: “How do you mean, Cap?”

Captain Phoenix smiles without humour. “I mean, how the Adventurist can see through even the cagiest of you when he takes a hard look... how he was just on the phone to me telling me he doesn't trust your Mayor... and yet he still trusts me.” The Masked Avenger's look grows almost pensive. “A day after I've nearly killed the bastard, and he doesn't see through the 'accident' story. A day after his sidekick goes missing in my city, and he's asking me to help investigate. No inkling that I'd be right on the phone to Cunnie as soon as I hung up with him... no inkling that I have no intention of any of those girls ever being found. No inkling that all of this was my idea.” Shaking his head in disbelief, the gaudily-clad superhero says: “It just goes to show, even the best in the business can have blind spots. The Big Red Retard might have finally figured out his country is corrupt... but he's still convinced his precious Masked Avengers are pure. So much so that it doesn't even occur to him to analyze us.”

Biggar echoes the humorless smile. “Do-gooders always have blind spots,” he says. “It's the realists who control the world. You were right to join the winning side.” His smile fades as he adds: “I don't understand why you didn't just kill him, though. I thought that was the plan.”

“Yes, well.” Captain Phoenix grimaces. “When you've known someone for thirty years, just killing them doesn't come easy. Think of it as a... momentary lapse into conscience. It won't be happening again.”

“That's good to know.” The Commissioner seems to relax a bit. “We wouldn't want to think you were holding on to any do-gooder ways yourself.”

“Just so,” the Captain nods companionably. It almost seems an afterthought when he puts in: “Of course, it's not just do-gooders who have blind spots. Just look at the Free Radicals.”

“Scum,” Biggar sneers. “Any chess board has to have pawns.”

“Right you are, Commissioner. Pawns are necessary, aren't they. Right you are.” A long, awkward silence follows as Biggar scries into the superhero's stony face for some hint of a hidden point. But before he can decide how to reply, Captain Phoenix says: “Anyway, the Mayor tells me you've been wanting some time with the prizes he gifted me in recognition of my services to the City. You still game?”

Immediately, the wariness leaches away from the dog-faced Commissioner's features as a crease grows in his pants. “You have no idea, Cap. I'd be much obliged, really.”

Speaking of blind spots, thinks the superhero sardonically, but he keeps it to himself. “Well, mi casa, su casa,” replies the corrupt cape indulgently. “My people have sure been enjoying the hell out of them, and I'll tell you something. You're in for a hotter day than you can possibly imagine.”

“I can imagine quite a lot, Cap,” says Biggar, visions of abused captive heroines clearly dancing in his head. “Trust me.”

“Well, then, we'd better get you to the party.” Captain Phoenix smiles and gestures to the small office's door. “After you.”

Preoccupied by thoughts of the orgy to come, the Commissioner gets up and heads for the exit without further prompting. As he reaches for the handle, he never even glimpses the concentrated, incinerating blast of superheated flame that cleanly vaporizes his head above the neck, leaving a dark scorch-mark on the heavily blast-shielded office door. WHUMMPH! His body stands twitching for a moment, shuddering as its nervous system processes the sudden absence of a brain, a reeking smoke rising from the instantly cauterized neck stump. Finally, like a marionette with severed strings, Biggar's paunchy corpse keels over with a meaty THUD.

“Blind spots, Frank,” Captain Phoenix lectures the dead man calmly as he reaches for a button under his desk. “You were so wrapped up in thinking you were Cunnie's number one guy... that it never even occurred to you that you might know too much.” Pressing the button opens a trap-door under the corpse, sending it rocketing down a chute into a deep and nameless pit. As the trap-door closes again, the superhero presses a second button, the office's entire wall sliding away to reveal a corridor to the main headquarters. Straightening his costume, the superhero strolls smoothly out, the wall clicking back into place behind him.

Damn, but it does feel good to be ruthless, he thinks to himself as he walks. So many years spent in the Adventurist's accursed shadow... so many years fighting the same goddamned mooks time and time again, watching the country go to hell around us, never wondering why nothing ultimately changed. So many years spent being a chump. He shakes his head ruefully. Well, I'm not a chump anymore. I'm bringing Phoenix City's Masked Avengers into the modern age. I'm taking my piece of the pie... and if it means using the Cunnie Machine as a stepping stone, so be it.

As the doors at the end of the corridor swing open, Captain Phoenix grins openly at the scene they reveal.

The whole of Phoenix City's Masked Avengers chapter has turned out for the party – the compulsory party that will confirm their allegiance to their leader's new vision of their organization. All costumed, or at least partly-costumed, more than two dozen of the city's elite superheroes are assembled in the immense conference chamber that's been turned into a scene from “Animal House.” Drinking, laughing loudly, singing along to the raucous music – the scantily-clad heroines even louder than the heroes – they've been carousing non-stop for twelve hours now, a riot of muscular men and firm-bodied babes in an eye-watering array of colourful spandex, latex and leather.

One of the heroines, Nurse Girl, roams around the party, her rejuvenating-touch superpower staving off alcohol poisoning wherever she goes. He can see the petite young blonde heroine now, her white latex nurse outfit unzipped to show off her pert titties and riding up to reveal her wet lace panties, her white cap askew on her golden locks, her eyes nervous behind her white mask and her smile frozen as she rubs the bulging pecs of the Black Bison with her glowing fingertips, the enormous eight-foot-tall brick wall of a Negro grinning down at her as a huge bulge stretches the black spandex at his crotch. For not only is she keeping the party-goers healthy, Nurse Girl's touch is also keeping up the sexual energy needed to appreciate the party's three centrepieces. She's found her true calling, thinks Captain Phoenix with a nod of satisfaction. A super-powered fluffer! I should have seen it sooner.

The Slut Squad – Mayor Cunnie's “reward” for Captain Phoenix's services last night – have been placed in bondage along the room's far wall, their bodies contorted and locked in place around assortments of black metal bars protruding from either wall or floor, a jumble of sex toys, whips and paddles scattered around them:

Dumb Slut is mounted on the wall itself, her legs and arms splayed painfully wide and her neck secured tightly behind an iron bar, panting and moaning through her ball-gag as the auburn-haired super-cheerleader Spirit Lass – blue uniform half stripped away to reveal her trim hindquarters in all their glory – kneels in front of the busty blonde and stuffs nine inches of rubber dong up her bubblegum-pink fuckhole;

Butt-Slut, meanwhile, is shackled at her wrists and knees on the floor nearby, the mocha hottie's ample ass hoisted up high by a bar underneath her hips, perfectly positioned for the hard butt-fucking she's getting from Kid Crimson, her gagged squeals of ecstasy coming in time with the thrusts of the Kid's skinny white dick into her tight ass and the rivers of juice sluicing from her naked pussy as she's reamed;

On the other side of Dumb Slut, Whip Slut lies contorted into a shameful prone position, her ankles fixed behind her head and her arms secured over her thighs, twisted into a human pretzel whose ass and pussy – just inches from her beautiful, dismayed face and gagged mouth – are ripe for exploitation. And sure enough, bent over her is the science-hero Mysteron, his faceless purple-cowled head thrown back in ecstasy as he plows her squirting poon while his metal-bikini-ed sidekick X-Machina spanks the slave's plump ass and vibes it with a metal strap-on.

I knew they'd all get into the swing of things. Captain Phoenix rubs at his crotch as he takes the spectacle in, savouring the corruption of his former colleagues and soon-to-be minions. A lot of them have felt the way I do... and those who might be tempted to step out of line, especially among the heroines, now have a clear example in front of them of what will happen to anybody who crosses me. He looks up at the wall of the conference room, where Octavian's Satanic tattooing rig hangs like a trophy. But it's much more than a trophy. Captain Phoenix has definite plans to find a tattoo artist who can use it... and add to his fine little collection of inked-up bound bitches.

Across the room, he catches the fearful eye of Jungle Jane. Spectacularly platinum blonde, blue-eyed, tall and busty, filling out her tiny leopard-skin bikini with killer curves, she's a hell of a looker for a woman pushing forty – and successful and powerful in her civilian identity, too, as District Attorney Jill Hunt. The Captain's counterpart among the Phoenix City heroines, she could have been dangerous, and likeliest to resist him... until yesterday, when she'd witnessed him blasting the Adventurist into oblivion and then seen him stand by and watch in sadistic pleasure as he'd let the Squid-Droid ravage her every hole with its huge steel tentacles. He'd saved her before it could damage her permanently, but the shattering experience had certainly let her know who was boss. The confident heroine of yesterday is the broken thrall of today, and she nods meekly as he jerks his head toward Whip Slut in a come join me motion.

Mysteron and X-Machina don't need to be told to make way: the science-hero hurriedly pulls out his prick and paints Whip Slut's pretty face with splooge before stepping clear, dragging his sidekick with him. The Slut whimpers and tries to blink away a splatter of spunk from one eye as she sees the leading two capes in Phoenix City approaching to replace them, Captain Phoenix already fishing his firm cock out of his tights.

“Well, Queen-B... oh sorry, I mean Whip Slut,” pronounces Captain Phoenix with relish as he gestures to Jungle Jane to pick up a riding crop. “You've finally found your true place with the Masked Avengers, you lucky girl. And your friends, too. Aren't you thrilled?” Laughing at her pathetic answering whimper, he steps forward, savouring a sense of utter, evil freedom sweeping over him as he takes his rampant member in hand and contemplates her wounded eyes, her gaped asshole and her swollen, quivering slit. Yes, yes! This is the life! “Now it's time, Whip Slut. Time for you to learn how Captain Phoenix treats dumb little bimbo superheroine wannabes. Get ready.”

He knows that the sound of the Latina lovely's first gagged scream as he pounds into her will be something to cherish forever. He lines up his turgid eight inches of shaft, preparing, drawing out the moment. And when he finally plunges it home in the velvety depths of her honeypot, the desperate mewling sound she makes is everything he's hoped for. Yes... yes... YES! He exults as he starts to rut into his slave, enjoying the way her wet, greedy pussy sucks at his cock. The age of the new Masked Avenger is HERE!

11

She can feel the wires of the cage cutting into her soft skin. The sinful whispers of perversion from her tattoos keep her trembling and moaning as she's packed into the dark cargo hold, where she can hear baggage creaking and dogs barking as the plane pulls away from the earth. Alone in the dark with the demons etched into her flesh, the Filthy Whore shudders and weeps and prays to wake from her nightmare of torment.

At least there's one consolation. The plane is taking her away from him. The sensation of his freakish cock ripping into her, shattering and brutalizing her, is an ingrained memory of fear inside her. Her pussy and her asshole twitch at the memory of his agonizingly painful plundering, and of the tearing and bleeding that had accompanied it as she had screamed and cried and begged for a mercy that never came.

Anything is better that that, she thinks as she waits. Anything. She could break out of the cage, she feels the strength in her taut young body... but she's just another victim, her tattoos tell her so, and victims don't break free. They just wait, helpless, to see what will claim them. As soon as the thought sears into her from tattoo at her collarbone, she has no strength.

Hour after hour passes. She sobs in shame and misery as her bladder fills and then releases itself, flooding her tiny cage with her own piss. She drifts in half-consciousness, haunted by the stink of her own urine slopping all over her naked, tattooed flesh. She passes out... she wakes... passes out again... wakes again.

The cage is being pulled from the dark cargo hold. Exclamations of disgust in strangely-accented male voices around her. A bright, stabbing sunlight lances into her. She's pulled free of the prison of metal mesh, marvelling at its tiny scale as both cage and girl are hosed down with cold water.

She shivers, looks around her in confusion, sees black men in overalls and dreadlocks looking at her with conflicted expression of distaste and lust. Instantly, the thought sears into her mind, into her soft pussy: I love black cock. She feels herself getting wet as she watches, dumbly, while another man in a black suit comes up to the maintenance workers and talks to them in a low voice. She sees money change hands, sees the black men's faces turn toward her with new interest. Oh no... oh yes... oh God...

There, on the tarmac behind the plane, she's roughly thrown down on her back and feels her first big black man's dick rip through her regenerated hymen, stretching the wet, ultra-sensitive sheath of her cock-socket. Helpless, she moans in passion and clutches at him as he rides her, and before she knows it her snatch is clutching, squirting, cumming all over his thick dark meat as he plunders her. She cums even harder as she feels him tense up, groaning with release as he floods her teen pussy with hot spunk... and then makes way for another. And another. And another... and another. And another.

She screams in ecstasy. She sobs in release under each one of them. She loses count. She spreads her legs as wide as she can get them, accepting each new fuck with an artificial eagerness as her mind shuts down, trying to pretend it's all happening to someone else... until one of them sees the tattoos on her swollen tits and sucks one of her nipples into her mouth, making her cum harder and harder on his tumescent meat, her back going rigid as he eagerly drinks her spurting milk from each of her jiggling breasts and fucks her into oblivion.

Finally, the last one flips her over on her belly and promptly goes balls-deep in her ass, her screams of delight echoing across the tarmac as he holds her head on the concrete and force-fucks her tightest hole. The Filthy Whore's defiled body is thrilling with lust and writhing in delight as that last one finally fills her bowels with slime, bringing another juddering orgasm from his victim, and climbs off.

She lies insensate for a few minutes before the man in the suit finally grabs her by an arm and hauls her up, and she follows him passively as he leads her away. The sounds and smells of the airport crash in willy-nilly around her, making her head swim until she's pushed into the air-conditioned interior of a limo. She feels a cool tingling in her pussy as her hymen heals, feels it in her hot tits as her milk rises again to swell her teats to the point of agony. She moans, writhes as her stiff nipples begin to leak again, can't help but revel in the feeling of jism bubbling from her tight cunt and ass to smear the leather upholstery beneath her.

She hears the man in the suit saying something. “Your buyer is here, in Kingston... or will be, shortly.” His voice has the same accent as the black men who'd taken her, but not as heavy. “I'm not allowed to take you straight to him. I'm to give you his address and leave you to find your own way there, after I've dropped you off in town.” He pauses for a moment, then adds: “After what I just saw, I'd advise you to try and get out of there as fast as you can. I'm authorized to give you some clothes... Daddy's orders.”

Looking up blearily, she sees a hand thrust out toward her with some clothes in it: the tiniest tube top and hot pants imaginable, both in hot pink, along with a pair of high-heeled wedges in pink leather. Just looking at them, she can feel the sensual torment that tight top and tiny pair of shorts will inflict on her ultra-sensitive body. “I... I can't wear that...” she tries to protest.

“Daddy's orders.” His voice is firm now.

She nods resignedly. I am Daddy's slave. I don't even know who my new Daddy is... but I must obey him. Blinking back tears, she takes the ultra-skimpy clothing from him, the tube top struggling to cover her milk-swollen titties and the hot pants straining around her curvaceous hips, the tightness of the fabric making her moan with unwonted desire as a mixture of her juices and her rapists' sperm quickly soaks through the crotch of the tiny shorts, her dripping milk making big dark imprints on the teensy top and accentuating the bulges of her nipples and their piercings, a generous expanse of underboob calling even more attention to her hot tits. She pulls on the wedges, breathing hard as she fights to ignore how much hornier the pressure of the fabric on her breasts and pussy are making her.

As she looks back up, the Filthy Whore sees a big tent in the man's suit pants, his eyes glued to every curve of her hot body. Despite herself, the sight makes her mouth water, her pussy even wetter. “Um,” she bites her bottom lip cutely and then asks: “Does... does Daddy have any other orders?”

He looks levelly at her for a moment, thinking, and finally nods. “Yes,” he says, unzipping his fly. “Yes, I suppose he does.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the limo slows to a halt in the heart of the vast series of slums that is lowland Kingston, outside a ramshackle concrete house from which come the heavy bass sounds of dancehall reggae, and around which congregates a huge crowd of hard-eyed black men sipping on bottles and passing huge blunts between them. Among the men are scattered groups of curvy, scantily-clad black babes, shaking and jiggling their cushiony rumps for all they're worth. Everybody looks over at the limo with curiosity, some with hostility.

The door opens, and the Filthy Whore comes tumbling out, shoved by an expensive leather shoe planted on one of her ripe buttocks. Her tube top is askew, her breasts exposed, her eyes glazed and her hotpants soaked with her juices; splatters of jism decorate her face and gleaming tits. She stands up shakily, pulling her top back down and looking around her in confusion as the limo speeds away, and scoops up a fingerful of the sperm dripping from her chin, her pierced tongue darting out to lick at it as several dozen curious pairs of eyes drink her in.

Got to get to my new Daddy. The imperative is burning inside her, even overriding the surging thoughts about black cock that assail her as she looks at the handsome young Yardies strolling casually over to her. “Uhhhhh, does anyone know where,” she pulls a rumpled card out of the waistband of her shorts where the man in the suit had shoved it: “Uhhhh, where Whitcombe Drive is?”

A few of the men exchange perplexed looks. One of them, a big man with a shaved scalp, says something that sounds like: “You a long way from 'Ope down 'ere, seen?” Others are crowding closer, some of them reaching out rough hands to touch her, stroking her soft skin and making her flush as her body thrills in response, her pussy-lips swelling against her sopping hot-pants. Another voice says something like: “You irie, girl, what your name?”

“My name is Filthy Whore.” She feels herself go red as she says it. Her head spins as she feels one of the big black men crowding close behind her, grinding in time with the pounding reggae rhythm, rubbing the lump in his jeans against her ass. She unconsciously grinds back against him as she adds, helplessly: “I love black cock. I'll do everything you want for five dollars.”

A great whoop of laughter and cheers comes from the crowd of men around her, and just like that she finds herself swept up in a wave of sweaty, muscular bodies and groping hands, swept inside the dilapidated house without further ado. Inside of a minute, she's inside the squalid building, all all fours with her hotpants being crudely ripped down to expose her wet, ready pussy and tight ass. And so it begins.

From the first, they're fascinated by her tattoos and get a kick out of following the instructions written all over her: a rumpled Jamaican five dollar bill is shoved into her hand as the first black meat-spear forces its way into her asshole, the Filthy Whore screaming and squealing as her ass is wrecked by brutal thrusts while her cunts gets wetter and juicier with every thrust. A rancid prick stuffed in her mouth and down her throat quickly quiets her screams, replacing them with sucking, gurgling, squeaking sounds as her face is fucked, spit dripping down her chin and tears dripping down her cheeks as her body writhes in enforced ecstasy under the punishment.

Her world becomes a whirlwind of black cock and loud, rough voices gabbling away in patois around her. She strokes and sucks a seemingly limitless supply of spurting pricks, takes pounding after rough pounding in her always-tight bunghole and has her regenerating hymen ripped away multiple times by the plundering of her sweet pink pussy by one thick black shaft after another. She cums hard again and again as multiple dicks take her holes three at a time, cums and squirts and squeals even harder when they discover the even wilder orgasmic reaction they can get from her by making her milk spray from her tits. She cums as sets of big, swinging black balls slap rhythmically against her pierced clitty as she's taken like a bitch in heat, cums even when her head spins in disgust as she's forced to lick out a sweaty, funky nutsack or male asshole. Her holes spasm as they're filled up with boiling spunk over and over again, as she feels jism splash against her skin or as she chokes loads of it down her gullet. Even the women get in on the act: more than one pair of thick, chocolate-coloured glutes is shoved in her face and waggled back and forth, smothering her as she's forced to lick out the hoochie girls' tangy asses and twats.

She loses all track of time. Got to get them off so I can get to my new Daddy, she thinks repeatedly in the brief reprieves between wrenching multiple climaxes. God... so many dicks... I love black cock... hurt me hard... Eventually, in what she guesses must be the third hour of the ordeal, it occurs to her that word of her arrival must have spread in the neighbourhood. She finds herself getting pounded and slapped and milked by jeering thugs who hadn't been in that first crowd she'd encountered. It doesn't matter: she sucks and fucks as desperately as she can, trying to finish them all off so she can get to her new Daddy.

Finally, the crowd begins to dwindle. The music cuts off. Her last paramour of the night grinds his dick into her poop-chute and makes her cum with an exhausted cry as he frigs her clit and spurts deep inside her dank bowels. As he gives her ass a last slap and leaves her to slump to the floor, she hears a voice at the doorway talking to someone. It's an unfamiliar voice with a cop-like sound to it, saying: “You people have had your fun. Clean her up, now, I'd better get her up there, he's waiting.”

Shuddering in the aftermath of what's happened to her, her holes throbbing and dripping, spunk curdling in her stomach, Filthy Whore looks blearily at the ground around her. She sees five dollar bills scattered there almost like confetti, contemptuously tossed at her by one man after another after they'd had her. The tangible proof of her new status, the bills bring it home to her more forcefully than before that this really is her life now.

This... this is what I am, forever... Filthy five-dollar Whore... She sniffles as she dutifully begins to pick the money up. As she gathers the bills into a wad and holds it up, it occurs to her that in American money, her body, soul and dignity have just gone far cheaper than she'd even thought. She's taken on at least eight dozen cocks at five Jamaican dollars each... and what she's holding in her hands would be barely enough to buy a hamburger in Phoenix City. Clutching the money pathetically, the thought makes her cry even harder. Oh God... I'm so lost... I'm truly in hell... I hope my new Daddy is nice, at least...

* * *

After dousing her with a bucket of cold water, the Jamaican cop makes sure she's dressed in the ruined, soaked remnants of her tube top and booty shorts before he guides her to his car. He pushes her into the back, but doesn't cuff her, and lets her keep the pitiful scraps of money her whoring has earned, which she stuffs into a roll between her breasts.

It's the dead of night. She wonders where he's taking her... and is vaguely relieved that he doesn't talk to her or seem interesting in fucking her. Holding her arms around herself and rocking, she savours the reprieve. Her sex-addled mind chases itself in circles trying to think of a way out of this predicament, a way home, but it goes nowhere. Mostly, she absent-mindedly fingers the choker at her neck and watches as the depressed, run-down vistas of night-time Kingston – the streets only intermittently gifted with lighting, eerily vacant and replete with the rusted-out shells of abandoned cars – go by the windows.

At one point, the scenery makes an abrupt transition, slum depression giving way to relatively opulent middle-class houses. As the roads climb, the scenery changes again, this time to gates and walls around verdant estates, the lights of the mansions within glittering. Closing her eyes, she prays as she senses the meeting with her buyer drawing closer. Please... oh please... she's not even sure what she's praying for.

Finally one of the gates swings open and the cop car turns in, heading up a broad drive flanked by flowering trees. The house is in the old colonial style, undeniably beautiful. As the car comes to a stop and the Filthy Whore finds herself being pulled out, she follows gamely in the policeman's wake as he marches her up to the door... which opens before he can knock on it.

The Filthy Whore actually gasps and claps her hands over her mouth as she sees who is revealed there. No... she thinks, appalled, feeling herself descending into a lower spiral of horror. It can't be... not him! The memories of her last time alone in a room with him crash into her: the searing pain of the things he'd done to her, with his member, with his belt, with a coat-hanger, with the end of a lit cigar... even with her healing-factor, she'd barely been able to walk afterwards. No... oh God, please NO, I can't belong to HIM...

“Thank you, officer,” says Roger Cunnie pleasantly to the cop, handing him a crisp American bill. “I appreciate your help.” As the cop nods and walks away, the expatriate pervert turns to look at his acquisition, and gives a ghoulish smile: “Well, well, well. My little Filthy Whore. I hope you saved up some energy... because I plan to make our first night together here a very, very memorable one.”

She stands frozen in horror a moment more before her eyes roll back in her head and she collapses like a tree falling to a lumberjack's chainsaw, fainted dead away.

Lights out.