MISS ADVENTURE

AND THE RAUNCH RAY

(Guest-Starring Team Victory)

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 done during a break from the Foxx Force Five series, which is on hiatus. In the meantime, I'm trying my hand at a few superheroine yarns. This misadventure takes place after “Miss Adventure and the Villainous Vixen.” Read on, and if you enjoy it... shame on you.

1

It's a beautiful morning in Newvale City, the sun dawning over a city as peaceful as it's ever been. Reading the paper by the morning light slanting through her office's huge window with her morning cup of coffee in hand, Dr. Debbie Doubledee smiles slightly as she reads the day's lead story on why the criminal element is on the run: the Masked Avengers.

The sexy young psychiatrist is a vision. Her voluptuous five foot six 40DD-25-36 frame is clad in a scandalously short and tight black skirt suit that shows off her long, flawless tanned legs in sheer gartered stockings, her blazer and white blouse unbuttoned almost halfway to her taut midriff to provide some air to her big, beautiful cleavage. Her delicately beautiful face is thoughtful behind her black-rimmed glasses, her blue eyes bright and her long, immaculately-coiffed platinum-blonde hair shining in the sun, her long bangs swept down fashionably over one eye. She absent-mindedly taps her black, high-heeled pumps to the rhythm of a jaunty internal anthem as she drinks in the Newvale City Clarion's puff piece on its local superheroes.

It's not surprising that she looks almost exactly like one of the featured superheroines in the story, the gorgeous blonde vigilante clad in signature purple latex hotpants, a midriff-baring purple mini-bustier that makes soft, sensual mounds of her amazing tits and barely conceals their nipples, purple PVC opera gloves and six-inch purple PVC stiletto boots and matching mask, with her golden laurel crown shining among her equally-golden looks. The everyday world may know her as Dr. Debbie Doubledee, superstar sex therapist at the tender age of twenty-three, but the heroic world knows her as Lady Victory, first seen in the Clarion's pages in an iconic pose with one boot on an unconscious Mafioso as she participated in a cleanup of the city.

She's just one half of Team Victory, of course. Beside her in other pictures, her lissom and equally-blonde teen sidekick Victory Lass – showing off a perfectly-proportioned hourglass figure in a look like her mentor's, but executed in blue instead of purple and sporting a golden Sceptre of Victory instead of the laurel crown – can be seen kicking butt. Little does the world know that the article itself is the work of Victory Lass' secret identity, sensational teen investigative reporter Mina Mincks. The satisfying thought makes Debbie's smile a little wider.

The lion's share of the coverage, of course, goes to the city's senior superheroes... as is only fair. The Adventurist, leading his Masked Avengers with a burning will, is all over almost every news story in the city, the other veterans always close behind them. But Debbie is proud of the place Team Victory have carved for themselves over their year in the city, and especially of the key role they played in the downfall of the infamous Boss Nero six months ago. They're definitely playing with the big boys, and were The Adventurist's first choice to participate in the charity calendar shoot that – later today – will introduce the world to his new sidekick.

But that's later today. In the meantime, she has clients to see. Decisively setting aside the paper, Debbie hits the intercom on her desk phone. “Sven,” she says into the speaker. “I'm ready for my nine o'clock.”

“Right away, Dr. Doubledee,” comes the reply from her well-built and hunky but none-too-bright Swedish assistant. “I'll send him in.”

* * *

Unbeknownst to Newvale City's hottest headshrinker, a stranger's gaze has been drinking in the sight of her shapely form even as she drank in the headlines of its paper of record. Granted, it's only an infrared scope's outline of her. Still, the magnified sight of her body is gorgeous even in outline, and has the watcher licking his lips with approval.

For a moment, the watcher puts up his scoped rifle, pausing in his surveillance as if lost in thought. Seated on a stool in an “under-construction” floor of the tower across a busy thoroughfare from the Atlantic Heights Health Centre, he's a tall, thin, straight-backed rail of a man of indistinct ethnicity, with short black hair, full lips that seem curled in a perpetual sneer and green eyes like chips of cold jade stone. He straightens some nonexistent creases in his immaculate black suit. A group of shadowy figures in black, wearing black balaclavas, look on from the shadows.

“Think it'll work?” one of them asks.

He flings the questioner a disdainful look that says Of course it'll work, and doesn't bother to answer the question out loud. Instead he turns back to look at the building, as if seeing his target just as easily through the reflective glass as he had through the scope. “It's funny,” he says, his voice detached as he removes the clip of ammunition from his weapon, then starts to unscrew the enormous silencer from its muzzle. “I could just kill her now. One well-placed high-velocity round and that would be the end of it. It's what I usually do, you know.”

There's an uncomfortable stirring from the group. Another one speaks up: “Yeah, but that wouldn't satisfy--”

“I know who and what it wouldn't satisfy,” replies the sniper crisply. As he does so, he sets aside his bullets and silencer and pulls a strange device from inside his jacket, shaped like a similar ammunition clip but fitted with glowing pink lights all over its surface. He slaps it home in the rifle's magazine, then pulls out an attachment that looks like a silencer – but covered in the same strange lights – and begins to fit it to his rifle's barrel. “Don't worry, I'm not deviating from the programme, only thinking out loud. Let's just hope the patient your man picked out is up for his part.”

There's coarse sniggering from the shadowy figures. “You don't got to worry about that,” one of them reassures him. “Nobody was ever more up for it than that kid.”

The sniper quells their laughter with another cold look that says Don't count your chickens before they're hatched. Again, he disdains to say it aloud. Instead he simply turns back toward his target, lifts his rifle... and readies himself, his focus total.

If he senses the nervous look his half-dozen masked companions exchange among themselves, he doesn't show it.

2

The voluptuous teenaged beauty admires herself in the mirror, her hazel eyes shining with excitement as scattered thoughts chase themselves around her head. Foremost among them is one idea that repeats itself over and over: You go, girl! You're going to knock them dead!

Miss Adventure, the Damsel of Daring, stand a petite five foot four but looks taller in her blue six-inch PVC stilettos. She's enjoying the way her a patriotic-themed one-piece slingshot bikini – the stripes coming up to just cover her right nipple and the stars coming up to hold the left in place – shows off her heart-stopping 40DD-27-34 curves. She grins innocently, watching her massive breasts try to jostle free of their confinement as she assays a little experimental hop. Her chestnut hair falls in waves over her shoulders from the part at her crown, her creamy skin is more free of blemish than most models can manage with the aid of retouching, and her kissable bee-stung lips shine with raspberry gloss. A silver letter “A” flashes on the blue leather choker at her neck, and blue fingerless gloves and the sleek blue aviator goggles perched atop her head finish out her costume.

She's up early for her afternoon photo shoot, but she can't help it. After a year of furious training, a year of hiding, a year of waiting, she's about to be introduced to her public as the sidekick -- “The right-hand lady,” as he'd put it once – of the greatest superhero in Newvale City and perhaps the world, The Adventurist.

Not for the first time, she wishes he could be here to see her make her debut in a public shoot with one of the city's top-flight photographers, not to mention a pair of its biggest up-and-coming heroines. He set it up, after all. But the superheroes have to do publicity, too: “We can't just assume the public is on our side,” he'd told her yesterday as he left for Island City to join the other veterans on a special “Up Close with the Masked Avengers” edition of Late Night with Jason Scribner. “We always have to tell them why we do what we do. We always have to persuade them. Media work is one of the most important disciplines to learn, and one of the most significant things you can do as a cape. Tomorrow, though we'll be miles apart, you and I are going to do it together.”

He always has a way of putting things that sounds wise and, once he's said them, obvious... and that makes her feel special, too. Trying out her best and sunniest smile, the barely-legal rookie heroine remembers his words as she readies herself for a date with destiny.

* * *

Her mind flashes back to how it all started. Lavinia Wilder and her family had moved to Newvale City three years ago, as she was just starting high school. Coming here from small-town Western Canada had made for a tough adjustment... especially with the jealousy of the other girls for her eye-catching body, which had been mature and shapely from the age of fourteen. Painful years had passed in which she'd kept shyly to herself, stayed away from boys and studied hard, and still been slandered as a “slut” by the popular girls. She'd gotten progressively shyer, taken to wearing oversized sweaters, even joined the chess club though she hated chess and sucked at it.

In her senior year she'd finally gotten involved in the party scene – or so she'd thought, when the school's dreamy quarterback star had seemed to start paying attention to her. What had followed was a night in which he and a group of his friends had contrived to get her to go skinny-dipping with them, taken shots of her enticing nudity and posted them on the Internet, in what had turned out to be yet another bid by the popular clique to humiliate her. It had worked. She'd sunk into despair and had finally made a plan to kill herself rather than face the taunting, roving eyes of boys and girls at school. She'd even secreted a way a bottle of pills for the purpose, and stolen some booze from her parents' liquor cabinet to make her grand exit.

Then a knock had come at the front door. It was secretive billionaire Peirce Busch, who saved her life mere moments before she ended it all.

He'd somehow found the posts on the Internet, tracked every single file of her on every server worldwide and deleted them... but not before he held back a disc of damning copies that smashed her antagonists flat, getting every single one of them expelled mere months before graduation. Then he'd sought her out and turned up at her house, the silver-haired Adonis known to the world as the immortal red-spandex-suited superhero called The Adventurist. It was this man who told Lavinia she had “hidden potential.”

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 very first chapter of the Masked Avengers – now a nationwide union of superheroes over four decades later, a lifetime career for “capes” who could measure up to the most exacting standards. A more recent experience – he never said what it was – had convinced him now that he needed a closer companion to support him in his work, a companion who was destined to save the world, but who until she fulfilled that destiny would be his sidekick and his ward.

Her relieved and grateful parents had let her go with him, and over the subsequent weeks he'd taken her in, hiring her as a “part-time personal assistant.” She'd spent more and more time with him as he told her about his adventures... and as he'd told her frankly about the risks of becoming the next Miss Adventure, how others had tried before her and met terrible fates as yet unknown, how the heroic community was starting to talk about “the curse of Miss Adventure.” He urged her to seriously consider her future, and his risky proposal, but said he wouldn't blame her for turning him down.

But her decision had been made in the first moments after meeting him. He had saved her life, it was that simple. Finally, after she'd reassured him for weeks that it was what she really wanted to do, he'd taken over her education almost completely, trained her in martial arts and criminology, guided her through graduation. 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.

By that time, she'd felt ready for anything... even taking up the dangerous life of a Masked Avenger. And she'll never forget the power she felt when she first put on the choker the Adventure-Ray had created for her. It thrums its cosmic energy through her body even 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. With the careful discipline the Adventurist has taught her, she keeps focused and makes sure the rush of information from those senses doesn't overwhelm her; even now, the feel of her own hands running over her soft, super-sensitive skin could become a dangerous distraction. But with control, she'll have an edge that few can beat.

* * *

As she's trained, she's always had the sense that The Adventurist has been sheltering her, working manically to make the city as safe as he can make it before revealing her. A part of her, she has to admit, chafes against her mentor's over-protectiveness and yearns for... well, for adventure. She ardently wishes she could be making her debut as a vanquisher of muggers and pimps and gangbangers, or in battle with one of the depraved supervillains that periodically menace the city. It's not on the cards, though. The Adventurist has been nurturing her abilities in the safest environment he can provide, and she knows he's only let her out of his sight today because he's eliminated every serious threat he can find in a hundred mile radius.

Still... it's an exciting day. The time has come for the world to know the new Miss Adventure. She's ready to become the next great sensation on the superhero circuit. “Computer, time check,” she says as she continues to primp in the mirror, impatient to get the big event going.

“THE TIME IS 0905,” replies the Eyrie's computer. “THREE MINUTES ELAPSED SINCE LAST CHECK.”

“You don't have to be a wise-ass about it,” she says sharply before sighing in frustration. It's two hours yet before the shoot. What to do for two hours? She paces restlessly, thinks about heading down to the training room, thinks about puttering around on the Eyrie's Adventure-Cam remotes for a while, thinks about doing some of the criminology homework The Adventurist left her... then turns back to the mirror. Just a little more practice for the cameras, she decides, trying on a playfully sultry look as she flexes her biceps. You go, girl! You're going to knock them dead!

3

“Welcome, Mr. Polo,” says the busty blonde as she stands and holds out her hand to the extremely tall, handsome Mediterranean man – her first new patient in a while – who comes into her office. “I'm Dr. Debbie Doubledee. Pleased to meet you.”

The young man, standing well over six feet, fills out his black designer tracksuit with lean muscle and, she notes, has the kind of wide, dreamy eyes that would bowl most women over in a heartbeat; thankfully, she's too professional for that. And she also notes that he seems nervous, standing weirdly hunched like a man trying to hide a hard-on. His handshake is sweaty as he manages a weak: “Hello, Doctor, pleased to meet you.” His eyes dart around the spacious office, noting the big desk, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the leather psychiatrist's couch in one corner.

The foxy young psychiatrist sees his reaction to that piece of furniture, makes a lightning-quick assessment, and says: “Please, call me Debbie. Why don't you come over to the couch, lie down and get comfortable? And we can talk about why you're here.”

“Uhhh...” he says hesitantly. “I was... hoping... we could... maybe sitting up...”

“Don't worry, Marco. Do you mind if I call you Marco?” The patient shakes his head jerkily. “I want you to feel completely at ease and relaxed. Why not come over to the couch and relax?” She takes him by the elbow, adopting a soothing tone as she gently but firmly guides him to the couch and tells him to lie down. As he does, reluctantly, she has to restrain a gasp as the reason for his being here becomes obvious.

Oh my goodness. That's... very impressive...

He does indeed have a bulge at the crotch of his pants: a bulge of epic scale that discloses what must be at least an eleven-inch tool. As he lies back on the couch, looking mortified at having to expose the throbbing, tumescent fact to her feminine eyes, Debbie clears her throat and tries to sound nonchalant. “Well, I think I see what one of your symptoms might be,” she says judiciously as she picks up a notebook and pencil from her desk and takes a chair alongside the couch. “Would you like to tell me a little about it?”

“Well,” says Marco, looking up at the ceiling, avoiding any glance at her. “I went to many doctors... medical doctors, blood specialists. They say my problem is priapism, but then they tell me they can't find a physical cause.”

“And so they sent you to me,” she says, tearing her eyes away from that massive tubesteak outlined in his pants to look at his face. Sympathy swells in her as she sees the anguish written there. “How long has it been like this?”

“Almost five months today.”

“I see.” She takes the note. “And is it painful?”

“I don't know how to explain it.” Marco looks steadily at the ceiling. “It isn't physical pain, but like I feel ashamed all the time, like a freak. And it's like this thing at my crotch, like it does all my thinking for me. Not like the way people say 'thinking with your dick' as a joke, I mean it literally seems to have taken over my life.”

“In what ways?” He hesitates, licking his lips, and she adds: “Remember whatever you tell me is confidential, protected by doctor-client privilege. I'm here to help you, not to judge you.”

He nods jerkily and takes a quick breath: “It... it sometimes seems like it's speaking to me in my mind, telling me what to do, what to think. I think about making love... no, about fucking women all the time. All the time. And it's like it whispers to me, telling me they're all whores and deserve to be fucked. I mean, hate-fucked. Treated horribly, like evil sluts who deserve to be punished. I've spent a small fortune on, uhhh, escorts...” He trails off, his face red.

“You can say 'prostitutes,' Marco,” she reassures him smoothly. “If that's what you mean.” When he nods at the amendment, she goes on: “Can you think of anything that might have caused it? Can you remember any moment when it may have started, any thought or any event that could have triggered it?”

He starts to answer, and she starts to write his answer down... but suddenly, she loses concentration on his voice. Suddenly, something happens to Dr. Debbie Doubledee.

It begins like a subtle, mild jolt of electricity tingling through her body, racing from the crown of her head down to her toes. The sensation takes her breath away, turns the sound of his voice to a far-off abstraction. The words on the notepad in her hands are suddenly blurred and unreadable. She can hear her heart thumping in her ears, feel the surface of her skin suddenly hot and sensitive, her tight clothing unbearably restrictive as she feels her cheeks flush. Her big breasts are throbbing as she feels her breathing get faster, and she squirms in her seat as she feels a wet heat start to build between her firm, slender thighs, emanating from a suddenly stiff and sensitive clit that sends shivers through her as it rubs against the gusset of her lace thong panties.

Crossing her legs, then crossing them again, she tries to take hold of herself. But as her body heats up, as her bodacious breasts and tight pussy begin to ache with an insistent need, she finds her thoughts shredding even as she tries to muster them. She recrosses her legs again, searching in vain for a sitting position that will ease the rising ache in her increasingly wet cunt, trying and failing to calm her breathing as she feels her pulse racing ever faster. The young psychiatrist finds her eyes transfixed once again by the lump in her patient's pants, finds her mouth watering as she looks at it, taking in the length, the girth, naughty images flashing through her tormented mind. She licks her lips, feels an almost uncontrollable urge to reach out and touch it... or to run a hand up to massage her aching tits, or down to rub away the lubricious lust building in her tight pussy.

No... get a hold of yourself, Debbie... With a titanic effort of will, she fights the urges. Get a hold of yourself... You're a superheroine, you're a medical professional, get a hold of yourself...

Just barely, she's able to stop her hands from wandering over her own curves or reaching out for her patient's rock-hard erection. But she can't fight down the horny sensations in her young, ripe body, and she can't focus her thoughts beyond the single desperate imperative to resist. Playing for time, she starts her pencil moving in her notebook again, even though she still isn't really hearing a word being said or reading what she's writing. Her eyes are still fixated on Marco's straining cock, her body still squirming, her fabulous legs still crossing and re-crossing. She couldn't stop it even if she were still conscious of doing it.

Madly scribbling in her notebook, licking her lips, practically panting as her all-over sensitive skin, her throbbing tits and her dripping twat drive her wilder and wilder with desire, she takes a while to notice that the patient has stopped talking and is asking her something. “Doctor?” he's saying. “Doctor, is something wrong? Doctor, what are you doing? Doctor?”

Finally the query penetrates her lust-hazed mind. She looks at Marco's face, his expression bewildered and politely outraged, then looks down at the notebook in her hands... and realizes she's been covering the paper in pictures of cocks. Big, crudely-drawn phalluses attached to huge, hairy balls snake all over the page, spurting geysers of cum from their blunt heads, veins pulsing up and down their lengths. Looking at her prurient doodles in horror, she abruptly flips the page over, desperately trying to get herself back under control.

“Uhhh... I'm... I'm s-sorry, Mr. Polo...” she manages to say, and now it's her turn to sound quavering and uncertain as she plucks at her blouse, trying to fan away the throbbing sexual heat in her magnificent melons, unaware that she's flashing even more of her cleavage in the process. “I... I think I'm feeling unwell... Maybe we should... uhhh... reschedule for sometime later...”

“Are you kidding?” he says incredulously. “After what I paid for this session? I thought you were a professional!”

“I... I am...” she says miserably, flushing in embarrassment. Her mind whirling, she gropes for something else to say. She means to ask him for some innocuous clarification about his past, or to ask him about his childhood or his relationship with his mother or something. But when her mouth moves, her voices comes out huskily and says: “Show me your cock.”

Time seems to stand still for a moment. Did... did I just say that? Shocked and disbelieving at her own actions, she waits for her patient to shout at her, to storm out and demand his money back. But after a moment she realizes he's just staring at her, a strange look in his eyes. “Say that again?” he asks.

Again she opens her mouth, meaning to apologize and say she doesn't know why she said that, find some way to explain it. But her mind is giddy with the overpowering desire thrumming through her body, and her mouth seems to be leading a life of its own. “I need to see your cock, Mr. Polo,” she hears herself saying breathily. “I've just never seen one so big, and I need to, uhhhh, assess your physical symptoms. Please take out your big, hard dick and show it to me, Marco... Please...”

Part of her is frozen in horror, mortified at hearing the crude plea spill out of her mouth. But more of her is thrilling in excitement at seeing the massive package outlined in those track pants in all its glory. Her normal instincts are swiftly getting lost in the slick, hot swamp between her thighs, and she finds herself unabashedly looking back at that lump in his trousers, waiting, licking her lips, willing him to let it loose.

“Well, this is very unusual,” he says, an odd note in his voice as his hands move to the waistband of his trousers. “But, you're the Doctor...”

* * *

Watching the office through his infra-red scope, the sniper smiles with cool satisfaction as he watches the woman's heat signature grow more vivid, especially at the chest and between her legs as blood rushes to both, responding to the energy pulse broadcast from the special devices on his gun. As her buxom shape begins to squirm and show pronounced signs of discomfort, he imagines the confusion that must be overtaking her poor little brain as her hot-to-trot body spirals swiftly out of control. And that was on minimum setting, you poor, stupid bitch, he thinks. You haven't seen anything yet.

“Well? How's it coming?” asks one of his masked companions irritably, squinting down at the target's window as if willing himself to be able to peer through the reflective glass.

“She's progressing nicely,” the sniper replies, putting up his weapon and adjusting the silencer-like device on his rifle's barrel as he talks, the glowing lights along its length growing brighter. “Get your man on the line and wait for my signal. We'll tell him when to move.”

“Right.” As the masked goon fishes a phone out of his pocket, the sniper trains his rifle back on-target, his finger on the trigger... waiting.

* * *

As Marco pulls down the front of his track pants, the befuddled Dr. Doubledee gasps as she sees his prick spring stiffly to attention. Eleven and a half inches of uncut, veiny glory, the angry purple head broad and blunt, it's a sight that puts her juicy snatch on overdrive. She's now writhing in her chair in a futile effort to hold herself back, her grip on her notebook white-knuckled as she bites her lip and tries – and fails – to tear her eyes away.

“You like what you see, Doc?” There's that curious tone in his voice, almost contemptuous now.

But she can't focus on such details. The bulging prick has her full attention. She can imagine taking its spongy length in her hand and stroking it, she can practically taste it on her tongue. She's not conscious of the little moan that escapes her lips as she squirms like a fish on a hook. Surely it would be okay to touch it... just a little? To make sure she's not hallucinating?

The last of her failing will asserts itself, blazing a thought across her mind: Something unnatural's happening to you! Debbie, you've got to get out of this room! Get to Sven, get him to kick this man out so you can get control of yourself! You've got to get out! She feels it for the absolute truth, feels the desperate urgency of it... but she's frozen between the burning necessity and the fires of perversion consuming her curvy young body.

“It's saying something to me right now, Doc.” Marco's tone is getting uglier, darker, more brutal. “It's saying there's a slut in this room, right now. A dirty little slut who needs to be bent over and fucked like cheap, street-walking trash. You know who it might be talking about?”

It's now or never. The tone in his voice galvanizes her into action, fear getting a momentary edge over the unnatural need throbbing in waves from her bullet-hard nipples and between her thighs. Abruptly, the young psychiatrist surges to her feet. “I... I'm sorry, I think I need to leave...” she mumbles, taking a couple of hurried steps before her notebook drops from her suddenly clumsy fingers. As it falls on the ground, she's horrified to see it fall open to the precisely the wrong page, the paper full of scrawled cocks she's generated in her “note-taking” staring up at her!

Shit! Can't let him see that!

Unthinkingly, the sexy psychiatrist bends to pick it up... then realizes her mistake as she feels her tight skirt riding up, exposing her sweet round ass and the wet crotch of her lace thong panties! Oh no, she thinks in fright as the spectacle brings a fierce, wordless groan of arousal from her patient, who's now climbing off the couch. Now he's staring at my ass... my pussy... I'm making him hornier! Her face flaming in embarrassment, she's about to straighten back up again...

... but then all thought flees her mind as the strange sensation hits her again, the waves of electric lust sizzling through her, much more powerful than before!

“Uuuhhhgghhhh...” she moans through her clenched teeth, the notion of straightening up and pulling down her skirt abandoned as she feels the sensitive lips of her sopping pussy swell, feels herself practically on the verge of an orgasm as she now struggles to merely keep her legs from buckling, to keep her honey-sweet feminine core from exploding with desire. God... what the hell is happening to me... All of her clothes feel like they're constricting her, and she realizes that the gusset of her panties is an unbearable pressure on her sensitive slit and throbbing clit! Desperately, instinctively trying to save herself from the humiliation of a spontaneous orgasm, she reaches up and yanks her panties to the side, sighing in momentary relief as she lets her pussy breathe. But the relief lasts only a split second before she realizes in mortification that Marco is surely feasting his horny gaze on her naked, glistening pink snatch!

Sure enough, she feels a warm, rough masculine hand clasp the soft flesh of her rump, squeezing it, stroking it as a second hand comes up between her thighs, clasping her soft, wet sex, caressing it. “Ohhhhhhh... noooohhhh...” she gasps, frantically willing her body to move away, to resist... but the pleasure spearing through her as this stranger molests her naked pink cunt is too intense, and she's frozen, every muscle tensing, her back arching and pushing her hindquarters up higher as Marco masterfully manipulates her quivering quim.

“You're just like all the rest, aren't you?” he says, his voice thick now. “Just a bitch in heat, waiting to get fucked. Well, don't worry... Marco can give you what you want...”

“Nooohhh... uhhhghhhh...” She tenses and groans as a small orgasm ripples through her, slick pussy-juices sluicing over Marco's stroking fingers even as her blood curdles in fear at his cruel words. Her mind reeling, she's still conscious of the need to get away from him, to figure out what's happening to her. It's something from outside her, she realizes... something sinister. Her flickering eyes go over to her desk, where the Tiara of Victory is hidden... but her body is too overwhelmed by sensation to break away from her molester and reach it. Need help... oh Goddess, somebody help me...

“Here we go...” Marco's fingers finally pull away from her snatch... but only to be replaced by the hot, blunt head of his rampant cock, nudging up against the mouth of her wet love-tunnel! “Here's what you want, right bitch?” he says as he playfully runs the tip of his throbbing weapon up and down her slit and taps it against her stiff clitty.

“NOOOO...” she says in terror: “Marco please don't PLEASE don't no-no-NOOHHHH-UUUGHHHHHHH!” Her futile protests trail off into a groan of wanton, helpless delight as the big, hot cock skewers into her, its veiny length filling and stretching her tight sex deliciously, her baby blues going comically wide behind her glasses as she feels his tool slide effortleslly in until his big balls are nestled against her clit. “Auuughhh... oh Goddess... OHHHHHH... UGGHHHHH-UGGHHH-UGHHH-AWWW-AWWWWWW!”

She cries out as the prodigious prick starts to plunder her, setting her lubricious fuckhole on the rise toward a devastating climax, her big tits swaying and jiggling with each punishing thrust as she instinctively braces her upper body on her elbows, unconsciously running her fingers through her hair as desire rampages through her with each pump of Marco's hot prick. She's powerless to stop herself from thrusting her greedy cock-socket up to meet the crude ravishing. The rhythmic slap-slap-slap of Marco's hips against her soft ass rings through the office, accompanied by her moans and cries and the squelching sounds of her wet cunt as it grips and milks the fuck-stick pounding it. Goddess... can't stop myself... it feels so good...

“Yeahhh, just like all the rest,” grunts Marco from behind her, landing a hard slap on her ass as he pounds his weapon home. “Saying no when what you mean is yes, huh, bitch? You love that fucking cock, huh?”

“AGGGHHHH-AUUUUGHHHH-UUUGHHHHH-AHHHHHHHAAAAHHHHH!” she gasps helplessly, feeling a big blow building up in her pussy like the pressure in a dam, each deep skewering of his hot cock sending more and more cracks through her crumbling resistance until... until... until... “AWWWWWW-GAWWWDDDDD-AHHHH-AHHHH-AIIIEEEEEEEE!” She bawls at the top of her lungs as the powerful climax bursts through her, convulsing her velvety sugar walls around the conquering cock-meat filling her as she writhes in ecstasy, her hands running down to squeeze at her own breasts in distracted lust as her firm legs tremble and quake in time with the spasms of release in her tight, well-stuffed pussy.

As the waves of lust slowly recede – but she can feel Marco's cock still in her, even harder, pumping and plundering even deeper as it begins to drive her swiftly toward another climax – Debbie looks up to see her executive assistant Sven in front of her. The tall, muscular Swede in his dress shirt and slacks is staring at the spectacle of her bent-over ravishment with an unreadable expression, and she feels herself flush crimson in humiliation as Marco's pole continues to jolt into her slick, clasping cunt, his balls slapping her painfully sensitive clit while her executive assistant watches her getting fucked like a slut. But there's also a sense of relief as she realizes that he can help her! “Ugghhhh... uhhh... Ssssvennn...” she moans plaintively between her unwanted paramour's thrusts. “Puh.... puh... please... please help... ughhhh.... AUUGHHHH... huhhhh... heeeeellllllp... meeeheee.... UUGHHH...”

“Yeahhh, help the slut, buddy,” grates Marco as he lands another hard slap on her quivering ass. “Bitch needs a cock in her mouth... go on and help her out.”

What... NOOOO... The plundered psychiatrist can't believe what she's seeing as Sven suddenly gives a gloating smile and says: “I think I will.” His eyes are cold on hers as he says it, and she recognizes belatedly a reservoir of pent-up frustration there, realizes that he must have resented watching her walk by him every day in a scandalously short skirt, her cleavage jiggling with her haughty steps, her body cock-stiffening and untouchable. Now here she is, bent double and being reamed by a massive prick, her pussy squelching wetly, her glasses askew and her skin flushed with lust. She looks up at Sven in horror as he sets his prick free from his pants and steps toward her, his eight inches of hard meat bobbing in front of him.

“Nooo... Sven please wait AHHHHHHH...” she gasps in pain as her assistant reaches down, grabs a handful of her silky her and hauls her head up until her torso is at right angles to her shuddering, rhythmically writhing hindquarters. Instinctively, she wraps her arms around his muscular thighs to brace herself, her tits swaying majestically beneath her as Marco keeps mercilessly pounding her from behind. Abruptly she finds herself facing Sven's bobbing prick, her mouth salivating as she she looks at it... and as he guides it to her waiting lips, the blonde slut can't stop herself from opening up to accept it, the salty flesh gliding over her tongue. “Glckkk...” she gags around it as Sven abruptly thrusts his prick to the back of her throat, her drool beginning to slop out around his tool as he begins to fuck her face. “Glllckkk-glcckhhh-glllckkk-glllckhhh-gllckkk..”

Looking up at him in a mixture of horniness and horror through her wide, watering eyes, Debbie mewls around the mouthful of pumping man-flesh as she sees Sven grinning down at her, his expression gloating. “Smile for the camera, Doc,” he says, and as she feels his powerful hand twined in her blonde locks to hold her in place, her horror deepens as she realizes his other hand is holding a camera-phone! He... he's recording this! Oh, Goddess, no, NO! Her mind reels as the cocks pump relentlessly into her at either end, Sven's laughter echoing in her ears as his balls slap wetly against her drool-dripping chin.

“GLLAAAAACCCKHHHH! AAAAGHHHLCCKHHH!” she squeals as, even through the horror of her predicament, she's pounded swiftly over the edge and into another explosive orgasm. As Marco and Sven share a coarse laugh at her expense, her dread deepens further as she realizes their fun is just beginning.

Who... who's doing this to me... somebody help me...her mind cries out forlornly, her body sheened with sweat and writhing with enforced pleasure as the two stiff pricks plough into their relentless work.

4

A gaggle of reporters is already at Taunton Mall to greet Miss Adventure as she comes roaring up on the sleek, red Adventure-Cycle. She grits her teeth slightly against the powerful vibrations between her sleek thighs, concentrating on not letting the sensations get to her, and idles the bike to a halt as the press rush her in a phalanx of flash-bulbs and shouted questions.

“Miss Adventure, how does it feel to make your debut for the public?” “Miss Adventure, what can Newvale City expect from the new Damsel of Daring?” “Miss Adventure, any words of advice for young girls out there?”

It's all on-script, and she knows what to do, swinging dramatically off her rocket bike and letting her sinuous curves and creamy complexion do the talking. Smiling sunnily as she poses for the cameras, watching in amusement as even the most hardened of the reporters gawk at her ultra-hot, nearly-naked flesh (men and women alike – with her super-senses she can hear their hearts racing), the teen heroine basks in the attention. God, I'm really looking forward to being famous! She blows cute kisses to the media mob as she saunters through their midst, feeling glamourous in her sleek goggles and sexy costume, striking a couple of heroic poses to general applause and warm laughter.

But then, abruptly, she feels their attention shift, the cameras swinging away as fingers point up at the sky and gasps of anticipation go up. Miss Adventure looks about in bewilderment and slight irritation, then tries to quell a swift surge of envy as she sees who's pre-empted her.

Don't be petty now, Lavinia, she tells herself, cocking her hands on her hips and keeping the sunny smile determinedly plastered to her face as she sees a bright point of light soaring in towards them. You expected Team Victory to draw the spotlight, it's why you're doing a shoot with them. Remember, a Masked Avenger's best weapon is a positive attitude. The inward litany almost keeps her stomach from curdling as the bright spot of light resolves into a glowing ball with a dark, shapely female form inside it. As the sphere touches down, right in front of the Adventure-Cycle, the dazzling light fades to reveal Victory Lass in all her glory.

The younger half of Team Victory may not be sporting double-D chest cannons, but she's five feet and six inches of wet dream nevertheless. Her 34C-24-34 hourglass figure is shown off to perfection by her blue mini-bustier and tiny matching latex hot-pants, and her wavy, pale blonde hair frames a sexily cute face that radiates confidence from behind her mask. She twirls her golden Sceptre of Victory expertly in one gloved hand as she coolly waves and blows kisses with the other, sauntering in her stiletto PVC heels with practised ease as she comes up to pose beside Miss Adventure, matching her fellow teen heroine grin for grin as the press throngs around them. The Damsel of Daring finds herself almost resenting the effortless ease that Victory Lass projects, an aplomb no doubt born of having seen real action. As they pose together, Miss Adventure tries to hide her discomfiture at the two inch difference in their heights that makes it feel like her fellow heroine is towering over her, eclipsing her.

“Welcome to the dance, dear,” says Victory Lass sotto voce in posh and polished British tones, never letting her smile budge an inch. “I do hope you're ready for the public.”

“I was born ready,” replies Miss Adventure, feeling her smile grow fixed and restraining a surge of anger at the condescending tone. “You don't have to worry about me.”

“Good to hear it.” Victory Lass' voice carries an undertone of I'm not convinced, but her face betrays nothing. “It's important to get these publicity events absolutely perfect. No missteps. Lady Victory taught me that.”

“I've been taught by the best.”

“Righto, then. Let's go in and find out, shall we?”

The blonde bombshell breaks away abruptly, striding rapidly away toward the mall's shining glass entryway. Miss Adventure curses under her breath as she struggles to look dignified while trying to catch up with the taller girl's long strides, the Damsel of Daring's fantastic mams and plump ass-cheeks bouncing and jiggling with each step as she rushes not to be left behind. Dammit, she thinks, she did that on purpose! She realizes sadly that she's probably not going to be able to like Victory Lass.

“Where's Lady Victory?” she manages to ask as they walk into the interior of the mall. The shoot has been set up just inside the front doors, in a vast rotunda ringed with shops and, she sees now, also ringed with gawking teenaged girls and boys who let out a loud cheer as the gorgeous heroines appear. Obligingly, the teen vigilantes wave to their audience as they survey the set-up: a bright red fire-engine that must be a mock-up assembled on the spot, a group of a dozen hunky firemen in FDNC t-shirts and jeans, grinning at the delectable young hotties soon to be posing with them. The whole assembly is ringed by video cameras and manned by half a dozen hulking cameramen in black turtlenecks and slacks, each man almost as large as the firemen themselves.

“Lady Vick's a professional,” says Victory Lass crisply, her smile still in place as she acknowledges the crowd and gives the firemen a saucy wink that has them breaking out in laughter and applause. “She'll be here, I assure you. Just be sure you don't trip over your feet before she arrives, alright love?”

“I wouldn't--” Miss Adventure starts to protest, but the blonde heroine is walking rudely away again, greeting one of the hunkiest firemen with a big hug as she leaves the rookie sidekick fuming. Refusing to trail after her this time, the buxom brunette instead turns back to the crowd of teen girls and keeps waving and smiling... but she feels a bit idiotic when she realizes most of them are watching Victory Lass, anyway. Frozen awkwardly in her pose, she tries to think of what else to do...

... and is finally rescued. “Hello, Miss Venture?”

She turns to see one of the cameramen approaching her, a blunt-featured man who looks strangely brutish for his profession, more like a prizefighter than anything else with cauliflower ears and a many-times broken nose. But his smile seems genuinely friendly. “Miss Adventure, actually,” she corrects him, but without any edge in her voice.

“Sorry, Miss Adventure,” he says graciously. “Why don't you step this way and meet our crew? We're from Newvale Today, we're here to do a live video 'making of' for this calendar shoot. I'm Sonny.”

“Nice to meet you, Sonny,” she says with relief. “Lead the way. Is the photographer here yet?”

Sonny gives her a curious smile. “Oh, Mister Snipes will be here real soon,” he says. “He just... had to go and make a quick phone call. Right this way, Miss...”

Taking his proffered hand, Miss Adventure smiles her sunniest smile yet as she walks over to meet the 'making of' crew. Too bad about Victory Lass, but at least everyone else seems nice, she thinks, keeping it positive. I think this is still going to be a wonderful day!

* * *

“AWWWWW! AWWWWWWW! AWWWW-HAUUGGHHHHH! AIIIIIEEEEEEE!”

Debbie Doubledee screams her lungs out as her perverted patient and her equally sleazy assistant hold her suspended between them, her wide-splayed, shapely gams twitching in time with the powerful thrusts of their bloated cocks into her dripping, well-fucked holes. Marco grunts in satisfaction as his cock twitches deep in her gaped ass and Sven buries himself balls-deep in her clasping cunt, the Swede's eyes boring mockingly into hers as they drive her over the edge of writhing, shuddering orgasm yet again while they paint her insides with their white-hot loads of jism. Nearly swooning, she moans and cries from inside her hell of helpless pleasure as the dual violation fills her with unwanted, slutty delight.

She's lost track of how long they've been fucking her stupid. Her elegant, sexy little outfit is in tatters, her panties long gone, her busty young body slathered with sweat, spunk dripping down her face and chin and gleaming on her naked, jiggling tits and hanging in strands from her fogged glasses. She's wanked their stiff pricks and sucked and swallowed their splooge countless times, let it spurt all over her, taken it inside her, begged them to fuck her harder. Despite her anguish, she's been unable to stop her horny instincts from subjecting her to the ongoing sexual humiliation, each time hoping against hope that this was the time they'd tire, this was the time they'd let her free.

Now, as they let her go and she flops to the ground between them, her body thrilling in the aftermath of the brutal double fuck, her hope has begun to fade. She waits miserably for the inevitable terse command from one or the other of them to “lick those cocks clean, slut,” knowing with shamed certainty that she'll obey, again, when they tell her to, knowing all the while that her depraved debasement is being recorded for posterity by the cell phone that Sven periodically pulls out and pans over the perverted action. Looking up at them, her normally confident, flashing blue gaze dulled with submission and self-loathing, she knows by their cruel expressions that they're going to keep fucking her into oblivion, keep fucking her until she doesn't know her own name.

So it comes as a surprise when Sven, with an air of slight regret, begins to tuck his semi-hard prick back into his pants. His cell phone must be full enough of incriminating evidence, because this time he leaves it in his back pocket instead of capturing yet more video of the cock-rocked cutie on the floor at his feet. “Alright,” he says finally, looking up at his partner in ravishment. “Time to call it. Session's over.”

“Over?” replies Marco, sending a shiver of terrified anticipation through her as he says: “Come on, I can fuck that ass at least another six times. Bitch deserves it.”

“Sorry, man,” replies Sven firmly. “That's it for now. Looks like we'll have to schedule a return check-up for you.”

Tears slide down her cheeks at the implications of that comment. No, never! her mind cries out in horror at the prospect of being forced to see Marco again after what he's done to her. This is never happening again! I'm going to find out who did this to me... they're going to pay! But fear and continued confusion keeps the words bottled up inside.

“Return, huh?” Marco gives an ugly chuckle. “Well, you can bet I'm up for treating this whore the way she needs to be treated, anytime.”

“Good,” Sven says approvingly. “Then let's go out front and look at a calendar. Long as you've got the money, we've got the time. Meantime we'll let Doc Double-Stuffed here take a little break.”

Her ears burn in shame as they share a laugh at the childish crudity. Hugging her arms pitifully around her big, spunk-slick breasts as they start to walk out, she takes a while to register the sound coming from her desk. Only after the fifth ring does she realizes that it's her phone. Her direct line, ringing.

“Better get that, Doc,” says Sven offhandedly over his shoulder. “Might be important.”

For a long time after the office door closes, she sits rocking quietly on the floor, trying to process what's just happened to her. Before long, sobs of pure horror begin to rack her shapely frame, fueled as much as anything else by the realization that despite the sick sense of nausea she feels churning in her gut along with the swallowed ball-slime still digesting there... she's still horny, her tits still throbbing with sensitivity, her pussy still wet and swollen and ready. The sensation is beginning to fade, but slowly... far too slowly. And as long as it persists, coupled with the smell of sex hanging heavy in the air around her, it plunges her deeper into shame and misery.

But the phone keeps ringing, ringing, ringing. The insistent sound finally cuts through the fog in her mind, and tottering to her feet, her heart hammering in trepidation, she gulps and stills her tears and picks it up.

“H – hello?” She hates how fragile her voice sounds.

“About time,” says an electronically-modulated voice on the other end of the line. “I was starting to wonder if you were passed out.”

“Who is this?” she asks tremulously, her heart beating faster, the phone shaking in her hand.

“No need to get hostile.” There's a hint of humour detectable even in the caller's heavily-altered tones. “This is the good Samaritan who gifted you a morning full of hot sex, after all. Least you can do is be appreciative.”

A flare of fury goes off inside her, and suddenly she feels strength returning to her limbs, resolve coming back into her voice: “It was you, then. You did this to me. How? And more importantly, how do you expect to get away with it? Who the hell are you?”

“Never mind the details of my method for now. As for who I am... well, you can call me Longshot. And as to how I plan to get away with it, that part's simple.” The modulated voice is still amiable, but with a cold, hard edge to it. “While you've been ignoring my phone call, Sven's been uploading the intimate therapeutic adventures of Debbie Doubledee to a secure file transfer site. It's all there, now, encrypted with a secondary access key known only to yours truly. The only person who can keep your shame secret from the entire Internet... is me.”

The hot fury goes cold inside her, tamping down as swiftly as it rose. She sees headlines in her mind's eye: STAR PSYCHIATRIST IN HARDCORE SMUT VIDEO SCANDAL! She tries to think of something to say, but can't. Her mind races like a hamster trapped in a wheel.

“Sounds like you understand,” says Longshot. “That's good. Because I'm going to need a certain service from you, later today, on behalf of my client. If you do it, I give you the access codes to the file transfer site and with one keystroke, you can make it as though none of this ever happened. If you don't, well... I'd say I won't enjoy taking it all public, but I'd be lying.”

“What...” her mouth goes dry. She swallows and tries again. “What do you want?”

“That's the easiest part of all. My client is currently doing time in Redshaw Maximum Security. The parole board has scheduled a special hearing for him for tomorrow morning. You're going to visit him this afternoon, at the request of the attending prison psychiatrist, and sign off on a statement approving him for release as a fully rehabilitated model citizen.”

Debbie can't believe what she's hearing. Her blood roars in her ears. “But... but I can't... that violates every code of ethics...”

“Of course it fucking does,” snaps Longshot impatiently. “That's why we're blackmailing you into it. Try to keep up.”

“But if anybody ever found out... my career...”

“Would be as dead as it will be if I decide to show the world how much Debbie Doubledee loves sexually molesting her patients and employees. Which is why I'm confident you'll be discreet.”

He's going to accuse me of molesting them? She finds herself speechless again for a long moment, like she's waiting to wake up and discover this is all a nightmare. But she knows, with a cold, sinking certainty, that somehow it's all too horribly real. Finding her voice again, she asks: “Who... who's your client?”

“I think you can guess.” Longshot's distorted voice is flat. “You testified at his trial on behalf of your friends from Team Victory, remember? Called him a 'monstrous psychopath heading up an organization of pure evil,' if memory serves. I think that really hurt his feelings, by the way.”

The sinking feeling turns into a shudder of fear. It all falls into place. The kind of influence and ruthless resolve needed to reach out from the walls of Redshaw and make all this happen – there is only one person it could be. But still: “It's... it's not possible. He wouldn't be eligible for parole for seven and a half years yet...”

“You let us worry about who's eligible and what's possible. Just get yourself together and make sure you're at Redshaw this afternoon at four o'clock sharp. Do you understand?”

After a long moment, she says, in a small voice: “Yes. I understand.”

“Good. Been a treat chatting with you, Deb, but I've got to run now. I hope we didn't keep you from anything important.” And with that, Longshot is gone.

Debbie stands holding the receiver in stunned silence. She can't believe this is happening to her. And as her mind races, she knows that somehow, she has to find a way out of this. Somehow... somehow...

Somehow, she has to find this 'Longshot' character and beat that file transfer code out of him. It's how to find him, and how to catch him by surprise, that's the problem. But she has one advantage left: they clearly don't know that they're dealing with more than just a headshrinker.

Her jaw setting, she hangs up the phone and steps around her desk to fish out her Tiara of Victory from the deep recesses of its drawers. As she looks at its golden gleam, feels the power thrumming through it, she suddenly feels some of her confidence returning. You thought you'd intimidate me, Longshot, she thinks. That you'd own me. But you don't know Lady Victory. You're not going to get away with this... not with any of it. She only wishes she could pummel Sven into the bargain, remembering her traitorous assistant's gloating expression as he'd humiliated her over and over again. But that revenge is going to have to wait; she can't risk tipping her hand to Longshot, whose hireling Sven must obviously be, before she ambushes him. Time is of the essence.

Time... time... Something catches at the edge of her memory. I hope we didn't keep you from anything important. Looking at the clock on her wall for the first time since everything turned surreal, she suddenly remembers the appointment she has for today... and is aghast to see that it's almost eleven thirty! Oh, shit... Shit! The calendar shoot with Miss Adventure! I'm already half an hour late! I've got to get cleaned up... shit!

Cursing, flushed and flustered, grabbing the Tiara and gathering the tiny scraps of her remaining clothing around her wet and sexy flesh, the busty blonde runs jiggling to the small bathroom adjoined to her office.

* * *

Several minutes have passed since Lady Victory was due to arrive, and since the mysterious and apparently famous photographer, “Mr. Snipes,” made his appearance.

He's exactly what Miss Adventure expected. Tall, rail-thin, clad very artistically all in black, his slightly cruel and sensuous mouth downturned at the news that he's going to have to wait for his major star. Shaking hands perfunctorily with Miss Adventure, he gets right down to business: “Okay, let's do some practice shots while we wait. Victory Lass, if you'll indulge me...” He ensconces himself behind a big, long-lensed camera on a tripod, invites all twelve of the firemen to crowd into frame with the Lady Victory's shapely teen sidekick, and begins snapping away.

Miss Adventure has to admit she's beside herself with envy. As the camera snaps shot after shot, its unusual pink-coloured flash lighting up the rotunda, she realizes it must be a huge turn-on to be surrounded by all those hunky firemen. With each click of the camera she can hear Victory Lass' heart beat a little faster, see her poses grow a touch more sensuous as the muscular bodies crowd closer and closer around her. By the sixth shot, one of the firemen is running a rough hand saucily up the young blonde's left thigh, another generating clear electricity as he gazes deep into the young heroine's eyes. Watching as the scantily-clad sidekick begins to subtly grind against the firm bodies surrounding her, her eyes growing wide and moist as if surprised by the sensuousness of the experience, the Damsel of Daring can only gnash her teeth with envy and try to ignore the subtle way her own pussy is starting to tingle, her nipples throbbing against their confinement as she watches from the sidelines.

Why not me? She can't help the thought as she watches the “practice shots” get hotter and hotter, a handsome black-haired fireman moving in to grind the stiff lump at his crotch against Victory Lass' proud, supple ass. I could make them feel like that, too... Clearing her throat uncomfortably, the Adventurist's ward tries to resist the urge to stroke her fingers over her own luscious young body as she watches the spectacle unfold. She can see the flush of desire rising in Victory Lass' pale skin, smell the hormones wafting on the air, hear the tiny moans of pleasure start to rise in the young heroine's throat. God, that looks so nice... So nice...

As the minutes pass slowly by, it doesn't seem odd to see the big, bulging hard-ons in the firemens' pants. It doesn't seem odd to see Victory Lass' baton go clattering to the ground at her feet as she begins to stroke her own shapely form with the lightest touch of her fingers, or to see her hands wander closer and closer to touching the outlines of turgid pricks in those jeans. Miss Adventure can feel her own breath growing short as she watches, her nipples starting to stiffen and throb and her pussy moistening. Her eyes are riveted as she watches her rival grind and wriggle with the best of them, revelling in the feel of the hard, muscled masculine bodies rubbing up against her. The Lass' mouth is open, her eyes and mouth wide as though in a kind of shock at the way she's behaving, her full C-cups heaving... but she doesn't stop. She clearly can't stop.

“What do you think so far, Miss A?” says a voice to the Damsel of Daring's right, and she looks to see that one of the Newvale Today cameramen has a lens trained on her. She notices the light on top of the camera has that same curious pinkish quality as the photographer's flash... but mostly she feels herself flushing with embarrassment to be captured on film when she's feeling so... so horny.

She gives a high, nervous titter. “It's... it's really something... I didn't realize his methods were so... uhhh... liberated...”

“Yeah, well, he's European, you know,” says the cameraman as though that explains everything. “Give us a pose or two, will you?”

Feeling curiously light-headed and floaty, Miss Adventure finds herself posing and pouting extra-sexily for the television camera, cupping and jutting out her amazing double-Ds, biting a knuckle playfully as she turns to shove out her sweet round ass, tousling her hair and feeling glamourous as she gives the lens a smouldering look through the blue lenses of her sleek goggles. “Nice, very nice,” she hears the cameraman saying, but she can barely hear him over the thumping of her heart, the roaring of her blood as she feels a slow burn rising in her body, as if she's under a sun lamp that's making her flesh hotter by the second. Her creamy skin begins to glow with perspiration. Her nips are bullet-hard, now, and though she doesn't know it, an easily-visible spot of pronounced, dark wetness is staining her slingshot thong at the juncture of her young, firm thighs.

After a moment she hears someone calling her, the voice cold and impatient. “I said, Miss Adventure.” It's Snipes, the photographer. “If you'd please take your place in front of the camera, we will have some test shots with you now.”

Abruptly, the Damsel feels her stomach flip-flop as she turns to see twelve pairs of firefighter eyes drinking in her voluptuous, flirtily-posed body, twelve raging denim-covered bulges saluting her as a flushed, slightly wild-eyed Victory Lass comes tottering out of the circle, carefully not looking at her fellow-heroine. The Newvale Today cameraman trains his camera on a fresh target as the posh British teen asks in uncertain tones, her former hauteur fading, if he has any bottled water.

“Come, come, dear, we don't have all day,” says Mr. Snipes peremptorily, snapping his fingers.

Gulping nervously, Miss Adventure can her the blood pulsing in the firefighters' cocks, can hear the passionate drumming of their hearts as she steps toward them. For a moment she can also hear other things – like the rising sound of dismayed muttering coming from the watching crowd growing steadily around the rotunda – but the sounds and smells of barely-restrained passion quickly drown that out. She feels rough, strong hands take hold of her arms, and before she knows it, she's at the centre of a world of manly musk and muscle, her body tingling all over and the wet spot at her crotch growing as those hands presumptuously start to stroke her taut flesh. Her thighs, her spine, her flanks, the small of her back... she gasps as she even feels someone grab and squeeze a big, luxuriant handful of her ripe, soft ass.

That's not... that shouldn't be happening... But as she opens her mouth to object, Mr. Snipes' camera flashes for the first time. And her voice freezes in her throat.

A sudden wave of electric sensation sweeps through her, as if her whole body is being zapped – inside and out – by a lightning bolt of lust. She feels herself freeze suddenly, her mind fogging, her moist lips parted seductively, her body going with the sinuous, sensual motions of the firemen all around her as she feels the same hands groping her ass, squeezing and gently slapping one cheek and then the other. “Ahhhhh...” is all she can say as the molestation continues. Her big breasts throb with sexual heat, the straps of her bikini a torment against her stiff, sensitive nipples.

“Okay, to the firemen,” says Mr. Snipes suddenly. “You've just pulled Miss Adventure clear of a burning building. It was hot in there, so you'd better take your shirts off.”

Miss Adventure's heart hammers like a jackrabbit's as, all around her, the ripped firemen comply without hesitation, whipping off their t-shirts and surrounding her with a panorama of gorgeous beefcake. Oh... oh wow...

“Alright, Miss Adventure,” comes the photographer's instruction. “You're very grateful to them for saving your dumb little superheroine ass after you got in over your head. Show it. Just do what comes naturally.”

Another searing flash of the camera sends another sizzling wave of horniness through her body as the Damsel of Daring moans helplessly. The hard-bodied firemen close in around her, grinding against her, and without her even realizing it she's stroking her hands all over their hard pecs, all over their manly biceps... and then reaching down to massage the hot, thick lengths of stiff tubesteak straining at the zippers of their jeans. Random hands continue to squeeze and gently slap her wriggling rump, but that's nothing compared to the ones that slide up her tingling torso to cup and tease her proud double-D's, or the hand that sneaks up between her thighs from behind and begins ever-so-gently to stroke her sensitive slit through the saturated material of her thong. “Ahhhhhaaahhhh...” she gasps, eyes flying wide behind her sleek goggles, but before she can protest, one of the men is claiming her mouth in a deep, demanding kiss: “Ahhhhmmmmmm... mmmmmmmphhhh... mmmmmmm...”

As the kiss goes on and on, Miss Adventure's mind whirls as she can feel her sensory discipline cracking, the sounds and sensations all around her begin to swamp her. She can hear Victory Lass moaning softly as someone suggests to her, with a sinister, leering tone in his voice: “You really look like you need to cool off, Miss... why don't you take another bottle of water and use it to cool off?” And in short order she can hear water splashing against the blonde's hot skin. Meanwhile she can hear the sound of zippers coming down all around her as the firemen's cocks spring to attention, feel the heat of a pair of them as their owners silently guide her to wrap her gloved hands around them; she can hear their blood pulsing, the sperm churning in their balls as, slowly, she instinctively starts to stroke their pricks. She can feel the air playing over her breasts as someone yanks aside her bikini straps and sets her massive melons free; she can feel thunderbolts of sexual heat coursing through her as someone twists her nipples and mauls her breasts with impunity. And she can feel the fingers manualizing her soft cunt-flesh and teasing her stiff clit through her thong getting firmer and more insistent in their pressure as her hips writhe, her body shuddering as, with a rising feeling of surreality, she realizes she's being driven toward an orgasm!

This... this is getting way out of hand... Part of her observes detachedly that something is horribly wrong here. She can hear people exclaiming in disgust all around them now -- “Look at them! Gross! What is this, a porn shoot?” -- can hear some of their young admirers starting to storm away. But only a few of them... only the girls. The boys, meanwhile, are laughing and cheering as though Christmas has arrived early. And Miss Adventure's mind is too addled, her body getting steadily hornier as the camera flashes away. With a sudden sense of terror, she realizes she can't do anything but go with the perverted flow, her blood pounding in her ears as she revels in the feeling of the hot, hard cocks in her palms, the tongue raping her mouth, the hands all over her, the wild sensation of climax building in her teenaged cunt as a perfect stranger mercilessly frigs her stiff clitty through the soaked fabric.

The kiss breaks off, leaving her gasping with passion as she feels two mouths seize hungrily on her creamy, naked, heaving breasts, her stiff pink nipples sucked into a pair of eager mouths as she moans in appreciation of the waves of pleasure sweeping through her from her magnificent double-D mams. “Ohhhhhhhh...” she gasps as the corrupting fingers stroking her hot young pussy pick up their pace, her hands instinctively speeding up their stroking of the cocks she's wrapped her delicate fingers around. It's an act that makes it obvious how hollow her half-protest is when she says: “Please don't... stop... ahhhhhhh... please don't... stop...”

Opening her eyes, her alabaster skin flushed with sexual heat, Miss Adventure can see Victory Lass wriggling in the grip of two of the big Newvale Today cameramen, her pert titties pulled free of her bustier. As her burly captors splash bottled water all over the blonde bombshell's naked young breasts and playfully lick and suck and bite them, one of them has a hand shoved down the front of her hot pants, the motions of his fingers making her squirm deliciously. He's laughing at her as her hands flutter helplessly and a third colleague films the horny spectacle.

The blazingly erotic sight sends a flash of alarm through the watching Miss Adventure... but it also amps up the heat in her tight little twat as the strange camera-flash sends another sizzling wave of electric lust through her body, and she suddenly realizes she's right on the brink of cumming! “Ohhhhh... ohhhhhh nooohhhhhhh...” she gasps, tilting her head back and closing her eyes as she can only give in to the sensation. “Uhhhh... ohhh God I'm gonna... I'm GONNA... AAAAAAHHHHH... HHHAAAHHHHHHHH...” Her lissome frame goes rigid as the wicked molestation of her cunny pushes her over the edge, her pussy spasming and squirting messily around the gusset of her thong, the amazing waves of pleasure cap-sizing her consciousness as the fireman's rapid frigging motions keep her riding swell after swell on the tide of desire. “AUUUHAAAAUUUGHHH! AHHHHHHAAAAAHHHH! CUH... CUMMIIINNNG... AAAAAAHHHHAHHHHHH!”

After the first orgasm crests into a second and a third, the buxom teen heroine finally feels her legs buckle. She finds herself on her knees, panting, shuddering in the aftermath of ecstasy as she looks around at a smorgasbord of waggling, tumescent pricks. Oh, no... Her stomach flip-flops in trepidation, but her mouth is watering even as her mind reels in confusion at the powerful urges that have overtaken her. When she feels a pair of big, calloused fingers being forced into her mouth, she doesn't hesitate to suckle them obediently, savouring and swallowing her own sweet pussy nectar as she licks the workmanlike digits clean. And when she feels a strong hand wrapping itself in her silky chestnut tresses and guiding her towards one of the massive meat-sticks surrounding her... she doesn't resist. She can't.

“That's it,” she hears Mr. Snipes' voice, much closer now, and looking up, Miss Adventure sees him craning with his camera over the shoulder of the hunky black fireman whose chocolate-coloured cock is just centimetres from her open mouth. “Show them how grateful you are, Miss Adventure. Show them what a little super-slut you can be.” And the camera flash comes again, its strange pink power searing into her whirling mind and hot flesh.

That's all it takes. “Mmmmmmhmmmmm,” she moans helplessly as the fireman's strong hand guides her mouth onto his Nubian fuck-stick. Feeling the delicious, salty man-meat sliding over her tongue, the teen heroine can't stop herself from sucking it, panting through her nose as – tentatively at first, then with growing eagerness – she bobs her wet mouth up and down the stiff tool, rolling her tongue along its underside.

Even as she does so, a distant sense of humiliated horror and nausea is whispering in the back of her fragmented mind. Something is wrong... this is so, so wrong... but I can't... can't stop myself... got to suck it... Her eyes roll back in her head as her hands unconsciously reclaim the pair of stiff pricks she'd been stroking earlier (or at least a pair of them, it doesn't matter which), and begin wanking them. “Mmmmm-gllmmmmmphhhh-mmmmphhhh...” come her sounds of wanton desire around the mouthful of cock as she begins to work up a sloppy, spit-soaking rhythm, her drool starting to drip from her chin and stream down the fireman's big black cock and balls, splattering in a stream down between her naked tits.

“Yeahhh, baby,” moans the black fireman in appreciation as her blowjob grows steadily more intense and whorish. “Can't believe this is happening... awwwww shit... lick my balls, sweetie... go on, lick those nuts, you dirty little bitch...”

As he speaks, he pulls her mouth off his prodigious pole and pushes her down toward the big, dangling, sweaty sacs beneath. Without thinking, she obeys, pushing out her little pink tongue to lick at his salty black balls, sucking them into her mouth as his moans encourage her. Her eyes flicker open briefly and she can see, past his hip, that Victory Lass is swiftly spiralling down into the chaos of perversion with her; the snooty British bimbo is now bent over, her legs spread and her perfect ass in the air, her hot-pants pulled halfway down her firm thighs to expose her dripping snatch and tight brown star. As her head bobs haplessly at the crotch of one of the brutish-looking “cameramen,” the other is unzipping his pants to haul out ten inches of hard and ready dick, pointing the throbbing weapon at the mouth of the teen sidekick's tight cunt.

And all around them, the raucous cheers and whoops of the watching crowd of teenaged boys echo louder and louder, their increasingly jeering tone keeping the flutter of horrified fear alive in Miss Adventure's belly even as she kisses her way back up the length of the big black dick to engulf its length in her warm, wet mouth again. It's like her body belongs to someone else, like someone else is moving her and controlling her, a puppeteer holding the strings of a mindless marionette. And the fear grows as she feels one of the firemen crouching impatiently behind her, one of his rough hands digging into the soft, white skin of her hip as his other yanks her thong aside to expose her drenched sex and vulnerable asshole. What... what's happening to us... I should... I should stop this... Miss Adventure thinks disjointedly... but all she can do is moan and wriggle her hips as she feels the sinful heat of a male tool pressing insistently against the rim of her tight sphincter, her anal virginity about to be crudely ripped away as she sucks the cock in her mouth even more vigorously and sloppily, choking on the twelve-inch serving of grade-A African beef as she forces it toward the back of her throat.

A moment later she sees Victory Lass's tight, glossy pink snatch get stretched and skewered balls-deep in tandem with the strong prick sinking past the half-hearted resistance of her own clenching sphincter to thrust painfully into the dank heat of her tight, inexperienced anal sheath. She hears the posh British teen's cock-gagged squeals echo her own as the twitching tools in both their holes begin to power their way home with the sound of slapping flesh and the salacious grunting of their ravishers, both heroines wriggling, powerless to stop the molten sexual heat rising in tandem with the rhythm of the big, pumping pricks whispering frictional hymns of sin and submission inside them.

“Glaccckkk-aggllckhhh-glllacckkhhh...” the Damsel of Daring gulps around the fat black dick plundering her throat as tears run from the corners of her wide eyes, as she sees the fireman's face transformed into a mask of bestial passion as he fucks her face, as she feels a tell-tale tightening in the hanging balls slapping repeatedly against her wet chin... and as she realizes that even without a finger on her clit, the cock in her tight ass is still fucking her toward the inevitability of another soul-shattering orgasm, the storm of sensation throughout her young body taking her back over the edge. Oh God FUCK my ass oh God oh-God-don't-stop-don't-stop-FUCK-ME-FUCK-ME-FUCKMEFUCKME... her fracturing mind chants desperately as she moves with the thrusts, lewdly slapping her plump ass back against her relentless cocksman as the moment comes closer... closer... closer...

And then suddenly a voice rings out. A voice of command, of power... of victory. The voice of a goddess. And it shouts imperiously: “STOP THIS FARCE AT ONCE!”

5

A terrible intuition had sent Lady Victory scrambling from her office with the utmost haste.

Plunking her Tiara of Victory atop her dishevelled hair and tossing aside the remnants of her civilian garb along with her smeared and spattered spectacles, she'd spared barely more than a minute to rinse some of the sweat and spunk of the morning's lewd activities off her voluptuous body before opening the secret costume compartment in the wall of her shower. Frantically donning her mask and boots and pulling her tight purple latex Lady Victory hot-pants up over her still-wet ass, she was still fumbling with the rear zipper on her bustier as she palmed open the second secret door in her shower's west wall, revealing the secret elevator that led down to the building's back alleyway. Thanking the Goddess of Victory for the foresight that allowed her to slip out without giving away her secret identity – or more importantly having to face Sven's smug and mocking gaze after what he'd just done to her – she had gotten the bustier mostly zipped up and raced out into the alleyway, calling her bright power to her, feeling the force field's aura crackling from her scalp and all across her skin as she'd soared into the sky.

It was an erratic flight. She was still wobbly, her body still sore and her nether holes still throbbing from the erotic working-over they'd received, her nerve-endings still thrilling with the echoes of passion. A couple of times, she came perilously close to losing her concentration, releasing her grip on the force-field and plummeting several storeys to her death. But she'd recovered just in time, and pressed onward.

She had to. As she replayed “Longshot's” modulated voice in her head, something in his tone in the last part of their exchange had hinted that he wasn't done toying with his targets yet. And further, the way he'd very subtly hinted at knowing of her appointment at eleven had suddenly made her think that he'd made the connection between Dr. Debbie Doubledee and Lady Victory after all... and if he had, she had realized, then Victory Lass and Miss Adventure were in the utmost danger. After setting the morning's perverted events in motion, he could've had plenty of time to relocate to the Taunton Mall and set up whatever trap he might have in mind. He could have phoned her from anywhere.

As she comes soaring in toward the Mall now, she wonders what form Longshot's trap has taken. She determinedly keeps her force-field live around her, ready for anything. Her blood runs cold as she sees that the mob of reporters at the Mall's front door is buzzing like a hornet's nest just struck with a stick, reporters in front of television cameras reporting something earnestly with shocked expressions on their faces, photographers craning in front of the glass doors and snapping shots of something... but everyone clearly somehow nervous about going in. The shoot was supposed to be just beyond those doors, she thinks worriedly. Something's happened!

Lady Victory lands very shakily on the pavement just behind the media mob, giving a tit-jiggling stumble and coming within an ace of sprawling on her face before she rights herself. If the reporters notice the momentary unsteadiness, none of them says anything about it. But they do all fall silent – respectfully silent in an unusual and worrying way – as they turn to look at her. Taking on her most confident posture, Lady Victory steadies her breathing and strides in among them.

“Sorry I'm late, citizens,” she says in her most ringing tones. “You look agitated. What's happening in the Mall?”

There's an embarrassed silence all around that worries the heroine even more. Finally, one of the reporters – the slenderly beautiful mulatto bombshell Tasha Reese from NCTV Channel 5 – clears her throat almost apologetically. “We're, uhhhh, we're not entirely sure what's happening. Or, uhhh, how to... well, how to explain it...”

“Explain what?” Lady Victory looks around and notices that there are more than a few young teenaged girls in the crowd, some of them standing with the television news crews, their faces streaked with tears and bright with outrage. “What are all these girls doing out here?”

“We're telling the world about those fucking sluts--” one of the teens suddenly pipes up furiously before the reporter standing next to her quickly shushes her.

But the outburst tells Lady Victory everything she needs to know, and she looks back to the Mall with fury rising in her blood. Longshot is here. And whatever device he'd used on her this morning, it's here too. The implications for her sidekick – and for the Adventurist's sidekick – are frightening... but on the upside, it means she'll get a shot at this cowardly villain sooner than she'd dreamed possible.

Another reporter, a middle-aged man from public broadcasting – she recognizes him as Blake Benchley, the “Most Trusted Name in News” — approaches her with trepidation. “Listen, Lady Victory, it's... it's really not pretty in there,” he confides quietly. “We've kept from going in out of respect for the Masked Avengers, but we couldn't stop the girls from coming out, and they've been text-ing like mad. This story is all over the city by now. We're glad you're here... we need a Masked Avenger's help to sort out what's happening in there, and why.”

All over the city, hell. All over the continent... the world. This is the Internet and mobile phone age. The damage control on this is going to be epic. Lady Victory's mouth is dry. And to top it all off, I don't even know if my force-field is immune to that damnable device! Shivering inside her is the memory of the vivid lust that had dragged her into a mire of perversion that she'd finally escaped, or rather been released from, only a few short minutes earlier. Am I ready for this? I have to be... I have to be!

“Right,” she says after a moment, squaring her shoulders. “I'm going in.”

“Are you sure?” asks Benchley with concern in his voice. “You might not... want to see.” As he says this, she absently notices him giving her an odd sidelong glance and plucking the front of his shirt upwards in a curious, awkward gesture, but her focus is almost all on the building now and she doesn't think to ask him bout it.

“I'm very sure,” she says firmly. “Has anyone summoned the police here?”

“Yes, they're on their way,” nods the public television anchor. “One of the girls from inside called them as she was coming out to report multiple cases of public indecency and lewd conduct at the Mall. Anybody's guess when they'll get here.” He plucks upward at the front of his shirt again, clearing his throat a couple of times, but the heroine ignores him.

Shit. There can't be much time. And I don't like having to run into this blind. Her mind races madly. Judging by what he'd said on the phone, Longshot is freelancing for the Mafia, so he'll have mob goons with him. But how many, and where? Normally she'd wait for the police and go in with backup, but clearly she needs to stop whatever's happening in there right now. “Alright,” she says finally. “Thank you, Citizen Benchley. Tell everyone to please stand clear. The Masked Avengers will prevail, I promise.”

Marching forward decisively, her power crackling brightly around her, Lady Victory bangs open the front doors of Taunton Mall and steps into the court where the mock-up of the fire engine has been set up.

What she sees there stops her cold. For a long moment she gapes silently, listening to the ringing cheers of the teen male audience above, looking stunned at the spectacle below... trying to process the sight of Victory Lass's pale arse-flesh jiggling as she's taken hard at both at both ends, the dozen firemen crowded around Miss Adventure, their hard cocks out and waggling as the Damsel of Daring makes her public debut with hard man-meat in either hand, in her salivating mouth and in balls-deep in her tight rump. A wave of sexual heat from the scene rolls over Lady Victory, awakening the echoes of lust in her own well-fucked cunt and ass, making her gasp as she sees the looks of glazed, helpless lust in the teen sidekicks' eyes. Is that what I looked like?

The erotic power of the scene freezes her, along with something else. Fear. Noting the odd pink lights coming from the cameras trained on the overwhelmed teen heroines, she guesses they must be the guise in which Longshot is using his device here. Will her powers hold up against it? Her voices freezes in her throat... if this doesn't work, she'll be powerless, humiliated, submissive fuckmeat again, right alongside her teenaged wards. Can she face that possibility?

As the thrusts of the men and the muffled squeals of the teen beauties match up in an ever-more-frantic rhythm, though, she feels her rage and indignation rising again. I have to try! I've got to save them! Plucking up her courage, Lady Victory steps forward and raises an imperious cry ringing with a confidence and authority she doesn't feel. “STOP THIS FARCE AT ONCE!” she cries out, the force-field amplifying her voice to godlike decibel levels as she strikes her most confident superheroine pose, hands on hips, feet planted wide, eyes blazing.

And as the bright gazes of almost half a dozen men look toward her, she swallows a cold lump of dread.

* * *

The sound of that voice sends an earthquake of shock through Miss Adventure's double-stuffed, sweat-sheened body, an impact of primal terror like the time her father had walked in on her masturbating in her bedroom... but a thousand times worse. Lady Victory's ringing cry of fury breaks through the erotic spell abruptly, replacing it with a mortification that swamps her entire being – and overcome with the power of fright and adrenaline, every muscle in her body suddenly clenches...

... clenches with the fivefold augmented cosmic power of Adventure that courses through her from the choker at her neck!

Yowls of utter agony erupt from the throats of the men whose cocks she'd just been stroking so submissively, their nearly-erupting organs suddenly being crushed in a pair of hands transformed into instruments of vise-like torture. They're matched by a shrill squeal of shock from the ass-ravisher whose pistoning prick is abruptly seized by a clenching sphincter of superhuman strength. And the man in her mouth gives a full-throated shriek as the suction of her throat suddenly comes to the verge of ripping off his member whole at the root. It only lasts a split second... but as their caterwauling prompts her to release them as quickly as she'd claimed them, all four of them begin to teeter back from her, clutching their maimed organs.

They'd all been too close to their peak to stop the autonomic forces at work in their bodies, though. And their howls of pain grow shrill and despairing as blasts of white-hot spunk splatter forth from their bruised and mangled cocks, screams of suffering accompanying each bullet of orgasmic completion as though their donors' pricks are being ripped apart from the inside out. Gasping, Miss Adventure looks around her in bewilderment as she feels the pungent, slimy jism anointing her from every direction, splashing her hands and arms, her back and ass, her face and hair and her heaving breasts... hosing her thoroughly down with sperm as she shudders in shock, her own body teetering on the knife-edge of an almighty climax gradually subsiding into the keyed-up frustration of passion interrupted at its height.

As one, the maimed circle of firefighters collapse like so many felled trees after disgorging their boiling cargo of man-sap, every one of them in a dead faint as the rest of their companions cringe backward in terror and confusion, their minds as fogged as the teen heroine's as they begin to emerge from whatever eldritch power had held them all in its grip. Shivering, reeling almost drunkenly as she tries and fails to climb to her feet, Miss Adventure looks around her as she realizes the echoing cheers and taunts from the teen boys above have gone deathly silent... a silence echoed all around her.

Or almost all around her. Poor Victory Lass' sobs and grunts and squeals haven't subsided, and looking over, Miss Adventure realizes that the men pumping her at either end are insouciantly finishing their business, even looking over and grinning at the latest heroine to arrive on the scene as they continue to rapidly fuck her teenaged sidekick into submission. “Unngggghhh-unggggghhh-nnnnnghhhhh-nnnghhhhhh-NNGGGANNNGHHHHHH...” The British teen gives a moan of despair as her body goes rigid with orgasm, the cocks in her mouth and pussy plunging in to the root and forcing her to ride the sensations out as their helpless fuck-victim writhes to completion on their big, stiff members. Frozen, still trying to wrap her head around what's happening, Miss Adventure can only watch... and feel, to her own shock and dismay, more than a touch of envy as she watches the blonde hottie gurgle and groan her way through the series of machine-gun climaxes she herself has just been denied. Oh God... she thinks despite herself, fighting the instinct to rub off her own clit as she feasts her eyes. So hot...

Lady Victory clearly doesn't share the feeling. “I SAID, STOP IT AT ONCE!” she bellows again, stepping forward. Miss Adventure sees her now, her spectacular form wreathed in white light, the Tiara of Victory radiant with power on her head, her eyes glowing, a terrifying vision of cataclysmic and divine might. Her mighty double-D cleavage looks even more impressive than usual, the Damsel of Daring finds herself thinking at random, realizing that unusually, she can see the aureolas of the heroine's pink nipples just faintly above her bustier against the backdrop of light. But the thought dissipates quickly as she tries desperately to shake off her confusion and disorientation and regain her bearings, to follow what's unfolding in front of her.

She realizes that “Mr. Snipes” is saying something in a cold, disdainful, arrogant voice... and then cringes as she sees the pink camera-flash go off again, and as she sees the pink lights of the cameras that surely didn't come from Newvale Today coming to bear on Lady Victory. Her body trembles in sympathy as though feeling, all over again, the thunderbolts of passion that had wiped out all her inhibitions when those devices had been trained on her... but the majestic senior heroine, after pausing for a moment to gaze around at the clearly-fake “photographer” and his men, merely gives out a chilling laugh. All around the edges of her blazing force-field, pink energy can be seen crackling... and dissipating.

Suddenly Miss Adventure realizes what's happening. She's immune! Whatever power they're using, it can't penetrate her force-field! The confusion inside her begin to mix with a hint of jubilation as she kneels frozen, steadying her breaths as she watches the scene unfold.

Victory Lass' ravishers have stopped... if only to empty their cocks into their teenaged prey with loud groans of satisfaction and answering moans of debased humiliation from the young blonde bombshell, who's forced to gulp down mouthfuls of sticky seed while her clutching, greedy little teen pussy is flooded with hot spurts of jizz that clearly bring her off again. Even as it happens, “Mr. Snipes” is speaking once more, his voice as haughty and derisive as before. But Miss Adventure doesn't hear what she says, her attention focused with an unexpected feeling of pity on Lady Victory's sidekick as she's released from her double-ended skewering and staggers away to go sprawling face down, a river of white spunk leaking down her thighs from her inflamed slit as she waggles her ass in the air in a futile attempt to recover her feet, sobbing as she does so.

“FACE FACTS, LONGSHOT,” Lady Victory is saying now, stepping forward again, her echoing voice full of menace. “YOUR LITTLE GAME IS OVER! AND AFTER WHAT YOU AND YOUR MEN HAVE JUST DONE TO VICTORY LASS AND MISS ADVENTURE – AND BY THE LOOKS OF THEM ,THESE POOR FIREFIGHTERS TOO – YOU'LL HAVE TO WORK EXTRA HARD AT CONVINCING ME NOT TO PUT YOU IN THE HOSPITAL!”

“But dear Lady,” replies Longshot – apparently the “real” name of “Mr. Snipes” -- his voice level and unfazed: “I have worked extra-hard, believe me. You see, these cameras aren't just camouflage.” He holds up the instrument in his hand, gestures toward the “television cameras” his brutish men are still holding train on the lone standing heroine. “They've been simultaneously streaming video data to a certain encrypted site. A side that I discussed with you – oh, sorry, I mean with your friend – not a few minutes ago.”

Lady Victory snorts with derision. “YOU'VE GOT NOTHING TO BARGAIN WITH, YOU MISERABLE COWARD. HALF OF THE PUBLIC THAT WATCHED YOUR BRAZEN ATTACK HAVE ALREADY BROADCAST IT OVER THE INTERNET! YOU'VE DONE YOUR DAMAGE, GODDESS DAMN YOU.”

“Yes, but a few blurry long-distance cell-phone images won't match the market share or the convincing nature of high-definition sex tapes,” replies Longshot smoothly. “And your... friend... has certain secrets from this morning too, doesn't 'she'? Without that footage, all this is just an unusual incident involving a couple of women in costume whose real identity can't be proved. But with it... all of you lose everything.” He gives a sudden, cold smile as she spreads his hands. “And the only one who can make it go away is me.”

“MAYBE SO,” the Lady replies, undaunted. “FORTUNATELY, I CAN SIMPLY BEAT THAT INFORMATION OUT OF YOU. NOT SOMETHING I'D NORMALLY DO... BUT FOR YOU, I'LL GLADLY MAKE AN EXCEPTION.”

Longshot laughs aloud now. “Haven't thought that through either, have you, sweet tits?” he says merrily. “You know who I'm working for. And knowing that, you surely know there's nothing you can do to me – especially not in plain view of a gaggle of news cameras watching from outside – that could begin to compete with what he'll do to me if I scuttle the plan. It's you that has nothing to bargain with. And besides which... you don't have the time. We both know perfectly well you want your little girlies here to have a chance to scuttle away before the police arrive and everything becomes official.”

Miss Adventure is half-listening to all of this... and understanding less than half of it... as she begins to pull herself together. Using her fingers to scrape away the biggest globs of spunk on her face and tits, gingerly pulling the straps of her wet thong back into place over her throbbing nipples and her still ultra-sensitive nether parts, she's begun crawling toward the hysterically sobbing form of Victory Lass, grabbing as she does so the discarded Sceptre of Victory that she spies on the marble floor nearby. But she's not done her crawl when she realizes this last rejoinder of Longshot's has brought Lady Victory up short. Looking up, she sees the radiant heroine pausing uncertainly for the first time, chewing her lip pensively.

“Stumped you, have I?” grins Longshot. “I'll tell you what. I'll make you a deal. My men and I will withdraw... no pun intended... and once you're done explaining things to the press outside, you can hunt us at your leisure and try to stave off the inevitable. In the meantime, as a gesture of good faith, I won't release the data from that site to the whole Internet. Your little girlies can go their own way and lick their wounds... who knows, even these poor hose-monkeys from the fire department might have a chance to salvage their reputation.”

Lady Victory gives him a long look of utter loathing. When she speaks again, her voice is no longer amplified... but still every bit as menacing. “Nothing is 'inevitable' today except your downfall, Longshot. You think you'll get a chance to ambush me again before I catch up with you,” she says in tones of quiet iron. “But you're wrong. Dead wrong.”

“If I am, you'll surely have the chance to prove it,” he replies. “Tick-tock, Lady Lovely. The police will be here any moment, and once they get here I'll have no choice but to hit the button that sends every last scrap of video public. Last chance.”

After another long pause, Lady Victory says: “Alright. You get a few minutes' reprieve, for what it's worth, before I come for you. And when I do... I give you my solemn vow as a Masked Avenger that I will make you regret the day you were born.”

“Then I'll be seeing you soon,” says Longshot, giving her a jaunty salute with his camera. “You heard her, boys. Let's be off.”

As Longshot and his fake crew of photographers and cameramen take off at a run into the depths of Taunton Mall, followed by the shell-shocked gazes of the remaining conscious firemen and Miss Adventure herself, Lady Victory looks up into the food court where the jeering crowd of boys had applauded a pair of heroines' humiliation. “AND YOU BRATS!” she thunders, her amplified voice louder than before. “CLEAR THE HELL OUT! EVERY ONE OF YOUR HOUSES CAN EXPECT A VISIT FROM THE POLICE TONIGHT!” Yelping audibly in fright, the teens head for the hills in a rush of running feet.

With the sounds of the fleeing teens fading, Lady Victory comes over to the sprawled and weeping form of her sidekick, tenderly helping her to pull her hot-pants back up to veil her violated, cream-pied sex and tuck her teats back into her bustier, making soothing noises as she does so. Still radiant with power, the heroine looks over at Miss Adventure, who wordlessly tosses her the Sceptre of Victory and climbs shakily to her feet, her head still spinning.

“Why... why...” the word emerges from Victory Lass' childish sobs as Lady Victory gathers her up and holds her. Soon she's pounding her fists weakly against the back of her mentor. “Why... why weren't you here! Lady Vick, it... oh God it were bloody awful! Why weren't you here?!”

“Hush now, hush,” says Lady Victory as though soothing a baby. “Hush... hush now, darling. You have to pull yourself together, now. Unfortunately, Longshot was right... we have to get both of you clear of here right away.”

“What, because of the old Bill?” Victory Lass sniffles, wiping at her nose and sounding querulous. “To blazes with it, Lady Vick! I'll take a bloody statement for them! I don't care who knows what that bastard did to us!”

“I agree,” says Miss Adventure, keeping her shaky voice as firm and level as she can. Lady Victory sends a compassionate look her way, but the Damsel of Daring is able to return a calm nod of reassurance without breaking down. Already the whole incident is feeling like a dream.... except for the throbbing in her tits, the pulsing of her still-stiff clit, the aching frustration in her pussy, the cool tingling inside her rectum as her healing factor works to restore her wrecked ass to a pristine state. She tries to ignore these things as she goes on. “In fact,” and here she remembers the Adventurist's lessons: “We need police support, and we need them to know the exact nature of the threat this man poses. To the whole city, not just to us. Our own embarrassment doesn't... it doesn't matter.” She tries to say it with conviction.

“I'm afraid it's not that simple, girls.” There's a note of regret, and something else, in Lady Victory's voice. “For one thing, you're not the first targets Longshot has struck today. Before he came here, he ambushed a... a good friend of Team Victory's. And he... he compromised her, with the same device he just used against the two of you.” Miss Adventure sees that Victory Lass' tears go still at this last as she looks at her mentor in shock. “I was taking... taking care of her, which is why I wasn't here sooner. And for that, girls, I am so very sorry.”

“You mean he... he attacked... Debbie?” Victory Lass sounds incredulous, her eyes wide under her mask. And she gives the Lady a strangely gentle embrace on getting a fragile nod in return. “That's terrible... I'm sorry Lady Vick, I'm so sorry. I knew there had to be a good reason.”

“Pardon me,” puts in Miss Adventure, frowning in puzzlement now. “But I don't see how that changes anything.”

“What it means,” replies the Lady quietly, “is that Longshot has... video evidence of things that can... can destroy her if he releases them. And he's suborned someone in her office, too. He's trying to blackmail her into getting a very bad individual an early release from prison, and it might work. She has some Masked Avengers as clients, you know. I'm pretty sure he knows... at least one or two of their identities. He has too much leverage to risk involving our friends in blue.”

“So what? We play this game by his rules?” Miss Adventure asks in disbelief. “No way, Lady. Sorry, but with all due respect, that's not how Mister A taught me to work.”

“No, it isn't,” agrees the Lady as she helps Victory Lass to her feet and hands over her Sceptre. “And no, we won't be playing by his rules. As soon as you're both clear of here, I'm going to hunt that son of a bitch down and beat him to a pulp. He'll spend the next six months eating through a straw. More than enough time to track down his Internet archive and erase it, and plug up the leak in Dr. Doubledee's office.” Looking over at Miss Adventure, she adds: “The other thing Longshot won't be expecting is you... if you girls are up for a little payback after this. I know he doesn't suspect how strong the both of you really are.”

Miss Adventure hesitates, but Victory Lass, her voice brittle now with a revengeful edge, jumps in eagerly. “You bet we are, Lady Vick. Just tell us what we have to do!”

And Miss Adventure listens as Lady Victory tells them in a low, quick voice about the gambit she has in mind. The plan sounds awfully risky – but the shame and the keening frustration in the Damsel of Daring's body makes her desperately want to cut loose on something or someone, and it might as well be the imprisoned mob boss the Lady names. And besides, she reminds herself: Lady Victory is the senior Masked Avenger on site. According to union rules, what she says goes. In the end, she nods in assent as Team Victory turn their moist eyes on her, and with palpable relief, Lady Victory turns to help the stunned and horror-struck crew of firefighters as she tells both sidekicks to get away from the Mall as fast as they can.

* * *

Easier said than done.

Turning toward the entrance, Miss Adventure's stomach curdles as she realizes their rapid conference has taken place in only a few short minutes... and the media scrum is still out there. Both she and Victory Lass stop short for a moment at the prospect of facing those people, but finally the Damsel takes the initiative and strides purposefully out the front door, making a beeline for her bike.

Surprisingly, the media don't mob her. There are certain boundaries as regards Masked Avengers, especially with a sensitive incident like this. Still, the silent, embarrassed gaze of the crowd is almost worse than mobbing, and the teen heroine is acutely conscious of the glistening streams of sweat and jism dripping from her flesh, the stink of sex that she exudes, the visibly soaked nature of her thong as she takes a long, lonely walk of shame toward the Adventure-Cycle. She holds her head high... but she still hasn't been able to recover her sensory discipline, and hears loud and clear as one scandalized voice in the crowd whispers loudly to a neighbour: “Jesus Christ... the shameless little slut's got cum in her hair!”

Stopping short as she hears the remark, Miss Adventure feels her ears burn scarlet with shame as she very deliberately reaches up and runs her fingers through her sweat-sodden hair, catching a big, disgusting glob of cum and flicking it away on the pavement beside her. So much for my big public debut, she thinks unhappily as she resumes her walk. But the thought only stokes her determination to redeem herself. If she's involved in helping Team Victory thwart an attempt by the notorious Boss Nero to defraud and deceive the penal system, she knows... at least she hopes... that the disgraceful events that happened here will be forgotten. I'm sure they will be, she tries to convince herself. If I can just make it work.

But as she arrives at the Adventure-Cycle, a new dilemma presents itself. Her body was just put on a rack of erotic torment... will it be able to withstand the feeling of a mighty rocket engine roaring between her thighs? It will have to, she thinks with determination, setting her jaw and swinging her leg astride the sleek red vehicle. She draws a deep breath as she prepares herself – concentrate, just concentrate, suppress the sensations, just focus – and with her heart pounding in her throat, she presses her thumb to the ignition pad. She grits her teeth hard as the engine roars to life between her legs, her jaw aching with the effort, determinedly keeping her place astride the cycle as she prepares to take off.

At first she thinks she'll be able to do it – but then, as she makes the fatal mistake of following her usual habit and revving the engine for departure, her eyes go wide behind her spunk-spattered goggles as her body jolts in reaction. She realizes suddenly just how tender and hot and vulnerable her wet little snatch still is, how irresistibly powerful the vibrations of the rocket engine are... and how far she is from being back to her normal self!

Oh my God... oh NOOOOO... desperately, her vision blurring as a red tide of impending climax swells rapidly out from her swollen clit, she fumbles for the thumb-pad again with suddenly clumsy hands, frantically trying to cut the ignition before it's too late... before her hips start to squirm helplessly and rub her pulsating pussy against the vibrating seat... before her cunt nectar starts to freshly soak the gusset of her thong as the thrumming power of the engine lances into her with mechanical pitilessness... fumbling, fumbling, is this the ignition pad, fuck where is it FUCK, here, no here, oh FUCK got to hit it before... before they all watch me... before... OH NOOOO... OHHHH GOOODDDD...

Her back arches and her mouth opens in a howl of ecstasy as the powerful vibrations of the rocket engine send her hurtling past the point of no return! “AHHHHHH... HHHHHHAA-AAHHHHHH... AWWWWWW FUUUUUUUUCKKKKK!” She's barely conscious of the way she squeals out the words as her tight teen pussy explodes with passion, as it clenches and squirts, clenches and squirts, clenches and squirts its way through a hellishly humiliating multiple orgasm that thoroughly coats the red leather seat in her sweet juices as she keeps fumbling ever-more-clumsily to turn the engine off. Her back arches, her whole body writhing in tormented rapture, the nature of what's happening to her utterly unmistakable as the climaxes go on... and on... and on... “AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHH! AAAAWWWW-HAAAAWWWW! AAAAIEEEEEEE!”

Finally, her blindly-searching thumb finds the ignition pad and the engine's rumble ebbs, leaving her shuddering and panting in its wake, her pussy giving a last few squirts as the aftershocks of orgasm ripple through her and leave her aching, every nerve-ending in her wanton body still crying sluttily out for more, more, MORE... even as her mind comes reeling back down to earth and the full reality of what's just happened hits like a brick wall of utter dismay.

Oh God... Looking over, she says the entire crowd of the media scrum staring at her, open-mouthed and utterly dumbfounded. And she sees that several television cameras are trained on her. There's a limit to how far media discretion goes. Oh God... oh my God...

Almost choking with horror and shame, Miss Adventure slides miserably off the bike, bursting into loud tears and fleeing as she tries to shrink into herself, walking rapidly at first and then breaking into a headlong, wobbling, tit-jiggling run as she tries to get away from that awful crowd with its awful, awful eyes.

She runs for a few dozen paces almost unseeing, sometimes stumbling, once tripping and nearly falling on her ass. As she recovers from that near-fall, though, she suddenly realizes she can see Victory Lass running through the parking lot ahead of her. With a stab of acute resentment, she realizes that snooty little minx must have snuck through the crowd and made a break for it while everyone was distracted by Miss Adventure's rocket cycle mishap. Once again, she finds herself trailing after her blonde bombshell counterpart, the circumstances a thousand times more dreadful and isolating than before. Damn you, Victory Lass, she thinks, choking back her sobs to mere snivelling as bilious anger rises inside her. How could you? How COULD you?! You really are a first-class bitch!

For a few moments the resentment intensifies, growing more bitter with each pursuing step. But she realizes shortly that Victory Lass is far from being back to her usual self either. As she watches the white light of the Sceptre of Victory engulf the young Brit's shapely form, then watches the blonde begin to lift off into the air, her teeth grind with envy, and with all her heart and soul, she wishes that arrogant bitch ill and hopes fervently that she'll fall out of the sky. But that feeling suddenly evaporates as she sees the force-field waver, then flicker, then vanish as the unfortunate Lass, more than fifteen feet in the air, wails shrilly in fear and takes a loud and abrupt tumble straight onto the unforgiving hood of a parked car. WHAAAAMMM!

Ouch... holy shit... Appalled gasps come from the crowd behind her as the wail of a car alarm goes up from the vehicle that's so unkindly broken the Brit heroine's fall. But strangely, nobody comes running; it's almost as if their ordeal has made the two teen heroines somehow untouchable. Cursing, and herself running now out of concern as much as out of a desire to flee that crowd – and powered by a wave of guilt about how close Lass' fall had come on the heels of her own private curses – Miss Adventure reaches the blonde teen just as she's stirring groggily and starting to climb off the hood of a Jaguar that's been irrevocably staved in by her impact. Her own stew of wretched misery is momentarily forgotten as hurries to the aid of her fellow Masked Avenger.

“You okay, Lass?” she says breathlessly, reaching out a hand. “Jeez, that looked really...”

“Didn't... think I was going to let you steal the whole show, did you?” mutters Lass resentfully as she angrily bats Miss Adventure's hand away, putting a hand to her bruised temple as she tries to find her feet. “You horny bloody... tart... I thought your mentor taught you something about self-control? Why the hell didn't you just like the bike fall?”

“That... that would have damaged it... I couldn't face Mister A if I...” Stung, her tears flowing afresh, Miss Adventure drops her hand and realizes she doesn't remotely know how to finish that sentence. Why didn't I? How could some damage to the bike be worse than facing him after this? “Look, I... I just... I'm sorry... I don't know what to...”

Looking up at her, and then back at the crowd still gawping rudely at both of them, Lass finally relents. “Not your fault,” she says grudgingly, giving the Damsel of Daring an awkward pat on the arm. “I suppose we're neither of us quite ourselves after... well, after all that. And we've got to work together now. I'm... well, I'm sorry. And thanks for coming after me. I notice none of that lot did.”

Wiping at her cheeks, the young brunette nods in acknowledgement as she tries to master herself again. A dozen or so blocks away amid what to her uncontrolled senses is the riotous, deafening din of the city, the edge of her ultra-hearing catches a high wailing sound that brings her back to herself even faster. “No problem, Lass,” she says, taking command of herself again. “But listen, we've got to get out of here. Like right now.”

Lass nods, gripping at her head as the act clearly sends a wave of wooziness through her. “Well, it's plain enough that your bike's out and my flying is out... so I'm open to suggestions.”

Thinking quickly, Miss Adventure looks around and suddenly snaps her fingers. “The subway.”

“The underground?” Lass grins crookedly. “We're meant to take public transit to go and face down a villain?”

“Unless you've got a better idea.”

After a moment, the Brit shakes her head. “No, I haven't. But don't taking the subway mean going back through that bloody mob? Either of us up for that?”

Looking back, Miss Adventure feels her black misery welling back up, the prospect of facing the accusing eyes of that crowd again filling her with a blank, smothering dread akin to panic. But she also sees the eyes of the scrum beginning to turn away from them and back to the Mall's entrance as Lady Victory finally emerges. For some reason, a touch of hope rises in her at this. “No, we're not up for that,” she agrees after a moment. “Especially since they've finally got someone else to look at. But,” she adds, consulting her mental map of the city that the Adventurist drummed into her over and over again: “There's another stop about a dozen blocks in the opposite direction of the Mall stop.”

Musing, Victory Lass finally nods. “Won't be the most pleasant stroll of all time,” she says, standing and after a moment accepting Miss Adventure's shoulder to lean on. “But it couldn't hardly be worse than what we just been through, innit?”

Concealing a smile at the recent dissipation of Lass' posh accent into East London slang, Miss Adventure nods. “You're right,” she agrees as they strike out. “Whatever else happens, at least we know the worst is behind us.”

6

With Longshot in the lead, the Mafia crew go tearing through the lower level of the Mall, racing through the Fanny's department store's back entrance and onto the subway platform behind it. As they run they hear another mighty echoing roar from Lady Victory, furiously dismissing the teenaged boys who'd watched their handiwork; and without any of them looking at each other or admitting it to himself, the sound puts some extra speed in their own strides, too.

Longshot moves like a cat, his motions compact, his pace inexhaustible. His companions, not quite so fit or graceful and several of them lugging heavy video 'cameras' – nothing like the relatively light 'camera' slung from Longshot's shoulder – are panting and wheezing by the time they reach the platform and call a halt, which the sniper grants with visible irritation.

“You know,” says one of the thugs who'd posed as the Newvale Today 'cameramen,' speaking between gulps of stale subway air: “I gotta say, man, I admire the way you plan for everything. How'd you know... how'd you know Lady Victory was gonna show up like that?”

“Nobody can plan for everything,” replies Longshot crisply, his eyes scanning the platform's exits restlessly. “You can only guess at probabilities and put some contingencies in place.”

“Like... like how you rigged up the cameras for streaming?” Another of the Mafia men, wheezing even more than colleague, is nodding his appreciation. “Yeah... pretty slick, man.”

“Right,” says Longshot shortly, then adds: “Gentlemen, catch your breath and let's keep moving. We have to get to the van, get onto the streets and make the switch, and we've got seven minutes tops to get it all done.”

Nodding, the Mafiosi gather themselves as Longshot chews the inside of his cheek. He tries to keep his body still, not to show agitation, but it isn't easy. His remark that Nobody can plan for everything is an understatement. In the human trials he'd done with his Erotogenic Projector Weapon, the subjects had been mentally and emotionally debilitated both while symptomatic and also for a good hour or more after the symptoms of exposure had run their course. He'd expected that to hold true here, and had taunted Lady Victory about her appointment on the phone because he'd been sure that his team would have their footage and be long gone before she got there. Her pulling herself together enough to fly to Taunton Mall minutes after he'd hung up with her had been a very unwelcome surprise; her display of power, and especially of her force field's unexpected immunity to the EPW, had been an outright shock. He's underestimated superheroine toughness... a mistake he won't repeat, provided he lives to learn from this one. As for the two bravos in his crew who'd kept on blithely screwing Victory Lass after her mentor's arrival, he's not at all impressed. We had just better hope, he thinks, not for the first time, that little stunt of theirs doesn't come back to haunt us.

And it would indeed have been a slick trick to rig all their combination camera-and-EPW gear up for simultaneous streaming to the Net. In fact, so far as he knows, an impossibly slick trick that he hasn't in fact accomplished, the plan having been to upload the video and photos to their online cache when they were safely offsite. But if Lady Victory doesn't need to know all that, then neither do his clients. What the clients do need to know is how much genuine danger they're all in; seeing Lady Victory up there, he knows for a fact that she's perfectly capable of pulping all of them given the opportunity. How to convey this fact to them, though, without blowing the whistle on any of his own secrets? It's a quandary.

After another minute, though, the Mafiosi have all stood back up and are ready to move again. The whole crew is starting back into motion when a loud babble of voices comes bursting from the department store behind them, and spinning on their heels, the Mafiosi have their hands on their pistols before Longshot gestures them to stand down. From the sound of the boys, a relatively small group of just seven to ten, and from the raucous and somewhat bitter tone of their talk, he guesses they must been from the crowd upstairs. Longshot overhears one of the boys loudly saying: “Man, when those two guys went into that blonde 'Victory Lass' bitch? Fuck, man, what I woulda given to be one of those guys, that was fuckin' awesome!”

This gives Longshot has a sudden idea. “Give me a second,” he says quietly to his colleagues. “I'm going to buy us some time.”

He calmly approaches the group of boys and clears his throat. The boys, spanning a rainbow of races but all clad in baggy hip-hop gear, look around nonchalantly at first – then they register who he is and who's standing behind them. At a different time and place it would be amusing to watch the series of double-takes and awed expressions that follow. “Holy shit,” one of them – the loudmouthed Victory Lass fan, a young Puerto Rican-looking boy with puffy hair – finally manages to say. “You're those guys from upstairs!”

“We are indeed,” replies Longshot solemnly: “The guys from upstairs.”

The boys go into something close to collective apoplexy as they shout their approval, a couple of them moving to high-five Longshot or clap him on the shoulder until something in his eyes discourages them. The original loudmouth is the most effusive: “You guys are fucking awesome!” he yells eagerly. “Goddamn, tell me you guys are hiring or some shit, I would definitely be all over that!”

“Funny you should say that,” Longshot replies. “As a matter of fact, we're looking for some entry-level employees. Guys who can work the kind of sophisticated equipment we used today. Interested?”

The boys' eyes boggle. This time nobody speaks, they all just nod silently.

“Good,” the sniper approves. He takes the 'camera' off his shoulder as he does so. “Unfortunately,” he adds, “I can't give you one of the big instruments my men are carrying. But I would like to test you out on this.” He lifts the camera – in reality an EPW as compact and powerful as the one that he plugs into his rifle – and says: “It's got about five or six shots left on it. My condition in giving it to you is that you only use it if you see any of the three super-ladies you all saw upstairs.”

Another long, awed silence follows this. “How...” says the loudmouth finally, no longer quite as loudmouthed: “How do you work it?”

“Just like a camera, point and click,” replies Longshot. “You can use the 'focus' wheel there to dial up the intensity, but of course more focus means having careful aim on your target. The trick is really in the aim, and in the timing. Now,” he adds as his voice grows grimmer: “You heard what happened upstairs, and you saw. So you know there are real risks in taking this, right?”

Looking suddenly sobered, the teens nod. The spectacle of the firefighters having their fun with Miss Adventure, in particular, had been amusing right up until its end, when she'd showed what her super-strength could really do in literally boner-killing fashion. And Lady Victory was enough to terrify a grown man, let alone a boy. But Longshot had heard the peremptory way in which the senior half of Team Victory sent the boys packing, and knows that in their wounded pride they must be hating her for it. He's counting on that, on the sullen venomous resentment he sees gleaming and growing in their eyes now, the wounded egos and sense of total entitlement allied with a fundamental sense of personal immortality that just might overwhelm a boy's survival instincts... and persuade him to do something stupid.

Sure enough, the loudmouth puffs himself up and is plainly speaking for the group as he says: “We ain't scared of nothing, Mr. Longshot. You'll see. We'll put it over real nice.”

Longshot musters the closest thing he can manage to a warm, fatherly smile. “Excellent. Then I have no doubt you boys will soon be fucking a fine superheroine of your very own. Just wait on this platform, and I'm sure one will come through behind us – and that will be your moment of glory. Now just remember, make sure only to target either half of Teen Victory if there's no field of white light around them...” Planning a couple of quick alterations to his escape route in his head as he gives the raptly-attentive gang of boys a few last instructions and prepares to hand over his 'camera,' the sniper feels a wave of fervent gratitude fill him.

Whatever divine powers may be out there, he thinks with complete sincerity: Thank you, thank you, thank you for the lazy, ungrateful youth of today!

* * *

As Lady Victory walks in among the firemen – as much victims as anyone else today, despite their lewd and distasteful behaviour – she tries to keep focused on snapping them out of what almost seems to be a stupor, and as she does so, tries not to notice that even tucked back into their pants they're all still visibly big and hard, their eyes sliding over her fabulous body and especially her chest as if prepared to lapse back into the erotic fog that had seized them at any moment. It takes a surprisingly long time to coax them into rallying to the aid of their four downed comrades, each still mercifully unconscious; but at last she's able to get their shirts back on and get them working, however flakily, on the task of aiding the mangled men until help arrives.

The whole time, the rest of her mind is working in a fury, thinking of the task of tracking down that bastard Longshot and of what she's going to do to him when she has her hands on him. They'll have a vehicle nearby, she thinks. Something large enough to carry a crew like that and their equipment. They'll be expecting me to follow them downstairs... they'll have headed for the subway first, and dollars to doughnuts Longshot will try to lay some kind of trap that way. But the real place to start looking will be on nearby side streets for cube vans, humvees... anything large enough to carry them that starts to speed up when its driver sees me. As she ponders the possibility and gently urges the firemen into motion, the planning of strategy provides her no small satisfaction – and no small anticipation. That coward is in for the surprise of a lifetime. She holds on to a sliver of her power, letting it limn her beautiful form in white light as she works.

Finally, the firemen dealt with, she straightens up, takes a breath and strides confidently out the front doors of Taunton Mall, suppressing a grin of satisfaction at the more-than-usually impressive way her double-D's are shaking and jouncing and swaying with every step. Her undeniable hotness has always eased her dealings with the media, who half the time are too busy gawking at her curves – with envy in the women's case, or with lust in the men's – to really pay attention to what she's saying. In a mundane professional context it would annoy her, but it has the virtue of making press conferences, or random media scrums like this one, easy to manage quickly. Say a few platitudes, tell them justice will prevail, and you're off.

As she gets outside, she's surprised to see the Adventure-Cycle still parked where it was. Frowning and looking past the crowd of media figures, she can see Miss Adventure and Victory Lass moving through the parking lot, leaning on each other as if for support. Looks like Mina doesn't want to risk flying yet, she thinks with approval. Good thinking, Lass. You could have a nasty fall if you lose your concentration... but why isn't the Adventure-Cycle working? She toys with the question for a moment, but it quickly takes a back seat as she notices a certain agitation in the crowd, who'd been looking in the direction of the young teen sidekicks and are now starting to look back at her, their expressions those of confused and uncertain people shaken by the day's events, their eyes widening, looking for reassurance. I know you'll get the job done, girls. And right now for me... it's showtime!

Letting her minimal force-field amplify her voice slightly, Lady Victory raises her hands and say: “Ladies and gentlemen, I have a quick statement for you.” More and more eyes focus on her, cameras swinging toward her and little gasps going up from the crowd as she lowers her arms and eyes the crowd with a stern expression which she breaks only in an automatic response to a couple of flash-bulbs – for which she freezes for a moment and gives a radiant smile – before resuming her dignified air. Presently she says: “Ladies and gentlemen, an insidious force of corruption and villainy struck at our city today. A force that tried to damage the reputations not only of a pair of fine and upstanding young Masked Avengers, but also of the Fire Department of Newvale City.”

She pauses with satisfaction as she hears an agitated murmuring in the crowd. She can see expressions of anger and bewilderment staring back at her. Good, that was just the right note of outrage. One of the reporters, a slightly red-faced Blake Benchley from earlier, waves urgently at her and starts asking a question, but she puts up a hand and gracefully forestalls him.

“These criminal scum,” she continues, “were so brazen that they thought they could strike with impunity. But they've underestimated the people of Taunton and all the people of Newvale City... and they've underestimated the Masked Avengers.” She strikes her finest heroine pose, hands on hips, chin high and buxom chest proudly thrust out as she says: “I'm here to tell you that Team Victory is on the case! We will pursue these cowardly criminals wherever they flee! We will roust their nests of villainy!” Here she stamps a foot, feeling her big titties jiggle-wiggle impressively even as she wears her look of grimmest resolve. “We will smash their getaway cars!” Bounce-jounce as she stamps the other foot, really warming to her oration now. “And when we have them in our grasp, we will strike without mercy... and we will take... them... down!” Jiggle-wiggle-bounce-jounce-wiggle-jiggle as she repeatedly slaps a fist into an open palm for emphasis.

Several reporters have their hands up now, waving at her almost frantically, and the buzz from the crowd is growing steadily louder and angrier as more and more flashbulbs go off. Wow, that really got them going, she thinks with satisfaction, thrusting out her chest afresh and automatically plastering on a smile again for the flashing cameras. As she hears the first plaintive wails of approaching police sirens, she adds the thought: And not a moment too soon. It's time to get out of here. Maybe take one quick question first. Already, she's preparing herself for the chase, her mind swinging its full concentration to the imminent pursuit of Longshot. But magnanimously, she gestures to one of the many urgently-flailing reporters. It's one Lady Victory remembers, the comely African-American reporter from Channel 5.

“Uh... hello, Lady Victory,” the woman says a bit hesitantly. “Ummmm... I'm not sure how to say this... you, ummmm.... you're having a... ummm...” She makes a weird plucking gesture at the front of her blouse, and looks around her almost pleadingly.

Huh, thinks Lady Victory in puzzlement at this odd behaviour. They're not usually this bashful. “Yes, citizen,” she asks politely. “What are you saying?”

“Uhhhhmmm... you know... uhhh...” The reporter makes that bizarre upward-plucking gesture again.

Lady Victory stares at her blankly, feeling a slight impatience rising. “I'm afraid I don't have time for guessing games, citizen,” she says a bit sternly. “Come on, out with it.”

Suddenly a furious young female voice, surely belonging to one of the teenaged girls from earlier, pipes up from deeper in the crowd. “She's trying to tell you to cover up your tits, you dumb fucking whore!”

Lady Victory's eyes and mouth fly wide in shock as it finally occurs to her to look down at herself. Aghast, she realizes that her bustier – which she'd only half-zipped at the rear in her earlier hasty flight from her office – must have slipped down and down during the course of her whole appearance at the Mall, working its way steadily lower until now, her big, beautiful mams are utterly exposed, her puffy pink nipples and firm, glossy breast-flesh on display for every eye! No wonder she'd felt them jiggling more than usual – that whole crowd of men and women had been watching her sexy melons candidly bounce around from the moment she'd walked back out the Mall entrance!

Gasping, her face flaming in humiliation as she realizes what all those flash-bulbs were really capturing, what the angry buzzing in the crowd was really about, the heroine hugs her arms around her naked breasts and gapes silently around her, not knowing what to say. Fights are nearly breaking out in the crowd as some people scold the girl who called out and others come furiously to her defense. Her eyes flickering wildly over the scene, the Lady feels frozen for a moment as she opens her mouth, closes it, hears the sirens pulling closer, sees people in the crowd pointing and laughing at her or staring at her with condescending pity or pinning her with glares of outraged condemnation.

Oh Goddess... how could this happen? She can just see the headlines tomorrow. Lady Victory Exposed! Somehow, just as this horrific nightmare of a day had started looking up, it's become even more of a disaster. Holding back tears, cringing into herself in mortification, the heroine finally makes a decision, gathers as much of her power as she can and without a further word, flees pell-mell into the sky, soaring in a high arc as far away from Taunton Mall as she can get. She's almost blind to where she's going, following a desperate urge to simply get away from the site of her lewd public exposure, continuing to fight back hot tears of shame as she flies and flies for a minute, then two, then four.

Finally she arcs in a wobbly trajectory down toward the roof of a nearby office building. Got to get it together... just pull yourself together... she tells herself as she comes in to land. But in her distraction and disorientation, with her mind increasingly overwhelmed by the misfortunes of the day, she makes a slight error in footing on her landing, stumbling badly once again. This time she can't recover it. Oh shit... whoa... WHOA... WHHAAACKK! Stars burst across her vision as the roof of the building seems to rear up and hit her hard in the nose, an eye-wateringly painful blow even through the protection of her force-field, though her power keeps her from breaking anything.

At first, she thinks that at least she has the consolation of knowing nobody was here to see her trip on the edge of a roofing tile and go tumbling down in a tits-out, ass-up sprawl. She climbs slowly and shakily to her knees, her naked breasts waggling and swaying underneath her before she wobbles upward onto unsteady feet, trying to tuck her mouth-watering mams back into her bustier and get it properly fastened. But in the midst of this she looks up and with fresh horror sees people gawking and pointing at her from a higher floor of a neighbouring office building! Some of them are looking shocked, others are laughing, others are even holding camera phones and recording the heroine's pathetic wardrobe struggles! Furiously, she spits and gives them the finger... but she's flushed crimson in fresh humiliation as she turns away and flees the roof, her jiggling tits still popping out of her half-fastened uniform, really in tears now.

Why do we try to protect these awful people? She mourns inwardly in self-pity, sobbing aloud as she wrenches open the door to the stairs down from the roof. And camera-phones – Goddess curse the fucker who invented camera-phones!

* * *

Miss Adventure and Victory Lass keep their heads down as best they can as they walk away from the horrors of Taunton Mall to head for the nearby subway station. With their skimpy outfits and curvaceous, cum-stained bodies, it isn't easy to avoid attracting attention, and at midday there's a busy lunchtime crowd thronging the streets. People stare openly at them as they walk by. “Why don't you ladies go ply your trade somewhere else?” somebody shouts at them a couple of blocks into the long journey, and the Damsel of Daring thinks it's a measure of how bad a day this is that she's grateful to be mistaken for a whore instead of being identified as a heroine. At least it means this humiliating experience isn't rubbing off on her Masked Avenger identity.

Despite the stares and occasional catcalls, the walk isn't nearly as bad as facing that crowd of reporters they had fled from. And during the walk, Miss Adventure is surprised to feel Victory Lass pulling closer to her for comfort, her colleague's former coldness melting away in the experience of shared adversity. Perhaps it's partly because of that that she herself begins to feel stronger, more able to muster and control her senses and block out at least a fraction of the daily cacophony around them as they finally come to sign indicating the Selwin Road subway station. By the time they reach the turnstiles, she finds her mood is unaccountably and unmistakably improving despite their prior ordeal.

But they run into an unexpected snag when the attendant at the ticket booth looks down at them – a pale pockmarked fat man, looking at them with flat boredom despite their outlandish appearance – and demands change for the fare. They both stare flatly back at him for a moment before Victory Lass says: “You must be joking, mate. Do we look like we're carrying change-purses?”

The attendant stares back stolidly. “Fare is three dollars and fifty cents,” he repeats.

“Look, can't you see,” puts in Miss Adventure: “We're on Masked Avengers business here! Don't you see the costumes? We urgently need to board the subway. We're on a mission of the utmost importance.”

He's unmoved. He doesn't say anything further, though Miss Adventure fancies his beady, suspicious eyes are saying: You wouldn't be the first hookers to try that trick. And she realizes that being dishevelled and stinking of sex probably isn't helping their chances of being recognized as heroic. Indeed, she'd just felt relieved when they hadn't been, right? Sighing, she turns to Victory Lass to suggest they maybe try another idea.

Victory Lass, though, is having none of it. Her eyes are focused with laser-like intensity on the attendant's as she says, very quietly: “You hand us two tickets right now, mate, or there's going to be trouble, right now.” Her grip is tightening on the Sceptre of Victory, and with trepidation, Miss Adventure can see a telltale white glow starting to build around her.

“Uh, I think you'd better do what she says, man,” says Miss Adventure to the attendant. “She's not kidding.”

“Fare is three dollars and fifty cents,” he says again. His expression doesn't waver.

“Right.” Lifting up the Sceptre, Lass begins to glow white as she says: “I bloody warned you.” Without a further word, she turns and brings her weapon down on the spokes of the turnstile, which give way with a brief screech of tortured metal and pop apart, sending pieces clattering underfoot into the busy noonday crowd. Several people stop and look round in astonishment – though most of the crowd seems unfazed – as Victory Lass lets the power subside and calmly steps through the wrecked turnstile, Miss Adventure following her with an apologetic shrug.

The two heroines share an almost hysterical giggle as they walk away toward the train, not noticing as the attendant sends a hard stare after them and reaches for his phone. “You know, we could've just hopped the turnstiles,” Miss Adventure says as she finally gets her wild giggles to subside a little.

“I know, but it wouldn't have felt nearly as good,” replies Lass with a grin. “I pure needed to hit something just then, you know?” Her fellow heroine nods in understanding, and Lass goes on: “Shame I couldn't keep a grip on it for longer, you know, the power. After... well, after what's happened. We wouldn't need to take the bloody subway, at least.”

“Well, it's best if we save our strength for what's ahead,” the Damsel of Daring replies as a train pulls in and they move with the press of people toward a car. “We'll need to be at the top of our game.”

“Yeah, speaking of,” Lass adds, looking down at the two of them: “We'd best find summat to wash up proper, you know?”

Miss Adventure nods again. As they move toward the middle of the car, finding themselves pressed in among respectably-dressed bankers and office workers, acutely conscious of their scantily-clad and disreputable appearance and the stale smell of sweat and sperm wafting off of them, it's obvious that what's in order more than anything else is a shower. If they're going to face down the infamous Boss Nero, successfully bluff him in an interrogation room, it won't do to go there reeking of their own humiliation at the hands of his minions. She almost suggests a trip back to the Adventurist's Eyrie, but its name doesn't exactly denote accessibility, and there isn't time without flight or Adventure-Cycle to get them there. “I'm sure the Warden will fix us up when we get there,” she says finally.

As the subway starts into motion, the two heroines lapse into a shared silence, carefully avoiding the eyes of the people around them as those same people carefully avoid theirs. Miss Adventure feels the occasional hand brush suspiciously close to her ass, and she can certainly hear with her ultra-senses the sound of blood engorging male pricks – and female clits – of more than one of the carefully proper people around them. But there's nothing she can specifically call out, and she can tell from the look on Lass' face that she's in a similar boat. The two of them grimace at each other and roll their eyes in silence. It's going to be a long subway ride.

An electronic voice announces the next station. The regrettable thing about taking the subway is that they still have to pull through the Taunton Mall stop, an uncomfortable reminder of where they've just come from that they'd rather forget. But the two heroines silently link hands, each drawing strength from the other. We'll be through this stop and away from this place forever before you know it, thinks Miss Adventure.

Looking outside as the train pauses and disgorges its crew of passengers – the beginning of the Taunton Mall's own lunch rush as the shopping day picks up its pace – it's purely by chance that Miss Adventure catches sight of a group of teenage boys in baggy clothes loitering by the stairway down from the mall. After the experience of such a short little while ago, the sight of teenage boys – she can still hear the yells and catcalls of that earlier groups of brats ringing in her ears – automatically puts up the Damsel of Daring's hackles, and she feels Lass tense beside her. But keeping a rein on her anger, she reminds herself that the city is full of teenaged boys, these ones wouldn't necessarily have been those.

She notices, though, that they have an oddly purposeful air about them, as if they're waiting for someone. As one of them glances at the train and, by purest chance, catches her eye, she realizes that he has something hanging on a strap around his neck. And as his eyes widen, as he shouts to his buddies and starts to run toward the train, time seems to slow as she recognizes that object with a dire and absolute certainty as he brings it up to point it at her. She's sure she'll never forget it as long as she lives.

“Power up,” she says to Victory Lass suddenly.

“What?” replies the Brit heroine in confusion. “Are you sure? I--”

“Power up now!” Miss Adventure cries out as she flings herself full length on the floor, the crowd around her looking on in astonishment, then looking around to try to spot the Uzi-wielding gangsters who must have provoked such a reaction. But there are no gangsters. Just a series of dazzling pink flashes, like camera-flashes, that illuminate the inside of the subway car five times before its doors close and the train pulls away... with Lass and the Damsel of Daring sealed into the crowded compartment!

7

At first it seems like nothing's really happened. The car is quiet with the usual anonymous silence of public transit. Miss Adventure looks up at Victory Lass and relieved to see the white nimbus of her force-field shining around her. The British cutie nods back and offers a hand.

But as Miss Adventure climbs back to her feet, every sense screams at her that something is very wrong around them. She can smell the unmistakable odour of sexual hormones permeating the compartment, much more powerful than usual and growing stronger yet by the second. She can hear pulses elevating and hearts hammering all around her, can see the slightly glazed expressions on faces throughout the car. As she and Lass pull closer together, their apprehension rising, she sees the first definitive outward signs: a propos of nothing, a pair of cute female lawyers in dark, conservative suits suddenly look intensely at one another – each getting lost in the other's eyes – and pull in for a soft, deep, intense kiss, their briefcases dropping to the floor as their slender forms embrace and move against each other with swiftly growing passion.

“Uh-oh,” Miss Adventure says under her breath to Lass. “That punk missed us with that infernal device... but I think he somehow managed to hit every other person in this damned car.”

Shoving away a suddenly unsubtle groping hand, Lass moves cautiously back to back with her, saying over one shoulder: “How long until the next stop?”

“About ten minutes, give or take.”

“Well,” and Lass sounds nervous as she says: “We can just ride it out, innit. You just explain to these people that they need to be calm, explain what's happened... and we just ride it out. I mean, it's not like anyone's going to... to...” Tellingly, she can't speak the next word. The glow of her force-field wavers and flickers weakly around her.

Miss Adventure nods, her own breathing coming rapidly. That they haven't been hit this time out doesn't mean that either heroine's body is even remotely recovered from their destructive exposures at Taunton Mall. Both of them, she knows, can still feel the sexual throbbing inside their still-wet teen pussies, the echoes of ecstasy in their own stiff little clits waiting to rampage again through their young bodies like a tropical hurricane ravaging a Carolina countryside, their soft skin aching to be caressed, their titties yearning to be roughly squeezed and spanked and sucked and bitten... and... and... and Miss Adventure shuts down that train of thought as firmly as she can. But as the closely-packed bodies of the lunch rush crowd begin to move and squirm like jungle plants rustling in a sinister wind, she can see more and more lust-sheened eyes turning toward them from all over the compartment. Their young, firm, sexily-clad forms are natural targets for just about everyone, male and female. Not all of those people are anywhere near as hot as those two sexy lawyers getting lost in their spontaneous makeout session, and not all of their looks are loving. This a very dangerous and potentially unpleasant situation.

Clearing her throat, Miss Adventure takes a little step forward and raises her voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please!”

The statement is a bit redundant now. Although more spur-of-the-moment makeout sessions are beginning to break out here and there throughout the car like little fires – one of them, admittedly amusing, starring a pair of two hundred-plus pound middle-aged businessmen – most of the passengers not so engaged are eyeing up the hottie heroines with horny intent. Miss Adventure frowns as she can see a plain dumpling of a woman in a window seat, fifty if she's a day, look fixedly at her and licking her lips as she begins to touch herself under her long skirt. Jesus Christ, the heroine thinks in alarm, we've got to nip this in the bud fast!

“Ladies and gentlemen, listen to me, please!” she says. “Please! We are Miss Adventure and Victory Lass, duly-deputized officers of the Masked Avengers! We know you're all experiencing unusual... uhhhh, feelings... unusual sensations that may be affecting your judgment! You've been exposed to an illegal weapon, and it's--”

“Show us your tits!” someone interrupts her from the far end of the car, and a ripple of ugly laughter washes through the space around them as the eyes boring into the two heroines grow even more feral. Mob dynamics are in play here, Miss Adventure realizes, suddenly remembering one of the Adventurist's lessons. An unsettled crowd can teeter toward madness or sanity almost randomly. Always give them the option of sanity.

“Please listen!” she tries again. “Please! We know it's hard to think clearly right now! Just please try to think of your families, breathe deeply and concentrate! We want you to--”

“We know you want us, bitch!” bawls someone lustily from behind her now. “Now get naked and show us how much!”

The fresh wave of ugly laughter greeting this is more widespread than the one before it. Not a good sign. A wild, carnivalesque atmosphere is starting to take hold inside the car as more and more hands reach for the heroines, who bat them away again and again as they try to hold their ground. “I'm not letting anyone touch me,” says Lass over her shoulder, her low voice trembling more than a little now. “Just so you know. Civilian or not... I'm not letting them touch me!”

“Me neither,” says Miss Adventure as she slaps away the hand of a nearby leering stockbroker as the skinny man makes a grab for her left breast. “Don't worry, it won't come to that.” Raising her voice for one last try, she calls out: “Ladies and gentlemen, please remember we are duly-deputized Masked Avengers! It's neither legal nor appropriate to try to touch--”

But she's cut off again, this time by a short, burly-looking banker in his early forties who shoves his way past a couple of people in front of her, his eyes deranged with lust and a mighty bulge straining the front of his pants. “You little sluts are duly-deputized to SUCK MY DICK!” he yells to vicious cheers of general approbation, and he reaches for the zipper on his pants with one hand as he's reaching for Miss Adventure's chest with the other.

A stab of fear and rage goes through her, and she reaches an abrupt decision. Alright, enough is enough! “Get back!” she cries out, assuming a fighting stance; and as the burly little banker thrusts his barrel-like body toward her, the Damsel of Daring plants her feet, lets out a blood-curdling kiai... and smashes her left fist into her unfortunate assailant's midsection with the full, uncoiling strength of every super-strong muscle in her body! “HHHHKKHHHHH...” he gives a strangled cry as he soars through the air and crashes with a resounding KRANNGGG! into the nearest mid-aisle standing pole, leaving a man-sized dent in the steel as he slumps to the floor in an unconscious heap.

There's a long pause, an exquisitely charged silence. Every eye in the compartment – including those of the former makeout artists – is focused on the heroines now. The moment teeters precariously on the brink, like a spinning coin waiting to drop and show heads or tails. Miss Adventure holds her pose, her deadly fist extended, trying to look calm and authoritative and in control.

But then she chances to meet the gaze of one of that gorgeous pair of female lawyers that she saw first: the shorter of the couple, a pale-eyed blonde with cute little glasses and naughty, kissable lips. The woman gives her a conspiratorial wink and lets her lustful gaze slide like invisible fingers all over the innocent teen heroine's curves as she licks those lips slowly, seductively, salaciously, as though she's savouring an imaginary ice-cream cone. The Damsel of Daring can't help herself, feeling her breath catch and her nipples go bullet hard, her clit throbbing urgently under her thong as her pussy moistens with sweet juice, the molten desire lurking just under the surface beginning to rise. She can't quite hold her dominant pose in face of the distraction... and for just the briefest split-second, one of her knees buckles.

That momentary glimpse of weakness is all it takes for the spinning coin to fall.

“Oh, bloody hell...” whispers Victory Lass with instinctive insight just before it happens. Then someone cries out – no words, just an anonymous bellow of primal fury – and as though they've become a single ravenous animal with a single hunger, the entire crowd in the car surges at the young heroines!

* * *

As she thrashes and battles desperately, it seems to Miss Adventure like the whole space inside the subway car is suddenly made of grasping, clawing hands and furious, feral eyes. Goddamn, it's like being in the middle of a zombie movie! Except, in a way it's worse; zombies just want to eat their prey's brains, not fuck them out. Kicking at striking out in every direction she can manage with all her strength, Miss Adventure hears attackers give way yowling in pain... but their scrabbling, grasping hands are swiftly replaced. Behind her, Victory Lass is swinging her Sceptre like a Louisville slugger, with such brutal verve that the Damsel of Daring worries about her killing people; but in the struggle to keep clear of the crush of attackers, she has worries enough!

Thanks to intensive training with her mentor, Miss Adventure is a nearly master-level practitioner of kung fu, but in these close quarters that training – based on leverage and room to move and strike – is of limited use. She has to go on guts. Feeling hands grab handfuls of her hair, claw into her soft breasts and pull and tug at her thong, the heroine strikes out almost blindly at whatever threat seems the most serious at that second. She feels bones break under her strikes, kicks out and hears someone go down shrieking with a busted kneecap, grabs a hand that's tangled itself in her hair and breaks its grip by snapping one joint of its little finger. Blow by blow, she feels herself slowly pulling clear, the crowd learning respect for her ability and brutality as more and more of them begin to shrink back.

Finally, after what seems an eternity of frightful infighting but is probably no more than about forty seconds, a lull comes in the collective assault as a circle opens itself around both heroines. Circling warily around each other, staying back to back, the Masked Avengers carefully assess the scene around them. Each of them has put down about eight or nine assailants; Miss Adventure winces a little as she sees that some of Victory Lass' knockouts are bleeding from the ears, but they've gotten what they deserved. As they circle back around to their original positions, Miss Adventure tries to bring the crowd back to sanity one more time.

“Nobody else has to get hurt!” she shouts. “You've seen what we can do... but we don't like hurting civilians! What's happening to you isn't your fault, and I promise you all: if you stop this madness now, we'll talk to the police and explain the extenuating circumstances! You'll all be dealt with fairly! Let's all just try to be peaceful for the next few minutes, and we can get you all the help you need!”

Panting as she finishes her declamation, she realizes that nobody interrupted her this time. Maybe we're getting through to them, she thinks with a flutter of hope. And there's only about six or seven minutes left of this hell-ride! If we can just keep them at bay...

But six or seven minutes is a long time indeed when every second is an eternity, and the mood of the lust-crazed mob hasn't budged. Miss Adventure's heart sinks as she realizes that they're more like a pack of wolves now, waiting for a break in the defences of a bear they're battling. Searching for some new leverage, scanning the nearby contorted faces, the teen heroine picks out one she recognizes – the plump, plain-looking fiftyish woman she'd seen earlier. Perhaps it's the woman's matronly appearance that tempts the Damsel of Daring to try out a pleading look on her. Come on, Miss Adventure tries to convey with every nuance of her eyes, wishing with all her might in this moment that she had telepathy as a superpower. Come on, ma'am... you can stop this! If you stop this, others might follow. Come on, please! We could be your daughters!

Unfortunately this turns out to be a mistake. Whatever kind of sweet-natured mother or grandmother this woman is in real life, there's nothing of that standing in front of Miss Adventure now. Meeting her eyes, the woman's gaze is dark, red-rimmed, almost simian, and the attempt at sympathy just kindles an answering rage! “YYYYYEEEAAAAAAGHHHHHH!” shrieks the plump dumpling at an ear-piercing volume – had it been her cry of anger that started the attack? — and squaring herself up like a linebacker, she launches a full-on charge at the astonished vigilante!

What the hell – Thus far, all the people Miss Adventure has put down were men. Hitting groping and threatening males is one thing. Faced with the surreal spectacle of the headlong-charging matron, though, she freezes in a moment of indecision... and pays dearly for it as she finds herself bowled backward, the woman launching a picture-perfect spear right into her solar plexus! “Whhhhhaaaauughhhh!” she grunts as she feels herself lifted and carried backward... and SMACCCKKKK! Her momentum carries the back of her skull cracking brutally into Victory Lass' head, sending her companion sprawling forward with a cry of pain – and more horrifying by far, the telltale sound of the Sceptre clattering away on the floor as it falls from the stunned teen's fingers!

Oh SHIT... thinks the winded Miss Adventure as she finds herself on her back with stars in her eyes. She struggles to make her body respond to the dire danger it's in, but for the moment her rubbery limbs can only twitch feebly as she gasps, trying to pull in oxygen.

As one, the crowd gives a triumphant cry and surges back in like a tide. Suddenly Miss Adventure feels herself hauled up in the air, each of her helpless limbs in a different person's grip as she struggles feebly, devoid of either breath of leverage. Fingers are digging into her soft skin and ripping at her thong, which to her horror swiftly tears away from her body in ragged shreds to leave her utterly naked but for her goggles, boots, gloves and choker! She feels herself jostled back and forth, the sounds of further struggles echoing in the confined space as it becomes clear the crowd, its unity fraying now that it has its prize, can't decide which way to carry her or what to do to her first.

Suddenly she hears someone speaking at her ear. “Think you're too good for me, you little bitch?” The voice is thick, almost guttural, and she looks fearfully over to see the livid face of the woman who'd tackled her. “I was a woman's pro wrestling champion once, you know... I had sluts like you begging to lick my pussy! They lined up around the block to kiss my feet! And you think you're too good for me, you whore?”

“Ahhhhaaaaghhhh!” Miss Adventure squeals in pain and terror as the woman takes hold of one of her long, stiff nipples and pulls and twists it brutally, hauling up the big, beautiful teenaged tit until it's stretched into a prodigious cone of flawless alabaster flesh! The heroine gasps in relief as her tit is finally released, subsiding back into a perky, jiggling pillow on her chest... but her cries grow louder, tears streaming from her eyes as the torture is repeated on her other naked breast, and then again on the first, the sadistic matron switching her attack back and forth! “AAAAHHOOOOWWWW! Please... Pleeeease stop this I'm SORRY AHHHH-OWWWWW! AAAAAAAHHHOHHWWWWWW!”

Around her, she can actually feel people yanking on her limbs now like hyenas ripping at a carcass, and even through the painful twisting of her sensitive teats she feels a deeper terror, that the crowd might literally rip her apart. She realizes with a deep chill that it could really happen, that they've spiralled that far away from sanity, as if the crowding itself has intensified the deranging effect of Longshot's mysterious device. And worst of all, as the torment on her big tits continues relentlessly and the helplessness of her position sinks in, she can feel her pussy throbbing hot and wet between her writhing thighs, her sexual excitement rising whether she likes it or not! This can't be happening... no... oh God why does it feel so good... OHHHHH...

Then it gets worse as she feels someone reach down to grab a handful of the carefully trimmed landing-strip thatch of her pubis. “Whuhhh... nonoNO pleeeaaase NOOOOOHHH AUGGGHHHHHHH!” she squeals in agony as she feels the anonymous hand tighten its grip and brutally rip out a handful of her pubic hair, the teen vigilante screaming and bucking in the implacable grip of her captors as the agony radiates through her ultra-sensitive body and mixes confusingly with the heat in her tight, dripping cunt.

After a few hellish moments more, a reprieve comes in the form of a clear female voice cutting through the cacophony. “Come on, everyone!” it calls out merrily, almost mischievously. “No need to fight over the sluts! Just bring them over here and we can all take turns!”

The yanking on her limbs and the assault on her tits subsides, to Miss Adventure's short-lived relief. Some semblance of human thought and interaction seems to come back into the crowd, now... enough of a semblance, though, to make the upbeat general shouts of agreement to the reasonable idea of taking turns on the captured heroines sound truly evil.

As she's propped up against one wall of the car, she feels her arms draped over the shoulders of a big man on either side of her, the two of them holding her suspended with her thighs splayed high and wide. Recovering her breath and strength after the interlude of torment at the hands of the crowd, Miss Adventure wonders momentarily if this is her chance. It's mistake on their part to think her strength is gone, and neither big man can stop her, she knows, if she decides to crush their bull-thick necks in her grip right now. But as she's contemplating it, she realizes suddenly just who the source of that voice of reason was... and further violence is all but forgotten as her heart sets to pounding.

It's the sexy little blonde lawyer girl, her icy blue eyes shining with lust as she steps forward and drinks in the buxom teen's naked form with unconcealed delight, smiling wickedly with those naughty, kissable lips. Again, her look stirs an answering desire in Miss Adventure's quim... and she can only let out a little telltale whimper as she realizes that she wants to feel this woman's tongue between the wet, sensitive folds of her slit.

“Miss... Miss Adventure...” comes a weak, breathy voice beside her, and she looks over to see that Victory Lass has been propped up next to her, likewise draped over the support of a pair of larger men from the crowd. The sidekick's bustier and hot pants have been stripped away – she can see someone in the crowd flourishing the former garment like a trophy – and red finger-shaped weals dapple Lass' pale skin. Her eyes are bleary and unfocused... and Miss Adventure realizes that without her Sceptre, without her super-strength, Lady Victory's sidekick won't stand a chance if the Damsel of Daring makes a break for it. At least not in this moment. Meanwhile, the second lawyer – a tall, olive-skinned woman with flashing dark eyes and a head of curly hair – is standing and eyeing up the young British morsel with the same enthusiasm as her new-found friend beside her.

Better wait my chance, thinks Miss Adventure, recognizing this for the rationalization it is, but not caring as the two women step forward, each radiating powerful seduction. “Looks like we get first taste,” says the slender blonde lawyer, unbuttoning her blouse to rub one hand over her own small bra-covered breasts as she reaches up with the other to fondle a big, warm handful of Miss Adventure's ample tit-flesh. And she leans in to claim the heroine's mouth in just the kind of deep, soft, probingly luxuriant kiss she'd exhibited earlier.

“Mmmmmphhhh...” melting helplessly into the heat of that delicious exploration, the abrupt transition of the situation from violence to seduction working on her body as she revels in the feeling of the gentle hand caressing and squeezing her sensitive tit. The nameless stranger's tongue forces its way into her mouth, and the Damsel of Daring feels a tingling pleasure and profound wantonness wash through her as she returns the kiss lavishly. She moans through her nose as her tongue dances with the perverted stranger's and her hot nectar starts to drip from her cunt down into her tight asshole. “Mmmmmmhhmmmphhh...” The pleasure is real, all too real. But the difference between now and the earlier incident at the Mall is that now, Miss Adventure is in command of her faculties, if not entirely of her lust. Even as the pleasure of the enforced sexual encounter rocks her, a part of her mind is scheming. Can't be more than two minutes... two minutes until the next stop... just got to hold out that long and make a break for it... “Mmmmmmhmmmmmphhhh... Mmmmphhh...”

Finally the lawyer-girl breaks the kiss with a last little bite on her captive's lower lip, grinning in approval. “Good appetizer,” she says. “Now for the main course.”

“Ohhhhh...” the heroine hears herself moan in pleasure as the woman starts kissing her way gently down her shuddering young body. She hears Victory Lass' moan echoing hers, and looks over to see the brunette lawyer already down between the Brit's thighs, her head moving in rhythm with the languid motions of the teen beauty's hips as Lass suddenly arches and gives out a sharp cry.

A heady atmosphere of menacing lust permeates the compartment as Miss Adventure looks around to see virtually all of the men with hard cocks of varying sizes out, stroking them feverishly as they wait their turn, their eyes bright with the promise of hard, merciless fucking to come after they're done revelling in the spectacle of perverted lesbian seduction. That plump matron from the ninth circle of hell is waiting her turn in equally sinister fashion, her skirt hauled up around her waist as she primes her own fat-lipped and silver-thatched cunny for the encounter, but even that weird and forbidding sight can't jolt the captive heroine out of the sensual delight enveloping her as the blonde lawyer's gently sucking, kissing, nibbling mouth slides down from her heaving breasts to mark a path of pleasure down her smooth, quivering belly.

The Damsel of Daring is panting with passion by the time the stranger's mouth reaches her hot cunt. “AHHHHHHhhhhhh...” she echoes Victory Lass' arching motion of helpless passion as the wicked tongue sweeps up her sensitive inner labia and makes its electric contact with her clit, suckling and lathering her pleasure button with expert assurance. The woman's hot and eager mouth, full of dirty little tricks, brings her swiftly to the brink of climax as the lawyer-girl dives into an avid feast on her fragrant cunt-flesh. The teen is writhing and moaning loudly with the rising waves of pleasure as she begins to buck and grind her greedy pussy up to meet the ministrations of that all-too-clever mouth. “AHHHHHHH... OHHHHH GOD... don't stop... don't STOP I'm gonna... AHHHHhhhhh... I'm GONNA...”

Miss Adventure's love button explodes in the same moment that Victory Lass gives a shrill, orgasmic squeal beside her, the teen beauties wriggling and writhing as their young cunts squirt and slather glossy girl-cum all over the faces of their corrupt lesbian ravishers, both of whom keep their mouths determinedly glued to the girls' clits as they ride the incredible waves of orgasm. The first climax blends into a second, the sexy heroines' moans approaching delirium as they shudder and spend themselves onto the strangers' gorgeous faces.

It's as the climaxes subside that Miss Adventure hears a dispassionate electronic voice cut in over the subway's PA system, announcing the next stop. The announcement seems to momentarily shatter the spell that's seized the car, the men and women looking around in surprise as if they'd forgotten they were on a subway or that time was passing. But Miss Adventure hasn't forgotten... and the last piece of the puzzle falls into place as she spies the Sceptre of Victory lying forgotten on the ground nearby. Yes! Time to go! With a sudden feral delight of her own, the young heroine grins down at the open-mouthed face of the lawyer kneeling beneath her. “Time to say goodbye,” she says huskily... and as the train begins to brake, she makes her move!

“GGGGGNNNGGHHH...” gurgle the big men on either side of her as they find her powerful arms suddenly and incontrovertibly choking them out. Spellbound by the erotic spectacle they'd just been watching, the rest of the crowd is slow to move as Miss Adventure kicks her booted legs free of the men's grip, sends the blonde lawyer sprawling with a roundhouse, then sweeps around to smash Victory Lass' lawyer paramour into unconsciousness and matter-of-factly kick out the kneecaps of the men holding her fellow-heroine, sending them toppling with screams of pain.

Taking hold of Lass as the watching crowd belatedly starts to react, Miss Adventure lunges down to snap up the Sceptre and hauls her friend with her in a daredevil leap through the nearest opening train door. As the two heroines roll together in a spectacle of naked young flesh that astonishes the boarding passengers to put it mildly, the men and women on the subway car they leave behind look disoriented and frustrated... but none of them is able to give chase in time before the train doors close again and they're left watching the receding spectacle of the two hot, naked teens limping to their feet and making their way off the platform.

Free at last! Miss Adventure feels relief wash powerfully over as she and Victory Lass make good their escape from that cattle car of perversion... trailing looks of scandal and amazement from the public in their wake.

* * *

This relief too, though, is short-lived. At first the two heroines are grateful just to get free of the cage of that subway car, to have escaped brutalization and the far uglier forms of ravishment that had been in store for them. But as that urgency receded, the two find themselves almost completely naked in the middle of a subway station, their thighs wet with their own cum and their bodies shivering in the twin aftermath of a painful beatdown and a coda of enforced Sapphic lust. And they're only one subway station closer to their goal.

They freeze as these facts sink slowly in, flushing with embarrassment under the shocked gazes of the station's crowd of harried passengers as they wonder what to do. “This is bloomin' ridiculous, this is,” Victory Lass manages weakly after a moment.

“You said it.” Miss Adventure feels herself wilting under the public eye, trying to cover as much of her nudity as she can with hands as Lass does the same and they start to head for one of the public washrooms. “You know... maybe we should just pack it in. Go home.”

Victory Lass grimaces forlornly. “Yeah... we could... probably be the smarter thing by now, really. But look... I can't let down Lady Vick. I just... I can't. You know how it is.” She looks over at Miss Adventure and adds: “Thanks for saving my arse back there, by the way, nice one.”

“Don't thank me.” The Damsel of Daring looks around nervously as a faint sound that she recognizes begins to register at the edge of her hearing. “It's my fault we got into that mess. If I had just...”

“Oi, don't do that to yourself. It was Longshot's fault, innit. His device that little shit used, and there's no way that's chance. That's two we owe that bloody bastard now.”

“Yes, it is.” Simmering anger restores a bit of Miss Adventure's spirit. “But it's not going to be easy to figure out how to go on, here. We don't have clothes on, you know. I don't think they'll let us back on to the subway like this.”

“Yeah, we've got to get some clothes from--”

“Wait.” Miss Adventure pauses as she hears that alarming sound again, and suddenly looks in front of them and behind. “We're going to have to make a decision pretty quickly here.”

Victory Lass catches the tension in her tone, and follows her look. “What is it?”

“Do we want to talk with the police, or run from them?”

Lass looks quizzical. “Why the heck would we run from them? We're Masked Avengers, right?”

“Well, that's the thing. From the sound of their radio chatter, they're pretty pissed with us at the moment.”

“Radio chatter?”

“Closing in fore and aft. Someone called dispatch about the two naked girls that just came off the train.” Miss Adventure pauses, listening. “They're calling us 'suspects wanted for public indecency, lewd conduct, creating a public disturbance, leaving a crime scene, vandalism and illegal boarding of public transit.'” She frowns. “I guess maybe the 'vandalism' is about that turnstile you busted?”

“Or it could be the Jag I fell onto,” muses Lass, a hint of alarm rising in her own voice now as she cranes her head around, trying to catch sight of the approaching cops. “Or both. But look, it's all easy enough to explain. We ought just explain it.”

“The 'leaving a crime scene' part won't help with that. The cops take that pretty seriously. And if Lady Victory's right, we can't even tell them the reason we did that.”

“But they'll make an exception for us as capers, right? I mean, what Lady Vick said about the famous bond of trust between coppers and capers—”

“That was supposed to make this whole gamble possible, yeah. Well, I don't know. Maybe.” Miss Adventure pauses again, her spectacularly nude form tensing as she sees the hulking shape of a cop approaching them from one distant end of the subway platform, then looks ahead to spy his partner closing on them from the opposite direction. She sees one of them pause and put a hand to his ear, and catches her breath. “Someone's called police dispatch on a cell from that subway car we just escaped. All hell is breaking loose. And I think we might be looking at multiple cases of assault on top of all the rest.”

“Well, surely we can explain that. Self-bloody-defense, innit!”

“Like Mister A says, everybody claims that.” The cops are picking up their pace now. “If we go in with these guys, I think that's the end of our involvement in Lady's plan.”

Victory Lass shakes her head decisively, putting her Sceptre down on the ground in front of her. “No. If we try to run from the filth again, that's the end for sure. They won't let us in a mile of the prison after that, except maybe if we're doing bird ourselves.” The blue-eyed blonde hottie gets an odd, manic twinkle in her eyes as she looks at the Damsel of Daring and adds: “Besides, you're forgetting we've got summat on our side that'll pure strengthen that 'famous bond of trust.' “

As the cops draw closer, Miss Adventure asks: “What's that?”

“Well... one, we're both sidekicks to leading heroes with keys to the City,” reasons Lass, her stance growing oddly relaxed. “And, two: we're both proper-fit girls with top racks, standing here starkers and in Barney. You ever meet the bloke what wouldn't respond to that?”

The Damsel of Daring is amazed to find herself suddenly smiling broadly and even giving a little laugh. “No, no I haven't. Lass, you're a genius.” She restrains a random urge to actually wave a jaunty hello to the oncoming officers – knowing it would just piss them off – as she adds: “But, 'starkers and in Barney'?”

“You know... Barney Rubble, right? Trouble. And don't take the piss, you know what 'starkers' means.”

“You half-sounded like an aristocrat when we first met, you remember that?”

Victory Lass grins ruefully. “Yeah, well, we been through enough together in the last couple hours, I guessed I didn't need the act. Once an East Ender, always an East Ender, innit.”

Moved by the admission, Miss Adventure breaks off the banter for a moment to share a brief, tender glance with the blonde cutie. With the girl who she realizes is her friend. A couple of hours, she thinks in amazement. It's hard to believe that's all it's been! Finally she says: “Well, you do live in America now, you know. You could just say 'naked.'” And the two heroines share another smile, their eyes speaking more than words as they lace fingers briefly.

The cops are twenty feet away on either side of them now, both now visible as tall, handsome, burly black men in mirror shades. As the officers approach, pulling out their pistols and shouting Freeze! at the top of their lungs, Miss Adventure suppresses a wild urge to burst into hysterical gales of laughter. The truth is, the last two hours have been like being an Alice tumbling down some perverse rabbit-hole. Nothing seems real after what's happened to them... or maybe nothing that's happened in that short stretch of time feels real. Whichever it is, this makes as much sense as anything else that's happened, and she feels weirdly giddy as she says: “Come on, then, let's work on that 'famous bond of trust.' Make sure you put your hands up nice and high, we want them to see everything.”

Lass already has her arms flung up, her spine arched, her shapely legs planted at shoulder width and her delectably perky tits thrust out proudly for the officers' appreciation. “I'm way ahead of you, gel.”

8

Sweeping over the city as she scans the streets below in growing desperation, Lady Victory fights back feelings of panic and despair. You can do this, she tells herself. You can find them. You have to!

It's going on a full hour since the disaster at Taunton Mall. The clock is ticking. Less than three hours from now, if she doesn't have some kind of leverage of her own, she'll have to go to the prison as Debbie Doubledee, admit defeat and help a murderous mob boss make his escape. She hasn't heard from the girls yet – presumably they're at the prison by now, Lady Victory's name and influence smoothing their way there so they can carry out their part of the plan – but even if they succeed, she still has to hold up her end for it all to work.

And if she's honest with herself, that could be a serious problem. She's trying to keep calm... but the truth is, when she'd fled in panic from her breast-baring humiliation in front of the press – it had taken her ten crucial minutes to finally pull herself together, ten minutes she couldn't get back – she'd scuttled a solid plan for tracking down Longshot and his gang, and her quarry had made good their escape. She realizes now that she isn't exactly brimming over with solid plans in this regard. Team Victory aren't detectives or trackers; they've always left that work to the cops or to the Masked Avengers who specialize in it. They're heavy-hitters, going in against the toughest brutes the enemy can offer and kicking ass. And that skill has earned them a fine name in Newvale City, but it isn't going to produce Longshot from thin air.

About all she can do is criss-cross Newvale City's skies, scanning the streets below, blindly hoping for the sniper or one of his associates to give himself away. It's the functional equivalent, she knows, of looking for a needle in a haystack... no, of looking for a needle in the entire annual hay crop of the Midwest. She can't even ask for help from the police, who are furious with her for dodging them and leaving the scene at the Mall, and she's been carefully staying clear of police helicopters.

Face it, Debbie, she tells herself bitterly. You've blown it. You're going to have to go back to your office, wait for Longshot's call... and eat crow. You're just going to have to hope he keeps his word about erasing that video and letting you live your life. But that's too bitter a pill to swallow right now, and moreover too big a risk to take. She can't bring herself to give up just yet. Not after the brave words she'd spoken to Longshot earlier. Alighting on the roof of a building in West Oaks, she looks down pensively at the street below, her mind working. The trouble is, if I find them now, it could only be if they wanted me to find them.

As she thinks this, her breath suddenly catches. An idea suddenly pops into her mind.

Wait just a minute, she thinks. I don't have to search the entire city! If Longshot is a Mafia minion... where will he expect me to expect him to be? He likes setting traps... so where will he try to lure me? Near where his current boss is, of course... to facilitate his planned getaway! He'll be in a building near Redshaw Maximum Security! Mentally calculating the possibilities, she realizes that there aren't a lot of buildings out that far that could be candidates. About all that's likely is the Yeager Airport a few miles distant... and in particular, the airport Sheraton, exactly the kind of hotel where a hireling from out of town would be staying!

A sudden flicker of something like hope kindles in Lady Victory's heart. It isn't much – a chain of raw and questionable speculations, really – but it at least provides something to focus on, somewhere to really get started. And it fits. It fits well. In fact she can't believe she didn't think of it earlier... but then it's been a stressful day. As she summons her crackling power, carefully adjusts the front of her bustier to make sure it's in place, and soars back into the sky again, the Lady is astonished to feel a faint smile finally reappearing on her face as her spirits rise. Maybe, just maybe, she thinks in amazement, I'll have a chance to do something right, and redeem this disaster zone of a day. Maybe. I've actually got a good feeling!

She does her best to quash the rising elation, though, as she spies a distant chopper and finds herself circling wide and low to avoid it. But good feeling or not, she reminds herself sternly, there's a long way to go.

* * *

“Wait, I think I see something at six o'clock. A light in the air... Jesus, I think it could be her! It's gotta be her!” comes the Mafia goon's elated voice over the radio.

Looking out his hotel room window at the parking lot below, Longshot swallows down a bite of his pastrami on rye and hits 'talk' on his own radio. “See, Vinnie? Patience is its own reward. Bring her on back to us. Be sure to speed up and drive a little recklessly, make it look like you're guilty and spooked.”

Putting the radio down, the sniper shakes his head to himself. The world never ceases to amaze me. As they'd been fleeing the Mall, he'd been most worried about the likelihood of their getting away from Lady Victory. But they did need to see her after that for the next part of the plan to work, and when she hadn't come after them, he found himself with an unusual puzzle to solve. Who knew the biggest problem would be helping the dumb bitch to find us again? The thought carries a touch of hilarity. Poor Vinnie, who just called in, has been driving a conspicuous white cube van up and down the same stretch of road near the airport hotel – which had to eventually suggest itself to even the dimmest of heroines as a likely place to look – for the last half an hour.

Not that Longshot's complaining. He allows himself a cold little smile as he buffs down his rifle again, looking with admiration at the pink-glowing EPW units attached to its barrel and ammunition magazines – twice the size and power of the ones he'd used to kick things off this morning. He hadn't expected to have this much leisure in setting up for this part of the caper. Not only are his people placed and ready with far more than enough time to spare, but the pictures from the front of Taunton Mall that had popped up on the Internet as they'd been uploading excerpts of the photo-shoot orgy videos had given him an idea. An idea that should be bearing fruit... well, right about now, as a matter of fact.

He picks up his radio again. “Petey,” he signals to the man he's now thinking of as his 'retriever.' “The fly is en route to the web. What's your ETA?”

“I'm just in the elevator,” comes the quick reply. “Be there in a minute.”

Nodding with satisfaction, Longshot calmly finishes the rest of his sandwich and tosses the wrapping in a nearby waste-bin. He has a laptop open on the table in front of him, and whiles away the rest of the brief wait by taking another lingering look at the pictures that had reshaped this part of his plan. He finds himself rubbing a lump in the front of his pants as he does so.

No doubt about it, she is sexy. The mercenary sniper has to admit to himself, surprisingly dumb for a psychiatrist though she may be, he could happily spend a day entranced by the images of Lady Victory obliviously lecturing a crowd of reporters, hands on hips and chest out-thrust as her royal purple bustier slips down to let her beautiful naked double-D fun-bags bounce and jiggle around in front of her, showing off their obviously-natural perkiness and their stiff nipples. Her curvaceous body, her gorgeous face, even her dishevelled blonde hair straggling in wisps around the Tiara of Victory planted crookedly on her head – it all adds up to a walking wet dream. And the pictures of her subsequent mortification as she finally realized what had happened are even sexier. Who knows, the hired criminal thinks to himself: I may just have to break protocol and taste her charms for myself.

Scrolling through his private slide-show cobbled together from the cell-phone posts that had come pouring out of Taunton Mall, he passes by a recent image from preliminary news reports that features a subway car full of violence, mayhem and naked people – that one amuses him, those boys he'd 'hired' hadn't managed to hit Lady Victory but they'd sure managed to create some chaos – and comes to the picture that had inspired a new improvisation on the plan. It's a middle-aged man in front of the crowd of reporters, his face red and his eyes boggling in horror as he desperately tries to signal the heroine and call her attention to her state of undress. Longshot had recognized the face immediately... and guessed it was someone their quarry would trust. After that it had been a simple matter of detailing one of the boys to make a little trip to the National Public Television studios, and...

Right on cue, a knock comes at the door. Or rather three knocks, then a pause, then another two. Getting up, Longshot opens it. Petey's hulking form is standing there with a shorter man in front of him, the latter looking pale and waxy and on the verge of fainting. No doubt the pistol pressed into his back isn't helping his frame of mind, but it can't be helped.

“Mr. Benchley,” says the sniper as he cordially extends a hand to the Most Trusted Name in News. “My name is Longshot. Thanks for being here, I'm sure your family appreciates the initiative you've shown in joining us so peaceably. Why don't you come in, and I'll run through what you'll be doing for us this afternoon.”

* * *

Lady Victory smiles when she sights the white van – just the kind of vehicle she'd guessed they'd be using – and sees it pick up speed and swerve in a motion of obvious panic as the driver sights her glimmering form in one of his mirrors. Realizing that she's really going to have a chance to fulfill her fantasies of beating the literal shit out of Longshot after all, she makes sure not to rush it, keeping herself carefully just in sight of the van as it races faster and faster toward the airport exit, its driver clearly growing more and more frightened at the knowledge of what's following him. And you should be scared, asshole. She lets herself imagine that it's one of those bastards she'd seen balls-deep in her sweet teen sidekick's mouth and pussy earlier in the day, and her smile grows wolfish as she imagines what she'll do to him.

The heroine is under no illusions, of course. Wherever Longshot is, he'll be expecting her. And this van out in the open is surely bait for whatever trap he's set. But what he doesn't realize is the strength of the rage driving her, the fact that she plans to simply stay wreathed in her power, smash through whatever obstacles he's set and teach him the real meaning of pain. The brainy species of supervillain always underestimates the kind of shortcuts a little super-powered brawn can provide... and Longshot is making that fatal mistake right now. She can't wait to see the look on his smug face when he realizes it.

Predictably, the van waits to turn at the airport exit until the last possible second, nearly rolling when it finally does so, as if the driver is accustomed to shaking off pursuers in cars. But Lady Victory simply corrects her course languidly and keeps pace, letting him know she's there, hopefully letting a little real fear sink in beneath his faked fear. A jet passes overhead as the low-flying heroine and her quarry wind their way through the great blank spaces of tarmac on the airport's outskirts – headed straight for the oasis of light and activity that's the Sheraton Hotel, just as she suspected. And as she's now sure, just as Longshot wants her to suspect.

Time to throw a monkeywrench into his plans, she thinks as the van pulls into the hotel's outdoor parking lot – in clear view, she notices, of the windows of a whole bank of rooms – and the driver hastily climbs out, a bulky man in black who looks over his shoulder at her approaching radiance in fear that's probably feigned. At least mostly feigned. Let's make it real!

Gritting her teeth and tapping into her power reserves, Lady Victory suddenly picks up speed, hurtling down toward the goon like a hawk swooping in on a mouse. He looks back at her again... and she's gratified to see his eyes suddenly pop out in true fright in the moment just before she grabs him and sweeps him back up into the sky with her! She laughs aloud as the bastard kicks and flails uselessly in her iron grip as she starts to climb, and climb, until both of them are twenty storeys up, level with the hotel's roof and with the parking lot a lethal distance underneath them.

“Jesus, Lady, Jesus!” wails the thug, practically soiling himself as he looks down. “What the hell? I didn't do nothing!”

“Best not to look down,” she tells him helpfully as she studies his face. “So, which one of them were you?”

He looks at her in blank terror. “What... what do you mean?”

Shrugging, she looses her grip slightly, bringing a high, girly shriek from her captive as he feels himself falling before she stops him and lifts him up again. “The next time you play dumb with me,” she says matter-of-factly, “I'll really lose my grip on this situation. You understand?” At his gulping nod, she continues: “Which one were you? At the Mall. Were you just helping Longshot attack those innocent heroines with those Satanic devices of yours? Or were you one of the ones fucking my sidekick?”

At the last words, he goes deathly pale and she feels him actually tremble in her grip, a wet spot further darkening the front of his pants. “No, no, no Lady that wasn't me, I wasn't fucking nobody, I was just there,” he babbles. “Just there, working them cameras, you know, I didn't fuck nobody.”

Smiling with cold satisfaction, she shifts her grip from his shirt to his throat, the brutal switch bringing another high wail from him as he finds her fingers around his windpipe like bands of steel. “Not a very good liar for a Mafia goon,” she scolds him mildly. “So, you were one of the party boys, hmmm? Well, here's the sixty-four-thousand dollar question.” She begins to tighten her grip slowly as she says: “Which end were you?”

“Agghhhhh...” he gasps around the constricting pressure, his hands coming up in a futile attempt to claw at hers. “Don't... don't know... what you mean... Lady...”

Bringing up her free hand, she slaps him back and forth across the face – hard enough to dizzy him but not to damage him – to punctuate the three word question: “Mouth... or... cunt?! Which end were you?”

“Ughhh... agghhhh... please... I didn't...”

“Lie to me again and I let Lady Gravity welcome you back to the parking lot, asshole.” She feels him shiver in fear at the sincerity in her tone, and in fact she herself isn't sure she's bluffing. “WHICH! END?!”

“AIIIIGHHHHH...” his eyes rolling in fear, the thug finally stammers out: “C – cunt! Fuh... fucked her... her cunt...”

“Well, well, well,” she smiles coldly, relaxing her grip and letting him breathe slightly. “So you like to fuck young girls' cunts, do you? That's your MO, is it? Raping teenaged cunt?” She lets her force-field slightly amplify her chilling laugh as she says: “You dumb bastard. Who said you could use that awful word? And why would you actually say it to a woman holding you above a twenty storey drop?”

“Wait, wait, please!” he shrills, clearly convinced by the implied threat. “It was... aghhhh... it was just orders, I swear to Christ! Boss brought this guy in, told us to do what he said, I was just doing what he said! I'm sorry Christ I'm sorry!”

“Sorry isn't going to cut it.” She tightens her grip again as she adds: “You're going to make it up to me. Aren't you? You're going to try hard to make it up to me, right?”

“Gaaahhh... YES...”

“Good. Then tell me how many of you there are.”

Step by step, she pulls the information out of him. Six of them plus Longshot himself. The sniper in room 1042 with one of the crew. One goon in a car at the parking lot's east entrance, one at the west. Two more thugs inside the hotel lobby, and himself, 'Vinnie,' detailed to draw her in. The plan had supposedly been to attack her from all sides just in front of the lobby doors as she went in to try to find Longshot, somehow get the Tiara off her head – this part is a little hazy – and then zap her with the “thingy.”

She laughs at the sheer arrogance of it. Not as smart as you think, Longshot, she reflects, imagining you were going to catch me with a straight-ahead assault. You should have stuck to your coward's tactics.

“Alright, Vinnie, you've been very helpful,” she says finally, after she's had her fill of terrorizing the poor bastard and has gotten every scrap of what authentic information he seems to have.

“I have?” he says with pathetic gratitude. “You... you gonna let me go?”

“Yes. Yes, I'm going to let you go.”

He gives his shrillest, girliest scream yet as Lady Victory releases him abruptly, the ground rushing up from twenty storeys below to meet him with terrifying speed. He doesn't see the heroine's form flash down past him, and when she catches him five feet off the ground, he's already fainted dead away. Laughing, she lays him on the concrete beside the van, rolling her neck and readying herself for action as she looks up with murderous intensity at the tenth floor of the hotel.

She contemplates slamming through Longshot's window and ending it all in one fell swoop. But that's too quick. She wants him to suffer in terror as he watches her dismantle his Mafia bodyguard first. Her radiant power rising, she feels truly like herself for the first time today as she strides toward the front doors of the hotel lobby, relishing the prospect of action as she pauses just before the entrance. She feels the power of the Goddess enlivening her muscles as she tenses, ready for the cars to come squealing in from either side behind her, ready for a pair of hulking thugs to come bursting from those doors with guns in hand. Oh, this is going to be fun.

The only thing she's not prepared for is the kindly middle-aged man who actually appears through the doors a second later, looking at her with concern, his face pale. Her jaw drops as she stares in perplexity. “Blake?” she finally says. “Blake Benchley? What are you doing here?”

The public broadcasting achor gives her a weak smile, but there's fear in his eyes, clear concern for her. “Lady Victory,” he says, his tone low and urgent. “We have to talk.”

“Why are you here?” she asks again, her puzzlement growing as the Most Trusted Name in News guides gently away from the entrance by the elbow, well back out into the lot.

“I'm on my way to speak at a conference in Milwaukee,” he says a little distractedly. “I was having a pre-flight drink in the lounge. But listen--”

“Shouldn't you be in the newsroom?” the heroine persists. She clears her throat and adds, more hesitantly, her voice and her force-field ever-so-slightly quavering as one: “I mean... it may not have been the best news for me, but surely your channel's all over the Mall thing...”

He gives her a level look. An almost... fatherly look. “Lady Victory,” he says solemnly. “I hope you don't think I'd have anything to do with that kind of filth.”

After a moment, she laughs and nods with a hint of relief. “Of course not,” she says. “Thanks, Blake. You've always been very good to Team Victory, you're one of the fairest journalists out there. But I'm telling you, you've got to get out of here now,” she adds more darkly, looking around her. “There's about to be a fight that you don't want to be in the middle of –“

“No, no, listen, that's what I came out here to tell you,” he says with renewed urgency. “You have to get out of here now. The whole bar saw you swoop down and grab that guy. The bar staff actually called the police. Lady Victory, you're wanted by the police, after you left Taunton Mall! You were a material witness to multiple sexual assaults, leaving there without giving a statement was a crime! The boys in blue are coming right now, sirens blazing, to arrest you!”

The revelation pulls her up short, thunderstruck. After a long silence, all she can finally manage to say is: “Uhhhh, what?”

“Arrest you,” he says again. “They're coming to arrest you.”

“Arrest me?” she repeats stupidly after another long moment. It's as if she's just been told the sun is about to rise in the west. “But... but they wouldn't do that. No matter what happened! The police are my colleagues! My friends! There's a... there's a famous bond of trust between cops and... and...”

Blake grips her by the shoulders. “Listen, you've got to get with it, kiddo,” he says sternly. “I'm real sorry, but I thought someone would've told you by now to forget about that 'famous bond of trust' bullshit. That's just a brochure slogan. The almighty Adventurist may lunch with the Mayor and the Commissioner and get away with murder, but the rank-and-file cop world just doesn't like Masked Avengers that much. A lot of them, not to put too fine a point on it, hate you. Especially the heroines, it's still a pretty sexist law enforcement culture here in Newvale City.” Her eyes go wide in sudden horror as she processes his words, but he doesn't stop: “I guarantee you that the Chief has been waiting for the chance to get something on you. He won't play nice now that he has it, not unless someone more powerful than him forces him to. You've got to get out of here and lay low until your union can straighten everything out with the law, and make sure you stay out of prison.”

“But... but the girls...” she mumbles, suddenly shell-shocked, the radiant power wavering and weakening steadily around her. “I... I sent them... I told them to trust... oh Goddess what have I done...”

“Lady Victory, you haven't got much time!” The veteran journalist shakes her. “Come on, you've got to get out of here! You hear me?”

“I... oh Goddess, Blake, I can't!” She's frozen now, shuddering with indecision as her light and power ebbs even lower. “If I go now... it's all lost, don't you see? It's all... it's lost! Everything! I'll never have this chance again!” A shrill hysteria starts to rise in her voice, her shoulders shaking.

“What's lost? What chance? What are you talking about?”

But there's no reply now. The heroine is overwhelmed by the revelation of her miscalculation, by the prospect of being treated like a fugitive by law enforcers she'd trusted from the day she arrived here, by the realization of the real danger into which she so obliviously sent Victory Lass and Miss Adventure. All because she, Debbie Doubledee, had been so wrapped up in saving herself, her career, her reputation. All because her priorities had gotten so far out of whack. Unable to articulate a reply that can remotely say any of it, she finally bursts into tears, her buxom body slumping against the middle-aged in the sudden weakness of a crushing despair.

Benchley embraces her for a moment, rubbing her back, soothing her as she bawls in his arms like a daughter safe in the embrace of her father. As he's doing it, though, his eyes are fixated on the golden laurel-shaped tiara nestled in her platinum hair. Soothing and shushing her for a moment more, he lets one hand work its way up very, very gingerly... up to the back of her neck, momentarily massaging her there as she sobs forlornly. He hesitates for another second... and then steps firmly back away from her, removing the Tiara from her head in the same smooth motion.

Her sobs cut off abruptly, choked by shock and bewilderment as she looks blankly at him. “Blake? What...” Her tear-stained face is frozen in wounded confusion, her tear-shimmering eyes almost unseeing as they look at the Tiara of Victory, the source of all her power, in his hand. “What are you... I... I need that...”

“I'm sorry, Lady,” the journalist replies miserably, finding it impossibly painful to meet her betrayed look. “You've got to understand, they threatened my family. I had no choice. I'm sorry.”

Her expression is just making the transition to alarm when a faint aura of pink energy suddenly surrounds her, her mouth opening in a silent “O” of torment and her eyes rolling back in her head as her fabulous body goes rigid. Turning his back and walking away with tears in his own eyes now, the next thing the Most Trusted Name in News hears is a sound emerging from her throat that will haunt him the rest of his days. A deep, soul-rending moan of sensual torture: “UUUUUHHHHUUGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

9

The merriment that started off Miss Adventure and Victory Lass' encounter with the police doesn't last long.

From the first, there's an unyielding sternness in both the officers that sends butterflies of fear through Miss Adventure's belly. As the heroines at first try smiling and explaining the situation – trying to play it off as just one of those things – the cops just yell at them, demanding that they get face-down and put their hands behind their backs. As their supple breasts press into the cold, hard concrete and they feel the cuffs click into place around their wrists, the teen vigilantes look at each other in sudden dismay. The sweetening effect they'd been hoping for their connections and their hot, naked bodies to have doesn't seem to be materializing.

“Hey, aren't you supposed to... read us our rights or something?” Miss Adventure asks plaintively during the cuffing, but the cop above her just tells her to shut up in a deep, cold voice that sends shivers through her. She considers breaking the cuffs for a mad moment, but Victory Lass is right: if they start fighting the cops, it's all over.

If they'd hoped for the courtesy of at least having a jacket draped around their shoulders, it isn't forthcoming. Without a further word – and Miss Adventure notices that neither of them reports anything over his radio – the muscular black cops stand the girls up, Lass' captor snatching up her Sceptre too, and perp-walk them out of the station just as they are. The adrenaline and exhilaration of escaping the subway attack has utterly faded by now, and the heroines' faces burn with humiliation as crowds of passersby gawk at the spectacle of their nubile, naked flesh, their asses and breasts bouncing as the cops shove them along at a pace that keeps them perpetually off-balance. Miss Adventure can hear the sotto voce murmurs running through the knots of respectable citizens around them. She's especially shamed by overhearing a child asking her mother: “Mommy, why don't those ladies have clothes on?” and the mother replying: “They're what grown-ups call 'hookers,' dear. I'll explain it when you're older.”

Being mistaken for a hooker isn't a relief any more, she thinks to herself miserably. I wonder if that means this day is getting better, or worse? With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she thinks she knows the answer.

Marched up a side of wide stairs from the platform past the turnstiles and into an elevator – which the miserable captive hotties are forced to share not only with the cops, but with several fat, sweaty businessmen who are not-too-subtle about ogling them – they finally come to an underground parking garage. The cops' cruiser is parked not far from the entrance, with the sunlight of street level visible and the sound of people walking by outside clearly audible. As they get closer to the car, Miss Adventure tries talking again: “Look, officers, are we under arrest or what? If we're not, then I suggest you--”

“Shut the fuck up,” snaps the man behind her, his deep voice sending chills through her again. “You ain't making it any easier on yourself. Now go over to the car and assume the position.”

The heroines process this in shock for a moment before Lass repeats: “Position?”

“Bend over the fucking car, blondie,” her captor explains coldly. “You over the trunk, your little friend over the hood. We have to search you.”

“Search us?” Miss Adventure says in disbelief. “You can't be serious--”

“Now!”

Sharing another look of dismay but not knowing what else to do, the teen hotties stumble forward and bend, pressing their naked tits against the smooth, cool metal of the car, trembling as they feel the position raising their asses in the air and exposing their ripe, wet slits and tender assholes. The exposure grows worse as the officers wordlessly move in and kick their legs wider apart and haul their waists upward, baring their intimate feminine treasures and rendering them utterly vulnerable. Again, Miss Adventure toys with the prospect of breaking free and running... but again she realizes that would mean being permanently on the run from the NCPD, and the prospect freezes her in place. All she can think to say is: “Look, you're making a mistake, we're Masked Avengers--”

“We know who you are, now shut the hell up,” instructs the deep-voiced one. “We ain't gonna tell you again.” And the Damsel of Daring feels her stomach do a somersault as she hears the sound of snapping latex.

Is that... a glove? No WAY, he's not going to – she thinks in horror. But he is. A moment later she feels a pair of big latex-gloved hands sliding over her body, slithering over her back and hips, sliding down the outside of her thighs and calves and down her PVC-booted legs. “Anything hidden in these boots?” the cop wonders aloud to himself as he starts to unzip them, Miss Adventure shuddering in dread as she's rendered even more naked. She can hear Victory Lass trying to stifle a moan of fear nearby as the blonde's boots are likewise unzipped and stripped off, leaving her barefoot.

“Please,” Miss Adventure whimpers, pleading now. “Please just let us go. We're really sorry, sirs, just please... ahhhhh...”

The cops don't even bother to speak now as they run their hands back up the heroines' now-naked calves and soft inner thighs, their touch drawing gasps as thrills of pleasure run through the horny bodies of the naked teen girls standing bent in front of them, cuffed and cowed and utterly in their power. Miss Adventure moans as she feels her muscles tensing, a shudder running the whole length of her and standing her hairs on end, her feet going up on tip-toes and her spine arching as the man molesting her slides his strong hands up to her soft ass-cheeks, gathering them up in big handfuls and pulling them crudely apart to get a good look at her quivering bunghole.

“Think they're hiding something in these?” the deep-voiced cop asks his partner.

“Only one way to be sure,” comes the answer. And ignoring the heroines' whimpered protests, the two big black servants of the law spit loudly into the assholes of their helpless prey, rubbing the spit around to lube them up in preparation for...

“Uggghhhh...” grunts Miss Adventure helplessly, screwing her eyes shut as a big finger pushes into her tightest place. She knows she could block the penetration, but her fear makes her hesitate and her body betrays her, her strength evaporating as her inner wantonness rises again. Though her healing factor had restored her ass to pristine tightness after its hard fucking in the morning, the determined cop has no problem pushing past her token resistance and sinking his forefinger into the dank heat inside her. The sensitive feeling of being probed stirs memories of the way that pumping prick had felt inside her earlier, and tears run from her eyes as she unwillingly feels her hot pussy juicing up and beginning to drip its sweet honey down her thighs. The finger probes in... in... in... to the first knuckle and then the second, moving in and out and twirling around devilishly inside her. “Ughhhh... ughhhh... ughhhh...” She can hear Victory Lass echoing her own violated grunts, which somehow stirs even greater excitement in her tingling slit.

Then Lass' captor says: “Ain't found anything yet. Think these bitches are clean?”

“Hell no,” comes the bass rumble of the cop finger-fucking Miss Adventure's butt. “These bitches are dirty as they come. We better search deeper... just to be sure.”

“No please don't auuughhhhh AHHHHHHH...” sobs the Damsel of Daring as a second thick digit joins the first in its crude violation of her ass, both fingers now thrusting deep inside her, down to the third knuckle, pumping wickedly and sinfully in and out even as a second gloved hand comes up and begins to stroke her sopping cunt and diddle her swollen clit. As her hips begin to twist and writhe in telltale motions of encouragement, her eyes fly open as she feels the unmistakable incoming waves of an orgasm... and that's when she sees a car going up the parkade ramp in front of them, the family inside gaping in amazement as they get a long, solid eyeful of the two naked heroines being abused. “AUUUGHHHHH-AUUUGHHHH-AUUUUUGHHHHH,” Miss Adventure's moans grows louder, her lips opening wide as she sees that one of the car's occupants is a teenaged girl almost her own age. The teen's mouth is twisted in the sneer of sickened disdain unique to a certain type of popular teenaged girl, and that expression – so well-remembered from the clique of girls that had tormented the Damsel's own high-school years – shafts into the helpless heroine, paradoxically making her writhe even more hotly under the depraved molestation of her ass and pussy.

A dozen seconds later and the car and its family is gone... but they've driven home the fact that this is all happening in full view of the steady traffic in and out of the parking garage. The awareness wreaks havoc on poor Miss Adventure. As a third massive finger forces its way into her and the cop's corrupting fingers pick up speed as they massage her clit, the horny coed teen feels her eyes roll back in her head: “AIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” She gives out a wild, shrill squeal as she explodes wetly, squirting and spasming over and over as the three fingers slam repeatedly into her butt!

A moment later: “HHHUUNNNHHHH UHHHHNHHHH AAAAAAHHHAGGGHHHHH!” she hears Victory Lass' wail of passion quickly follow suit as the sound of Miss Adventure's orgasmic submission weakens the last of her own resistance. Those cries, in turn, send the Damsel of Daring right back over the edge, and soon the two teenaged sluts are writhing and cumming in unison, their juices jetting out of their fuckholes like water from a fire hydrant as the relentless frigging of their pleasure buttons prolongs the incredible waves of climax. The tides of lust seem to swamp them for an eternity before they finally pull back, leaving the naked beauties shaking and on the verge of tears in their wake as the cops' gloved fingers finally withdraw. The heroines' knees are trembling, weak from the onslaught of forced pleasuring, their rubbery legs just barely holding their sweet round hineys up.

“Well,” says the deep-voiced one with a touch of humour in his voice. “Looks like you were clean after all. Our bad.” As he's snapping off his latex gloves, he goes on: “But now that you bitches know who's boss... let's talk.”

* * *

The cops keep them standing like that, bent over and ready for exploitation, as they lay it out. “We got a choice here,” say the deep-voiced, who calls himself Tyrone. “We could arrest you. Call it in and say we have you in custody, read you your rights like you asked about before... the whole nine.”

“And then you'd have to explain--” starts Miss Adventure tearfully.

“Nothing,” Tyrone cuts her off. “You see, I got news for you. Most of the Department doesn't like you 'Masked Avengers' much. Neither does the D.A., since you're more trouble than you're worth, most of you. And there's a lot of people in this town who feel the same way.” She feels her heart sink at the conviction – and the barely-hidden venom – in his voice. He's really not just speaking for himself. “I mean, sure, you could go to court and try to tell some fantastic story about how we felt you up... but even with your heavy-hitters in your corner, it ain't gonna make much headway against the story about how you jumped the subway, beat the ever-loving hell out of more than twenty innocent citizens of Newvale City and left a massive brawl behind you. How many people are gonna come running forward to testify for you after that comes on tonight's news?”

The heroines are silent, trying to hold back whimpers as it hits home just how deep their predicament really is. Tyrone pauses for a moment, letting it really sink in, then gives a grunt of satisfaction and continues.

“So what with all that, you probably don't want us to arrest you, right?” Miss Adventure keeps still and demurely quiet now, but this time Tyrone wants an answer. She squeals and jumps as he deals a demeaning slap to her left buttock and repeats: “Right?”

“Yes, sir...” she acknowledges miserably.

“Right. So the other possibility is, you come for a little ride with us... and make it worth our while not to arrest you.”

Both heroines are silent for a long minute, their minds whirling in dismay, knowing what that last remark means and frantically trying to think up some way, any way to persuade their captors not to do this. After the silence stretches out long enough, Tyrone's partner – a slightly sleeker-looking younger man who calls himself Collins – shrugs and says: “Okay, have it your way. Miss Adventure and Victory Lass, you are under arrest for --”

“Wait, wait, please!” It's Lass who speaks up. After another moment's hesitation she chokes out the words: “I'll... I'll do it.”

Those words nearly break the Damsel of Daring, who knows why Lass is uttering them: because she still wants to complete this insane mission Lady Victory sent them on. She can't bear the thought of letting her mentor down. But Lass' loyalty to her mentor brings up thoughts of the Adventurist, who left her here today to make a glamorous public media debut. The horrible reality of what's happened instead – and the thought of his face when he finds out – crushes down on her. The tears in her eyes overflow now as she begins to snivel quietly.

But the cops are impatient. “That's one,” says Tyrone. “What about you, little Miss Adventure?”

The thought of giving in revolts her, but... I have no choice. We can't get locked up, Victory Lass is right. We've got to see this thing through. Gulping back her tears as best she can, she says faintly: “Me too.” Not loud enough for Tyrone, who gives her another hard slap on the ass. “Owwww I'll do it I'll do it!” she cries out.

Both cops laugh now: low, ugly laughs of triumph that raise shivers of fear in their nubile prey. “That's the spirit, babe,” says Tyrone. “Let's go, then.”

* * *

Putting the cuffed heroines into the back seat of their cruiser, Tyrone and Collins drive them out, activating their siren and screeching through the streets at breakneck speed. Before long the teen beauties are exchanging looks of trepidation as they see they're heading due east, toward an isolated spot of highway under the Keneally Turnpike on the way out to the Freedom State Park. The cruiser seems to be pulling toward the shadow of the Turnpike... but stops just shy of it, in a spot, the heroines realize with dismay, in view of the passing traffic in the left lane above them, as well as beside them.

“Couldn't we go... someplace more... private...” Miss Adventure starts to say before Tyrone quells her with a hard look. Evidently, exhibition is part of the thrill for these bastards!

So begins an hour of hellish, humiliating and degrading sex for the two lissome young Masked Avengers. It starts with them forced to their knees on the rough pavement, each worshiping a big black twelve-incher with her wet mouth and made to stare up at her abuser as she does it, their captors crudely instructing them on finer points of technique and telling them to smile as they're occasionally teased with the uncut black cocks just out of reach, or insultingly slapped all over their faces with hard man-meat, or forced to lick and kiss two big hanging sets of balls. As they're schooled in the art of giving sloppy, whorish hands-free blowjobs – their hands stay cuffed behind them throughout their ordeal – the teen heroines' faces are full of shame as their taut young bodies, still so sexually weak with the aftereffects of their encounter with Longshot's devices, respond wantonly to the humiliating situation. Their tender pussies ache and drip down their firm thighs as spit-slathered cockflesh pumps deep into their throats, passing cars honking their horns at the spectacle all the while.

The worst, though, is yet to come. Holding back their loads on the brink of cumming, the cops finally pull the heroines' heads away and stand them up before laying Victory Lass down in the back seat of the cruiser. As Tyrone splays the delectable blonde's thighs high and wide in full view of the road, lining up his mighty black weapon with her little pink slit, Collins brings Miss Adventure around to the other side of the vehicle, opens a door and order the Damsel of Daring to climb in and lie on top of her fellow-heroine.

“What... what are you going to do?” Miss Adventure can't help asking fearfully.

“Fuck you like a bitch in heat while you drip juice all over your friend's face, what do you think?” replies Collins scornfully.

This is the most terrible moment. Through everything up to this point, Miss Adventure has avoided losing her hymen, the precious virginity that in her deepest, most forbidden inner fantasies she's been saving for the Adventurist himself. No matter that her healing factor will regenerate it – the fact of losing it the first time like this, in this sleazy and despicable way, is a deeper horror than anything she's faced.

But she has no choice. Sniffling in misery, the bound beauty lets Collins guide her by her cuffed hands as the climbs into the car, her smooth naked flesh sliding hotly against her friend's soft skin, her wet snatch poised above Lass' mouth as her head is forced down between the blonde bombshell's thighs, giving her a close-up view of Tyrone's waiting cock. She can see the member pulsing almost visibly, the sight hypnotic.

And then she sees that cock skewer brutally into her friend's tight fuckhole, stretching it without mercy for Lass' piglet-like squeals as he drives it in and in... and she feels Collin's hard-on press up against the mouth of her own hot hole, prodding painfully at her vulnerable maidenhead. “Fuck,” Collins shouts in delight, “this bitch is a virgin! Or anyway... she was!”

“NOOOOO - AAAUUUHAUUUGHHHHHH!” screams Miss Adventure from the depths of her soul as her innocence is ripped away. She can feel her own hot blood splattering her thighs – and no doubt all over Victory Lass' beautiful face – as the fat ebony dick shafts into her. Each thrust seems to go deeper, scouring her inside even as her wild passion rises through the pain... and before long Collins is going balls-deep, his sperm sacs slapping her swollen clit with every brutal thrust, the corrupt cop spanking her soft ass while he force-fucks her.

“Daaamn,” Collins' voice is choked with delight. “So fuckin' tight... she's staying so tight...”

“This bitch isn't bad either,” grunts Tyrone appreciatively as he leans in to his fucking of Victory Lass' tight teen cunt. “Come on, let's really work them!”

And “work them” they most certainly do. The helpless heroines can only moan and squeal and sob their way through one clutching, squirting orgasm after another, their spritzing juices repeatedly anointing one another's faces as their pussies are ruthlessly plundered, the officers occasionally switching things up by pulling out their cocks and forcing the nearest mouth to give them a tongue-bath, or shifting targets between the girls' lubricious cunts and their tight asses, which get just as thorough a reaming and add their pungent flavour to the man-meat that the sluts are forced to lick and suck again and again.

The first time the cops blow their loads – pumping their sperm deep into their victims' spasming cunts and pulling out to splatter the remainder all over their gorgeous features – the teen heroines cry out in relief, thinking the ordeal is over. But Tyrone and Collins have more staying power than that, and a moment later the cries of relief become sobs of despair as the fucking begins again.

Before long, Miss Adventure begins to attract more and more of both cops' attention. The Damsel of Daring had been hoping against hope that they at least wouldn't notice the effect her healing factor has on her holes, its desperate attempts to repair the damage of their brutal thrusts keeping her extra-tight and an extra-exciting fuck – but notice they most certainly do, and she's hauled out and stood up against the side of the cruiser so that they can take turns pounding her wet holes, one of her thighs held high in the air for easier access and better visibility for the honking cars passing on the road beside them. Not that Lass is neglected by any means; the cop taking a break from fucking Miss Adventure is invariably forcing her to suck her friend's juices off his cock while he uses the handle of the Sceptre of Victory in the hot blonde's holes, keeping her riding from orgasm to orgasm on her own weapon.

For their finale, the exhausted beauties are forced to kneel one last time as the cops use their mouths, panting and grunting out a final load. In just the moment before they paint the pretty faces of their captives, they exchange a glance and a nod and reach down – pulling up Victory Lass' mask and Miss Adventure's goggles and drawing gasps of shock from both of the young crime-fighters as their unmasked faces are covered in streams of slimy jism!

“Recognize either of them?” Tyrone asks his partner as the spunk-splattered babes look up at them like woodland animals frozen in fear. If the answer is yes, the heroines know, they'll surely be seeing these two again!

“Nope,” says Collins after a moment, sounding disappointed. “You?”

Tyrone shakes his head, and after amusing themselves for a few more minutes by ordering the girls to lick each other clean and laughing at the expressions on their faces as they try their best to do it, they finally uncuff them. Collins tells them they can put their masks on, tosses Lass her Sceptre, its handle still wet with her own juices, and digs out a couple of greasy, crusty rags from the cruiser's trunk for them to wipe themselves down with. With that the cops are climbing back in their cruiser. “Good work, ladies!” says Collins with a shit-eating grin and a wave. “It's been fun!”

“Wait!” Miss Adventure tries to stop them. “You're not leaving us out here!”

“We ain't a chauffeur service,” replies Tyrone uncaringly.

“But what are we supposed to do? We're in the middle of fucking nowhere! At least give us our boots back!”

“Oh, I think we'll keep those as souvenirs,” says Collins. “I'm sure you ladies can find a ride!”

“But we have no money, no clothes!”

“You'll think of something. See you around!” And with that the cruiser is peeling away, leaving the naked girls spitting and cursing in its dust!

* * *

At first, despair nearly overwhelms the two debauched and exposed sidekicks as they wander by the road in bewilderment, doing the best they can cover their ripe assets with their trembling hands as honking cars pass them by. Victory Lass makes a desperate attempt to fly again, but her reeling and fucked-out mind can barely focus enough to summon even a token force-field. Eventually she says: “Maybe you were right earlier, Miss A. Maybe we should just give up.”

But after a long silence, it's now Miss Adventure's turn to say: “No. We can't do that.”

“Why not? Even if we get to the Prison, they'd just lock us up! You heard what that filth said, they all hate us!”

“I don't believe him,” replies the Damsel of Daring firmly. “He may think that, but the Adventurist has been doing good in this city for years. All the Masked Avengers have. It wouldn't be possible if all cops hated us, if what those bastards said was really true. The Adventurist knows Warden Long personally, and I'm the Adventurist's ward. There's no way his name and this choker doesn't get us into that Prison with the full courtesies due a Masked Avenger. We just have to get there.”

Lass hesitates dubiously. “You... you really think so?”

“I'll stake my life on it.”

In fact, Miss Adventure is nowhere near as sure as that, but it's the only hope she has. She'd rather die, she knows now, than endure a day this hellish and demeaning without some positive accomplishment to show – for herself, and especially to her mentor – at the end of it. If she stops now, she's a failed heroine who spent the day of her media debut getting molested and fucked for all of Newvale City to see. But if they can somehow make Lady Victory's plan work, she'll have been part of the foiling of an escaped attempt by a notorious villain. It's no contest.

Biting her lip with nervousness, the Damsel of Daring walks with as much resolution as she can muster to the edge of the road, and poses saucily with a hand on one hip and thrusts out her thumb. After a moment, Victory Lass follows suit.

The teen heroines try not to blanch when they see who pulls over for them first.

10

It's almost an hour later when a cab pulls up to the Visitors' Entrance at Redshaw Maximum Security. It sits there for a long time – almost fifteen minutes – rocking slightly as the windows steam up. Finally, though, the passenger door opens.

Out steps Victory Lass, her eyes bleary behind her mask, her blonde hair matted with sweat, her thighs wet, her gloved fingers scooping a viscous dollop of creamy jism off her wet chin and her pink tongue darting out unconsciously to lap up the man-juice as the otherwise butt-naked beauty looks around at Redshaw's forbidding walls, massive guard towers and menacing gloom.

A minute later, an equally-sweaty Miss Adventure steps out to join her, the brunette likewise scooping and licking sloppy cum off her chin and wiping it from her goggles – though not noticing the bright drippings and splatters all over her big tits. She hands Victory Lass the golden Sceptre of Victory, which the blonde heroine looks at almost as though she can't quite remember what it is. Arm in arm, the heroines walk shakily toward the entrance.

“See,” says Miss Adventure a little dully as the taxi peels away behind them. “That... wasn't so bad...”

The cab driver had been the third ride they'd had to hitch to get to the prison. The first, a fat and incredibly smelly trucker, had actually gotten them halfway to their destination – and mercifully proved to have a hair-trigger on his small cock to boot, so “paying” him had been easy if unpleasant – but the next car that had pulled over for them had been full of frat boys supposedly on their way to Vegas. The heroines had found themselves worked over by five ready young dicks, all much bigger than the trucker's (if not as big as Tyrone and Collins), found themselves straddling and sucking one spurting hard-on after another with abandon. As their horny bodies had betrayed them yet again, they hadn't noticed the car heading in entirely the wrong direction. The frat boys, in fact on their way to Ocean City, had unceremoniously dumped them by the side of the road back on the Turnpike, almost back where they'd started! So flagging down the cab and making up the lost ground had been a lucky break... even if the old cab driver's crotch had smelled of cottage cheese and his spooge tasted like day-old clam chowder.

As they'd climbed into the cab, the luscious teen hotties had noticed the effects of Longshot's device finally beginning to ebb. But it was small comfort: they daren't attract any more attention by simply carjacking the driver, and the degrading method of payment left to them had been made even more soul-crushing by having to undergo the dirty treatment this last time without any remnants of artificial motivation. Still, they had both begun to wonder privately what kind of sluts they might really be as they found themselves unable to resist frigging their clits as they licked and sucked him, their pussies still giving up wet, juicy orgasms during the act.

Now, they've finally arrived at their objective. True, it's as exhausted, soiled and demoralized shells of the confident sidekicks who'd first turned up at Taunton Mall what seems like a lifetime ago... but they're here. They've come this far. Looking at each other, the delicious teens put on the bravest faces they can muster and strut forward, their titties and asses wiggling and bouncing as they do their level best to look like they belong.

As they enter the building, walking in through a waiting room full of people, they pretend not to notice the boggling eyes staring at them from all sides as they make a beeline for the nearest guard. The guard stares at them silently as they approach, the big bearded man's wide eyes lingering particularly on Miss Adventure's spunk-spattered double D's.

“Can I help you?” he manages to say after a moment.

“Yes, you can,” says the Damsel of Daring firmly. “We are Miss Adventure and Victory Lass, here on official Masked Avengers business at the orders of the Adventurist. We need to speak with Warden Long at once.”

* * *

“No, Boss, it's not Dr. Doubledee yet, though we're expecting her soon,” says Warden Richard Long into the cell phone as he stares disbelievingly at the image forwarded from the security cameras to the monitor at his desk computer. “You're not gonna believe this. It's actually the two sidekicks.” After a moment: “No, I'm not joking. They just walked right in the front door, naked as can be. Looks like they've had an interesting day.” He listens a moment more and then says: “Sure, yeah, sounds like a plan to me.” After another moment he laughs and says: “Well, that's very generous of you, Boss. Okay, tell your man to wait in Interrogation Room One and I'll set everything up. Meantime I'll have you brought up to my office. She should be arriving in half an hour, tops.”

I should've done this years ago, thinks the heavyset middle-aged Warden to himself, his leathery face impassive as he tucks away the special purpose cell phone and picks up his office phone. It's so much easier being on the side with no scruples. And so much more lucrative. Just from the advance payment for setting up the early parole hearing for his secret new employer, Boss Nero – no easy feat, that, but luckily Nero had had some useful scuttlebutt from inside on the not-so-savoury activities of the family members of two parole board directors – Richard Long has already paid off his house and bought a boat. And it's just the beginning of many, many more profits to come; a veritable avalanche of dead Presidents if they play their cards right, even if he has to share some of it with the guards he's cut in with him. “Yes, Will?” he says to the hack who picks up at the other end, one of his chosen people. “I want you to conduct the heroines back to the staff locker room, get them cleaned up and loan them some women's workout wear for now. I'll come down and meet you there. Meantime tell Malcolm to take one of the laptops from the IT department and put it in Interrogation One, he's going to set up the Boss' guest there. And tell Andy and his crew to stand by on backup. Got all that? Good, get it done.”

Whistling tunelessly as he straightens his cheap brown suit, combs his mustaches and his thinning hair and spritzes his mouth with a little breath mist, the Warden can almost feel the prison humming with the worker-bee energy of his minions. He steps out of his office, spends a few minutes chatting amiably with his secretary, Ruth – who's perplexed at his uncommonly good mood when he gives her the rest of the day off in what looks like a moment of whimsy – and heads out for a leisurely stroll through the halls, nodding and even smiling at staff, visitors and prisoners alike as he goes. Going out to survey the visitors' waiting room, where the crowd is still milling and buzzing over the sudden appearance of the spectacularly nude heroines, he gives everyone a jaunty wave that further confuses them. And with that, he turns and strolls back to the staff locker rooms, whistling louder and even doing a little tap-dance along the way, enjoying himself thoroughly.

Finally he's in front of the women's staff locker room, where Will, who'd first encountered the heroines as they arrived, is still looking a bit preoccupied as he listens to the showers going inside. The Warden gives him a conspiratorial wink and says: “Don't tell me you're resisting the temptation to peek in, Will. You already saw everything!”

“Just about,” the guard concedes ruefully. “I'm just trying not to picture them soaped up.”

“I hear you. There's only so much a man can endure, right?” Warden Long slaps him on the shoulder, then paces for a bit, humming quietly to himself as the sound of the showers turns off.

“You're in an awfully good mood today, sir,” Will ventures after a moment.

“Of course I am,” the Warden agrees. “Today's the big day, after all... and going better than I dared to dream. Heck, we even got a couple of bonuses thrown into the mix,” he adds with a none-too-subtle leer at the locker room's closed door. As Will grins in response, the Warden goes back to business for a second: “Now, let's make sure we don't mess it up. Positions check.” Nodding, Will talks into his radio in a couple of coded exchanges with his fellow guards, grunts with satisfaction and gives the thumbs-up.

Okay, Dick, thinks the corrupt official to himself. Showtime. He hangs back long enough for the sound of the showers to cease and for their occupants to get out and dress; then he looks at his watch and composes himself carefully, making sure his customary stern expression is in place. Straightening himself up, he raps three times on the door. “Everybody decent in there?” he calls out. “It's Warden Long!”

“Hi Warden,” the young ladies' voices chorus from inside. “Come on in!”

It's all the Warden can do not to break back into a grin at the spectacle the fetching teen heroines present. Will, true to form and knowing his boss' wishes, has loaned them the very skimpiest exercise gear that female staff are permitted to wear: tight, cute little lycra sports bras and exercise shorts – practically booty shorts – in dark blue, with blue sneakers. Unfortunately for the chesty Miss Adventure, none of the women on staff have anything like her bust size, and she's been stuck with a too-small top that rides halfway up her bountiful breasts and that she's periodically forced to tug down. But the petite teen heroine seems grateful just to be wearing anything at all as she shakes Warden Long's hand effusively. He does his best to focus on her face as she talks.

“Thank you so much for your help, Warden,” she says, smiling, her eyes bright behind her blue goggles. “It's been a difficult day for us, you can't imagine what a relief it is to find someone in Newvale City still on our side.”

“Anything for the Masked Avengers,” replies the Warden smoothly. “Just tell me how we can be of further help and you've got it.”

“We're here on a mission for Lady Victory,” says the blonde in a posh British accent, giving him an excuse to look over and let his eyes wander over her flawless hourglass figure as she talks. “We need to interview one of your inmates, Antonio Coccino Nero.”

“Boss Nero, hey?” He tries to look thoughtful for a moment. “Does Lady Victory think there might be something fishy with his parole hearing?”

“She knows it,” Miss Adventure says firmly. As he said the crime boss' name, something seems to change in her, her eyes and stance growing subtly more alert, her gaze on the Warden more intent. “We all do. We were attacked by a man working for him, a man using an... unusual device, and trying to suborn a good friend of Lady Victory's. That's part of why we showed up here naked.”

“Part of why? What's the rest of it?” Long's curiosity is genuine now. But for some reason he finds himself keeping his focus on Victory Lass, and away from Miss Adventure.

“It's a bit of a long story, Warden,” says Victory Lass uncomfortably. “Maybe we'll have time after we've done our interview.”

“Of course. Well, then, you have my full cooperation. I'll have Boss Nero brought up right away. My guard Will is at the door, he'll escort you up in a couple of minutes. Sound good?”

“Sounds great, Warden. Thanks again.” As Miss Adventure shakes his hand again, her grip firmer this time, she looks steadily into his eyes... an almost probing look that suddenly discomfits him. “It's good to have friends. Don't you agree?”

He mumbles a hasty agreement. The handshake goes on a moment longer as the Damsel of Daring keeps up that penetrating look... the pressure of her hand around his just hinting at reserves of super strength that could crush his bones like dried twigs. Finally, she lets him go, and with the odd feeling of discomfiture growing, he makes a hasty exit from the room with the two lissome young beauties still smiling at him. Outside the door, ignoring Will's curious glance and instructing him curtly to follow his orders, Warden Long finds his good mood evaporating as he hastens away and heads back toward his office.

He thinks hard about the expression on Miss Adventure's face there at the end. The Adventurist is like a living lie detector, he realizes suddenly, as he's halfway back to his office. Could it be his sidekick has some of that same power? Did she just... read me? Grinding his jaw, he guesses this is exactly what's just happened, and realizes it was a mistake to meet the heroines in person. Dammit. We're going to need some extra precautions. We can't have them getting loose.

Grabbing a radio from a nearby flunky, he issues some new orders, mobilizing his backup crew of corrupt guards just in case. He knows very well that nothing can go wrong today. The Boss won't stand for it.

* * *

Showered and dressed – sort of – Miss Adventure feels more like herself than she has in hours, almost as if the surreal and hellish journey to the prison and all the humiliations it involved were just a dream. Her heart had soared when they'd gotten help from the Warden, proving the scare tactics those dirty cops had used on them were just that... and holding out the prospect that they'd one day be able to punish those bastards, too. The mental boost has even restored her ability to control and govern her senses.

So standing face to face with Warden Long for a few short moments, she's disturbed to realize that she just detected unmistakable signs of deception in his breathing, heart rate and blood pressure. Especially when he'd said the words “Boss Nero.” And worse, she's sure by the way he went abruptly pale and all but fled the room that the Warden has noticed her suspicion. Her mind races as she realizes the feeling of security among friends that she'd been basking in just a moment ago might be a sham.

Might be, she reminds herself as she looks at the door closing behind him. Part of the Warden's deception was just a garden-variety pretense about not leering at their firm teen bodies. And that the mention of Boss Nero made him so nervous might not mean anything except that any sane person would feel nervous about Boss Nero. It might be nothing. You can't jump to conclusions.

“Oh, he seems nice,” says Victory Lass beside her, obliviously.

Miss Adventure murmurs a polite agreement as she looks with concern at her friend. Victory Lass may have recovered her posh British accent, but it's not clear that she's recovered much of anything else. She seems fragile, her outward good spirits as brittle and breakable as the skin of a porcelain doll, her inward misery still plain. Just physically, the Damsel of Daring realizes, the day's been harder on her. Lass doesn't have a healing factor. While Miss Adventure's body has repaired itself time and again, the blonde is still feeling all of the day's bumps and bruises, all of the violations that have left her raw. If I voice my suspicions, she might go to pieces. I'll have to stay alert for both of us.

The thought makes her feel terribly alone, and frightened. But Miss Adventure sets her jaw even as she's tugging down the diminutive borrowed top over her ample bosom, trying and failing once again to cover a copious display of underboob. She's determined not to collapse... not after all this. She's determined to find a way forward, a way out, a way up, and she spends a little while longer talking tactics with Lass, keeping her friend focused before she turns to her own state of mind. Closing her eyes and controlling her breathing as she focuses herself the way the Adventurist taught her, she's completely ready when the guard, “Will,” raps on the door a few minutes later.

“We're all set, time to go!” he calls out.

“We'll be right there!” Miss Adventure's look, when she opens her eyes, is one of total focus. As she sashays out of the locker room with a much more tentative Victory Lass in tow, her senses are alive and sweeping her surroundings, her muscles taut with preparedness. She instantly takes in a mixture of horniness, awe and resentment radiating from the guard as he sets out to lead them. Again, nothing remarkable or surprising in itself... but it keeps her on alert.

As they make their way through the halls, Miss Adventure finds herself slightly distracted by the need to keep tugging her undersized top down every few steps to keep her ripe young titties from popping out. Still, she notices the close attention they're getting from the guards and staff they pass, the sound everywhere of hearts and pulses racing in... attraction? Anticipation? She would have at least expected some of them to be sparing a thought or two for the dangerous criminal they've just brought up from the cells.

Finally, they come to a bright, nondescript hallway with doors along its western side. It's plain which of the rooms Boss Nero is in, because aside from the “1” on the door, there are almost a dozen guards clustered around it. Huh, Miss Adventure thinks in perplexity. Looks like they're taking this seriously after all. Despite the crude, leering way the guards' eyes slide over the young heroines' scantily-clad bodies, she feels vaguely reassured, some of her doubts ebbing. Of course Warden Long was just nervous. That makes sense. I shouldn't have let myself get suspicious of him... after all, we can't start distrusting everybody.

“Okay,” says Will, his heart hammering audibly now, no doubt a bit nervous at being this close to one of the most murderous crime bosses in Newvale City's history. “Boss Nero is in there. If you don't mind my asking... what do you have planned?”

“That's simple,” says Victory Lass with brittle-sounding confidence, her fake aristocratic accent fully in effect. “We'll just inform him that Lady Victory has beaten his henchman and rebuffed all his cowardly tricks, and that there shan't be any parole for him today. And we'll tell him he won't get an even longer sentence if he names the people who worked with him.”

There's a note of undeniable satisfaction in the guard's voice and a twinkle in his eye as he says: “Really, huh? That sounds like it should be great. Go knock him dead then, ladies.”

Miss Adventure gives him her most radiant smile. “You can bet on it.” She's happy to feel some of her suspicions starting to drain away as she concludes from that tone in his voice that Will is thoroughly on their side. With him and a dozen more prison guards to back them up, she's feeling better about this already. I definitely must've been misreading the Warden earlier. Well, it has been a long day, and I'm still new at all this. Exchanging nods with Victory Lass, she stalks toward the door, tugs down her tiny borrowed top as far as it will go over her mighty mams, set her jaw and grabs the door handle. Okay, Miss Adventure – it's showtime!

She bangs open the door with a flourish, stalking inside in the same smooth motion with Lass hard at her heels. The heroines have arrayed themselves shoulder-to-shoulder, adopting the most intimidating hands-on-hips poses they can manage, with deliberate speed in an effort to shock and rattle the crime boss right off the bat. It's a tactic they'd rehearsed back in the locker rooms. But the swiftness of its execution means it takes a crucial moment for them to notice something wrong about the figure sitting in front of them.

It's not a sixty-year-old Sicilian man in an orange prison jumpsuit. It's not Boss Nero. The figure sitting in front of them is tall, rangy, black-haired and dressed in a dark, sober suit. His green eyes are cold and reptilian. A computer sits open on the table in front of him.

Miss Adventure hears the door slam shut behind them even as she gasps: “Longshot!”

“Good to see you again, ladies,” the villain replies. “I do believe we have unfinished business.” As he says it, his hands are flashing up lightning-fast from behind the computer's monitor.

Victory Lass stands frozen like a deer in headlights, but Miss Adventure is already darting forward and vaulting over the table between the heroines and him, her adrenaline surging, counting on her agility and training and strength to help her close the distance. Time seems to slow; she can see very clearly the pistols Longshot is holding, each of them sporting weird attachments pulsing with pink light. Stretching out, she desperately tries to grab the weapon in his right hand and crush it.

She almost makes it before he pulls the trigger.

“Nooooooo!!” she cries out, her fingertips actually brushing the cool metal of the gun barrel before a sizzling, obliterating wave of sensation rages through her body. And then: “UHHHH-HUUUUGGHHHHHHH!” she can hear herself groan aloud as she stumbles, flops face-first across the table and collapses to the bright linoleum floor in a heap at Longshot's feet. Writhing in the flushed intensity of the lust that now has her in its grip, she moans and sobs helplessly. Her hands unconsciously claw at her body as if trying to pull out the torrid impulses cascading across her nerve endings, her nipples suddenly ultra-stiff and her breasts throbbing with sensitivity under the too-tight top, her clit swiftly engorging and her pussy juicing with hot nectar that quickly stains her tiny exercise shorts. As she rolls panting onto her back, she can hear Victory Lass making the same kinds of sounds as the blonde bombshell writhes where she's fallen on the other side of the table.

The sudden collapse of Miss Adventure's sensory discipline under the assault makes her predicament even worse by way of the enhanced ultra-senses that amplify her sense of touch. She realizes suddenly, as she writhes under the devastating stimulus of Longshot's diabolical device, that the friction of her minimal clothing against her throbbing tits and swelling labia is going to push her over the edge in a matter of seconds unless she does something!

NononoNO can't cum CAN'T CUM got to stop myself don't cum DON'T CUM... Instinctively fighting to avoid the humiliation of a spontaneous climax, she reaches down with one hand to yank up her top, gasping in momentary relief as her ripe double D's pop free of the constricting pressure to jounce and jiggle in rhythm with her horny wriggling. But her other hand, fumblingly trying to yank down her shorts, isn't fast enough. Even as she grips her waistband, a fresh wave of sizzling lust races through her, spearing into her dripping cunt as her clit thrills to the touch of the gusset of the tight shorts. “Uhhhh-UNNNNHHHH...” She gasps as for a split-second she loses her focus... and then she loses the battle as her back arches and her legs spread, her hips thrusting and pumping with a will of their own. “AUUUGHHHH-AUUUUUUUUGHHHHHHH-AWWWWWWWGAWWWWWWWD!” she squeals in despair as climatic delight tingles from her bursting loins all the ways up and down her spine and all over her taut teen flesh, her ultra-sensitive pussy clutching and squirting over and over and over and over again, liberally soaking her shorts with stream after stream of juicy girl-cum. There's no stopping the lust now; her fingers, disobeying her frantic but weakening mental commands, obey the instincts of pleasure instead as they slip naughtily under the waistband of her shorts and begin diddling her stiff clit to draw out the amazing sensations. The Damsel of Daring throws her head back, her free hand mauling and groping her own naked tits as she can't stop herself from masturbating swiftly to another orgasmic peak: “AUUUUHHHGHHHHH AWWWWHAAWWW GAAAWWDDD I CAN'T STOP I'M GONNA AHHHHHHH AHHHHHHH AIEEEE!”

The tsunami of multiple orgasm finally recedes for a moment, stars bursting in her vision as she looks up to see Longshot gloating down at her, a massive hard-on tenting his pants as he tucks his pistols away in hidden holsters under his jacket. “A good appetizer, Miss Adventure,” he says, his voice as cool and impassive as ever. “Now it's time for the main course.”

The Damsel of Daring whimpers in fear as he reaches down to grab her by the hair... but she still can't stop from licking her lips, can't stop her sticky fingers from moving sensuously against her stiff, hot clit. It's worse this time oh God it's so much worse, her reeling mind babbles as she feels his strong fingers take hold of her long, silky chestnut tresses. Oh God somebody please save us... PLEASE...

11

“I'm sure you're surprised to see me,” says Longshot amiably as he pulls Miss Adventure up by her hair and props her against the interrogation room's back wall. Looking up with hazy vision from her hell of artificially-compelled lust, she sees him walking casually around the table to ward Victory Lass, talking all the while. “I have to admit I'm almost as surprised to see you. I really didn't think she'd send the both of you into the belly of the beast like this. But maybe she was feeling a little desperate.”

He draws a high whine from the throat of the British bombshell as he picks up her dropped Sceptre with one hand and grabs her platinum locks with the other, dragging her around the table to deposit her next to Miss Adventure. The teen heroines share a look of misery as they try and fail to still their writhing bodies, moaning through gritted teeth as they're unable to stop their fingers from stroking their taut, hot flesh and diddling their sopping twats. Miss Adventure can see clearly the broken and defeated look in Lass' eyes. This was the final straw for her, she realizes in horror. I'm all alone now...

“You've figured out by now that Lady Victory's attempt to... apprehend me didn't quite pan out,” the villain continues with a cold smile. “But I thought you might like to see for yourselves.” Leaning casually against the table, he reaches over to the computer and touches a button, bringing it to life. “These images were taken a little over an hour ago. Of course we transmitted them to every porn site on the Internet that we could locate.”

At first Miss Adventure can't quite tell what she's looking at, apart from a shaky image from a camera on the run through what looks to be a parking lot. But then she sees a glimpse of the figure the mysterious cameraman is running toward – and gasps! The woman on the pavement is a mirror image of the tormenting lust that's now possessing the two teen sidekicks – writhing, clawing at her purple bustier and tiny hotpants, her moans of despair growing audible as the camera comes closer, her beautiful face tear-stained and her baby blues wide in horror behind her mask. It's Lady Victory!

How did he get her? Miss Adventure wonders, realizing suddenly that she sees no sign of the powerful Tiara of Victory. But that thought is quickly discarded in what happens next – the cameraman, wasting no time, redirects his lens down at himself to show that he's digging nine inches of tumescent cock out of his jeans! A moment later that fat dick is zeroing in on Lady Victory's horrified face... and Miss Adventure finds her own mouth watering as she watches shame, revulsion, fear and need parade in succession across the great superheroine's beautiful features as the blunt cudgel of man-flesh presses against her succulent lips. At first she tries desperately to turn her head away, twisting one way and another, but her assailant persists, slapping his big dick mockingly all over her face as she tries to resist the hot urges possessing her body. And then, finally, defeat written all over her, she opens up.

“Nnggglllckhhh!” comes Lady Victory's choked gurgle over the speakers as her warm, wet mouth is plundered.

“Nnnnnnnnhhhh,” comes the throaty sound of unwanted arousal through Miss Adventure's clenched teeth as the prurient spectacle plays havoc with her horny young body, a telltale tingle rising in her ultra-sensitive cunt. She tries desperately to stop herself from fingering her clit – the thought of getting off to images of a fellow Masked Avenger's erotic abuse is wore than horrible – but she has no more control of herself than the Lady Victory on the screen wetly licking and sucking the turgid shaft of flesh that's fucking her face. The Damsel of Daring feels her fingers begin to move faster, her hips wriggling, the heat in her body rising, and hears Lass echoing her moans beside her.

“Yeah, pretty hot, I agree,” says Longshot. “And so does the public. Apparently the downloads are already starting fast and furious, which probably means Lady Victory's career as a Masked Avenger is destroyed.” As he talks, he toys with the Sceptre of Victory, turning it over in his hands. “But that's just the beginning of my client's plans for Team Victory. And as for you, Miss Adventure, well... the original plan was to let you go. Yet here you are, and I'm told that Boss Nero is delighted at the chance to cause some pain to the Adventurist into the bargain. After all, the Adventurist's persecution cost him more over the years than any heroine ever did. So he told me to make it a bit of a contest between you.” A chill of fear creeps in around the hot lust mastering her. The ominous note in his voice is unmistakable. “The deal is, whichever one of you looks the most willing will get to leave this prison. The other one... well, I'm told Warden Long's rigged up quite the little secret dungeon down beneath the solitary cells at Boss Nero's request. A secret dungeon with a very special feature.” The Damsel of Daring's heart thumps, her fright rising up and almost choking her as he goes on. “Between us, I've never really tested what my Erotogenic Projector does to people with repeated, long-term exposures, but the loser will at least have some fun finding out.”

No, no, NO, got to fight this, got to get out of here, she realizes, dread turning the air cold and thick in her lungs... but the adrenal surge of terror also sets her blood pumping and swells her clit to even more sensitive dimensions, while the horrid spectacle on the computer monitor captivates her despite herself. More and more men are gathering around Lady Victory on the pavement now, at least five of them, each with a big cock out and waggling at her. And the buxom blonde heroine is moaning helplessly as first one man, then another grabs her by the hair and pulls her mouth onto his prick, her spit slopping down their shafts and dripping onto her big tits. Her eyes roll back in her head as, surrendering, she bobs her head and brings up her hands to wank at the man-flesh all around her... the sight stoking Miss Adventure's arousal even more as she remembers her own experiences with the firefighters at Taunton Mall. As if listening to someone else, she hears an even louder moan escaped her clenched teeth as her betraying fingers drive her mercilessly toward another climax.

Another man turns up on the video feed now. Bulky, clad in black, his face is livid with fury and he can be clearly heard saying: “Who's the 'dumb' one now, bitch?” as he looms into the frame. “You gonna work hard to make it up to me?” The telltale way Lady Victory cringes at his appearance is still no preparation for how abruptly he masters her. Unzipping and stripping away her bustier, he kneels behind her haunches and yanks down her hot-pants to leave her asshole exposed. Fiddling at his crotch to line up his hard-on with its target, his hips jerk forward to draw a cock-choked squeal from his victim. Lady Victory's eyes cross as his thick meat trespasses the ultimate boundary, a raw and violated sound erupting around the cock in her mouth as nearly a foot of solid prick invades her tightest place, her supple breast bouncing as the fucking begins.

The camera's perspective shifts and jostles as the original bearer hands it off to the new arrival, who trains the lens on Lady Victory's shapely rear, her soft ass-cheeks rippling under his punishing thrusts. The sight of the haughty heroine being force-fucked in her tight ass is too much: “Ahhhhhh-AHHHHH-AHHHHHHHHH-AHHHHAAAAAHHHHHHH!” Miss Adventure loses it, giving out full throated screams of passion as she watches the hot cock bury itself repeatedly to the hilt in Lady Victory's stretched poop-chute, the blonde avenger's hips writhing and her cocksucking growing more and more frenzied as the perverted anal plundering clearly drives her over the edge, the Damsel of Daring's young cunt squirting in explosive abandon at the same time.

“Good girl,” Longshot chortles appreciatively as Miss Adventure slowly comes out of the latest wave of climax, feeling her face flush with shame at the sound of his mocking laughter. “Very good. Better watch out, little Lass, your friend here is building an early lead.” He gets up off the table, looking down at the toothsome hotties with an air of regret. “I wish I could stay and enjoy you, but I'm afraid I've got another appointment to go to. Not to worry, though – we'll all be watching you on this room's interrogation cameras.” He points up to the corners of the room, where little black lenses are indeed capturing the heroines' newest humiliation, and Miss Adventure moans as the thought of watching eyes sets her tight little pussy on the boil yet again. “Remember... the most willing whore gets the prize. And luckily, we have a few volunteers who've signed up to help decide the winner. See you around!”

Utter horror seizes Miss Adventure now as the villain gives them a little farewall wave and opens the door... to reveal the dozen bulky guards beyond, with cruel smiles on their faces as their intentions stand revealed in the huge bulges in their pants! As Longshot makes his exit, their burly form comes swarming in on the doorway to close on the two vulnerable, nubile beauties!

* * *

For the split-second in which she sees the guards coming toward her, Miss Adventure has a moment of absolute clarity. Her choice is clear: fight, or submit?

To choose the latter might mean getting to escape the terrifying dungeon Longshot mentioned... but does such a thing exist? Can it exist? Or is it a trick? It's impossible to know, but given that the Warden and much of his staff are clearly in cahoots with the criminals, there's a real chance that he's telling the truth. And part of her – specifically the hot, wet slice of sex between her legs – wants to give in, to surrender to the pleasure and the lust.

But Longshot had only said the most “willing” one would get to leave the prison. That isn't the same thing as going free. She's sure now that whatever their individual fates, hers and Victory Lass' only chance of escaping some kind of permanent enslavement is to fight their way free, and to stay free long enough to connect with some other Masked Avengers. The point-blank blast of erotic corruption from Longshot's weapon has nearly destroyed her will... but the Damsel of Daring still has enough left to make one final attempt. With the fresh surge of adrenaline powering through her, heightening everything, her ultra-horny body might be even more sexually vulnerable... but it's also stronger, more powerful, the fear pulsing in her veins available for both fight and flight. Both of which she needs now... if she dares use them.

Miss Adventure is supposed to be about Daring, after all. She still has one last chance to do her mentor proud. It's no contest.

She sees the looks on the guards' faces transition from smug assurance to surprise as the gorgeous, busty brunette suddenly surges up, knocking the laptop and table aside with a clattering crash as her right hand comes out of the front of her soaked shorts to form a fist. The spectacle of her coming at them – her bright eyes full of fear and fury, her naked double-D's bouncing sexily, her tear-stained face contorted into a snarl as her fist cocks back – momentarily freezes the guards in their tracks. Particularly their leader, Will, who gapes stupidly as he watches fate come at him like a freight train.

WHAM! The big bearded guard goes cannoning back into the crowd of his mates as the blow lands on his jaw with the sickening crunch of breaking bone. A pile of his colleagues tumble to the ground behind him, the others trying to clamber over and around them, becoming a mass of awkward pushing and shoving as they form a sudden jam in the doorway. For the moment, only two guards are fully in the room, a pair that had come in behind Will and managed to dodge out of the path of his backward fist-launched flight, one now moving to Miss Adventure's right as the other one dekes left.

She's bought crucial time. If she can keep isolating and dispatching them piecemeal like this, the desperate gamble might actually work. Without time to look and see if her comrade is getting up to join in the fight, simply praying that Lass will get to her feet and grab her Sceptre to help make possible another narrow escape like their earlier close call in the subway, Miss Adventure picks the left-hand guard to hammer with a spinning kick that sends him tumbling to the floor, out cold even as he hits the linoleum.

That's two down, Miss Adventure thinks with sudden elation as she begins to spin around. Now all I need is --

But the thought is cut off abruptly as, turning to face the second guard, she feels something prick the soft flesh of her left breast. Looking down, she sees wires, and pauses in puzzlement for a fraction of a second before she realizes what they are and reaches up to grab them. Too late! she realizes in horror as she sees the guard's face wreathed in grinning triumph as he presses the button on his taser. OH NOOOOO --

“AAAAAAGGHHHHHHHH!” she bawls as thousands of volts of electricity cannon through her naked tit and into her body like a divine thunderbolt. Thrashing on the ground as the voltage cascades through her again, and again, and again, she feels her body weakening as the her healing factor tries to repair the damage between each brutal jolt, even as the electrical stimulation is bringing involuntary spurting spasms from her pussy and her limbs flail helplessly. She gets five long doses of taser before her attacker seems to relent. Help me, Lass, she prays silently as her head flops inertly to the side, spittle drooling out of her mouth.

As her eyes meet those of Victory Lass, though, she realizes there will be no help. The British teen hasn't even moved a muscle. Her wide eyes reflect nothing but terror and shame as she looks at Miss Adventure, her fingers still rubbing under her shorts at her wet pussy. Silently, tears coursing down her face, the blonde bombshell shakes her head. The fight, barely begun, is already over.

I'm doomed, Miss Adventure realizes, her surging hope plunging into black despair as she feels her saturated shorts being ripped and stripped away from her hot twat. Her attempts to move her limbs, to resist, fail as she feels the cool tingling of her healing factor robbing her of strength as it goes to work. She hears the door slam shut with finality now as the rest of the guards pack their way into the little interrogation cell, and looking around her, she sees their fingers working at their zippers as their eyes light on her in rage. Her brief attempt at defiance has only provoked them.

No, please, I'm sorry, she wants to say, but her mouth won't move, her voice won't do anything but burble: “Ngggaaahhhhhh...” No rescue, no mercy... doomed...

Then she feels a pair of prickling contacts with the soft lips of her quim. She barely has time to register what they are before a fresh surge of taser electricity courses into her body through her lubricious cunt. As her mouth opens in a silent howl of suffering and as her body jack-knifes in an indescribable blend of ultimate agony and explosive ecstasy, all other consciousness shreds before the nightmare...

* * *

Dr. Debbie Doubledee's head is spinning, her voluptuous body throbbing as the Mafia goon drags her by the elbow, stumbling in his wake in the front doors of Redshaw Maximum Security prison.

A sense of utter futility is congealed in her stomach, curdling along with all the loads of pungent spunk she's been forced to swallow. Her mind's eye can't help replaying nightmarish moments from the very public gangbang she's just been subjected to as Lady Victory: first by Longshot's team of Mafia thugs, then by ordinary men and women of the city she's worked so hard to protect as they dragged their horny superheroine prize into the airport bar and passed her around. The men's faces had contorted with fiendish lust and cold contempt as they sucked and mauled her tits and raped her mouth and cunt and ass one after the other and made her cum and cum and cum while they splattered their jism down her throat and up her holes and all over her soft skin. Many of the women had even gotten in on the action, looking even wilder as they'd forced her to lick out their pussies and asses and stretched her wide open with their penetrating fingers and even, in some cases, their whole fists. The longer it had gone, the wilder the crowd had gotten, pushing her from one fuck to the next, slapping her and spitting in her face, pulling her hair and calling her a stupid whore as they fucked her, and fucked her, and fucked her into near-oblivion.

And all the while the camera had captured the action. It hadn't taken long to figure out that the business about the police had been a lie, but her public sexual destruction as Lady Victory had been so much worse. The end of everything. Even now, shell-shocked, her body still pulsating with horniness, her inflamed holes still gaping and greedy, her pussy juice still dripping wantonly down her thighs... even now poor Debbie Doubledee can't fully wrap her mind around what's happened to her.

She can feel the eyes of people in the reception area watching her as the goon – Vinnie, the thug she'd terrorized and who had fucked her ass so unmercifully in revenge – drags her to the admissions desk. She's painfully aware that her enemies have afforded her only the most minimal of dignity. They allowed her a brief shower, let her put up her hair and – revealing the full extent of their knowledge and planning – had even had her traitorous assistant Sven show up with a change of clothes from the office. But the clothes had included only a brief black blazer, a scandalous little black stretch mini-skirt, her sluttiest black high heels and her spectacles. Her big tits wobble with every step, obviously unrestrained by a bra or even a blouse, and she knows the skirt – clinging tight enough to show the absence of a panty-line – is also riding up to reveal the firm globes of her ass.

The smirking Vinnie makes to hand her the pen to sign in... and then very deliberately drops it on the ground in front of her. Snivelling in misery, knowing what he wants, the broken blonde beauty bends slowly down to pick it up, flushing in shame as she feels the skirt ride up even more to give the whole reception an eyeful of her naked, glistening pink gash. The cascade of gasps and titters behind her makes her flush even more deeply. She's sure she hears someone say: “Jesus, another one?” Her eyes are blind with tears of shame as she straightens up and signs the register.

The prison's hallways pass in a blur as Vinnie takes her arm and guides her toward the Warden's office. She just wants to get it over with now. All she can do is pray that once Boss Nero has what he wanted all along – his freedom, and safety from any revenge attempts by Lady Victory – that he'll leave her alone. Though what she'll do she has no idea; she's not even sure how she can go on practising after all this. She knows for sure that this hellish day has left her shattered inside. The effects of Longshot's weapon might wear off... but the total explosion of her self-image as a strong, confident woman is another matter. And what about that bastard Sven in her office? She'll have to get away from him... get away from Newvale City altogether and all the memories of her utter failure and defeat.

Even now, as they pass the interrogation rooms, she can swear she hears the sounds of perverted sex ringing in her ears – the chorus of slapping flesh and cock-gagged gurgling that was the soundtrack of her world only a few minutes ago – and she chokes back sobs as she shakes her head to dispel the horrible memories. But nothing she does can quench the heat in her artificially horny body, and the worst part of all is the way the remembered sounds make her breasts and pussy throb with lust.

Finally they arrive in front of the Warden's office. Again she thinks she's remembering the sounds of her own gangbang from earlier... but then she realizes that no, there are sounds of sex coming from inside the office! Her eyes wide in horror at the realization that the degradations of the day are far from over, she casts Vinnie an almost pleading look. But he just smirks in response, knocks on the door, and shoves her inside when it opens!

She stumbles a few steps before she finds herself in the grip of a tall man in a dark suit. Looking up, her heart sinks as she sees his cold eyes and realizes who he is. “Longshot...” she breathes.

“That's right,” he says with a smile. “Nice to see you again, Doctor.”

She shivers in his implacable grasp, looking around the room. She sees the leathery old Warden, Richard Long, leaning against his desk, giving her a jaunty salute. A couple of his guards are in the corners of the room. But the dominating presence, sitting behind the desk, his aged frame still massive and intimidating in his orange prison jumpsuit and his white hair immaculately combed, is the infamous Boss Nero. The deadly enemy who had set all this in motion from his cell.

“Of course,” adds Longshot unnecessarily, “you remember my employer.”

“Dr. Doubledee,” says the old Mafia don, his face impassive. “So glad you could join us. I don't mind telling you I've waited a long time for this day.”

Swallowing hard around a lump of fear, the blonde beauty realizes the sounds of sex are coming from a computer on the Warden's desk. She tries her best to tune them out as she quaveringly replies: “B - Boss Nero... I... I just want you to know that I, I'm so sorry for the trouble we caused you... I... I've really learned my lesson, and I promise you that I'll do what you want and if you let me go, I... I'll never bother you again... I promise...”

“Let you go?” For the first time, Boss Nero cracks a smile, showing his crooked, yellowed teeth. But there's no humour in that smile. “You missed your calling. You should've been a comedian.”

Her heart flutters and her stomach churns. Oh no... Feeling panic set in, she finds herself babbling: “Please... please, listen, I'd leave town, I'd leave the country, you'd never ever hear from me again I swear--”

“Shut up.” She stammers into silence as the Boss stands now, his huge, wrinkled, knobby hands resting lightly on the dark wood of the desk. “You're not going anywhere, and you're not negotiating. I tell you how it is. That's the way this works.” Reaching into a drawer of the desk, he pulls out a thick sheaf of papers and tosses it in front of him, followed by a ball-point pen. “And the first thing I'm telling you is to sign this.”

Staggering again as Longshot abruptly thrusts her forward, Debbie catches herself on the edge of the desk. Looking at the massive document, she sees that it bears the title A Psychiatric Assessment of Antonio C. Nero, by Debra Doubledee, PhD. “H – how—?”

“I didn't need you for the assessment,” Nero explains impatiently. “I had a contact on the inside work it up. All I need is your signature. Last page.”

Feeling giddy with surreality of it all, she pages through it to the end and sees the line for her signature. Knowing it's the last act of her life as a psychiatrist, she signs, feeling the doors of destiny slam shut on both halves of her old life, her heart pounding in terror at the unknown horrors lying in wait for her. Putting down the pen, she looks back up at Boss Nero, fighting down the urge to plead with him again, determined to cling to a final shred of dignity. Summoning up a ghost of her old defiance, she simply says: “Alright, there you go, you bastard. You're officially rehabilitated. Just don't expect it to fool anyone for long.”

The Boss smirks. “Still a little fight left in you, I see. We'll see about that.” Sitting down again, he goes on: “Here's how it's going to be from now on. Your job now is to repay to me, at forty percent interest, every cent you cost me by helping the Adventurist put me in prison. You'll be going to work for me for as long as it takes. I've worked it out to a million dollars a week over the last six months, so it might take you a little while.” He pauses, watching the last of the defiance bleed from her expression as this sinks in, his eyes roaming frankly over her voluptuous body. Then he adds: “Luckily, I have some ideas on how you can use your... assets... to make good.”

Wrapping her arms around herself as she stands miserably in front of him, she thinks she knows what must be coming now. All she can do is fight to keep herself from breaking down completely. The sounds of crude, pornographic fucking coming from the computer on the Warden's desk now seem like a prophecy of her life to come.

“The good news is, you still get to be a therapist.” Nero pauses to a let a tiny spark of hope rekindle in her eyes before he says: “Not really, of course. What you'll be is a high-class whore, working for my latest recruit, your former assistant Sven. But the beauty of it is that we'll call it 'sex therapy' and charge your usual prices for a session. It's just that your entire fee will now kick over to my organization.” He laughs as he sees her slump further into despair: “Don't worry. Sven will make sure to buy you all the sexy clothes you can strip out of. And we've even provided some equipment to make your work easier. Sven installed it in your office while you were out doing the town today – some nice mood lighting, courtesy of our good friend Longshot here.”

She feels the tears well out of her eyes and slide down her cheeks, now, as her knees wobble in sudden weakness. Oh my God... NO... But she manages to keep her feet, shuddering with the effort. She looks at the ballpoint pen on the desk and has a sudden, vivid fantasy of grabbing it, jumping across the desk and stabbing Boss Nero in the neck. But there are too many of them; without the Tiara of Victory she has no chance. Just have to play along... and then flee when I get the chance. Flee, and never come back...

“Now, you're probably thinking about running the first chance you get,” says the Mafioso, his eyes glittering. “But before you do, you should remember that we have one thing left to decide. The fate of your sidekick.” With that he reaches over to the monitor sitting on the desk, grabs it and rotates it on its base so that the screen is facing her. And Debbie Doubledee gasps in horror as she sees where the sounds of perverted fucking are coming from!

On the monitor, she can see one of the prison's interrogation rooms. It's full of large, muscular prison guards, their big pricks bobbing free from their zippers as they jostle for access to the room's two nubile young female occupants. One of them is Miss Adventure, her goggles askew on her head as her bee-stung lips stretch around a massive fleshpole, her eyes wide in misery and horror as she's forced down pussy-first on another stiff member, her juices streaming from her tight teen fuckhole as she writhes in helpless passion, unable to stop herself from seductively stroking two more stiff pricks that are waiting their turn. A spattering of blood is visible on her thighs, and little grunts and squeals come out around the prick in her mouth as her pussy is stuffed and her ass is crudely violated.

The anal violation is happening courtesy of none other than Victory Lass. Smiling hornily up at their rapists, playfully licking and sucking one cock and then another as a big Hispanic guard pumps her pussy from behind, the hot blonde is clearly trying to persuade the room full of hard men that she's into it – trying so hard, in fact, that she's taken the Sceptre of Victory in hand and, instead of using it to summon up her power and break free, has decided to shove as much of the weapon's hard shaft up Miss Adventure's tight ass as she can fit. Spanking the big-titted brunette as she helps with her humiliating double penetration, she ignores the occasional looks of betrayal her fellow-heroine shoots at her as the dual rifling makes her shudder in unwanted bliss with every stroke and finally takes the buxom young beauty over the edge, her spit slopping around the cock in her mouth as her pussy squirts explosively all over the man beneath her to the accompaniment of her muffled shrieks.

“Oh my God...” whimpers Debbie as she slumps to her knees, trying to close her eyes and shut the images out, trying to deny what the blazingly erotic scene is doing to her own body, trying to deny the fate her own sidekick has come to. But she can't look away, her eyes staying fixed in fearful fascination as the dick pops out of Miss Adventure's mouth and hoses down her bouncing double-D's with spurt after spurt of creamy spunk, while behind her Victory Lass cries out as she cums all over the cock pounding her from behind. “Oh my God...”

“Yes, amazing what our friend Longshot's little invention can do, isn't it?” says Boss Nero. “Not that I need to tell you. Now, Warden Long, you did say our... special room downstairs was ready, didn't you?”

“It's all set, Boss,” says the Warden. “Best sex dungeon in the American correctional system, if I do say so myself.”

“Because it's the only one,” snorts the Boss in return. But he still nods in satisfaction. “So, here's the deal. We've told your lively little girlfriends down there that the one who pleases us the most will get to leave this prison. But the truth is, one of them is staying here no matter what she does.” He taps Miss Adventure's lovely form on the screen, her countenance flushed and wild-eyed as she rubs spunk into her massive mams while another tool takes its place in her sopping twat. “I owe the Adventurist some payback, and she's it. But the truth is, I originally planned the dungeon for your little sidekick. I could still put her there to keep Miss Adventure company... or I could take it easy on her.” He looks back at Debbie with a vile grin. “If someone were to agree to my terms, and throw in a little... extra motivation.”

Casting her eyes down, the big-titted blonde realizes she has no choice. At least I can spare Mina, she thinks, glumly nodding her acquiescence. It's all over for me... but she can still have a chance to get free. God, we should never have gotten in the way of someone like Boss Nero... The regrets well up inside her, but as the zippers of the men in the room begin to come down and she looks around her, licking her lips nervously as she gets ready to go to work... she knows it's too late for regret. Too late by far.

12

Rumpled and weary, Commissioner Hugh Jorgen steps out of his beat-up old sedan outside the front entrance to the Busch Manor. The multi-levelled mansion, with the Adventurist's Eyrie hidden on its upper floors, somehow looks even grimmer and more Gothic than it usually does. But the biggest surprise is the sight of moving vans parked out front. More than a dozen of them.

The Commissioner cocks a curious eyebrow at the vans as he walks past, and at the movers carrying priceless antique furniture out to them, but he says nothing. As he enters the house, moving from room to room with the familiarity of someone who's been a guest here many times over, he looks around him with increasing puzzlement at bare walls, bare rooms, and piles of boxes. Flashing his badge when one worker stops to ask him who he is, he asks after the owner's whereabouts and follows a wordlessly pointed finger.

Finally he comes to one of the many lounges on the mansion's second floor. There he finds Peirce Busch, in his civilian clothing, sitting despondently on a stool by the wet bar watching an expensive Italian leather couch being hauled away. There's a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, a bad sign: even in the worst moments, Hugh can't remember the last time he's seen his friend drink.

“Peirce,” he says by way of hello.

The man also known as the Adventurist doesn't look away from his departing couch. “I heard you coming, Hugh,” he says distantly. “You could've saved yourself a trip.”

“Could I?” The Commissioner looks at him in confusion, then says: “I admit... I was kind of expecting to find you in the Eyrie.”

“I know.” Busch sips at his whiskey. “I was there, most of that first day I came back. Right up until...” He trails off, a weird note in his voice, his eyes still distant.

When he says nothing more, Hugh finally grows impatient. “You see, I thought you'd be in the Eyrie because we have a good chance of finding your missing sidekick. The... uhhh, the weird incidents that happened while you were in Island City... there's a metric ton of witnesses coming forward, from all over the city. Even after we sort out all the bullshit and craziness, a lot of them will probably turn out to be legit. And besides that, Boss Nero may have flown the coop but we've still got access to--”

“To Warden Long, and to Dr. Debbie Doubledee, best friend to Lady Victory,” Busch cuts him off. “Yes, Hugh, I've thought of that.”

After a pause, the Commissioner prompts: “So?”

“So.” Busch takes a long draught from his whiskey, wipes at his mouth and says: “So I already went to see them. They were both... they were both dead ends.”

Jorgen frowns in bewilderment. “Are you sure? I don't see how that's possible, given...”

“I'm sure.”

The Commissioner, unlike the Adventurist, isn't a walking lie-detector with superhuman senses. But he is an experienced cop who's been in an interrogation room or two, and he realizes something now. If I didn't know better... I'd say Peirce just lied to me! “And so that's it?” he says, guardedly now. “You're just... giving up?”

“Yes, that's right.” Busch swallows down the rest of the whiskey, making a face.

“That's not like you, Peirce. You were ready to turn the whole city upside down for... for the other ones. The city, the state, the country if you had to--”

“And a whole lot of Goddamned good it did me, didn't it?” The billionaire's voice is angry now as he puts the glass hard down on the bar. “A whole lot of good it did them. They're all still missing. And now Lavinia, too. It's starting to look like maybe there is a Curse of Miss Adventure after all.” Standing up, pacing toward the empty spot on the pale carpet where the couch used to be, he adds bitterly: “And it's clear to me now there are forces in this city that want it to stay that way. And for the first time...”

Something happened on one of those interrogations, the Commissioner realizes as he looks at Busch's slumped shoulders. Something bad. “And for the first time... you're afraid of them?” he suggests.

“No!” rages Peirce, spinning around... but the fire of his anger quickly abates as he looks away again. “But maybe, for the first time... I don't think I can take them on and win. Not without fatally damaging this city's Masked Avengers chapter.”

“The Masked Avengers exist to protect capes,” says the Commissioner, his own anger starting to rise now. “If they've somehow gotten something on you, Peirce – if they're using it to stop you, to force you to abandon Lavinia – then it's undermining everything you stand for. That's too high a price.”

“Not if it keeps the remaining capes in this jurisdiction safe.” Busch shakes his head. “Believe me, Hugh, it's far harder for me to see the big picture here than you... but I have to face up to it. I can't help Lavinia now, and I can't help Team Victory, wherever they've gone... but I can help the rest of my team.”

The Commissioner's heart sinks. “By leaving, you mean. By letting it go.”

“Yes, that's right.” Busch seems to be trying out the words on his tongue as he says: “The Adventurist is leaving Newvale City.”

“For good?”

“Oh, I'll be back one day.” The billionaire's hands clench into fists. “I swear it. But... it may be a while.”

“And what do we do in the meantime?”

“There are members who can step up and lead the chapter. Just... warn them to be careful.”

“Careful of who?”

“Anyone. Everyone. They have enemies here. High up.” Busch grimaces. “For all my hard-won experience, I was naive, Hugh. I didn't see how deep the corruption ran. I won't make that mistake again. You be careful, too.”

The Commissioner can hardly believe what he's hearing. But he can see that his old friend is absolutely serious. “Well,” he says reluctantly. “Maybe I can follow up a few leads, while you're... on vacation.”

Busch looks at him intently. “I mean it about being careful, Hugh. Be careful which rooms you walk into. There are bear-traps all around this case. If you get caught in one, it's over. Your career, your retirement... your pension. Think about it.”

Taking in the warning, mulling it over, the veteran cop asks: “So, where are you going to go?”

“Wherever there are Masked Avengers who can use my help.”

“And I take it this sidekick business... it's all over, then?”

Busch just looks at him levelly. “You just let me worry about that.”

The Commissioner almost wants to shake him. How many times does it have to happen? He wants to rage at his friend, but he knows that look of determination. What could possibly have persuaded you to keep on doing this to yourself? To these girls? Where is it coming from? He doesn't know. And it's clear he's not finding out today.

“Well, then... if you'll excuse me, Peirce,” he says, unable to keep his voice from going cold. “I have about four hundred hours of eyewitness testimony to vet. So long.”

The billionaire looks indescribably sad as he nods solemnly and says: “Goodbye, Hugh.”

He stands in that same spot for a long time after the Commissioner leaves. His hands, balled into fists, shake with impotent fury.

“Goddammit, Lavinia,” he grates under his breath as tears of anguish streak down his handsome face. “All you had to do was make it through a photo op without screwing up. A fucking photo op. How could you do this to us? How could you do this to me?”

* * *

“Unnnnhhhhh-Uhhhhhh-Haaauughhhhh-AUUGHHHHH-UUUGGHHHHHH!” moans “Dr.” Debbie Doubledee. She's bent over her desk, her skirt up around her waist and her spectacles askew on her lovely face, with four fingers jammed into her wet pussy as a hard cock slams home in her ass. “Ohhhhh GOD Mister MAYor it feels so unnnhhhh uhhhhh UGHHHH SO GOOD...”

Mayor Steele, her third “patient” of the day, grunts his appreciation as he leans his vast, fat bulk into the hard reaming, his big belly spreading out over her soft ass as he grabs a handful of her platinum tresses. “Yeah, bitch, yeah,” he growls. “You like it in that tight little ass, huh? You like the way daddy fucks it, don't you?”

“YES daddy I love it in my ASS daddy FUCK IT UGGGHHHHH AUGGHHHH FUCK IT DADDY UHHHUUGGHHHH...” she moans in reply, feeling her sugar walls starting to vibrate with impendng orgasm.

Thanks to the new track lighting Sven installed in her office – bathing them both even now with its pink glow – she spends all day, every day trapped in the lust-inducing power of Longshot's “Erotogenic Projector” technology. And her customers get a mighty dose of it, too, enough to make sure they cram as much hard fucking as they're physically capable of into a session. The Mayor, surprisingly, is on his third round, his pistoning prick already churning the two previous hot, slimy loads he's pumped up her poop chute. And helplessly, shamefully, she feels herself being driven back to climax again by the disgusting fat man's fat prick.

In her life before, she would never have let such a pig touch her. But now, now... “AUUUUGHHHH AUUUGHHHHH AHHHHAAAUGHHHHHHH AIIIEEEEEEEE!” she squeals, tears of mortification sliding down her cheeks as her pussy explodes wetly, her back arching and driving her plundered ass further along his member as the Mayor groans in delirium, his cock twitching and jumping and pumping her tightest hole full of hot spunk once again. As her legs turn rubbery and she slides to her knees, she finds him grabbing and turning her head, pushing his slimy prick into her face and telling her to “clean it up for daddy.” And obediently, she opens her mouth to suck the pungent flesh-pole, nausea mixing with the constant horny heat in her body as she tastes herself on his meat and feels his sloppy load dripping out of her gaped asshole and onto the floor beneath her.

The office has been rigged up with more than just erotic weapons disguised as lights, of course. She knows – because he makes a point of showing her the videos when he takes her back to her new home at his apartment – that Sven is watching everything on closed-circuit camera from the “receptionist's” desk. They've made a point of inviting some very prominent people to be on her new list of “clients,” and she knows very well that blackmail must be part of the scheme. A big part of it.

Their greatest victory on that score had to have been the Adventurist's visit on the very first day she'd started her work as a “sex therapist.” It was funny; in the old days, she'd often dreamed of making it with the buff, beautiful superhero with his distinguished silver hair and muscular physique and massive package outlined in his red spandex suit. But when he'd walked into the office and she'd seen the power of the lights strip away his normal, controlled personality in a matter of seconds, she'd known nothing but stark terror.

Her fear was justified. With a healing factor like the Adventurist's, he could go a long, long time indeed without a break. He'd fucked her into orgasmic oblivion mere minutes after shredding her clothes off and throwing her on her desk, and after that she'd faded in and out of consciousness, contorted into different positions and imprisoned by his super-strength as he'd ploughed one hole after another and filled her mouth and pussy and cunt to overflowing with load after massive load of his constantly-replenishing stock of sperm. After the third straight hour, Sven had told her, he'd finally had to hit the preoccupied superhero with a stun gun to get him to stop. When she'd regained consciousness she'd been covered in his sticky jism virtually from head to toe.

They must have gotten some fine blackmail footage from that, she thinks glumly as she licks and sucks the Mayor's filthy prick. And they're sure to have used it against him. But that's none of her concern any more; Lady Victory's days are over. All that's left to her now is life as a whore, as Newvale City's priciest piece of anything-goes ass. When she's done with her last client of the day, Sven will drag her home and make her suck and fuck him some more as they watch the footage of the day's debaucheries. Or maybe he'll call a few friends over and pass her around. And she knows she'll keeping cumming and cumming as it all happens to her – the affects of a day under those evil lights fading only slowly as she finally collapses into an exhausted sleep. And then her assistant-turned-pimp will spank her awake the next day to start it all over again.

Mina, wherever you are, she thinks of her former partner, Victory Lass. I hope you're free. I hope you're being free and happy for both of us. But the thought cuts off as she feels the Mayor's prick stiffening again in her warm, wet mouth. Oh no... not again...

“Oh yeah...” he growls savagely. “Wrap your tits around daddy's dick, bitch. I want you to jerk if off with your titties before I fuck your little ass again.”

“Yes, Daddy,” says the blonde whore obediently, cupping her full, firm tits to press them in around his rampant member, wrinkling her nose as his gross, hairy belly wobbles in her face. He's only her third client of the day; it's not even lunchtime yet. She tries to block out her despair as his cock begins to slide up and down between her breasts.

* * *

The yacht glides along under the Mediterranean sun, most of its passengers sipping daiquiris as they admire the shore of the French Riviera. A couple of guards roam the deck with guns half-concealed under their coats – but most of the passengers are young and beautiful, would-be actors and starlets and fashion models dancing and frolicking under the sun in their swimsuits, the kind of people who enjoy the thrill of being close to a man known to be dangerous and enjoying his hospitality.

Boss Nero lounges on a chair under an umbrella in the bow, clad in a breezy shirt and a pair of Bermuda shorts, and feeling perfectly relaxed as he sips his drink and watches the scene with serenity. He looks up as one of the couples – a flawless, dusky young Italian beauty and her Spanish beau – hesitantly approach him.

“Excuse us, Don Nero, we hope we aren't disturbing you,” says the young man.

“Not at all, my boy.” The Boss feels full of nothing but good humour these days. It's a peace that comes from knowing how completely the law enforcement debacle in Newvale City has buggered up the international manhunt for him. He still follows the news from his old stomping grounds on a daily basis, the endlessly-boiling stew of recriminations and rumours providing hours of entertainment. “Not at all. How can I help you?”

“Well, the others were telling us about,” the young man says, then lowers his voice as he leans in. “About something very special you have in the ship downstairs. Something they all said we simply must see.”

“Ah, of course.” The Boss looks over at the gaggle of beautiful young people swanning around the deck, noticing with pleasure how fixed their smiles are, how forced is their merriment on a closer look, how few of them will meet his eyes. The blackmail racket is working as beautifully here as it is Stateside, he thinks with satisfaction. The young couple in front of him has no idea that their “friends” have steered them to him in the hopes of keeping certain incriminating videos secret. They have no idea how many of their “friends” are really here under duress, ordered to come and adorn the boat to keep those secrets from leaking out. These parties have grown larger and larger as more and more of these aspiring youngsters come under his thumb. Soon I'll have the raw material for the greatest porn studio that ever existed, featuring only the most beautiful of models, the kind of faces that normally only appear on the runway or the silver screen. And then we'll have some real fun! “Of course,” he says smoothly, rising up from his chair to gesture them after him. “I'm only too happy to show you. Follow me.”

As they descend down into the belly of the yacht and he takes them to his stateroom, he says: “Now... I do hope the two of you are ready for the erotic adventure of a lifetime. You've never experienced anything quite like this.” Which, he reflects inwardly, is perfectly true.

“We're ready, Don Nero,” says the slender young woman, breathy, her eyes shining with excitement, with the joy of being part of a privileged class than can taste forbidden pleasures. They look at the door, perhaps noticing the dim pink light playing around its edges.

With a flourish, he opens the door to the stateroom and hears them gasp.

There is no sign of the pink light now, and inside, the sunlit room is almost bare. Almost, except for the rack full of whips and canes and riding crops mounted on one wall, the basket full of dildos and vibrators and anal beads sitting next to it, and the unusual decoration on the opposite wall: a golden tiara and a pair of latex masks – one blue, one purple – mounted above a golden-headed sceptre. Trophies of the capture and taming of Team Victory. And underneath the sceptre there hangs a broken, smeared pair of blue-lensed aviator goggles, another memento of that fine day.

Then, of course, there's the gorgeous blonde lying tied and naked in the middle of the hardwood floor. With her ankles and wrists locked into the cuffs on a single spreader bar, she lies with her soft quim exposed and glistening, her eyes wide and her skin flushed with sexual heat and her drooling mouth locked around a massive ring gag. The end of a large butt-plug protrudes from her anus, shifting and moving with the clenching of her muscles, and her pert, creamy buttocks are marked with red weals that can also be seen all over her firm teen body. (This pair aren't the first to see her today.) As she sees the new arrivals, she shakes her head back and forth frantically – trying to plead with them or warn them or both – but all that comes around the gag is a pitiful mewling: “Naaaaaahhhhh! NAAAAAAAHHHHH!”

“My young slave, Mina,” Boss Nero introduces her. “And she's been a very bad girl. Would you like to punish her?”

Their eyes gleaming with delight and with the frisson of trying something new, the young couple nod as one as they step into the room. Boss Nero allows himself a last gloating look into Mina's futilely pleading eyes before he shuts the door on all three of them. With the door closed – locking automatically from the outside – the circuit connecting the pink light in the room's ceiling reconnects, and he smiles with satisfaction as he hears three separate moans of lust release themselves from the throats of the room's occupants.

Buying that technology from Longshot was damned expensive, he thinks. But it was worth it. Spurred on by the Erotogenic Projector's powerful mind-altering rays, that young couple's abuse of the bound and helpless slave is going to get much wilder, lustier and more out of hand than they can possibly imagine. And his cameras will be recording it all as she cums over and over again under their mistreatment.

He remembers the look in poor Mina's eyes the first time she'd realized her fate was to be locked in a sex dungeon on his yacht instead of a sex dungeon in the prison they'd left behind. Her expression of crushed hope and utter horror had been priceless. Maybe I'll let her try to “persuade” me to set her loose again tonight, he thinks, his prick stirring in his pants as he thinks about the attentions of her stroking fingers, her wet mouth, her velvety smooth young pussy. She falls for it every time... I never get tired of that game. Not for the first time, he wonders pleasantly how Miss Adventure has been getting on in the far harsher confines he appointed for her. Poor little Mina... if only you knew how easy you really have it!

Not that you have it that easy, he amends, smiling as hears the first smack! of a whip biting into soft young flesh, the first squeal of agony from the hot blonde being cut off abruptly by something being shoved into her mouth: “NGAAAAAA-HMMMPPHHHHGLLLMMPHHH!” Nodding with satisfaction, he turns to head back up on deck.

* * *

Time is an elastic thing. She doesn't know how long she's been bound in this particular position: her hands pulled together behind her and yanked up high by the shackles that hold her, her ankles spread wide and shackled to the concrete floor, her eyes blindfolded and her jaws stretched painfully as she drools around a massive ball-gag. Fetid air plays over her naked skin. Electrodes are attached to her massive tits and her ultra-sensitive clitty, and at regular intervals they send terrible shocks through her body that leave her weak as a kitten as, again and again, her healing factor struggles to repair the damage.

She can feel the terrible heat of desire burning up her flesh, can see the dim hint of pink light seeping around her blindfold, feel her pussy clench and spasm wetly every time the electricity blasts through her swollen clit and titties. She can barely remember a time she wasn't bound, a time these terrible urges didn't master her, a time when she was free.

But the sound of the room's iron door clanging open is already familiar. The electrodes power down, but it's no comfort, accompanied as it is by the sound of a mocking male voice announcing the terrible word: “Visitors!”

“NNGGGGHHHHHHHH!” she moans pitifully around the ball-gag, a futile noise as she feels the heat of muscular male bodies gathering around her. The familiar feeling of hot cocks stroking against the soft skin of her flanks and buttocks makes her cringe in fright. She already knows what's coming, knows she's powerless to stop it. It's close to being all she knows. She's gotten to the point of barely knowing her own name.

“You are one fine bitch,” says a voice behind her as the head of a turgid prick slides up and down her sopping slit and taps against her stiff clit, making her shiver. “You wanna get fucked, slut?”

“NNNNNNGHHHHHH!” she squeals around the gag in a desperate denial, but she already knows it won't matter.

“Not that it matters what you want,” says the man behind her, chuckling as her juice anoint the head of his dick as he lines it up with her hot hole. “Let's get it on!”

“NNNNGGGGGHNNNGHHHH!” Her muffled mewls burst helplessly from her throat as she feels the broad, blunt head of the anonymous dick push forward, ripping through her recently-regenerated hymen to take her virginity yet again. As a calloused hand slaps across her soft ass and the cock slides balls-deep inside her sensually welcoming fuckhole, she feels her twat clutch around the invader, spasming and squirting as her first unwilling orgasm drenches the plundering prick. “NNNNNNGHHHHHHH! MMMMMHHHMMPHHHHH! MMMMMMMPHHHH!”

What day is it? What month is it? How much time has passed since they brought her here? She doesn't know. Are the groups of men who come into the room prisoners or guards or both? She doesn't know. How many of them have been inside her? She lost count at maybe eighty, and that was a long, long time ago. They've never loosened the blindfold, they've only unshackled her in order to contort and bind her body in new positions, and they've never even walked her to the bathroom: they've simply positioned her over a drain and let her leak waste down her legs, periodically hosing her down with frigid water to clean her, and every once in a while loosening the gag to spoon-feed her a tasteless nutrient mush.

Now, as she rides from one crest of ecstasy to another on the torrid tool until it spews inside her, then gives a long, guttural groan as the next one invades her tight ass, she really only knows one thing: that they plan never to let her out. And even through the hard ass-fucking, she shivers in fear as she hears one of them going to the rack she knows is mounted on the wall to her left, taking out a riding crop and swishing it through the air. Some of them, she's learned by now, just like to watch her thrash under the whip.

Despite it all, though, a tiny little ember of hope still lives on inside her. Despite it all, she isn't completely lost yet. Because in her mind's eye, there's a vision of her saviour: tall and muscular, clad in red spandex and wrap-around red shades, the scourge of evil and the bane of villainy for decades. Her mentor, her master, the man who saved her life once and will surely save it again. A tiny part of her almost feels pity for the men abusing her. Because once the Adventurist finds her, their fates will be sealed. And he must be coming for her.

I know you'll never give up on me, she calls out in her fractured mind, professing her devotion to her mentor from the depths of her soul even as a turgid, veiny length of man-meat buries itself in the depths of her ass. Over and over, she chants the words in her mind like a mantra. I know you'll find me... I know you'll save me... just please come soon... come soon and save me... I know you'll find me... I know you'll save me... just please come soon... come soon and save me...

The words crumble and vanish from her mind as the prick begins to twitch and then – as its owner buries it with a hard thrust and a hoarse cry of triumph – to bathe her rectum in spurts of hot seed, taking her squealing over the edge in a shuddering, sobbing climax of her own. But as the waves of orgasm recede, her talismanic mental image of the Adventurist resurfaces. And she focuses on it even more desperately as she hears the next man step toward her: the man with the riding crop. The air whistles around the instrument in his hand like the keening of some evil spirit as he tries out a few more test strokes. Her body rigid with fear, Miss Adventure's prayers grow more frantic: please come soon please save me please come soon please save me please come soon please save me PLEASE...

But there's no answer to the helpless beauty's prayers. There's only the cruel laughter of the men around her as the riding crop bites into the soft flesh of her buttocks, as she jolts in pain, as she screams her agony and anguish into the ball-gag. And from the blurred-together memories of countless previous sessions, she knows this is just the beginning. All she can do is squeal and buck under the whipping as she goes on praying, and praying, and praying.

Please save me... PLEASE... please come soon... please save me... PLEASE...