MISS ADVENTURE

AND THE VILLAINOUS VIXEN

(Guest-Starring Violatrix)

 

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 has been on hiatus. I'm back at work on the final chapters of that series now, but in the meantime, I'm trying my hand at a few superheroine yarns. This misadventure takes place after “Miss Adventure and the Nightmare Snare.” Read on, and if you enjoy it... shame on you.

1

 

“Come on, now,” murmurs the gorgeous brunette as she watches the Hard Eight Motel through her binoculars. “Mama's waiting...”

 

Violatrix is perched by a chimney on the roof of an adjacent Halliday Inn, the early-morning sunlight playing over five feet and four inches of alabaster-skinned feminine beauty as she surveys the scene at the cluster of low, nondescript buildings that comprise the motor inn. Her 38DD-26-36 curves are nearly popping out of the tight, sleeveless black latex bodysuit that sheathes her, the zipper pulled midway down her chest to air out her fantastical cleavage. Her night-black hair is styled in shining retro-burlesque waves that fall to her shoulders, and her full lips – bright with cherry-red lipstick – are curled into a cool, enigmatic smile. Her athletic legs are clad in black lace-up PVC thigh-highs with imposing seven-inch heels; colourful serpentine tattoos wreath her muscular shoulders, and she sports black latex opera gloves and a black latex domino mask just visible behind her binoculars as she waits with charged, poised patience.

 

An observer seeing her at this moment, however, would find their eye drawn particularly to the black nine-tailed whip in her other hand... and the way she's stroking it meditatively against the naughty nine-inch black strap-on dildo that protrudes from her crotch. The dildo's harness sports a red “V” at the waist – her sigil – and she gasps slightly as she feathers the whip over it, almost like a man feeling pleasure emanating from the nerve-endings in his cock. She and that strap-on – like the whip, it's a weapon designed and sold by the infamous Professor Pervo, one of the most ruthless supervillains of them all – go back a long way. Sometimes she fancies it almost does feel like part of her body.

 

The distant echo of an explosion and a plume of smoke on the horizon doesn't distract her. The local branch of Masked Avengers do-gooders are doing battle downtown with some terrifying squadron of mysterious lumbering robot-monsters, desperately trying to work out where they've come from and what their weakness is. It's been going since the previous evening; news channels and the global rubberneckers of the Internet alike are wall-to-wall with it.

 

Violatrix couldn't care less. All it means to her is that the coast is clear for her Newvale City debut. She's been hired to do a job. A job that those Masked Avengers goody-two-shoes probably would denounce as villainy... but then they know nothing about true justice.

 

Speaking of which... Her smile broadens as she sees the door of her targeted suite, number 669, finally open. Out comes a big man in a grey suit, heavyset and strangely furtive-looking, his jowly face doing its best to convey nonchalance as he walks sweatily over to the manager's office, clearly getting ready to pay his bill. Not a big one: the Hard Eight rents rooms by the hour. She tracks him for a moment. Hello, Councilman Schruer, you bad boy. Count yourself lucky it's not you I'm here for.

 

She looks back at the motel room, sees a momentary crack open in the Venetian blinds... and her smile becomes positively predatory. And hello, Connie Coneja, City Hall intern and part-time escort. She's often thought it curious that the jilted wives who form her market so often want the mistress punished so much more than their cheating husbands. She's seen it over and over again from one coast to the other. But Violatrix doesn't mind a bit; to her way of thinking, the dumb whores deserve what they get. The customer is always right.

 

Watching a moment more as the Councilman's car pulls out of the lot, she lowers the binoculars from her flashing green eyes. Picking up a short bolero-styled black latex jacket from beside her, she stows the eyepiece in one of its inside pockets, pulls it on and stands up. Years of training have made it as easy for her to move in stiletto heels as in sneakers. She takes a couple of sinuous strides before, lashing out her whip, she catches the railing of a balcony beneath her and leaps from the roof, pressing a button on the weapon's handle as she swings down. Obligingly the whip extends, allowing the fetishistic femme fatale to rappel swiftly down the Halliday Inn's side until she lands in its parking lot. Pressing another button unfurls the whip from around its mooring and retracts it to its former size.

 

Looking back around, she focuses in on her target again and moves to her own car, the mighty strap-on bobbing and waggling in front of her as she climbs into the sleek black Mustang whose black hubcaps bear the stylized red “V” sigil. Grinning, her adrenaline pumping, she guns the engine and burns rubber as she pulls out of the Halliday Inn's parking lot, just seconds away now from her target.

 

Time to dish out some true justice, she thinks... and her free hand drops to stroke her massive strap-on languidly as Violatrix speeds toward the action she's craved for as long as she can remember.

 

2

 

A sleek red motorcycle powered by a rocket engine hurtles through the outskirts of Newvale City. The vision of tight-bodied teen beauty piloting it looks straight ahead with absolute intensity... ignoring the effect her bombshell form has on the gaping bystanders she flashes past.

 

The roaring bike is the Adventure-Cycle, its petite pilot Miss Adventure, the Damsel of Daring. Her slender little five foot one frame is clad in 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 – and her taut, nearly-naked 34C-20-34 curves almost cause accidents all by themselves as she races through the streets, slung forward on the cycle with her ripe peach of an ass in the air. Blue PVC thigh-highs with six-inch stiletto heels grace her shapely legs, a silver letter “A” flashes on the blue leather choker at her neck, and blue fingerless gloves and sleek blue aviator goggles finish out her costume. Her utterly flawless, aquiline features wouldn't be out of place on a magazine cover – and just like her predecessors, she graced more than a few when her status as sidekick to Newvale's premier superhero was announced – and her dirty-blonde hair is a closely-cropped fuzz on her scalp, adding to the sleekness of her look.

 

She needs all the speed she can get. Right now Miss Adventure is headed into the fray, her heart racing, her adrenaline pumping as she sees a plume of smoke on the horizon, hears the accompanying explosion. The Adventurist, her mentor, had asked her to stay back from the fighting in their hideout, the famous Adventurist's Eyrie, and to use its supercomputer to research the nature of their enemy... but the robots aren't going down easily. The look of his face, usually so impassive and invincible behind his red wraparound shades but now haggard, pale and alarmed on the communications feed, had set her into furious motion. All hands are needed on deck.

 

It's a terrible moment... but also a golden one. After months of being told about her, Newvale City is finally going to see Miss Adventure in action, the kind of super-action that always features in the movies but that real supers – even Masked Avengers – all too rarely see. Gritting her teeth, the barely-legal superheroine beauty races toward destiny.

 

* * *

 

Her racing mind flashes back to how it all started: how Adora Bang came to Newvale City a year ago from a small town upstate, brought by her parents – both aspiring money managers whose busy schedules left her to find her way in high school mostly alone. How she'd gotten involved in the party scene – though despite her unfortunate name, she'd kept herself mostly aloof from boys – until finally she'd been caught one night drunk-driving her parents' Porsche. How she'd felt, miserable and lonely and deeply wasted as she sat in the drunk tank in the skimpy little black minidress she'd been wearing at the club... and how a silver-haired stranger had then walked into her life and changed it forever.

 

It was secretive billionaire Peirce Busch who bailed her out that night, known to the world as the immortal red-spandex-suited superhero called the Adventurist. He'd spotted her at the club and said she had “hidden potential.” And then he'd told her about the cosmic radiation that had given him his powers, how he'd fought evil with it on his own for decades before founding the 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. He needed a sidekick.

 

Over the subsequent weeks he'd taken her in, hiring her as a “part-time personal assistant” much to her parents' delight. She's 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. Even this was a fascinating challenge: would she succeed where others had failed? Finally he'd taken over her education almost completely, trained her in martial arts and criminology, guided her through graduation and into taking her first college courses by correspondence. 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 been ready. Once, she'd faced the bleak prospect of being a mindless party girl, all but ignored by her social-climbing parents except for periodic attempts to buy her affection. Now she confronted the possibility of being a heroine, known to millions, an inspiration to girls across the country. It was no contest. She moved out... and into the life of a Masked Avenger.

 

The choker the Adventure-Ray created thrums its cosmic energy through her body now: charging her with the strength of five men, superhuman reflexes and agility, a healing factor that can repair any injury that doesn't destroy her brain, and ultra-senses that can detect a pin drop a city block away. 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 – otherwise the mighty engine roaring between her thighs would work havoc on her sensitive quim, just for starters – and uses her senses to pick the best path through traffic, at once fearful of and eager to get into the fight, to put these powers to use in something other than a training exercise.

 

Her focus on that goal is total... until her super-hearing picks up something strange.

 

* * *

 

What the hell was that? For a second she's sure she heard a high, piercing scream over the usual street noise. She pulls over to the curb for a moment, cutting the Adventure-Cycle's rocket engine and looking around at the wasteland of cheap two-star hotels and motor inns where she's found herself, scanning her surroundings in attempt to verify the sound.

 

Though the coming fight pulls urgently at her, she remembers the Adventurist's first lesson: No problem is too small to require a Masked Avenger's attention. Killer robots or no killer robots, she can't just blow by and ignore an innocent's pain. She can at least take a few seconds to call in the police before she goes on her way.

 

A few seconds pass, and she's a split second from deciding it was her imagination and firing the bike back up. And then it comes again, clear as a bell: the high, frightened voice of a young woman screaming “Help me!” at the top of her lungs. And just as unmistakably, the sound of the scream being cut off by the distinctive, agonized “Ughhh!” of someone who's just been punched hard in the solar plexus.

 

A burning anger rises in Miss Adventure's blood as she looks toward the sound's source: near a run-down sign that says “Hard Eight Motel.” For a moment she's torn, looking back toward downtown where the battle of a lifetime awaits... and then toward the motel where she can clearly hear a desperate, terrified woman taking a beating. Then she makes her decision.

 

The kind of men who beat their girlfriends are always cowards, she thinks resolutely. It won't take a minute to handle this prick and turn him over to the cops. The sound of another resonant boom! from downtown draws her eye once more, and she sets her jaw, thinking of her mentor: I'm coming, Mister A, don't you worry! I've just got some trash to pick up first! And I swear... this lowlife's going to regret getting my attention.

 

Gunning the Adventure-Cycle's rocket engine, she sets off for the motel. Get ready, you lily livered woman-beater! It's time to meet Miss Adventure!

 

3

 

The nice thing about motels like this one, thinks Violatrix happily as she looks at the slumped, naked, sobbing Latina beauty on the tacky carpet in front her, is that people mind their business... no matter what they hear.

 

Poor Connie Coneja had just been stepping out the door of Suite 669 when her fate found her. She'd looked for all the world like a picture of innocence, the curves of her delectably slender five foot two, 32B-23-34 frame demurely clothed in a breezy white sun dress and sandals, her purse on her shoulder, her long dark hair shining, her big hazel eyes far away and her finely-sculpted features a little distracted. An onlooker might have taken her for a young first-time lover daydreaming about some gorgeous hunk on the football team... and not a home-wrecking hooker calculating how to spend the money she just earned.

 

She'd stopped in bewilderment, though, at finding the buxom and bodaciously bizarre figure of Violatrix there waiting for her, her masked features composed in a Cheshire grin. The little whore barely had time to say: “Wha—”  before a hard open-handed slap! sent her reeling back into the room, her assailant following close behind to shut and re-lock the door behind them. Just need a few minutes to package her up, Violatrix had thought to herself, and then... then we get to have a little fun!

 

It had turned out Connie wasn't entirely helpless. She'd scrambled quickly back to her feet, eyes brimming with pain and fear but also with anger, and tried out a picture-perfect kick straight out of a Muay Thai class. But school is out, and Violatrix has never had any problem with playing dirty. She'd blocked the kick effortlessly and thundered a vicious knee into the Latina hottie's pussy-mound, drawing a loud, strangled cry of pain from her as she folded. For a moment, the latex-clad avenger contemplated simply cutting the girl's dress off with a few slashes of her whip... but then she decided to opt for the more up close and personal approach, tossing her high-tech cat-o'-nine-tails on the bed as she stepped in to haul her prey up by a fistful of silky hair.

 

“HEEEEEEELP MEEEE!” the desperate Connie had shrilled then. Frowning in annoyance, Violatrix cut off any further cries with a solid right fist to the solar plexus, folding the hotel harlot up around the pain as she'd dropped like a stone. After another sharp kick to the ribs, the girl had stopped struggling, unable to do more than give shuddering sobs while Violatrix ripped away the dress from her nubile young body, tore off her black lace panties and half-cup bra with sheer force,  then fetched her a hard backhanded slap! to further disorient her before standing back to admire her tight curves, her smooth golden brown skin, the perfect globes of her arse and the shadowy, just-visible groove of her immaculately waxed young sex.

 

Oh, yes, thinks the burlesque babe to herself as she licks her lips, drinking in the sight of her vulnerable, defeated opponent. I'm going to enjoy this job... a lot. After another brief moment, she turns to where Connie's purse fell on the ground during the brief struggle, fishes out the bill-fold inside and counts out the wad of cash in it for herself. She resists the temptation to give a low whistle. A thousand dollars! Not bad for an hour's work. Hope you don't mind if I keep this, honey... you won't be needing it.

 

Fishing a black cell phone out of her jacket, Violatrix uses it to record a few seconds' video of Connie's still-helpless and sob-wracked form. The proof that she's kept her word, beaten and stripped and humiliated her client's husband's secret lover. This alone would be enough to get her her payment for this job; she's been paid for a lot more, but not all clients are equally imaginative in their hate. Aside from the little perks yet to come, though, she's also learned long ago that the client doesn't have to know everything. If a little added punishment means a little added profit, well... so much the better. The timing of this whole job is perfect, really; she'd been running on empty before it all came through.

 

Rapidly, she texts a short message to the contact her friends from Island City had set her up with. TRVLR REPTS PKG IN HAND, it says. BUYRS COME WITH $$$ TO JUNKYD @ 7 PM SHARP! The schedule ought to give her enough time to enjoy a little recreation, gift-wrap the girl, collect a payment from Mrs. Schruer, grab a bite to eat and be back at the Junkyard in time to see to this trip's really lucrative business. She smiles as a reply saying OK WE R GO comes back. All set.

 

“Wh – who are you?” sniffles Connie, finding her voice again as Violatrix saunters back over to her, strap-on bobbing obscenely and drawing a horrified, transfixed stare from the Latina while the latex-loving mercenary nonchalantly tucks away her cell phone and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. “Why are you doing this? Please... whatever they're paying you... I've got some money, I can give it to you... you don't have to...”

 

Violatrix gives her a chilling smile and hauls off as if to deliver another slap, the girl instantly cringing like a whipped dog at the gesture. Quick learner, she thinks with satisfaction as she holds up the cuffs and gestures to Connie to turn around. Sniffling, the nude nymphet obeys, putting her arms behind her. 

 

The handcuffs have just clicked into place around her wrists when the door explodes.

 

* * *

 

Whirling around in surprise, Violatrix takes in the sight of the petite figure who's broken in on her operation, her mind racing rapidly. Looking the admittedly gorgeous, firm-bodied, pert-breasted young thing up and down, quickly taking in the star-spangled slingshot thong – damn, they're wearing less than me these days – the steadiness of her stance in six-inch PVC stiletto thigh-highs – either super-strength or super training or both – and the poised tension in her muscles – martial artist for sure – she furiously calculates her options, keeping her face calm as she forces herself not to glance at the whip lying on the bed.

 

Goddammit, of all the lousy luck, she thinks furiously: I have to run into the one Masked Avenger who isn't down at the big shindig! But what she says aloud in her smooth, sultry voice is: “Now that's no way to join a party, honey.” She keeps her tone light, sardonically amused.

 

The girl hesitates for a moment as if taken aback, the eyes behind her sleek blue aviator goggles flickering over a scene that clearly isn't quite what she expected. She's really young, Violatrix realizes suddenly. No wonder she's not at the main event. A green rookie! But the heroine recovers swiftly and retorts: “My name's not 'honey,' honey. It's Miss Adventure. And you're right to be afraid... because I'm here to take you down.”

 

“Take me down?” Stepping to her left as she talks, the massive strap-on waggling at Miss Adventure like an oversized accusing digit, Violatrix works her way closer to the whip. “For what? Me and my sweetie here were just doing a little role-play... weren't we, Connie?”

 

“It's not true!” puts in Connie querulously, her voice trembling with fear as she looks over her smooth, naked shoulder at Miss Adventure. “I don't know her! She's hurting me! Please help me pleeease...”

 

“I know, miss, it's okay,” soothes Miss Adventure, not taking her eyes off Violatrix for a second. Good concentration. She's been schooled. “Get up and go, I'll protect you. Head for the manager's office and tell him to call the police.”

 

Connie Coneja stands up awkwardly with her bound hands, turning a quick tear-stained look of gratitude at her benefactor and one of mingled rage and fear and shame at Violatrix, and wastes no further time fleeing from the room, her little naked titties and perky ass bouncing as she runs. Grinding her teeth as she watches her payday go out the door, Violatrix can't keep the irritation from her voice as she takes another step and says: “I hope you realize I can't let her get far.”

 

“You should be more worried about me,” the heroine replies evenly. “And you can stop trying to reach that silly whip, you know. I promise you, you won't make it.”

 

Shit! Violatrix stops, clenches her fists and lets her voice edge into menace, now: “There aren't going to be any cops for a long while with that racket downtown, you must know that. No cavalry.”

 

“I'm betting there weren't supposed to be any Masked Avengers either,” the young heroine says coolly: “But here we are. And I've got a news flash for you: the cops aren't the cavalry.” Her muscles tense almost imperceptibly, but she still radiates a feral aura of imminent violence as she says: “I am.”

 

ShitshitSHIT! There's nothing for it! Violatrix makes a lunge for her whip as her teen heroine opponent explodes into action!

 

4

 

Granted, finding a curvaceous, dildo-wearing masked dyke at the source of the mayhem was unexpected; the Adventurist has taught her to expect the bizarre in their line of work, but damn. Nevertheless, after the surprise wears off, Miss Adventure feels in total control. The woman is bigger than her and better-muscled and moves with a poise that indicates a lifetime of training rather than just a year, but all of that means nothing next to the cosmic power of Adventure in the heroine's body. And she can read the fear in every beat of the buxom brunette's racing heart, every movement of her muscles, every twitch of her eyeballs as she clearly strains not to glance at the object she's slowly stepping toward on the bed... a whip.

 

Miss Adventure sets the would-be victim free; she aches with sympathy to be sending the poor girl out into the open handcuffed and stripped naked, but there's nothing for it. Some of the masked woman's fear blazes up into anger as she watches her prize go, but it's futile anger and they both know it. As her opponent tries to bluff her about there being “no cavalry” on the way, the heroine gathers herself, focusing her every sense on the matter at hand, reading the tensions and minuscule motions in her opponent's musculature.

 

“The cops aren't the cavalry,” she says, and she's already moving forward as she concludes: “I am.”

 

Unexpectedly lithe and quick, her opponent flashes into motion at the same time, arcing her body in an acrobatic backward lunge for the weapon on the bed that simultaneously sends her booted feet sweeping upward in a protective kick. Nice try... but no cigar. Catching the villainess by the ankles, Miss Adventure jack-knifes her own body in a snapping throw that sends the black-clad beauty tumbling head-over-heels into the opposite wall. CRRRUNCH!! She leaves a deep dent in the wallpaper and the gyp rock beneath it before dropping to the floor, the whip – which amazingly she had managed to grab – flying from her fingers toward the suite's tiny bathroom.

 

The Damsel of Daring, still aching to be on her way to where the real action is, briefly contemplates finishing her buxom opponent off as she climbs groaning to her feet, shaking her head to clear the cobwebs. But that's not the Masked Avengers' way, she reminds herself with an inward sigh. “This is your last chance,” she says, settling back into a fighting stance, already knowing what the villainess' answer is going to be: “And this is your only chance. Surrender now, and you might earn a little leniency when the cops get here.”

 

Regaining her composure, the alabaster-skinned beauty locks gazes with her and settles into   a well-practised fighting stance of her own, her cherry-red lips curving into a slight smile. “It's funny,” she replies. “It doesn't matter where you go in this country... the Masked Avengers are always the same!”

 

She comes forward on the last word, a fist hammering for Miss Adventure's temple. Good thing for me she doesn't have super-strength, thinks the heroine to herself as she blocks the blow effortlessly, then bats aside an elbow, sidesteps a vicious knee-strike and blocks another swift flurry of punches. Against a normal person, male or female, she'd be truly intimidating. As it is she's careful to keep all her attention focused, ignoring the ridiculous flopping of that strap-on as she reads the sounds of her attacker's muscles and keeps out of the way of strikes delivered with a degree of commitment that could make serious problems for her if one connects, super-strength or not. She parries a kick, blocks another elbow, grabs and twists a hand that comes raking nails-first for her face... and then torques her own body into a perfect spinning back-kick aimed squarely at her enemy's midsection!

 

“Whuuuuughhhhh!” The air wooshes out of the brunette's lungs as the super-powered blow sends her flying like a rag doll, crashing into the edge of the bathroom's door-jamb and leaving it splintered as she slumps to the floor. But a moment later, she's already struggling to regain her wind as she flops forward on all fours, her magnificent tits swaying beneath her as she crawls in an apparent attempt to get to her feet.

 

“You're tougher than I expected, I'll give you that,” Miss Adventure concedes, watching this spectacle with reluctant admiration. “But you must see you're no match for me. Give it up before you get seriously hurt.”

 

“It's not over...” gasps the masked villainess: “Not until the whip sings!” And as she hauls herself up unsteadily, Miss Adventure notes that she is indeed now holding the whip she's been going for all this time. She brandishes it with a dramatic snap! in the air in front of her... but even as she's doing so, she's wobbling precariously as she tries to keep her feet.

 

Huh. That was a little sloppy of me... not that it'll make much difference. “Come on,” she says. “You're barely standing. You don't really think that toy's going to change anything?”

 

“Why don't you come at me,” comes the answering rasp: “And find out.”

 

The toothsome teen heroine gives a slight shrug. “Have it your way,” she says – and darts forward, her right fist winding up to finish her opponent off.

 

* * *

 

Predictably, the buxom black-clad beauty lashes the whip in an attempt to give her pause. But Miss Adventure's already thought of a way to deal with it. She lifts up her left forearm and, gritting her teeth against the pain, lets it take the blow, the tails of the whip wrapping around it even as she shifts her hand to grab them... preparing to yank her opponent forward by her own weapon and into the path of the right cross that's certain to put her lights out for good. As she tenses her muscles in readiness for the maneuver, she wonders briefly why the villainess is grinning so widely... and why she suddenly doesn't seem as unsteady as she'd appeared a moment earlier.

 

A split-second later she hears the crackling sound begin, and she realizes her mistake... but it's too late.

 

Oh shi-- she has time to think before her body fills with liquid fire, her muscles going rigid and every hair standing on end as her blood vessels feel like they're being ripped open from the inside. “Cccckkhhhhhh...” is the only sound she can make through her suddenly locked jaws as the agony sears through her bones, spittle drips down her chin and she becomes bizarrely conscious of the wild beating of her heart. A tiny corner of her mind wonders vaguely how much current is passing through her right now, as the world grows dimmer... and dimmer...

 

... and then, as abruptly as the horrid feeling started, it stops. The Damsel of Daring watches the room reorient itself as she collapses like a marionette with cut strings. The blood roars in her ears as ghosts of the agonizing pain stroke her nerve endings.

 

“Pretty 'shocking', yeah?” comes the other woman's voice from far away. She sees a black stiletto boot step into her line of vision, then another. “I've always enjoyed a little electro-play... though there's still something to say for the personal touch.”

 

She punctuates the word personal with a hard kick to the teen heroine's smooth belly. “Huuuuggghckkkhhh...” Miss Adventure hears herself say as she curls around the pain like a salted slug, her disconnected arms flailing in front of her in futile warding motions. Tears of pain sting her eyes as a second kick thunders into her gut, then a third, then a fourth, finally making her retch pitifully, her arms outstretched blindly as her whole body pleads no more.

 

“Not so tough now, are you?” She feels a boot prod her over on her belly, face down in the puddle of bile and the remnants of her morning smoothie that have come up from her gullet. Shuddering, Miss Adventure feels a cool tingling in her body, her head growing giddy as her healing factor tries to repair the internal damage from the massive electroshock. She still can't resist as she feels her arms being pulled behind her, cool metal snicking into place around her wrists. “Like I said before... nobody's coming to help you. But if it's any consolation, I've been at this for a long time. There's no shame in being beaten by Violatrix.” She feels fingers feather through the fuzz on her scalp, then grip her by the skull as the woman lands a hard slap! on her bare ass, chuckling at her sharp cry of pain. “Well, maybe a little shame...”

 

In a moment of clarity, Miss Adventure realizes her sensory discipline has collapsed. She can feel every fibre of the carpet against her taut skin with absolute vividness. The stink of her own vomit is intense enough to make her head spin. She can hear sounds throughout the motel: a couple of kids a few doors down cutting coke with a credit card and laughing about “amorous neighbours,” a maid listening to mariachi music on her iPod as she goes nonchalantly about her business... she can even hear the voice of the girl she just freed, “Connie,” begging someone to “please stop touching me and listen to me!” 

 

It's that last sound that makes her adrenaline spike. God, that girl... she still needs help... I've got to turn this around somehow... got to get out of this... She tries to calm her breathing, her head swimming, tries to regain control of her limbs. Just got to focus... I can still break these handcuffs if I just focus...

 

But then she freezes in fear as she feels the tails of the whip wrap tight around her throat, pulling her head up and sending her brain reeling as it constrains her air supply. “Now you might want to try breaking loose,” purrs Violatrix into her ear with sinister assurance. “But you know what would happen if you tried that, don't you?”

 

Rigid with terror as her body remembers the all-consuming feeling of cooking from the inside out, Miss Adventure manages a demure nod.

 

“Good.” The presence at her ear pulls back and hauls on the whip, forcing the rookie teen heroine up to her knees to keep herself from strangling entirely. She feels Violatrix's warm, voluptuous body nestling in and crouching behind her... and shivers in fright as she feels that big strap-on, which had seemed so ridiculous before, nuzzling along her tight young thong-covered slit. “Since you were so eager to step into my world... I'm going to let you in all the way. You and me... we're going to have some fun together. Oh yes we are...”

 

On the word fun, Violatrix reaches down and adjusts something at her crotch. And then pure, cold terror knifes through the Damsel of Daring as she hears a high-pitched whirring sound... and the phallus nestled against her soft cunt-flesh starts to vibrate.

 

Oh, no... oh, my GOD...

 

“Uuuuuhhhughhhh...” she gives a strangled moan as the vibrations burrow deep into her ultra-sensitive honeypot. Wriggling her hips helplessly, the barely-legal heroine feels her clitty stiffen, her pink pussy-lips swelling and pulsing with sensation as her sweet, slick juices soak the crotch of her thong almost instantly. Devastating waves of unwanted, horny pleasure wash through her vulnerable body from her tight teen kitty as she gasps and moans, trying to draw breath around the strangling pressure of the whip. Her mind reels at her sudden reversal of fortune as she tries with all her might to resist the tsunami of rapture building swiftly between her shapely thighs.

 

“Look at you go,” laughs Violatrix appreciatively from behind her. “What a naughty little slut.” She punctuates the last word with a ringing slap on Miss Adventure's firm, plump little butt, making her teen captive moan in despair as her hips writhe and her cunt gets wetter in response. “Naughty little sluts deserve to get spanked. Bad girl! Bad girl!”

 

As the taunts ring in her ears and the humiliating slaps jolt through her body, the miserable Miss Adventure can feel her hot juices starting to splatter down her thighs as she loses all control. “Huuughhh... AHHH-haaaauuughhh... Auuughhhh... Uhhhhh...” she moans as her taut buttocks jiggle under the rhythmic spanks as she's punished like a wayward schoolgirl, and she feels stark panic rising as she realizes her slutty little pussy is about to give in to the corrupting vibrations from the dildo pressed against it. “Pleeeaaaseee.... Owwww.... Uuughhhhh...” she chokes out a desperate, pathetic plea, her mind going blank with terror at the thought of such an intimate submission. “Pleeeaaseee... Don't.... AWWWwwww... Auuuughhh....”

 

“That's it,” says Violatrix with evident relish, the slaps from her gloved hand growing harder as she pulls the whip even tighter. “Beg, you little whore... beg like the little subbie slut you are... I might be nice if you beg like a bitch...”

 

But with her mouth open in a silent “O” of horror and stars bursting in front of her eyes as the choking silences her, Miss Adventure can only wriggle under the chastisement as a clutching, shuddering, squirting orgasm overtakes her dripping cunt. “ACCCCCKKHHHHH...” she chokes, her eyes rolling back in her head as the oxygen deprivation heightens the repeated spasms of juicy release that splatter her fuck-honey copiously around the gusset of her thong, her head spinning from the waves of ecstasy washing out to swamp her body over, and over, and over again as the slaps on her ass get harder, and harder, and harder. “AGGHHCCKHHH... HUGGHHCKHHHHHH!!”

 

“Yeah, that's it, whore!” she can hear Violatrix egging her on as if from a great distance. “Cum for me, bitch! Cum, you fucking dirty slut!” And the Damsels of Daring's shredding consciousness screams in mortified inner torment as her helpless body obeys, bucking, writhing, cumming again, cumming again, one orgasm blending into another as the storm of sensation becomes her whole world, as her tight teen pussy messily squirts out liquid proof of her defeat.

 

Can't be happening... please, this can't be happening... The desperate thought drifts through her mind as the world dims around her, her heart thumping loudly in her ears as she feels a sudden and powerful certainty that she's about to die, strangled to death while her snatch squirts like a fountain. Somebody please... somebody help me... somebody save me... And then, with a final climactic spasm and spritzing of cunt-nectar, the sensation overload finally becomes too much to bear... and the darkness rushes up to claim her.

 

Lights out.

 

5

 

Violatrix switches off the dildo and untwines the whip from her victim's neck, holding her ribs as she drops her act and gasps with pure, sweet relief over the heroine's slumped, unconscious form.

 

In order to lure her opponent in, she'd played up the damage that kick had done... but not by much. Playing it down to convince the girl of her utter dominance had been far harder. Every breath feels like fire in her chest, and the sharp agony in her ribs tells her that she's lucky most of them aren't broken. She works her right wrist, still tender from when her opponent had caught and twisted it, and rolls her shoulders to feel the pain lancing through the muscles of her back.

 

There's no doubt about it, she thinks. She almost had me. And I'm not going to have what it takes to go another round. The mercenary stands up, looking down at the unconscious teen Masked Avenger. I'm just lucky she was so vulnerable to the vibe. Got off on it faster and harder than anyone I've ever seen. She briefly thinks about fleeing the scene now, collecting her payment from Mrs. Schruer and cutting her losses. But she shakes it off. Opportunities to make good money aren't exactly coming thick and fast in this day and age. And moreover... watching this fearsome heroine writhe and buck helplessly in her grip is a turn-on she just has to experience again. Violatrix can feel her own pussy throbbing and wet, her own clit stiff. Her breath isn't short from pain alone.

 

She won't be out long. I'll have to work fast. Pulling out her cell phone, she sends another quick text to the same number as before, then smiles at the reply. Putting it away, Violatrix fishes a small black flask and a kerchief out of another pocket, watching alertly as Miss Adventure starts to stir. Moving decisively to sit astride the petite girl's back and atop her bound hands, she swiftly tips the flask against the kerchief and then stoppers it, tucking it away. Grabbing the back of Miss Adventure's shapely, close-shaven skull with one hand, she swiftly brings the kerchief around in a well-practised motion, clamping it over her nose and mouth.

 

“Mmmmmph...” The heroine's eyes had just been fluttering open again as the searing fumes of the chlorofom invade her mouth and nose. The smell – which must be intensified a thousandfold for her if her smell is as keen as her sense of touch obviously is – immediately sends panicked tension thrumming through her muscles as she starts to struggle instinctively. “HHHHMMMPHHHH! MMMM-HMMMPHHH! HMMMMMMPHHH!”

 

Violatrix is determined to give her no chance to shake off the disorientation. She keeps the cloth clamped firmly in place as the girl starts wriggling underneath her. Fortunately there's only a ghost of her former strength in those muscles right now, and she can only sob into the muffling rag as the chemical fumes go to work on her: “Mmmmmmphhh... MMMMM-hmmmphhhh... hmmmmmphhhh... mmmmm-hmmmphhhh... hmmmphhhh...” Her moans grower weaker and weaker, but her body keeps writhing. Violatrix gasps, her eyes shining and her mouth open in sadistic delight at the horror she's inflicting on the fresh-faced shapely youth, her own hips twisting as her victim's futile struggles rub her cuffed hands in an unwitting caress against the mercenary's latex-clad crotch, thrilling her hot, wet sex.

 

A few moments later, the Masked Avenger is limp again, completely out of it. Keeping the rag carefully over her nose and mouth, Violatrix fishes out another kerchief and uses it to tie the chloroformed fabric in place. Good to go. She grunts slightly as she throws the thoroughly subdued heroine over her shoulder, unable to resist copping a feel of warm, smooth ass and dripping sex as she carries her out of the destroyed motel room.

 

* * *

 

There's no-one in sight outside, but despite her earlier bluffing about how the cops wouldn't come, Violatrix is nowhere near certain about that. She moves fast, loading the petite heroine into the trunk of her Mustang and looking quickly around for any sign of Miss Adventure's vehicle; the heroine must have had one, but she can't see anything and for that matter can't remember hearing anything. She looks around a moment more, then shrugs before leaping into the driver's seat and tearing away from the scene of the crime.

 

As she pulls past the manager's office, though, she sees something unexpected: her original target, Connie Coneja coming wild-eyed out of the office, still naked as a jaybird and her face streaked with fresh tears. The hot, slender little Latina runs out into the road, her pert little body bouncing and jiggling in all the right places as she tries to flag down the black Mustang, obviously not realizing who's driving it. A portly, red-faced man with long greasy hair and a patchy beard is chasing her out of the office, hastily fumbling with his fly and shouting something that looks like “Wait! It's just a misunderstanding!”

 

With a smile of vicious delight, Violatrix realizes the girl's mission to call the cops hasn't gone as planned. The manager must have seen her taut, nude body and lost his head, tried to take advantage. Well... maybe I can use that.

 

She pulls to a stop in front of Connie – who has frozen in horror, like a rabbit in headlights, as she realizes who's behind the wheel. As Violatrix jumps out of the car, forcing her sore body to move as if nothing's wrong, the cuffed and naked callgirl shudders in dread and turns to try to flee again, running smack into the thickset manager as she does so. She's babbling hysterically as the ugly little man grabs her by the arms: “Please for God's sake please HELP she's gonna kill me PLEASE!!”

 

The red-faced hotel manager has opened his mouth to keep telling Connie about the  “misunderstanding” between them... but then he catches sight of the voluptuous Violatrix striding toward them, her incredible cleavage wobbling with every confident step, her lovely porcelain-doll skin flushed with excitement, her perfect face beaming with a ravishing smile and her strap-on waggling in front of her. Understandably, he's struck dumb. But he has enough presence of mind not to let the sobbing, pleading Connie wriggle out of his grip, and he shows unexpected agility in twisting his body to evade a desperate last-ditch effort by the girl to knee him in the crotch, all the while watching the latex-clad beauty approach with a look in his eyes like he's waiting to wake up from a dream.

 

“You must be the motel manager,” she says. “I'm Violatrix. And I'm not planning to kill anyone... but I do have a proposition that might interest you.” She looks at Connie – the little Latina cutie is now eyeing her fearfully over a smooth golden-brown shoulder – and licks her lips salaciously to make it clear what kind of “proposition” she means. “You mind if the three of us go back into your office and chat?”

 

The manager goes on looking at her, stunned and open-mouthed, before looking back at the delectable creature in his arms, then back at her as understanding starts to dawn in his eyes. “Uhhhh... sure,” he says. “Sure, why not? I'm Bert.”

 

* * *

 

Connie makes a couple more desperate attempts to flee as Violatrix negotiates with Bert – but a hard gut-punch and a few well-placed slaps from the busty mercenary soon have her cringing on her knees like a docile pet as the manager hangs an “Out to Lunch” sign on the door and her captors bargain over her naked, sexy body. As Violatrix had suspected, Bert admits that he'd tried to get a few special favours out of Connie in exchange for his help. He looks sheepish when the latex-clad beauty asks him what he'd planned to tell the cops if Connie had reported his behaviour. “Yeah, I didn't really think it through,” he admits.

 

“Well, think this through,” she counters. “How's about if I pay you to completely forget everything that happened here today... and to definitely not call the law?”

 

Bert scratches his jaw. “Pay me with what?”

 

“You know with what.” Violatrix gestures to where Connie is kneeling beside the manager's desk. “With Connie. Or to be more specific, with the use of her warm, wet mouth and tight little cunt for half an hour.”

“Huh... uhhhh, I dunno...”

 

Bert makes a show of having to reluctantly decide, but she can see the outline of his rock hard cock in his pants. Violatrix decides the force the issue. Stepping around the desk, she grabs Connie by the hair and hauls the girl in her wake, ignoring her cries of pain, until the lissome Latina is on her knees in front of the disgusting, fat pig of a manager, her face level with the big bulge in his pants. Squatting down just behind the part-time callgirl, she grabs a handful of her lustrous hair and looks up at Bert. “Come on, big boy,” she purrs. “Don't tease poor little Connie here. Whip it out.”

 

The erotic sight of the two female faces at his crotch, one evil and lascivious and the other blankly terrified and helpless, is clearly too much for the chubby man to resist. Grimacing, he paws his zipper down with his greasy fingers and fishes out a prick of surprisingly impressive length and girth, at least eight inches. It smells of sweat and stale urine, but Violatrix is careful not to show she registers that. Instead she gives a throaty, approving chuckle.

 

“So that's what 'Hard Eight' means,” she says, then turns to Connie and says: “Open your mouth and suck it, you little slut.” For a second, Connie presses her lips together and shakes her head in refusal, but then Violatrix gives her ass a hard slap and says again: “Open your mouth and suck it! You might be used to being a choosy little part-time whore, but you don't have the luxury of choosing anymore! Open up and suck it, you filthy little bitch...”

 

“Ahhhhh-ooowww!” With tears running down her face from the insults and the painful slaps on her reddening ass, Connie finally, reluctantly, opens her mouth. “Mmmmmgggllhhh...” she moans as Violatrix promptly pushes her wet mouth down on Bert's meatstick, the moan growing into an alarmed choking as she finds her mouth shoved unceremoniously right down to the cock's root, her nose buried in the fat man's smelly pubes as her throat chokes and gags around the big, salty cock so rudely filling it. “Nnnnggghccckhhhh! Hhhhhccckhhhh!”

 

“Ffffuuuuuck...” groans Bert, his hips jerking and his belly wobbling, throwing his head back in ecstasy at the unexpected deep-throating pleasure the unwilling Latina is being forced to give him. Eyes rolling back in his head, he begins to make little fucking motions with his hips while Violatrix forces the captive girl's hot mouth up and down on his rampant prick.

 

“Yeah,” whispers Violatrix in her victim's ear. “You love deepthroating, don't you bitch? I'll bet that big cock in your mouth is making you all wet, you whore...”

 

She gets to her knees, moving in behind the naked bitch in exactly the position she just used on Miss Adventure, her vibrator arrayed along the tight young slit in the same way. Already wet and horny from the exhilaration of her earlier close call with – and subsequent abuse of – the Masked Avenger, Violatrix can't pass up a chance to satisfy her own urges while she uses Connie's charms to buy the manager's silence. Forcibly working the girl's wet mouth up down Bert's throbbing tool, she reaches down and twists the “V” logo at her waist, activating the vibe contained in the massive strap-on. Knowing she can't count on the girl to be as sensitive and vulnerable to stimulation as the unfortunate Miss Adventure, she doesn't just turn it to minimum this time, but a couple notches further: to the despoiler setting.

 

This piece of ingenuity, designed and programmed by the legendary Professor Pervo, employs varying vibration frequencies in concert with smart sensors that track the responsiveness of the flesh the vibe is resting against. The dong constantly adjusts its speed and intensity to produce maximum pleasure for the target. Connie mewls pitifully around her mouthful of cock-flesh as it goes to work on her, the vibrator whirring and revving like a car engine as her slender body jerks in response, Violatrix digging her fingers into the soft flesh of a hip as she delights in watching the little skank writhe as her pussy gets exponentially hotter and wetter against her will. “Yeah, that's it, bitch,” she goads her. “Give in to it. Give it up like a slut...”

 

She takes her hand away from Connie's hair, pleased to note that the dumb bitch now needs no encouragement to bob her mouth on Bert's cock, the manager grimacing as he clearly tries to keep himself from cumming under her sloppy, energetic hands-free fellatio. “Gllluuggckhhh-glluckhhh-glluccchkkkkhhh...” come the wet, miserable gulping sounds from Connie's mouth as she looks up at him, helpless to stop the vibrator's horny stimulation of her traitorous young body or her own depraved response to it as she sucks the throbbing dick with abandon.

 

Then Violatrix grabs the dildo, pulls her hips back and lines up the pulsating, whirring weapon with the mouth of Connie's sopping love hole. She delights in the muffled squeal of anguish and confused desire that greets her ears as she shoves the big vibrating phallus home, burying it to the root in the young Latina's tight, wet kitty. “UUUUGGGGGLLLLCCKHHHH!” moans the little slut as Bert's reeking cock chokes her while the deep-buried vibrator makes her hot pussy explode, the orgasm shuddering through her as her juices sluice over the shiny black dildo.

 

“Yeah... yeah, you little fuckslut... take it... take it all...” chants Violatrix in delight as she pumps the weapon home with merciless thrusts of her hips. The vibrations aren't just working their magic on poor Connie – whose hips move unconsciously in a tight circle as she's ravished, her wetly-squelching, greedy little pussy trying to gain the maximum pleasure – they're also pulsating through Violatrix's pelvis, heating up her body and especially her dripping cunt. The mercenary can feel her own juices starting to run as she vibrator-rapes the whore, dishing out a steady stream of ass-slaps with one hand while she strokes her own massive tits with the other, savouring her total dominance as she watches her victim tense up and cum again, even harder than the first time.

 

Finally she sees Bert begin to lose his tenuous control. Amazing the fat fuck lasted this long, she thinks as he suddenly grabs Connie by the hair and begins to rapidly ram his tool down her throat, ignoring her gasping, gagging sounds of distress in favour of his own pleasure. “Awww yeeeahhhh... AWWWW FUUCK YEEEAHHHH...” he groans as he nears his climax, and Violatrix is careful to speed up her thrusts to match his frantic pace so that Connie is being brutally pounded at both ends. “YEEEEAAAAAHHHH I'M GONNAAAA...”

 

Violatrix revels in the miserable, choked retching sounds Connie makes as Bert's eyes cross slightly and his seaweedy spunk starts to pump its way down her gullet, forcing her to swallow. Ramming the vibrator home a final time and drawing another helpless climax from her victim's writhing, shuddering body as she does so, the mercenary closes her eyes and gives an open-mouthed smile of salacious rapture as the degradation and defilement of the little Latina slut finally sets her own slick sugar-walls to clasping and clutching and squirting, the nectar leaking around the crotch of her latex bodysuit and down her creamy thighs. “Ahhhhhhhhh...” she moans in satisfaction as the simultaneous treble climax electrifies the depraved trio, keeping them riding waves of ecstasy for long moments that seem to stretch out to eternity.

 

I can't wait... thinks Violatrix languidly as she opens her eyes again and smiles at Bert's glassy-eyed look of amazement. Her mind drifts to the unconscious teen morsel in her trunk. I can't wait to do this to “Miss Adventure”...

 

7

 

A nightmare of darkness filled with a fog of chemical fumes. Thumping sounds, vibrations. Miss Adventure dreams a hellish dream of being trapped in a moving coffin.

 

She doesn't know how long it's gone on before she feels the effects of the fumes somehow lessen. Though their smell still sears her nostrils, she finds herself swimming back to a kind of half-consciousness. For a moment she thinks she must still be dreaming: there's a warm, nubile, gently feminine body pressed against her in the darkness, the feel of someone's hot breath close to her own mouth, as if hovering just on the verge of kissing her. This... at least this is a better dream... she thinks muzzily, her head spinning.

 

Her mind floods with memories of fooling around with her girlfriends: of pillow-fights that turned into intimate explorations that grew less and less innocent every time, of fingers sliding over smooth skin, mouths and tongues seeking out new flavors of fleshly delight to enjoy, moist pussies being licked and stroked and stiff little clits getting frigged and sucked. Going with it, she opens her mouth to offer a kiss as she tries to embrace her anonymous lover.

 

“Mmphh?” says a high voice in surprise as their mouths melt into the hot, probing kiss... then a  breathy, contented “Mmmmmmmmm...” as the kiss deepens, their tongues dancing wetly, their bodies moving sinuously together in rising passion. But Miss Adventure suddenly realizes she can't move her arms and embrace the deliciously naked flesh rubbing up against her. Her hands are cuffed! And she realizes the close darkness is no dream! The thumping sounds are road sounds... I'm really trapped in the trunk of a car with another woman! The humiliating memory of her ignominious defeat by Violatrix comes flooding back!

 

“Mmmm-hmmpphhh!” Breaking the kiss abruptly, Miss Adventure gasps: “Wait... who the hell are you?”

 

“I... uhhh...” breathing heavily, the other girl seems disoriented for a moment. Miss Adventure can feel her heart still pounding with licentious passion. “I'm... Connie... Connie Coneja... you tried to rescue me...”

 

“Connie...” Miss Adventure nods after a moment, trying to focus, trying to ignore the feel of Connie's naked tits sliding against hers, the girl's wet pussy rubbing against her thigh, and the feeling emanating from her own sopping mound pressed tight against one of the Latina's legs. “We're in the trunk of that... that bitch's car right now, aren't we?”

 

“Yes...”

 

Taking a deep, shuddering breath to gather her courage, the Damsel of Daring nods and asks: “How long have I been out?”

 

“I'm not... really sure...” Connie says. “They... I mean she, uhhhh, got me about a half an hour after you... uhhh, saved me. Put me in here. We've been driving for... I dunno, maybe five minutes? It's hard to say... When I realized what was on your gag, I pulled it off with my teeth... Sorry if that was a little, uhhh, forward...”

 

Almost three-quarters of an hour. Miss Adventure gives the poor innocent a soothing little peck on the cheek and tries to sound confident as she says: “Not at all. Thank you, Connie. And don't worry... I'll get us out of this. You'll see.”

 

Miss Adventure's head is reeling from the scents and sounds rushing in on her: the chloroform gag hanging under her chin, the sweet feminine musk of Connie and the musty staleness of the trunk, the fumes of exhaust, the roar of an engine, the sound of a radio playing somewhere in front of them. She can feel a cool tingling sensation within her body. Violatrix's reckless overuse of chloroform – which was never made for long exposures – has damaged something inside her (Liver maybe? Kidneys? Both?), and her healing factor is working overtime to repair it, sapping her strength in the process. Still so weak... got to take time to let the healing factor work... get my sensory discipline back in place... get free of these cuffs... and when I do get free, she thinks, her ears flaming at the recollection of her orgasmic squealing and squirting under that vicious bitch's spanks and perverted vibrator-rape: I am going to make that bitch pay!

 

“Do you think the other Masked Avengers will help us?” Connie asked, her voice still vulnerable and frightened.

 

“Definitely,” says Miss Adventure with false confidence, not adding: As soon as they're done with the invulnerable killer robots downtown. “The Adventurist called me in a long time ago, now. I was on my way to meet him when I found you. He'll notice I haven't arrived,” if one of the robots hasn't crushed him. “I came on the Adventure-Cycle. He'll find it by locator beacon,” parked out of sight at the hotel across from the Hard Eight, because I didn't want to alert your attacker to my approach. “From there on out it's straight up detective work,” which is never as easy as television makes it look.

 

“Good.” Connie snuggles in close to her, the feel of her naked, sweat-slick skin extremely distracting. The heroine feels long, silky hair on her shoulder. “So... she's not going to... to hurt us any more, is she?”

 

“No. No, she isn't.” Miss Adventure is suddenly aware that the girl's body is shivering. The way she said hurt us... it's very clear that Violatrix did something to her in that half-hour before she came to be sharing a trunk with the heroine. Judging by the villainess' name and choice of accessories, it's not rocket science to guess what that something was. The teen vigilante's jaw clenches in fury as her determination rises. “She isn't going to hurt either of us any more. I promise.”

 

“Thank you, Miss Adventure.” The girl shifts, her thigh pressing and rubbing along the heroine's wet, sensitive slit through her thong and making her suppress a gasp. “Thank you so much.”

 

As the frightened girl moves in to kiss her again, Miss Adventure tells herself she's only reciprocating to help the innocent civilian keep calm. But as their tongues dance and their young, firm, bound bodies grind sensuously together in the close darkness of the trunk, the heroine feels a tender protectiveness rising inside her along with the hot wetness of desire. I won't let her hurt you any more, Connie. I'm going to make her pay!

 

* * *

 

“Imagination sets in... pretty soon I'm singin'... doot-doot-doo, lookin' out my back door...” Violatrix sings tunelessly along with the Mustang's vintage tape deck as she drives happily along, the muscle car's engine gunning as she heads for Jenkins' Junkyard. It's a long drive, and one that takes her uncomfortably close to the ongoing battle downtown, but she's keeping carefully off the major drags and out of sight in alleyways as much as possible, determined to keep from coming to any more Masked Avengers' attention.

 

Passing by the occasional shop window, she sees flashes of the continuing mayhem displayed on banks of televisions. It's hard from those glimpses to tell who's winning. Long as they keep each other occupied, I don't care, thinks the mercenary to herself, stroking her strap-on, still savouring the warm afterglow of a two-for-one capture and looking forward to a double-sized payday.

 

But she can't help noticing that the streets look increasingly deserted, unusually so even for a bad part of town, as she gets closer to her destination. There are virtually no cars on the roads, and the few people she does see look as if they're running from something. Has the violence spilled out? Stopping the tape, Violatrix stops the car in a small side-street just outside of West Oaks as she tunes in to the local Masked Avengers station, WMAR.

 

“... repeat: this is a Masked Avengers emergency bulletin,” comes an official-sounding male voice. “Super-Crisis Warning remains in effect for downtown Newvale City. The Masked Avengers request that all citizens in the Dockside, Atlantic Heights, Kirkland Heights, Cremona Flats and West Oaks districts stay off the streets if at all possible. The Masked Avengers are continuing to engage the robotic threat and will give the all-clear when the threat is eliminated.” Violatrix listens carefully, but really perks up at the next item: “Women aged seventeen to thirty-four are particularly urged to stay indoors. The robots appear to be prone to crimes of a morally depraved nature. Young women, please stay indoors! The Adventurist, the Newvale City Police Department and the Masked Avengers' Local 101 thank you for your cooperation. This is a Masked Avengers emergency bulletin. We repeat...”

 

Morally depraved robots? she thinks in excitement. There's only one person that can mean! Of all the villains in the world, only one has spent his entire career developing a whole branch of technology called eroto-robotics. Only one has built robots that can fight an entire team of Masked Avengers to a standstill. It can only mean that Professor Pervo himself – her personal idol, the very man who designed her super-equipment – is operating here, in Newvale City!

 

What I wouldn't give for a chance to see him in action! What I wouldn't give to meet him! The infamous mad-scientist flesh merchant and porn video producer is one of the most wanted men in the country, in the world... and in Violatrix' opinion, one of the sexiest. As a teenaged girl, she was inspired to do what she does by a broadcast of his bald dome and cold visage and wintry, sexy Russian accent during one of his old battles against the country's superhero element.

 

But meeting him is just fantasy. If the robots really are Pervo's, he's got plenty of worries of his own... and besides, the robots are as much a danger to her as any other woman. And of course, she has work to do. Switching the tape back on, she sets the car back into motion...

 

... and stops in astonishment as she sees a human-sized form cannon out of nowhere into the brick wall of a shopfront in front of her, sending out an explosion of debris!

 

Frozen for a long moment, she hears the rhythmic thumping sound of approaching metallic steps. Her excitement at the idea of the perverted robots dissipates quickly into stark fright as, from the direction that anonymous human form came, a huge titanium monstrosity some fifteen feet in height comes lumbering into view!

 

My God... it's one of them!

 

The robot is all bright, burnished metal, its head a simple cannon-shaped cylinder with nine glowing pink eyes mounted on the front, all of them in motion scanning its surroundings. It's humanoid in shape – except that where two arms should be, it instead has clusters of slender metallic tentacles waving and whipping as if with a will of their own. The idea made fact is astonishingly horrid, and Violatrix finds herself holding very still, the Mustang's engine idling, as if hoping by stillness to avoid its notice.

 

No such luck. The robot's head swivels toward the Mustang as if drawn by a magnet. Violatrix is suddenly, painfully conscious of her ample cleavage heaving with her quick breaths as it turns and stalks toward the car with powerful, purposeful strides. Heart in her throat, she puts the car in reverse and starts to lay rubber in the opposite direction.

 

The robot's motion simply accelerates, its limbs blurring as it puts on an astonishing show of merciless mechanical efficiency, keeping pace as it tentacles whip out, wrapping around the car...

 

... there's a sudden stomach-lurching feeling of free-fall as the world flips over, then flips again... 

 

BAMMM!

 

The Mustang comes back to earth on its wheels with a jarring crash, all the windows cracking as Violatrix feels her body whiplash with the impact. Stunned, she lifts up her head blearily, feeling sticky blood seeping out her nose as she looks through a haze of pain at the robot looming over the car, its multiple eyes burning into her. The tentacles, she realizes, are hovering just outside the windows. They're close enough that she can see their glowing ends... and she realizes that all of them are shaped like blunt dildoes, and up close their girth – compared to a tiny human body – is truly massive. Each one is whirring menacingly.

 

Her terror stabs deeper, and the mercenary feels a warm, wet release of rushing liquid flood her crotch and the leather seat beneath her as her mind babbles Oh shit oh shit oh shit not to me not to me it's not supposed to happen to me as the tentacles whip in the air and prepare to smash their way in...

 

CRRRAAASSHHH!

 

Abruptly the robot is gone, spinning through the air as a human-sized form hammers into it with a superpowered blow delivered at blurring speed. For a moment the shape resolves into a flying man – clad in blue spandex with yellow mask, trunks and cape and a yellow star on his chest – who keeps his eyes on his metallic opponent as he almost absent mindedly calls to her: “Get off the streets, ma'am! Masked Avengers business!” He's almost certainly the same man who smashed into a building moments earlier, but he looks confident and little the worse for wear.

 

Nodding in dazed acknowledgement, even though he's not looking at her, Violatrix feels an instinctive wave of gratitude as she forces her limbs to start working again and tries to restart the Mustang. Amazingly it's still working, though the whole car shudders and wobbles alarmingly as she peels away from the scene, not at all eager to see whether the robot will get up from that blow, not at all eager to see one of those things up close ever again.

 

* * *

 

As she drives the rest of the way to Jenkins' Junkyard, the numb shock in Violatrix's mind and body gradually gives way to a storm of conflicting emotions.

 

Pumping adrenaline and terror so palpable that it's almost a high: she's just survived an encounter with an overwhelming force capable of killing her, or worse. It happened, and ended, so fast that she still can hardly process it.

 

Humiliation and shame so abject that they make her want to scream: she was so frightened that she actually pissed herself – something she hasn't done since she was nine years old – and only survived because a goddamned Masked Avenger saved her.

 

Uncertainty, self-doubt: should she give up on this mission? Maybe even let her captives go? Is this Newvale City too much for her? A power-chord of pain thrums through her, reverberating out from the wrenched muscles of her whip-lashed neck and back. Her head throbs, and she sniffles as she wipes at the tacky blood still streaming from her nose. Is she even in any condition to go on?

 

She almost makes the decision to quit even as the bleak scrap-metal wasteland of Jenkins' Junkyard comes into view at the end of a street full of equally-bleak tenements. But then she remembers the worst humiliation of all: the wave of pathetic gratitude she'd felt toward that ridiculous-looking spandex-clad asshole who'd saved her. Saved by a superhero. Saved by the very kind of caped cunt-face she's spent all her life rooting against in the movies, by the kind of arrogant brawn-over-brains blowhard who's always made life miserable for honest, hardworking criminals just trying to get by. The mere thought of it takes all the pain and fear and doubt inside her and incinerates it in a suddenly-blazing furnace of white-hot rage. As the wounded Mustang judders to a halt and the junkyard gates creak open, she finds she has a death-grip on the steering wheel and her teeth are grinding.

 

None of those bastards gets to make me feel grateful to them, she thinks. NONE OF THEM! He had NO RIGHT 'saving' me! I had the goddamned situation UNDER CONTROL! She tamps down the mental dissonance of this self-deception, and the pain spearing into her ribs as she breathes only sharpens her fury, stoking it higher. I'M the dominator! I'M the Violatrix! I CALL THE SHOTS! ME! It's time somebody learned that! It's time for some GODDAMNED REMINDERS! Almost choking with the rage and violence boiling in her blood, Violatrix guns the engine as her damaged car limps and leaks its way into Jenkins' Junkyard. She'd love nothing more than to take that blue-and-yellow costumed bastard and smash his face to a pulp, break his arms, break his legs, turn him over and yank his tights down and...

 

And it's not an option, obviously. Which just makes the futile rage blaze even hotter.

 

But then her anger redirects, turning toward a much closer, more feasible target. Her mind's eye flashes to the two bound, nubile young beauties in her trunk. One of them a Masked Avenger. She smiles her most evil smile of the day as she reaches over to her glove compartment... and pulls her whip from where she has it stashed. The white-hot fury gains an edge of anticipation.

 

Time for some reminders, alright, she thinks. Time to make some dirty little bitches squeal...

 

8

 

Miss Adventure has to admit she'd gotten a little lost in the cloud of erotic bliss she'd been sharing with Connie Coneja – a bliss heightened by their dangerous, terrifying circumstances and bound bodies – as they'd kissed and writhed together and rubbed their hot snatches off on one another's thighs. Even so, she'd been increasingly aware of the world outside the trunk, aware of her own body's growing strength, and part of her had been waiting for the moment when she'd been strong enough to rip free of her cuffs, kick open the trunk and leap to safety with Connie in her arms.

 

She'd been on the verge of it when the sudden sounds of violence had come from outside... when she'd smelled the fear suddenly coming from the car's front seat, felt the car go squealing into reverse. “Hang on,” she'd told Connie quietly. And she'd braced herself to make a bid for freedom...

 

... and then the world had abruptly flipped over and over and come crashing down, both girls screaming in fright before the impact slammed Connie's skull into the heroine's nose with an audible crrrrunnnchhh! The Damsel of Daring had held on to consciousness for a moment longer before pain turned the lights out.

 

As she swims back to the waking world again, she finds her head still reeling and throbbing, her strength ebbing lower than ever as she feels her healing factor hard at work repairing her smashed nose, not to mention wrenched and whiplashed muscles and tendons throughout her body. Connie is on top of her, whimpering in pain, her own body no doubt bruised and  battered by the tumble they took; and she has no healing factor to help her.

 

But these realizations are overridden by another, more urgent. The car has stopped. She can hear the driver's door opening, hear unsteady steps crunching through the gravel toward their shared trunk. Her sensory input, deranged and off-kilter despite her attempts to re-focus, nevertheless pick up the high-pressure pulsing-blood sound of deadly fury in someone's veins as a key scrapes into the trunk's lock and begins to fiddle with it, the holder cursing a blue streak under her breath that would make a sailor blanch.

 

Violatrix. Shit! I'm not ready... but I've got to be ready. “Connie,” she whispers into her Latina companion's ear. “We've only got a few seconds before she gets this trunk open. Are you hearing me?”

 

“Uhhhhh...” Connie's answering moan may or may not be meant as a 'yes.' Miss Adventure decides to go with it anyway.

 

“Listen... we've got a shot. If we're hurting, that bitch is hurting, too... uhhhh... fuck...” Her head thrums with sudden pain, and a wave of giddy weakness sucks the breath out of her as her healing factor deals with something inside her skull. For a moment she's speechless, but comes out of it as she hears Violatrix starting to bang on the trunk lid, cursing loudly now in frustration. “Just... just make her think you're docile... don't struggle... and after she's pulled you out and her attention is on you, I'll make my move... okay?”

 

“Nggguhhh...” burbles Connie, but then she manages to say: “You... can you break... cuffs?”

 

The Damsel of Daring shakes her head, another giddy wave of weakness and light-headedness sweeping through her as her body repairs a damaged rib. “Not right now... but I still have my skills. With a little luck...”

 

Outside, Violatrix is storming away from the car now, calling down fucks upon the fucking heads of all the fucking mothers of all the fucking motherfuckers who ever lived. The fearful Connie, cringing from the sound of that voice and clearly wracked with pain, plants a soft kiss on Miss Adventure's shoulder and says: “If you think you can do it... I trust you...”

 

Of course you do, think the Damsel of Daring pityingly. What else do you have to hope for? The rookie teen sidekick isn't nearly so sure herself. But it's not like there are a lot of options.  As Violatrix's steps come wobbling back to the trunk, the teen heroine grits her teeth, readying herself as she hears a pry-bar clank into the trunk's closed mouth and start to wedge it open centimetre by centimetre, metal grinding against metal. Steady, girl, she tells herself, remembering all the stories the Adventurist told her about getting out of worse scrapes than this one. Steady, you can do it...

 

With a final snap and squeal of protesting hinges, the trunk finally pops open and the shackled beauties within look blearily up at their captor. Seeing the woman's face – blood-smeared, ghost-pale, the eyes behind the mask glittering with a berserker rage verging on madness – Miss Adventure feels herself quail. She plays it up as a physical reaction even as she fights inside to suppress the fear.

 

She's not going to hurt us anymore, the heroine promises herself firmly. Let the games begin.

 

* * *

 

Violatrix feels her face stretch into a ghastly, frightening smile as she tosses aside the pry-bar and looks down at her cargo. Both of them are cowering. The naked Connie is already whimpering, her lovely golden skin spotted with dark bruises no doubt sustained when the Mustang took its tumble. Miss Adventure's nose has streaked blood down her beautiful patrician features, though predictably the heroine looks less injured than her mundane trunk-mate. The chloroform gag has jarred loose in the commotion, hanging around her neck. No matter, thinks Violatrix. As long as she remembers what it feels like to fry... she won't try fucking around.

 

With a practised motion of her wrist, Violatrix lashes the whip around Connie's throat, make the bound babe wriggle and choke as the mercenary rasps: “You first, bitch. Out you come. Be an obedient little slut now... and maybe I'll go easy on you.” Fat chance, she thinks to herself merrily: But the whore doesn't need to know that!

 

She braces herself and grits her teeth against waves of internal pain as she hauls the Latina cutie bodily out of the trunk, the girl collapsing into the scrub and gravel on her weak, rubbery limbs, her eyes glassy as she takes in her surroundings with utter terror. Jenkins' Junkyard is a flat expanse of gravel, dust and scrub baking in the morning sun, with piles of rusted junk and wrecked cars dotting the landscape as far as the eye can see. They're pulled up near a chain link fence on the western perimeter; Violatrix's black Mustang is a wreck almost indistinguishable from the others, a mass of dents and half-shattered windows silently bleeding oil.

 

Seeing Connie's eyes go to her ruined car brings Violatrix' gaze back to it as well... and the spectacle sends her rage into overdrive. “Bet you think that's pretty funny, don't you bitch?” she sneers, backhanding the girl across the face and sending her sprawling face-first into the dust with an exhausted sob. Uncoiling the whip from Connie's neck, she brings it slashing down across her perfect ass: “Think it's funny? Huh?”

 

“Awwwww-haaawwwww!” The bound babe thrashes and squalls in pain as a fine welt raises itself across her pert buttocks. “Plleeee-heeeaase nooooo...”

 

The sound of her agony just makes Violatrix want to hurt her more, though. “Shut the fuck up, slut!” she rages, bringing the whip down again with tit-jiggling force, delighting in the cuffed Connie's futile attempts to wriggle her proud posterior out of the life of fire. The spectacle of another welt slashing into that soft skin, then another, is almost beautiful enough to make the mercenary forget the pain jarring through her own body with every movement. “Shut up, I said! I'll give you something to cry about, bitch! Fucking whore...”

 

The latex-clad beauty gives a bloodthirsty grin as she sees the punished puta throw a desperate, pleading look back over her shoulder. The spectacle of the helpless victim in the dust at her feet, her naked sex peeping rearward while her ass takes a hard whipping and she begs for mercy with her moist, brimming eyes, is enough to reawaken the familiar, slick heat of conquest in Violatrix's loins. Yeah, that's it, she thinks as she lifts up the whip again. Time to start begging, you slut. Not that it'll do you any good...

 

Then a sudden realization dawns on her. Connie isn't look at Violatrix. She's looking behind her! The mercenary actually hears herself say it as she whirls around: “Oh, you've gotta be fucking kidding me--”

 

She's just in time to see a blue stilleto-heeled boot arcing through the air with murderous intent, headed straight at her face! WHHAACCK!

 

* * *

 

Miss Adventure puts every ounce of her last remnants of strength into the daring, acrobatic leap out of the Mustang's trunk. She whirls through the air, utterly committed to the risky aerial kick... and glories in the impact of her boot against the foul villainess' jaw, relishing the sight of evilly beautiful latex-clad brunette whirling and collapsing into the dust as the heroine stands tall, keeping her feet by a supreme effort of will as she watches her opponent fall.

 

“Take that!” the heroine shouts triumphantly from the depths of her soul, a sublime feeling of accomplishment suffusing her barely-legal body as she grins maniacally in triumph. “The Masked Avengers always prevail!” Panting, her legs shuddering with the effort of keeping her sweat-slicked young form upright, she looks over at poor Connie, sharing a gaze of deep intimacy with the abused Latina beauty still writhing in the dirt, her big eyes moist with gratitude.

 

The emotion that swells largest in the Damsel of Daring's breast is relief. If that maneuver hadn't worked, she thinks, I don't know what I would've done. She casts her super-senses out in a wide net, smelling and tasting, hearing and feeling her surroundings as she tries to decide on the next step. She hears the thumping heart and wheezing breaths of a fat man lumbering toward them from a nearby corner of the junkyard – I can deal with him at least, she thinks – and catches the scent and sound of a kennel full of more than a dozen vicious dogs somewhere nearby, thankful that she won't have to fight them off, too. Otherwise, aside from the skittering of rats, the junkyard seems deserted.

 

“You okay, Connie?” She stumbles toward the naked brown cutie, wobbling in a barely-successful attempt to keep her knees from giving out. “We've got to get out of here.”

 

“I'm... I'm okay, kinda,” answers Connie hesitantly, her eyes still fixed on the prone form of Violatrix. “But... but I don't think she's...”

 

Even as Connie says it, Miss Adventure senses it: the sound of a heart pumping pure fury through mortal veins coming from the spot where Violatrix went down. She's not out! realizes the heroine with a surge of terror as she turns to confront the buxom, ripe-bodied shape surging back up out of the gravel. Instinctively, the Damsel of Daring tries to move her arms to block as she throws herself sideways – but her cuffed arms can do nothing to impede the path of the crackling and now clearly electrified whip arcing through the air toward her!

 

WWWWHHHHHH-CRAAACKKKK! The wicked impact of the whip across her pert breasts is accompanied by a massive jolt of electricity through the teen sidekick's slender form that sends all her muscles into spasm, making it impossible to do anything but flop to the ground in front of her enemy like a landed fish, thrashing and gasping in pain. Her helpless body only thrashes more wildly under the whip's second high-voltage impact, then the third, then the fourth, the agony jolting from her toe-tips to the crown of her head as her eyes roll in her head and her heels drum in the dirt. The whole world seems to contract and expand in time with the electric jolts of the whip lashing across the flesh of her breasts, her thighs, her belly, her breasts again... grounding themselves through her like lightning bolts, setting her flopping and floundering over and over as the fiery torment slashes through her again, and again... and again... and again... and again... and again. CRRRRACCCK! SHHHHHH-CRRRACCKKk! WHHHH-CRACCCKKK! CRRRRACCCK!

 

“AUUUUHHHHHAUUUUGHHHHHH! AUUUUUUUGHHHHH! NNNGGGAAAAAHHHHH!” The strangled cries of pain and fear seem to come from someone else as the Damsel of Daring's inner conciousness provides the counterpoint: No God oh God oh God please stop please stop PLEASE STOP... But the thunderbolts of soul-destroying pain keeping coming and coming, wrapping their molten tendrils around her, boiling her blood and her brain as she frantically writhes and rolls in a futile attempt to spare her thighs, her ribcage, her jiggling titties, her perky buttocks, her calves, her thighs again... and through it all she can hear Violatrix, as if shouting from some far-off country, chanting in time with the fiery strokes: “Fuck you, bitch! Fuck you! Who's your mommy? Beg for mercy, bitch! Fuuuuuck you! Fuck! You!”

 

Before long, the heroine loses the ability to even scream as she writhes in agony, as the electrified lashes of the whip keep coming down, and down, and down... NO NO NO NO NO chants her shredding mind. She's delirious by the time she hears a male voice shout something like What-the-fuck-are-you-doing-don't-kill-her, sure that it's a figment of her imagination. Then it becomes too late to wonder, as the whip comes down a final time and the world goes blank with blinding pain... and then fades to black. Lights out.

 

9

 

“Goddammit, the boys in Phoenix City told me you was a professional!” the old man Jenkins shouts querulously as he points a shaking finger at Miss Adventure's unconscious, steaming form in the dust. “You could've fuckin' fried the bitch!”

 

Ears burning in chagrin at her loss of control, Violatrix doesn't look at him as she retracts the whip and strides over to the hysterically sobbing Connie, miming a backhanded slap. Cringing, the bruised and naked Latina immediately shuts up and casts her eyes down, and doesn't resist as the mercenary grabs her by one arm and yanks her up on her trembling legs. “I knew what I was doing,” the voluptuous villainess snarls in the fat black man's direction. “Besides, she's a bonus anyway. This slut is the main payday. Stop complaining.”

 

In fact, Violatrix doesn't remember how many times she whipped Miss Adventure. The world had simply gone red with fury. Uncomfortably, she knows perfectly well how dangerous that loss of composure was. It's like nothing she's ever experienced before. But she'll die before she admits that to some chubby old pervert in greasy jeans and a soup-stained wifebeater.

 

Got to stay cool, girl, she tells herself, forcing herself not to wince at the pain that shoots through her body as she moves. You got a little rattled back there, is all. You just can't let yourself get rattled. But the old man's yapping is keeping her blood on simmer.

 

“Stop complaining?” Jenkins repeats in disbelief, following her as she drags Connie over to the chain-link fence. “Do you seriously think a Masked Avenger would be just a bonus to these boys? When I told them what you had, they told me we had a new main event! They're already calling up their own connections right now with the good news! You got any idea what they'll do to me if I fuck up delivering the goods? What they'll do to you?”

 

“Look, old man,” she whirls to confront him, letting Connie flop into the dirt behind her. “I came through, didn't I? Go back and look at her, she's fine. In a few minutes she probably won't even have any marks on her.” That's a guess – the only way to explain how the heroine had the strength for that desperate attack is some kind of healing power, and there's no way of knowing how much it can really cope with – but this asshole doesn't need to know that. “As for me, I can take care of myself. And maybe you should be more worried about what my whip can do to you.”

 

He licks his lips and says nothing for a moment. Jenkins is a big man, and muscled under his fat, but he's plainly not up for tangling with her and the threat gives him pause. Nevertheless,  as she turns back to pull Connie up again, he says: “Alright, lady, I ain't want to mess with you. But after today... to be straight up, I gotta think pretty serious about whether I can do business with you again, either.”

 

Violatrix feels her fury spike again, but this time she clamps down on it, forcing out an approximation of her more customary throaty chuckle. She can't afford to have her reputation damaged over this. Stay cool, girl. She takes a deep breath. “Really,” she says then, smiling saucily over her shoulder at Jenkins. “Well in that case, I guess you don't want your... extra bonus? Maybe I should just keep these ladies elsewhere until tonight?”

 

That one really gives him pause. He stops dead, looking with unabashed hunger at Connie's bruised but still fetchingly nubile little body, drinking in the expression of dull fear in her eyes, looking back over his shoulder at the gorgeous young heroine unconscious in the dust behind the Mustang. Violatrix bats her eyelashes prettily at him as he turns back.

 

“Alright,” he says grudgingly. “But it's gotta be with both, now.”

 

She grins even wider. “Sure, no problem, partner.” She stills a fresh round of snivelling from Connie with a sternly threatening look, then looks back at him. “But you can only have the heroine after I'm done with her. Deal?” A grudging nod. “Good. And I'll be needing another favour from you.”

 

“What's that?” Jenkins is looking back at the heroine again, his imagination clearly fired by the afternoon's agenda, a big crease starting to appear at the crotch of his filthy jeans.

 

“I need you to lend me another car, and to junk the Mustang.”

 

“Yeah, okay,” he says absent-mindedly, still looking at the inert Miss Adventure, one big hand about to come up and rub at his groin before he fully registers what she's just said. As it dawns on him, her jerks out of his reverie. “Wait, you still planning to go out on the streets this afternoon with all this... weather we got going on? By the looks of things, you was lucky to just make it here.”

 

'Weather.' It's charming that Newvalites have an actual slang term for super-crises. “Don't worry, I've seen worse,” she lies. “And it takes a lot more than one little run-in to disturb my plans.” Inwardly, she adds: I'm not going to be beat by this city. I'm going to goddamned well prove I can handle it. As she thinks it, she realizes that going back out is the only way she can truly get her balance back after the humiliating meltdown she'd experienced facing that robot. It's the only way to set things right.

 

He must see the determination in her eyes, because after a moment he just nods. “Alright, I got a Caddy around here somewhere you can use. Just bring it back in one piece, you dig?”

 

“I sure do. Thanks, partner.”

 

Jenkins basks in the warmth of the beauty's smile for a second before running his hand awkwardly through his thinning white hair. “So, uhhh, now what?” he asks.

 

Violatrix has turned back to look at Connie, making the pert-breasted girl shiver with fright at the calculation in her eyes. “Now we have a little fun,” she says. As the old urges start to rise, given a vicious new edge by the rage still burning in her blood, she presses the Latina hottie back against the cool chain-link. “Why don't you start by hunting us up some wire?” Looking back at Miss Adventure, she adds: “And some chains. Heavy ones.” Then, remembering the sight of her own blood-smeared visage, she adds: “And a wet towel. A clean wet towel.”

 

* * *

 

Miss Adventure opens her eyes to a strangely tranquil scene. The junkyard around her is bathed in pure, pale light. Her body feels light, almost numb.

 

Looking around her, she wonders how she got here. She remembers there was something important she was going to do, and she remembers being tied and trapped in a dark place, and she remembers feelings of pain and of pleasure washing through her young body, but why or in what order is something she's not sure of. And she remembers terrible, blinding agony that went on and on, remembers the panicky certainty that she was about to die... and then... here.

 

“Hello?” she says experimentally. “Is there anybody here?”

 

She hears footsteps in the gravel approaching her, along with the regular beating of a powerful heart. She would get up... but somehow, she doesn't feel like it. She doesn't feel any alarm at those approaching footsteps. She lies still, a great wave of peace sweeping through her. Those footsteps... they're the sound of someone she knows well. Someone who means safety.

 

He comes into view a moment later, his wraparound red shades gleaming in the white light, his close-cropped silver hair limned in brightness, his muscles clearly defined under his red spandex suit, the silver A at his belt identifying him clearly. “Hi, Mister A,” she says happily, smiling up at him.

 

“Hello there, Miss,” he replies in his deep, good-natured tones. “Hard day?”

 

She laughs, remembering that phrase from the first time she'd met him, when he'd bailed her out of the drunk tank. “Better now that you're here,” she says. “Did we win today?”

 

“The first thing to remember about being a superheroine,” he says as he reaches down to take her by one arm, lifting her effortlessly to her feet: “Is that justice always prevails. Have faith in that, and nothing else can go wrong.”

 

“Thanks,” she smiles up at him, brushing the dust off herself. “And thanks for saving me. Justice always prevails when you're around, I guess! You know, I remember that speech from the first lesson you taught me--”

 

“The expert crime-fighter relies on his instincts first, his training second, his powers last.” He keeps speaking like he hasn't even heard her. “Always take the same precautions when planning to operate with your powers that you would in operating without. Never let them make you cocky.”

 

Why is he repeating things he's already told me? For some reason, she feels a twinge of uncertainty at the heedless lecturing, and it gets stronger when he doesn't release her arm, pulling her instead forward. As she looks in front of her, she gasps, seeing a shiny Black Mustang which for some reason sends utter dread through her. Looking at it, she can remember the face of an evilly beautifully alabaster-skinned doll of a woman. She can remember the feel of being trapped in its trunk. Tingling goes through her body as she remembers... other things. She gasps. “I don't --” she says hesitantly, then: “Look, can we just leave this place? I'm feeling a little uncomfortable—”

 

“Confront the thing you fear the most.” His grip tightens on her arm, almost painfully. “The strongest party to an encounter is the one who has faced his uncertainties and understood his own flaws. 'Know Thyself' was the first commandment of the ancient warrior, and it's the first commandment of the cape.”

 

“You've told me all this.” She feels her unease rising as she tries unsuccessfully to shrink away from his grip as he pulls her around to the front of the car. “What – what's wrong with you, Mister A? You're acting weird, you're... you're hurting me... aggghhh!”

 

She cries out as he tosses her face down on the hood of the car like a sack of potatoes. The sensation of peace fleeing completely, she tries to get up, but suddenly her muscles won't obey her. She feels a cool tingling all through her body, accompanied by a kittenish weakness as if her healing powers are trying to repair damage bad enough to nearly kill her. Her memory flashes an image of a whip slicing through the air toward her, followed by obliterating agony. Whimpering in sudden fear, she tries again to move, and again can't do more than twitch.

 

She sees a small bird land on the chain-link fence near the car. It gives out a cry that sounds exactly like a young woman screaming. Miss Adventure's fear deepens.

 

“Remember that every power has its limits.” He's opening the driver's side door on the car as she makes more shuddering, futile efforts to climb off its hood. “A healing power only improves your chances of living to fight again. It can't keep you from losing a fight. And it exacts its own price.”

 

She looks around her, barely hearing the familiar litany now as a surreal new development takes shape. Extruding from the corners of the Mustang's hood, like live metal serpents, are lengths of heavy, greasy chain that wrap themselves irresistibly around her ankles and wrists, pulling her nubile form into a helpless spread-eagle. “No...” she whimpers aloud. “No, please... stop this...”

 

“Likewise, super-senses can be a gift or a curse.” The Adventurist's voice is muffled but still audible as he rummages for something in the car's glove compartment. “When I first got my powers, I thought they were a disorder. I spent years in a sanitarium, in constant pain from every nerve-ending, deaf from the constant noise, blind from seeing every band of the spectrum and being unable to sort the signals out. It was only with discipline that I learned a way forward. Without discipline,” he goes on as he fumbles briefly with something that sounds like a set of keys: “You're doomed.”

 

“Ahhhgghhhhh...” she moans as he sets the car's engine revving to life with the last words, the vibrations thrumming through her weak and helpless body. She realizes quickly that she has no control over the sensory input, her head spinning as every part of her throbs in time with the Mustang's mighty engine. Squirming as the chains tighten around her wrists and ankles, her moans grow huskier as she feels the power of those vibrations between her thighs, the gusset of her thong getting damp as the tight teen pussy underneath it starts to heat up. She writhes in an ineffectual attempt to lift her moist, sensitive girl-parts away from the stimulus. “Please... pleeease... no, don't... please... whatever I've done, I'm sorry... pleeease... turn it off...” The repeated cries of that horrible bird on the fence, imitating the desolate shrieks of a girl in pain, drive further knives of fear into her mind and body.

 

Closing the door, the Adventurist comes back out, his face impassive underneath the shades. “Fight with the mind as much as with the body,” he says. The chained, wriggling teen's eyes widen in terror as she sees a black leather head harness with a big red ball gag dangling from one of his hands. “Distract and confuse your enemy. Destroy their comfort zone. Deny them safety and routine.” He rips away her goggles, tossing them away into the dust as she looks up in terror at man she'd always idolized and secretly fantasized about, now transformed into something terrible and alien. “Dictate the flow of any encounter and you're certain to prevail.”

 

Desperately trying to shut out her rising horror, she turns her head away and screws her eyes shut, tries to will away the response of her soft, pert titties and hot, wet twat to the car's throbbing engine underneath her. But then she feels a hand slash hard across her firm left buttock, then land a hard slap on her right, then smack the left again, make her reddening ass writhe with the pain, and when the next smack comes down she can't stop her eyes and mouth opening wide with her cry of pain: “AHHHHAAUUUU--”

 

* * *

 

“--UUGGHH-NNNNNGHHHHHHHHHH!”

 

The teen heroine's emergence from the disorienting nightmare back into reality is marked by the massive rubber ball-gag stoppering up her scream of pain and horror. As she feels the leather harness being buckled in place over her close-shorn skull, the wild-eyed young beauty squeals around the gag, breathing frantically through her nose as she takes in her waking surroundings.

 

As she sees the reflection of the captor buckling her ball gag in place, she feels a weird mixture of relief that her dream of the Adventurist turning evil had only been a dream – and terror that she's back in the real world, helpless in the hands of a sadistically-grinning Violatrix. The real world is plenty bad enough: many of the features of that horrible dream about the Adventurist were clearly her addled, unconscious mind echoing the circumstances. She is indeed lying face-down on the Mustang's hood – though the car is now a wreck once more – and her wrists and ankles are bound with sturdy chains, though there's nothing supernatural about them here. The engine is indeed rumbling underneath her and sending sensual havoc through her firm young body. She is indeed still hopelessly weak, her muscles and tendons cold with the desperate workings of a healing factor taxed to its limits.

 

And she can indeed hear the repeated sounds of a girl screaming from the chain-link fence.... but it's no bird. Turning her head to the side, she can see the slender golden-brown wrists of Connie Coneja tied to the link with looped, thin wire... and her lissome legs splayed wide by the binding of her knees to the links under her wrists! The rest of the girl is obscured by the blubbery, wifebeater-clad back of a huge black man rutting away between her shapely thighs with his jeans around his knees. Her agonized mewling cries come in rhythm with the long, slow, jarring thrusts that betray the sheer size of the Nubian meatstick he's skewering into the Latina's tight cunt. Oh God, Connie... The heroine is transfixed at the sight of her new friend's brutal ravishment. Connie, noooo...

 

“Wakey-wakey,” says the porcelain-flawless villainess as she lands another smack on the heroine's vulnerable rump, making her victim squeal again. “Time for your first lesson, super-slut!” Her pale skin flushed with the excitement of domination, Violatrix has cleaned the blood from her features and looks once again completely in control. Her shoulders ripple with athletic muscle under her colourful tats as she delivers another ass-slap with a force that makes her creamy cleavage jiggle impressively.

 

“Nnnnnnhhhnnnnghhh...” Miss Adventure can't keep the sobbing moan of despair from coming out around the ball-gag propping her jaws painfully wide as the utter helplessness of her position sinks in. That they haven't bothered to gag Connie means that there's nobody in range to hear any screams for help. And judging from the level of weakness in her shivering, helpless body, Miss Adventure won't have a shot at breaking free for some time. Maybe even a few hours. “NNNNGGGGhhhnnnghhhhnngghhh...” Another humiliating spank makes her sob and writhe her horny, dripping cunt against the rumbling stimulation of the Mustang's engine, her nectar coating her inner thighs as she tugs on the chains while her friend's raped squeals echo in her ears.

 

“I admit I was thinking of going easy on you, before,” says Violatrix as she climbs onto the hood with knees either side of Miss Adventure's loins. She makes her captive mew and wriggle with another brisk ass-slap as she pulls aside the sopping thong to bare her shaven teen snatch, then yanks aside the straps of her star-spangled bikini to press her naked tits against the hood's sun-heated metal. “I was going to try not to hurt you, and I wasn't even going to let Fatass Jenkins over there touch you.” The heroine whimpers as she feels her head yanked up by the leather harness and sees Violatrix's lupine grin behind her in the cracked windshield. “But that was before.”

 

“Nmmmmmmmppphmmmphhhh...” replies the wide-eyed Damsel of Daring as she watches bubbling drool leak around the ball gag and down her chin.

 

“So glad you understand,” mocks the villainess as she reaches down to adjust the massive black strap-on. Miss Adventure jolts as she feels its blunt head probe at the hot mouth of her sex, her nether lips parting and her juices traitorously lubing up the invader. Looking intensely into her victim's eyes through their shared reflection, holding her head firmly in place by the harness, Violatrix clearly savours the charged pause and the tears leaking down the young heroine's cheeks. She draws out the wait for a long, agonizing moment, salaciously licking her lips, her eyes shining, and then...

 

“NNNNNNGHHHHNNNGGHHHHH!” Miss Adventure squalls in pain and her eyes go wide as saucers as the nine inches of fake cock rip bloodily through her hymen and plunge to the root in her virgin-tight pussy. She feels hot blood spatter her inner thighs as a debilitating wave of mixed pleasure and agony washes out from her stuffed cunt, bringing her to the edge of fainting and the edge of orgasm simultaneously as Violatrix's glass-reflected gaze keeps boring into hers, making the violation horribly intimate. “HHHNNNNNGHHHHH...”

 

Her head swims as she teeters on the brink of passing out... then pulls back from it, her cunt twitching and clutching wetly at the plundering phallus but not yet exploding in ecstasy. She braces herself to be fucked hard... but to her bewilderment, Violatrix holds the phallus still, letting the heroine's teen love tunnel pulse and quiver around it as it grows accustomed to the intrusion.

 

After a moment, the reason becomes clear. With the engine's vibration still working on her, with her tight quim already slick and primed and horny, the villainess is waiting for the Damsel of Daring to submit to the sexual needs invading her bound body, waiting for pleasure to take over as the pain of her deflowering fades... waiting for her to start fucking herself on the dildo stretching out her sensitive sugar walls. Her captor's reflected gaze is locked on hers in the glass because she's being dared to a perverted battle of wills. Violatrix's smile says: Just give it enough time, and you'll make yourself my bitch.

 

No. The Damsel of Daring flashes a sudden defiance from her baby blues as she fights to hold her body still. No way! I can't stop you from fucking me, but you're not going to break me like that. You'll have to take what you want! Clenching the gag in her teeth, balling her hands into fists, the heroine pants furiously through her nose as she pours all her energy into holding her body still, into forcing Violatrix to make the first move. She refuses to break their ferocious staring contest in the glass.

 

But the onslaught on the heroine's haywire ultra-senses is conspiring against her. Connie's forlorn cock-pummelled wailing shafts into her, and the sound of the Latina's pussy squelching wetly around the big black dick pounding it at a steadily-increasing speed is impossible to ignore. The Mustang's rumbling engine sends a steady thrumming of stimulation down the length of her body several times a second, making her tits tingle and her snatch ache for release. And as the pain of her torn hymen fades, that unbearable ache is steadily amplified in Miss Adventure's juicy teen cunt by the wonderful girth and hardness of the dildo, the way its stretches her glossy labia wide and makes her feel so divinely full. The heroine feels sweat break out on her brow, her nails digging into her palms as her fists begin to shake, her breathing approaching hyperventilation as her heart pounds with the supreme effort of self-control.

 

“Hnnnnnhhhh...” the first crack in her resolve comes a few seconds later, as she twists her hips ever-so-slightly, telling herself it's just to reduce her discomfort. But the jostling of the phallus inside her sends it rubbing up against new nerve-endings, sends pleasure rippling through her cunt and down to the stiff nubbin of her clit, and her second moan is louder: “Hnnnnhhh...”

 

Violatrix says nothing, just smiling fiendishly as she watches some of the fiery resistance leach out of the heroine's baby blues as she holds on desperately.

 

But old man Jenkins and Connie aren't nearly so quiet, and she hears the big black man grunt: “Yeah, yeahhhh, take that dick little chica,” as his thrusts pick up speed, the chain link rattling. “Once you go black you never go back...” And she can smell the pungent, surprising arousal wafting from between Connie's legs, can hear the Latina's pussy muscles begin to clutch sweetly at their violator as, incredibly, the hot-to-trot young thing starts to get off on her crude rapist's cock! Her screams are trailing off into increasingly urgent “ahhhhhh ahhhhhhh AHHHHHHH”s of desire as her passion rises under the old pervert's deep-dicking rampage.  Before long their rhythm is positively frantic, and as Jenkins buries his anaconda balls-deep in the bound, helpless nubile, their cries meld into wordless ecstasy as her pussy spasms and sluices its wet tribute around his throbbing, spurting fuckstick, his jumping nuts pumping the young beauty full of slimy spunk.

 

The sound reaches deep into Miss Adventure's core, stirring her hot cunt nectar and massaging her hot pussy flesh as it quivers with envy of the pleasure it could be enjoying, as her clit pulses with almost painful arousal. The cracks in her resolve start to multiply, and she watches Violatrix's eyes as the balance of power in their reflected staring contest starts to crumble. More and more of her defiance is bleeding away, heartbeat by heartbeat, as her stare transitions from rejection to pleading, from You're not gonna make me humiliate myself! to Please... please don't make me humiliate myself... But the villainess' eyes hold no mercy.

 

Finally, in desperation, the Damsel of Daring tries to wriggle her sopping cunt forward off the impaling dildo... or at least, she thinks that's what she's trying to do. “Hhhhhnnnghhhhh...” she moans as she writhes and gyrates her hips with sudden violence, stirring her lubricious insides like a cauldron of lust, her distended snatch getting a few inches forward and then somehow slipping back onto the big toy, sending a spasm of intense delight shuddering through her barely-legal fuckhole.  “Nnnngghhnnnghhhh...” She can't take her increasingly fragile, helpless gaze away from the fiendish gleam in her captor's, and whines in panic around the gag as her salivating mouth sends another rope of bright drool down her chin.

 

Got to... got to try again... she tells herself. “HHHHNNNNNNGHHHHHH...” she moans even louder as she wriggles her hole five inches up the tool before her failure dooms her quivering quim to another delicious, squelching trip back down the shaft. Uhhhh... oh no... got... got to try again...”NNNGHHHHHH... MMMMMHHMMPHHHH... NNNNNGHHHHHH... NNNGHHHH! HNNNNNHNNNGHHHHHH!” Her attempts to struggle off the dildo get a little further each time... but somehow always seem to end with her greedy little cunt slamming sloppily back down the phallus' length. Not... not working... got to... ahhhhh... got to try again...

 

By the ninth attempt, tears of shame and defeat are dripping from her eyes as it becomes obvious even to her that she's simply given in to the urge to fuck herself on the big dildo like a tramp. “NNAHHAAAHHAAAGGHHHHH,” she sobs pathetically as she sees her enemy's eyes flash in triumph, and the final crumbling into weak submission reflected in her own. And it's at this point that her bound  helplessness and the car's rumbling engine and the penetrating power of the fake prick combine to bring her off in a squirting, rapturous, profoundly humiliating orgasm. “HHHHNNN-NNNGHHHHHH! AHHHHAANNNGHHHHHHHH! NNNNNGHHHHHHHHH!” Her cunt spurts and spasms and sends wave after wave of mortifying ecstasy crashing over her as Violatrix grins in sweet victory.

 

“There, that's a good little slut,” she says. She rakes her finger-nails lightly over her captive's smooth back and up the rear of her splayed thighs, sending shivers of unwanted pleasure through her: “Give into it. Give yourself to it.”

 

Shuddering and snivelling with utter horror at the realization of having crossed some terrible boundary, of having plunged from some terrible precipice, Miss Adventure's head swims with the effort of trying to regather some fragments of her shattered will, some shred of pride. But it's hopeless. Wriggling and bucking her hips rhythmically now, the beaten heroine can't help but obey. Her eyes start to roll back in her head as sweat drips from her writhing body, her twat slurping loudly around the dildo as if to announce her depravity to the world as she rams herself onto the plastic over and over again. Her raw fuck-piglet squeals of shamed pleasure get louder as the drool from drips her ball gag to puddle under her chin, sliming her breasts as they slip around on the car's hood while her body whips in the winds of ecstasy.

 

The sound of Jenkins and Connie going at it anew doesn't help; the enormous fat man has lined up his still-hard cock with the Latina's puckered asshole, now, and plunged it in, crude farting sounds emanating around the penetration as his victim bawls and sobs steadily, whether in pain or pleasure even she seems not to know. Unconsciously, the heroine starts to movie in tandem with the old man's vigorous porking of Connie's tight anus, somehow making it seem as though that big dick is slipping into both holes at the same time... and before long, the illusion has her dripping snatch swelling swiftly into another devastating climax!

 

“HHHANNNNGHHHHH-UUUNNNGHHHHH-UUGHHHHH-UGGGHHHH-UHHHHHNNNGGHHHH!” Miss Adventure moans in despair as her pussy clutches at the plastic prick and spritzes her sweet nectar repeatedly all over the woman who conquered and chained her. Her face burns with the shame of the fresh submission. The last dregs of hope and courage seem to drain out of her along with her spit and her spurting fuck-juices as she's forced to endure another round of humiliating, ringing slaps on her ass.

 

Violatrix's merry laugh rises mockingly above her. “Can't get enough, can you, whore?” the villainess taunts her, punctuating her words with hard spanks that wring broken sobs from the bound teen beauty beneath her. “You fucking love being my little subbie bitch. Well, don't worry, slut... we're just getting started.”

 

At these last words, Miss Adventure goes cold with premonition. Sure enough, the powerful vibrations of the dildo start up deep inside her a moment later... and her eyes roll back her head as the dildo's rapid revving and manipulation of her pulsating cunt-flesh hits her with a power that outstrips her previous encounter with the tool more than a hundredfold.

 

“AHHHHANNNNNGHHHH...” she moans as the first climactic blow swells almost instantly inside her. Looking into Violatrix's eyes again, she realizes how utterly the criminal plans to break her... and that there's nothing she can do to stop it. Gonna cum... subbie bitch... can't get enough... Her enemy's taunts wander across her fracturing mind before Violatrix pulls her hips back, then skewers the humming weapon deep into her tight, sopping hole. The vicious thrusts keep coming as the first multiple-orgasm hits her like a tidal wave... and all conscious thought swirls away into a spasming, squealing hell of lust and hopelessness and shame.

 

Time itself seems to flee, and the heroine's throat goes raw from squealing and mewling as the vicious dildonic grudge-fuck sends her so far over the edge that helplessly squirting orgasm starts to seem like her natural state. Her sobbing wails of passion seem to come from somewhere outside her, the sound of slaps on her soft flesh and her body drumming rhythmically against the car's hood like the sound of someone else being abused. But the vibrations manipulating her quim with pitch-perfection and mechanical ruthlessness bring her squealing and sobbing back to herself with each fresh punishing, pounding thrust, each new wet eruption of sensation from her painfully swollen clit and squirting squack. “AGGGHHHHH! NNGGGGAAAGGHHHHHHH! HHHHNNNNGHH! MMMMMMMHHHMMPHHHHHH!”

 

The waves of pleasure become as debilitating as the blows of the electrified whip had been. She's burning from within, the fires of lust boiling her blood almost as the giga-watts of current had done before them. As the dildo rams home again... again... and again, her broken mind becomes a pitiable litany begging simply: NO I CAN'T TAKE IT PLEASE NO MORE PLEASE STOP NO MORE PLEASE STOP OHHHH GAWWWDDDD... And then the next clenching, shuddering climax obliterates that futile prayer, and the next, and the next... and the next.

 

Finally, the waves of pleasure overload her nervous system, and her mind shuts down as the world goes blank. Lights out.

 

10

 

“Gahhhh... hhhahhhh... ohhh yeeeeaahhhhh...” Violatrix shudders in delectable pleasure over the newly-unconscious form of the broken Masked Avenger bitch as her own final orgasm shudders sweetly through her, adding to the slick honeyed coating dripping down her inner thighs as she smiles in pure bliss, her whole body on an endorphin high as she lets go the head harness and lets her bound victim's head slump inertly to the car's hood.

 

Ravishing Miss Adventure had been everything she'd hoped it would be. Turning the vibrator all the way up to its highest setting, destroyer, had turned an already-broken heroine into mewling, semi-conscious fuck-meat in mere seconds. It was a sight to behold; Violatrix had almost wondered if the teen do-gooder's brain was going to start leaking out her ears. Relishing the sympathetic vibrations in her own puss as she'd sadistically slam-fucked the super-slut into delirium and from there into unconsciousness – in a few short minutes that must have seemed to the victim like an eternity – and feeling her horny prisoner's orgasmic squirts soaking her over and over again as the bitch mewled forlornly through the gag like a pig being impaled live on a red-hot spit... It's one of the sweetest, most memorable sessions she's ever enjoyed. Almost enough to make up for everything else. Almost.

 

Her cleavage heaving and her body glowing with satisfaction, Violatrix nevertheless feels the pain wracking through her as she dismounts, her head giddy with exhaustion. That session of mind-blowing R&R might not have been the most advisable thing in her condition... but screw it, it had been worth it. She leans against the car, reaching inside to cut off its engine, and smiles as she watches Jenkins putting Connie through the last few paces of her own ordeal. His fat, hairy buttocks waggle obscenely as he busts his second nut of the day up in the Latina's tight hole... in fact, judging by the way she cries and moans and sobs into his shoulder, probably her tightest hole! You go, Jenkins, she thinks as she watches the pair shudder to completion, Connie's moans giving away an unwilling orgasm of her own as her ass fills with hot spunk.

 

Finally, Jenkins steps away and starts to pull up his jeans, revealing the young Latina in a flushed half-swoon, her dishevelled hair covering her face and splooge dripping copiously from both her swollen nether holes to spatter in the dust underneath her. Catching his breath, the old man zips up and belts his jeans, finally looking at Violatrix, who applauds him with her sunniest smile.

 

“Not bad for an old-timer,” she says. “I guess that Viagra stuff really works, huh?”

 

He grimaces at her. “Very funny.” Eyeing Miss Adventure baking on the Mustang's hood like an animal hide put out to cure, he adds: “You, uhhhh, done with her now?”

 

“Wow, you do have energy to burn.”

 

“Actually,” he admits, “I am gonna need a little rest. But yeah, I'll be up for it soon enough... assuming there's anything left after what I just heard you doing to her.”

 

“There's plenty left, don't you worry,” she reassures him. “And after what she just went through, I guarantee you she won't be giving you any trouble.”

 

He grunts. “Alright, then. I'm a take Connie here down and make our, uhhhhh, guests more comfortable.” Jenkins fishes in his pocket, producing a ring of dozens of keys, and singles one of them out. “Meantime, why don't you get yourself fixed up? This here's the key to the Caddy I told you about. There's a gas can up in my office, the car's down in the southeast corner of the yard. Big red motherfucker, you can't miss it.”

 

“Thanks,” Violatrix nods, catching the keys as he tosses them to her. “Make sure you junk the Mustang before you take out any more of your 'bonus,' okay? Where's the office?”

 

Following his wordlessly pointed finger, she sets off for a wooden shack near the gate, fighting not to let her legs wobble as the exertions of the day take their toll. As she draws nearer she sees a little wooden hutch, padlocked and with chicken wire running around the top, alongside the shack. From within come the barks and snarls of dogs – no doubt the kind of ill-favoured rottweilers that seem to be standard issue for junkyard proprietors... and it doesn't smell like their kennel is all that clean, either. She wrinkles her nose as she walks past.

 

And wrinkles it even more as she steps into the shack, which appears to do triple-duty as an office, a shed and an apartment. The stink of months' worth of the old man's musty sweat lies heavy in the air. There's a desk in one corner – buried under a drift of papers and whiskey bottles and beer cans -- a filthy-looking couch with some sheets draped over it in another, dirty dishes and half-eaten bags of chips everywhere, and shelves festooned with toolboxes, anonymous-looking aerosol cans of every possible size, and no small amount of canned food.

 

Damn, how does he live like this? Putting her hand daintily over her nose as she makes her way over to the shelves, Violatrix starts rummaging through what she finds there. The aerosol cans advertise some products curiously revealing about a day in the life of Jenkins – there's a sweat-stain remover, a big can of bear spray, some kind of liquid bandage, a pheromone spray for dog breeding – but she takes only passing note of them as she goes through one shelf, then another, finally finding the promised gas can. Relief sweeps through her as she heads back out into the relatively fresh air of the junkyard.

 

As she's about to set off to seek out the replacement car, she sees Jenkins walking toward the wreck of a large white cube van, carrying the heroine and Connie Coneja slung in a fireman's carry over each shoulder, his hands just happening to hold them in place by gripping their warm, supple, naked asses. She waves to him, pointing meaningfully back at the Mustang with a Don't forget! gesture, and he waves impatiently back as if to say I know, I know, I'm on it.

 

You better be, thinks the villainess as she heads out, clenching her jaw as she strives to look more energetic and implacable than she feels. She's relieved to be out of Jenkins' field of vision before her knees nearly buckle and she's forced to stop for a rest. Keep going, girl, she admonishes herself as she braces herself and gets back up. You're going to beat this goddamned city... you're going to show them all...

 

* * *

 

“NNNNNNNGGGGHHHHH!” Miss Adventure emerges from the dark mists of unconsciousness with a ball-gagged squeal of pain, her head spinning as she tries to figure out what's going on.

 

The red-hot log of agony in her tight asshole gives her the first clue. Somebody... somebody's cock is in my ass! She realizes it with dismay at the same time she realizes that, thanks to her previous bitch-taming twirl on Violatrix's demonic device, her body is still ultra-senstive and her pussy still dripping, hot, wet, the painful pumping of the hot phallic intrusion in her asshole only stoking the terrible sexual heat as she feels a set of hanging balls slap-slap-slapping against her slick cunt-lips.

 

“Yeah, bitch,” grunts a voice from above her. “Couldn't wait to fuck you like the ho you are... don't worry, old Jenk'll be quick...”

 

“NNNNGGGHHHANGGGGHHHHH...” moans the heroine in despair as she realizes whose hot, throbbing cock is pistoning into her poop-chute. God... it's that fat man... his dick, so big... stretching me... pounding me... Desperately, she tries to wriggle free... but she's been chained face-down, ass-up with her wrists and ankles bound one to the other in a splayed, vulnerable position, feeling cold metal against her cheek and drool already puddled under it as her struggles fail to do anything but swirl the veiny prick around inside her gaped asshole. Her vision is blurred by tears of shame as she feels waves of horny sensation washing out from the crude and painful anal invasion. The words come unbidden to her mind: No... butt-fucked by a big black dick... I never thought... I never thought this could happen... “UNNNGHHHHHHH-ANNNNNGHHHH-NNNANNGHHHH-NNNNGANNNGHHH-ANNNNGHHHH!”

 

Her  vision clears long enough for her to see something even more terrible: Connie's wide, terrified eyes staring into hers, mere inches away! Fresh shame paralyzes her as she cranes her head around, realizing they've been bound side by side in identical positions in the back of a wrecked van. There's a big twist of colorful fabric gagging the Latina's mouth... and a moment later the heroine realizes that it's pieces of her own bikini, shredded and converted into a rough gag! A symbol of how completely she's failed the girl, the sight shafts into her every bit as destructively as the thick black member now wrecking her asshole.

 

“Damn, you are one tight little bitch,” breathes the fat pig Jenkins above her as he corkscrews his cock into her dank, hot depths. “You lovin' this, ain't you, slut? I'll just bet you are...”

 

“NNNNNMMMMHHHMMMPHHHHH...” sobs Miss Adventure in vain denial. She knows exactly why her teen tush is affording him such snug enjoyment: it's her healing factor, trying to repair the damage to her asshole even as each new plunge of his prick rips it asunder, keeping the passage perpetually and excitingly tight as if made to pleasure him. Her sobs grow louder as she feels him reaching around between her slender thighs, one of his rough, thick digits sliding up to stroke her saturated cunt and diddle her stiff clitty. As he finds and starts manipulating her super-sensitive love button, she gasps and squeezes her eyes shut as the sensation kicks the lust in her pussy into overdrive, beginning a rise toward helpless orgasm even as her rump is wrecked. “NNNNGGGNNNGGGHHHHH...”

 

Frantically, the heroine whines in distress and tries to wriggle her hips and move her clit away from the corrupting stimulation. But there's nowhere to go, and his finger stayed glued to her hot button. All her movements do is drive her ass repeatedly up and up, and up again, meeting the hard thrusts of the old man's cock and making it seem like she's starting to fuck him back willingly as their flesh slaps lewdly together.

 

“Yeah, yeah, you love it, slut...” he groans in appreciation. “Love it in that ass, huh, whore? You want it harder, huh? Old Jenk can give it to you harder...”

 

“NNNNNNNNNGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!” she squeals as he picks up the pace, spearing his twitching prick even deeper into her back passage. Taking the cock over and over, helpless to stop the writhing of her taut young body in pain and pleasure both, she feels like something essential has broken loose inside her. The effortlessness with which Violatrix had dominated her has more than just shaken her confidence. It's begun to undermine the belief that she's a strong heroine at all, and to stoke the fear that she really is the kind of horny little slut her abusers keep telling her she is. Miss Adventure is still too weakened to break the chains on her... but even if her strength were all to come back now, the truth is that she just doesn't know whether she'd be able to throw off her ravisher, whether she'd be able to fight the waves of guilty, shameful pleasure his pistoning prick is giving her. Wriggling her stuffed ass and sobbing as she feels her traitorous little twat respond to the stroking of her rapist's finger, her juices dripping down her thighs, she knows even as she tries to resist that she'll soon be squirting out her girl-cum in time with the domineering thrusts of the hot cock stretching her bunghole.

 

The sound of her friend's muffled whimpering makes her open her eyes, to find herself transfixed by Connie's once again just as the brutal ass-fuck is on the verge of bringing her to climax. The hopeless look in the Latina's limpid dark gaze feeds Miss Adventure's growing weakness, the collapse of her will in the face of total failure and humiliation. Knowing that the sexy beauty who looked up to her as she'd tried to save them both from the forces of evil is now watching her being butt-fucked into horny submission by a dirty, sweaty old man as he diddles her clit and digs greasy fingers into her pale, barely-legal flesh... it's too much. “NNGGHHMMPHHHH...” she moans an “I'm sorry” to her friend before the relentless play on her clit and rapidly-accelerating shaft in her ass begins to take her irreversibly over the edge.

 

“Awwww yeeeaaaahhhh here it fuckin' comes, bitch...” moans Jenkins as he pumps his prick into her with wild urgency, then tenses up and buries it balls-deep as his hot sperm starts to spurt into her tight orifice. “Fuuuuck yeeeahhhhh....”

 

“MMMMMMHHHHMMMPHHHHH!” she bawls miserably as her clit erupts under his frigging finger, sending shockwaves of rapture through her while her pussy spasms, yielding up its tribute of squirting nectar as the helpless heroine's rapist pumps her hot, tight little butt full of sperm. Cumming... big, black cock in my ass... hot spunk spurting up my ass... it's making me cum even HARDER... The horrible realization draws another another clutching, spurting climax out of her sopping slit. “NNNNGGGHHHHNNNNNGHHHHHNNNGHHH!”

 

The old pervert's moans trail off into a mocking chuckle as he pants above her, the racing of his heart thumping in her ears. “Goddamn that was good,” he says happily, landing a playful swat on her ass. “But old Jenk ain't done yet, bitch. Not by a long shot...”

 

His cock makes a wet popping sound as he pulls it out of her ass, the captive cutie moaning as she feels a stream of his jism bubbling out of her asshole and slopping over her naked slit. Her head spinning, she tries to catch her breath, making a futile effort to wriggle her way free of the chains as she feels the head of his cock – still turgid and throbbing – lining up with the juicy mouth of her snatch. “Nnnnnnghhhhh... nnggggaaanggghhhh...”  The Damsel of Daring's body is still too hot and horny, the aftershocks of climax rendering her utterly docile, as she feels the blunt head of his thick schlong start to push relentlessly forward. Then she tenses in fright as she realizes her healing power has restored her hymen: she's about to get deflowered again! And there's no way to stop it!

 

“Damn,” he breathes as he encounters the resistance at the mouth of her tight twat. “Thought that she-bitch popped you already... but I don't mind doin' it again!”

 

“HHHNNNNNNGGHHHHHHH!” she squeals as he rams his tool home, the agony of her shredding hymen and the warmth of blood on her thighs mixing in a sensual vortex with the salacious delight of having her aching pink fuckhole stuffed and stretched to the max with the first real cock it's ever taken. As the hot man-flesh whispers sinfully inside her, Miss Adventure mewls and grunts in horror and pain and wanton lust as he starts to pound it home and she feels herself beginning to lose control, powerless to stop herself from moving with her ravisher, corkscrewing her hips back to meet his hard, urgent thrusts, driving herself wild as his veiny shaft does a number on the super-sensitive nerves in her sugar walls. Each slap of his hanging balls against her stiff clitty sends a jolt of sexual lightning right through her, and tears of shame drip down her face as she realizes she's already just moments away from another soul-searing climax.

 

The barely-legal do-gooder had pictured her first time any number of ways. With a handsome athlete, with a celebrity actor, with one of the gorgeous heroes of the Masked Avengers. It had always involved dinner and candlelight, maybe white horses on the beach, a walk in a beautiful garden... anything, anything but this. Abused, beaten, weak as kitten, chained in the back of a wrecked van in a reeking junkyard with another girl looking on at her humiliating, utter defeat. The heroine had never dreamed her first dick would belong to a vile, flabby, sweaty, foul-smelling stranger...  never dreamed that her snug little love tunnel would swamp her with ecstasy while she was force-fucked like a filthy bitch in heat by an ugly pervert.

 

“Ffffuuuuckkkk...” moans Jenkins above her. She feels some of his disgusting, slimy drool drip on her naked back, can hear his heart jackhammering as his thrusts get wilder. “Damn you fuckin' tiiiiight bitch, can feel you milkin' it you sllluuuut...”

 

“NNNNNGHHHHH-NNNNNGHHHH-NNNNGHHH-NNNNGHHH-NGHHHHHH...” she moans, knowing he's right, that her ultra-tight love tunnel is a hot, slick delight for the tight-fitting cock raping it, that her vaginal muscles are clutching at the plundering pole like a lover. Can't... can't stop it... can't hold back... gonna cummmm... “NNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGHHHH!” The climax blasts through her like a lightning bolt lancing out from her sopping twat, exploding from her every nerve ending and from the top of her head and the soles of her feet, and through the yielding flesh of her breasts squashed against the cold metal floor. Her juices explode around the pistoning prick as her pussy clasps the conquering Nubian rod, milking it with the blind eagerness of instinct as she cums and cums... “NNAANANNNNGHHHHHHH! HHHHHAUNNNGHHHHHHHH!”

 

“UUUGHHHHHHH... YYYYEEEAHHHH...” the explosively wet, tight orgasmic convulsions of his fuck-victim are too much for Jenkins. Slamming it home, he bellows in raw joy as he paints her insides with scalding man-batter, sending her back over the edge as she feels the explosion of slimy splooge inside her. For what seems like an eternity, the two of them cum together, Jenkin's groans of satisfaction drowning out the horrified, muffled sobs of Connie beside them as she's forced to watch her heroine submit to the lust in her plundered young pussy. “Ugggghhhh... aghhhhh...” the old man's moans grow more and more strangled as the teenaged twat chokes his dick and draws out the pleasure.

 

Miss Adventure lies shuddering in shame and the afterglow of unwanted passion underneath him, briefly adrift in her own world, trying to drive away the feeling of the prick still hard and twitching deep inside her velvety love tunnel. But gradually, she's pulled back to herself as she begins to realize something is wrong. The strangled moans of her ravisher aren't sounds of pleasure, now; there's an edge of pain to them. His twitching inside and above her is growing more spasmodic. And she realizes she can hear something wrong with his heartbeat... the rapid hammering beginning to deteriorate into arrhythmic stutters, like a bad drummer in a rock band losing his place in the music.

 

“Uuuuhhghghhhh... AGGHHHHHH... what the fuhhhh...” gasps the old pervert in bewilderment and sudden agony. She can hear him clutch at his left arm, his rapid breaths becoming loud croaks. “Ohhhhhh shhhiiihhh... hhhhhuuuccckhhhh... AAAAHHGGGGHHHH...”

 

Abruptly she feels his prick slide out of her as he reels backward out of the van, releasing a river of spunk from her abused sheath to pool underneath her. Listening in shock, she can hear the bastard thud onto the dusty ground and then stumble a few steps this way, a few steps the other way, as if he's trying to remember which way to go to get something important. But he can't do it: the arrhythmia in his heart is growing more pronounced, his croaks more desperate and despairing. He manages a few more stuttering steps... then collapses like a felled tree with a loud WHUMPH! He lies twitching in the dirt for a few minutes more, his sounds of distress growing fainter and fainter as the thumps of his failing heart grow further and further between... and finally the sound stops, and he stops moving shortly after it.

 

Connie and Miss Adventure stare at each other, not knowing what to think as the unexpected turns of events plays out behind them. As Jenkins stirs his last and is still, his bowels releasing themselves in a torrent of reeking flatulence as death claims him, the heroine feels a dark, almost mad humour welling up inside her that she sees mirrored in her friend's eyes. I guess taking out the bad guy with my pussy was unorthodox, thinks the Damsel of Daring to herself almost wryly as she feels a spark of hope igniting back to unexpected life inside her. But whatever works... it couldn't happen to a nicer guy! The two share a brief instant of tittering hysteria through their gags.

 

But the truth is, Miss Adventure's body is still thrumming with the unwanted pleasure of the forced fuck he'd pounded into her ass and pussy, and the reality of it still has her mind twisted around, her emotions a churning mix of shame and confusion and terror as she realizes that Jenkins or no Jenkins, they're both still securely bound and gagged... and Violatrix is most likely still around somewhere. And then, as if her very thoughts have summoned it up, the Damsel of Daring can her the ominous roaring of a car engine headed their way.

 

Cold, craven panic seizes the heroine as she imagines what Violatrix will do to them when she discovers what's happened. It's now or never, she realizes, renewing her desperate struggle against the chains, trying with every ounce of dread inside her to summon up the strength to break free. We've got to get out of here... we've GOT to! Picking up the cue, Connie too begins to struggle and wriggle helplessly in her bonds, the two bound beauties writhing in an unconsciously sensual display of their firm young rumps and tight pink slits as they do their best to get free of their captivity.

 

They're still struggling – whines of fear emerging from their gagged mouths – as the car engine draws closer... and closer... and closer...

 

* * *

 

It's taken Violatrix far longer to find the replacement car than she would have liked, and she's had to stop to fight off bouts of dizziness more times than she cares to think about. But she has pushed the possibility that she's been hurt worse than she'd previously admitted to herself to the back of her mind, forcing herself to go on. And finally having found the car – a bit rusty but otherwise not in bad shape – she's gassed it up and gotten it started, winding her way back through the maze of wrecks and random metal rubbish that comprise Jenkins' Junkyard.

 

As she pulls back up to the yard's southwestern corner, though, her mouth quirks in annoyance to see the wreck of her Mustang still sitting out in the open. That asshole Jenkins, she thinks angrily. Couldn't resist throwing a fuck into the do-gooder before he got down to business, I'll bet. I'm going to have to be firm with –

 

Then she looks to the right and brings the Caddy to a screeching halt as she stares in disbelief.

 

No way, she thinks numbly. It can't be... Climbing out of the car, she walks over to the prone form lying very, very still in the dust just behind and to the right of the wrecked white cargo van she's last seen Jenkins headed towards. As she gets inside of fifteen feet of him, the stench of death overwhelms her nostrils, forcing her to cover her face as she steps closer. No doubt about it. The junkyard's owner is lying dead in the dirt, pants around his ankles and his prick flopped obscenely onto his gross belly. His eyes are wide open, bugged-out and bloodshot, his face set in a rictus of final agony, his tongue protruding. The way his right hand is still clasping his left forearm makes it obvious what killed him. Heart attack... the old bastard had a fucking heart attack while he was screwing around!

 

Disbelief turns to horror as the facts set in. Jenkins was her contact with tonight's appointment. They won't do the deal without him present. The entire deal is blown.

 

Disaster!

 

Her pulse pounding in her ears, Violatrix looks from Jenkins' dead body back to the van. That... that little bitch! Somehow, she has a feeling about which one of the bound sluts could've worked the old man into such a fatal frenzy. That fucking Masked Avengers do-gooding skank! She's ruined everything! She feels the white-hot fury boiling up in her again, feels her pain and fatigue melting away in a furnace of pure hate as she stalks toward the back of the van, coming around to look inside its open rear doors.

 

Sure enough, the two naked nubiles are lying there, faces down, asses up, their wrists secured to their widely-splayed ankles, the Latina on the right – still wriggling and gyrating her exposed ass and glistening slit as she struggles to get free from her wire binding – and Miss Adventure on the left, bound with looped and padlocked chains than have plainly defeated her, sloppy loads of spunk oozing out of both holes, her body rigidly still with fright as she hears Violatrix approach. As Violatrix steps closer, Connie stops struggling as well, giving a muffled moan of fear as she realizes she's run out of time to escape.

 

For a long moment, the villainess just stares at the captive babes as her blood boils with fury and frustration. She pulls the whip out from her jacket and toys with it, visualizing herself giving them both such a wicked lashing that they'll never be the same again. Without saying a word, she stalks back and forth for a few moments, let them shiver with anticipation – then cracks the whip menacingly through the air. WHHHH-CRACCCKKK! Both girls jolt in fright – and it must be to Miss Adventure's deep humiliation that it's the heroine who involuntarily lets loose a hot stream of piss from between her thighs, whimpering pathetically into her ball-gag in mortification as the liquid proof of her weakness splatters out to pool on the floor of the van underneath her.

 

Any other time, Violatrix would have greeted this with loud, mocking laughter. She'd have taken satisfaction and delight in the ability to strike such fear into a slut. But now it only reminds her of her own humiliation in front of the robot on the way to this junkyard. Any joy she's managed to salvage from this day is going cold, just as Jenkins' dead body is. Besides, Violatrix has work to do before she collects her meagre stipend from Mrs. Schruer, adds it to the remnants of the mere thousand she's made to this point, and gets the hell out of this crazy city. She'll be substantially in the red after this. She might even have to go back to day-jobbing as a “normal” dominatrix for a while before she can get more real work.

 

No doubt of it. Everything is ruined... and no amount of whipping will put it right. Finally she just snarls “I'll be back, sluts,” at the pair of helpless hotties before she stalks away.

 

Jenkins hadn't smelled too good in life and is even worse in death, but Violatrix grits her teeth and fights through the mephitic stench as she drags his heavily inert form back over to the Mustang. Actually getting his dead weight loaded up is sweaty and exhausting work that should take six people instead of one, but she doesn't have six people. She's seeing stars and seriously worried about popping a blood vessel by the time she manages to haul his bulk into the Mustang's back seat. As she closes him in, she staggers, her knees buckling as exhaustion sweeps over her. But her fury bears her back up again.

 

That-bitch-that-bitch-that-bitch, she thinks in rhythm with each step as she stalks back to the Caddy, pulls out the gas can and brings it back over to the Mustang's wreck. Dousing the remains of her old car with what's left of the gasoline, she tosses the can in, digs a Zippo out of her jacket and lights it. So long, Jenkins. Don't worry... I'll make that bitch suffer for both of us. Tossing the lighter in, she watches the car go up in flames, oily black smoke billowing into the air – along with the sickeningly savory smell of roasting human flesh – as old man Jenkins makes his final exit.

 

It's just one of dozens of columns of smoke coiling into the Newvale City sky as the distant battle with the robots goes on. She's sure it won't be noticed... or, not really sure, but it's her best option. She doesn't have time to compact the wreck herself. Looking around, she tries to think about how she can best revenge herself on that Miss Adventure whore... and as she looks toward the entrance and Jenkins' shack, her eyes light up as she has an idea.

 

Stalking over toward the shack, Violatrix pulls her cell phone from her jacket and keys in a number. After a moment she hears a woman, sounding strained and tired, pick up the phone: “Good afternoon, Schruer residence.”

 

“Good afternoon,” replies Violatrix as she walks past the kennel where Jenkins' rottweilers are going wild, barking at howling at the unmistakable smell of their master going up in smoke. The mercenary ignores them as she focuses on the call, and employing a strict pre-arranged code, she says: “Can I interest you in taking a short five-minute survey on the existence of God?”

 

“That doesn't sound like nearly enough time,” replies the woman correctly.

 

“There's never enough time,” agrees Violatrix, completing the code. “Is this Mrs. Schruer?”

 

“You can call me Ivana,” says the woman. “I take it this is Ms. Van Dyck?”

 

“You can call me Vita.” Not her real name, but it will do; she's always picked “V” themed pseudonyms for the business transaction parts of the work. Violatrix enters the shack, making a beeline for the shelves, rummaging through cans of aerosol spray with one hand as she keeps talking. “I have some photos for you. Are you ready for me to deliver them?”

 

“Absolutely.” The other woman's voice sounds tense, though. “Are you sure it shouldn't wait until tomorrow, though? The Masked Avengers have most of the city on lock-down now, it might not be safe to--”

 

“Don't worry about it.” The villainess switches to a lower shelf, rummaging again. “I can reach you and I will reach you, trust me on that. And I don't intend on sticking around one moment more than is absolutely necessary. Ahhhh, here it is.”

 

“There what is?” asks Mrs. Schruer in confusion.

 

“Nothing, nothing,” says Violatrix in a sing-song voice as she holds up the aerosol can she'd been looking for and examines it. “I'll see you soon, okay? Just have the money ready.”

 

“If you say so, but I still think maybe we should wait--”

 

Violatrix hangs up without further ado, her mind now full of pleasantly evil thoughts as she heads back out into the yard. Giddy with weariness but buoyed up by the thought of taking her revenge, she walks back out to the van, shaking up the can in one hand, tucking away her cell phone and preparing her whip with the other.

 

She finds the two beauties still struggling vainly with their bonds; Miss Adventure is choking and gagging as she does so, clearly overwhelmed by the appalling stink coming from the burning car behind them. They go still again at Violatrix's approach, panting through their noses and looking back at her wide-eyed as she cocks a hip saucily and eyes up their delectable bodies one last time. She gives them the most chilling smile she can muster as she says: “Well, it turns out you ladies have thrown quite a little monkey-wrench into my plans. Maybe you think that's funny, do you?”

 

“Nmmmmm-mmmmphhhhh... NMMMMMM-mmmmmphhhh...” both of them grunt through their gags, frantically trying to shake their heads as best they can, but she ignores them.

 

“What you forgot, though, is this.” Violatrix lays the lash of her whip on the metal floor of the van, directly between them. “Violatrix always gets the last laugh. I'd say 'have a nice life' ... but I can promise you, you won't.” And with that she presses a switch, flicking on the juice.

 

Both of their taut bodies go rigid and they give agonized squeals as the current runs through the van's frame and through them. She keeps it running long enough to make sure... five seconds... then ten... then fifteen... then she switches it off, watching with approval as they both go limp, quite unconscious.

 

Wish I could stay and watch the fun and games, thinks Violatrix as she shakes up the aerosol can again and starts to spray its contents liberally over their vulnerable hindquarters: But I'm getting what money I can salvage out of this mess, and getting the fuck out of Dodge. And good riddance to all of you!

 

11

 

Miss Adventure finds herself standing in the backyard of her family home. A bunch of her friends are gathered around, chatting amiably, rocking out to the forgettable dance music blaring from a nearby stereo, quaffing punch and beer. She tries to wave at them, but finds her arms have been bound behind her with heavy chains. She tries to call out to them, but can only get out a muffled “mmmmphhhh” around the massive ball-gag in her mouth. Mortified to look down and find herself naked, she begins staggering through the party, looking for someone, anyone who will help her.

 

A couple of her friends nod and say, “Hi, Adora, nice look.” One of them, a blonde, bitches that nobody told her this was a theme party. But nobody seems to notice anything out of the ordinary. She starts to feel increasingly frantic – like there's a boy she likes coming to this party, and she can't look like this when he gets here – and starts to scream as loud as she can through the gag, tears streaming down her face as she begs for help... but still, nobody notices. The music gets louder. Their voices get louder. Their laughter and faces whirl around her as they chatter inanely. She even hears someone say nastily that they're pretty sure Adora got that ball-gag from S-Mart and that they would only use a Dulce Sabana model.

 

Finally she pushes through the crowd to see a big grill – her father's pride and joy – set up on the back porch. But standing behind the grill is The Adventurist, in full costume, chatting up a petite, dusky, big-titted brunette in a blue thong bikini who's hovering near him and hanging on his every word. Overjoyed to see him, Miss Adventure rushes over, shouting for his help: “Mmmmmmphhhhhh-hhhmphhhh! MMMPHHHHH-HHHHMMMmmphhh!”

 

He looks up, face impassive behind his shades. “So, everybody's here, then,” he says. She stands bewildered as, instead of moving to help her, he reaches under the grill to fish something out: a big gas can. “Time to fire up the grill. Randi, why don't you go to the kitchen and get the meat.”

 

“Sure thing, Mister A!” the brunette enthuses, running for the house with her impressive rack bouncing in front of her.

 

“A superhero should always remember a very simple rule,” says The Adventurist as he unstoppers the gas can. “Nothing exceeds like excess. You might get away with extravagant risk-taking for a few days, or months, or even years. But eventually it catches up with you.” He starts pouring the gas on the barbecue. Not just on it, but all over it, liberally dousing every inch of it as he goes on: “Remember to always have a back up plan. Set it up before going into any situation, no matter how minor it would seem.”

 

Miss Adventure whimpers, tears stinging her eyes at his scathing criticism. “I know I should have been more careful, but please help me, please...” she tries to say, but of course all that comes out is: “Mmmphhhhh-mmmmmhhmmphhhh-mmmmmmphhhhhh... mmmmmphhhh...”

 

She hears an irregular thumping sound coming from inside the house, and gasps as the brunette comes back out: but it's a very different brunette now, with alabaster skin and a cruel, perfect face, an hourglass figure and lurid tattoos wreathing her upper arms. The zipper on the front of her sleeveless black latex bodysuit is pulled halfway down to show off the sexy valley between the proud 38DD cannonballs on her chest, and a big black strap-on vibrator bobs in front of her. Her green eyes flash under her black latex domino mask, and perched on one gloved hand she's carrying a platter. On the platter is a raw, bloody, beating human heart.

 

Transfixed with terror at the sight of both the woman and her heinous cargo, Miss Adventure falls silent as she watches the burlesque beauty carry it over to the grill. The heart is thumping in fits and starts, almost as though it's trying to jump to freedom. But The Adventurist grips it firmly and tosses it onto the grill. “Always remember,” he adds: “Consequences for a superhero may be much worse than consequences for a mundane human. That's why extra precautions are always needed.” As he says it, he lights a match and tosses it onto the barbecue.

 

The whole barbecue promptly goes up in a column of flame and oily smoke. Miss Adventure reels backward, gagging at the appalling stench of burning flesh that roils over her. A new song blares from the stereo, now. It's a version of “Who Let the Dawgz Out,” the annoying old sports anthem that's only made more annoying – and creepy – by the fact that all the vocals have been replaced with singing dogs. As the guest start singing along merrily, the bound and naked heroine is surrounded by the sound of barking, barking everywhere.

 

“Stop it!” she tries to shout at them: “Shhhhmmmphhh-mmmmphhh!” But someone cranks the volume on the stereo and everyone is dancing, barking, yelping, and Miss Adventure is trying to find a way to get away from the horrid scene and the evil stink of the burning grill but she can't seem to force a path through all the people crowding around her, the weird noises they're making echoing in her ears. And suddenly she notices everyone is wearing some kind of strange, musky perfume or cologne... and now some of them are starting to get on all fours, singing along lustily to the horrid music as it starts to loop, and the whimpering heroine can feel people nuzzling at her crotch... “Shhhhmmmmphhh-mmmphhh! Nnnnnmmmphhh!”

 

Finally she looks up and sees the Adventurist, necking extravagantly with the pale brunette beauty as the raging fire bathes everything in a hellish light. “Nnnnmmmphhhhh!” cries out the Damsel of Daring in a last ragged plea to her oblivious mentor... and then she feels a wet, velvety tongue come from behind to rasp over her clit and up her pussy lips, and the sounds of barking are growing louder all around her, and she squeals through her gag, squirming as the tongue molests her tight young hole again, and again, and again...

 

* * *

 

“NNNNMMMMMPHHHHHH!” shrieks Miss Adventure through her aching jaws into the ball-gag as she emerges from the hellish dream into reality.

 

Her muffled squeal is answered by excited barking that echoes through the air outside the derelict cargo van. The stench of burning flesh still hangs in the air, though the smoke has thinned – but she's horrified to discover that the tongue on her pussy is no dream! Lapping at her sweet honeyed cunt and over her swollen clit, it's an animal's tongue, mindless and probing and irrepressibly curious – careless of her pleasure or of the tormented heat it's stoking in her sensitive feminine flesh as she wriggles in a futile, panicked attempt to get away from it!

 

“Mmmmmpphhhmmphhh...” she whines in fear as she tries to catch a glimpse of what's happening. Her head is still reeling and giddy as she recovers from yet another knockout, her healing powers still working at the cumulative damage of the day's shocks and traumas, still weakening her. What the hell... what's going on? She can see Connie still out cold beside her, and rolling and twisting her head and neck from its position prone against the metal floor, the heroine manages to look out the back door...

 

... and her blood goes cold.

 

The dogs she'd sensed in Jenkins' kennel have been let out. All of them. She can see half a dozen behind the van, sense the heartbeats and growling of many more; ill-favoured Rottweilers with lolling tongues and blank, vicious eyes. Not least among them are the two now crouched behind her and Connie, curiously sniffing their asses and lapping at their pussies. Concern for Connie feathers across her mind – the amount of punishment the poor girl has taken may already have permanently damaged her – but very quickly the concern of the moment becomes trying to wiggle her own slick puss away from the mouth of the animal slavering all over it. It's easier said than done, though; the dog seems to think it's a game, and keeps chasing down the moving target unerringly, letting a little growl loose in its throat as its raspy tongue finds her stiff clitty again and again, making her mewl in humiliation.

 

She begins to notice other details as this absurd struggle continues. There are horrid sounds coming from the burnt-out and still smoking shell of the Mustang wreck behind them. Growling sounds, the sounds of teeth chewing and ripping and tearing at meat, the sounds of a pack of dogs eating their fill. The smell of burning meat can only be Jenkins, and that sound can only be his own dogs finding his corpse. The horrific noise add an extra degree of hellishness to the already surreal situation.

 

But there's something else, too. A weird, powerful musky smell hanging heavily in the air; the kind of smell that hits Miss Adventure in a special way that tells her normal human noses wouldn't detect it. The dogs are all clustering closer and closer to the back of the van. It must be the alpha and beta dogs of the pack who first got to express their disturbing interest in its bound, helpless female occupants. But why the interest? And why is it so centered on the girls' deliciously vulnerable pussies and asses?  

 

The heroine scans around for clues... and her eyes fall on something lying in front of her, something tossed in the van no doubt specifically for her to see. It's a big, black aerosol can with a picture of a grinning dog on it. Printed in big block letters above and below the picture are the words:

 

LUCKY PUP CANINE BREEDING PHEROMONE

 

And underneath them, in smaller type:

 

Helping Lucky Pups Find Lucky Bitches Since 1999! America's “Number One” Brand!

 

Choking in utter horror as she suddenly realizes what's been done to them, what that weird musk is, Miss Adventure finds herself close to swooning from sheer shock! She's sprayed pheromone all over us! Those dogs... we smell like bitches in heat to them! They're going to... oh my God... how could she do this? Even that evil witch... how could she? Her panicked struggle with the unyielding chains binding her redoubles. Don't worry... she tries despairingly to tell herself as she writhes, the Rottweiler behind her growing correspondingly more animated in its maddening licking at her hot cunt. They won't... the pheromone won't fool them, they won't... they won't do... do that... It can't happen! It won't happen! Please, God!

 

But even as she's thinking it, the mutt behind her comes to a sudden decision, its slobbering mouth lifting abruptly away from her pink slit. “NMMMMHMMPHHHHH!” the terrified teen mewls as the animal climbs up swiftly and decisively, its paws and claws scrabbling over her lower back before wrapping under her hips to hold her in place as it mounts her. No... NOOOOOO... she wails impotently in her mind as she feels a narrow, bony intrusion at the sensitive, sopping mouth of her hole. NO PLEASE NO PLEASE GOD NO NOT THIS NOT THIS NOT THIS...

 

Confronted with the moment of truth, Miss Adventure's whole mind and being is regressed to a simple, pure need to get away. But there's nowhere to go, no way to escape, nothing to hear her prayers as the bony animal phallus withdraws slightly... and then hammers brutally home, ripping through her freshly-healed hymen and plunging to the root in her slick, tight depths!

 

“Mommmmmmyyyyyy!” The elemental cry of ultimate mental anguish bursts forth instinctively from her throat, turned by the gag into: “NNNNGGAAHHNNGGGHHEEEEGHHHH! NNNNGGGAAAAHHHAAANNNGGGHHHEEEEGHHHHH!” She bawls it mindlessly, over and over, her whole world turned upside down and plunged into sickening horror as she feels the dumb beast's phallus swelling and lengthening inside her, making her clutching love tunnel respond with waves of traitorous pleasure as the expanding tumescence mercilessly stretches it out, as she finds herself deflowered and defiled by nine throbbing, turgid inches of unsheathed doggy dong. “NNNGGGGGGGHHHAANNNNGGGEEEGGHHHHH!”

 

Giving a rumbling growl of pleasure, the beast leans in over her, its weight draping over her back, its hot breath – reeking of second-hand burnt flesh – feathering over the nape of her neck. It holds still inside her a moment more, letting her feel its length... and then pulls its hips back and begins to rapidly hammer her virgin-tight cunny full of canine cockmeat!

 

Her screams subsiding into miserable grunts -- “Hnnnnghh-hhnnnghh-hnnnghhh-hnnnghhh-hhnnnngghhh” -- and her eyes crossing from the waves of horror and shameful pleasure washing out from her tight teen kitty, Miss Adventure has no choice but to suffer the beast's lusty pounding. She can only try to pretend it's happening to someone else, that it's someone else's slippery love canal clutching at nine thick inches of plundering animal cock-flesh, someone else's traitorous body being driven toward an unwanted orgasm by an unholy act of bestiality, someone else who – to their utter shame and defeat – has begun pushing their hips back to meet the dog's mindless thrusts and intensify the perverted pleasure. It's  not me... not me... not happening to me... I'm at home, I'm safe, it's not happening to me... For a split second, she almost has herself convinced.

 

But she's brought back fully into the horrid moment by an echo of her own gagged sounds of miserable rejection coming from beside her. Looking over, she sees with fresh horror that Connie's eyes have opened – and are staring dully out at a world they no longer understand. The second dog in the van has mounted Connie now and is pumping away in tandem with its pack-mate, its teeth bared in a savage rictus of pleasure over the Latina's shoulder. This latest round of horror is plainly too much for the unfortunate girl, and her vacant, doll-like stare indicates a mind that has finally snapped under the strain. Not that that matters to the dog rutting in her wet cunt.

 

Clamping her teeth on her gag as tears run from eyes, Miss Adventure silently begs the girl's forgiveness. I'm so sorry I failed you, she thinks. I'll make it up to you... The thought momentarily shreds as the heroine moans sensuously at an extra-deep thrust of her canine lover's cock, her clit thrilling to the slapping contact of the animal's churning balls, her head swimming as her torrid twat gets closer and closer to exploding with lust.

 

But even through the corrupting waves of ecstasy, she feels some of her resolve returning, the need to avenge what's being done to both of them kindling like a spark. For she realizes she can feel her healing factor still at work, slowly but surely repairing the day's damage. The dogs can't do enough damage in the course of fucking her to keep her healing power from doing most of its work. And once it's done, the super-strength that had been diverted into healing will finally be freed up for other things, like breaking steel chains. If I can just ride out this horror... she realizes: I can get free... I can get Connie to a hospital... and I can settle some scores! For a brief moment, the heroine cherishes a vision of herself beating Violatrix to a bloody pulp, Masked Avengers code of conduct be damned.

 

Conscious thought shreds again as she feels the rottweiler coming to the climax of its act, its thrusts growing more urgent, its growls of delight rumbling through her as its throbbing prick dominates her tight hole. Whimpering, she feels her own body responding, wriggling toward the depraved release that her wanton, stuffed cunny aches so desperately for as her sweet juices sluice over the dog's conquering shaft. Finally, as she feels its scalding spunk splattering into her, the heroine plunges over the edge into an almighty screaming orgasm, the most shameful and primal experience of her young life: “HHHHHNNNNNNGHHHHHHHH! NNNNNGGGG-HHHHHNNNNNGHHHHHHHHH!” Clutching and squirting, clutching and squirting, her spasming cock-socket milks the dog's bone for every ounce of its sperm, the animal letting loose a keening howl of triumph as it thoroughly coats her pretty, pink insides with its white-hot jism.

 

The experience might have broken her completely but for the little coal of willpower, the tiny ember of revenge still burning in her mind's eye even as deviant sexual delight swamps and wrenches her young body. As the tidal waves of orgasm begin to subside, she holds groggily onto the thought: Just got to hold on... just hold on... just got to hold on long enough...

 

Then she feels something new happening. The dog isn't going limp or pulling out of her; its prick is still hot and tumescent, rubbing thrillingly against her ultra-sensitive sugar walls and making her moan. Suddenly, though, she feels the heavy body lift itself off of her, the paws releasing their grip on her hips as the dog turns away. Thank God... she starts to think: At least that one's done...

 

But it's not done. In fact, she can feel the doggy cock pressing in even deeper and harder as the animal swings a leg over and rotates to press its hindquarters almost flush against hers. Whaaaa...? “Mmmmmhmmmphhhhh...” the heroine moans hotly and writhes her hips as the animal's shifting weight corkscrews the hot prick around inside her, stirring the slimy froth of spunk and cunt-honey, thrilling her twat as it stimulates her at new angles. Then she feels something else, more alarming: her pussy lips being stretched wide, wider, wider as the base of the animal's prong begins to swell with hot blood. It's turning into a massive, turgid knot that the beast shoves steadily inward to plug up her hot hole, its stiff rod shoving even deeper!

 

“MMMMMHHMMPHHHH!” squeals the mutt's barely-legal heroine bitch as the unfamiliar sensation plunges her into another wave of squirty, sensuous orgasm. At first, she tries to wriggle her hips away and get off its cock; but the dog instinctively matches her movements, driving its knot even deeper inside her as her wriggling struggles simply bring her off again, and again, and again as her world is rocked by the combination of the hot, stiff prick and the knot painfully stretching her labia. “MMMMMMHHHHMMmmmmphhhh...” she moans in despair as, after a few moments, she finally stills her struggles and meekly accepts the knotting, her sugar walls trembling around the dog's hot shaft, their super-tight, velvety clasp keeping it nice and hard.

 

Just got to... hold on... she thinks numbly, doing her best to hold herself still and resist the powerful temptation to grind her hips and bring herself off again. Holding on now seems a lot harder than it did before. But as the heroine watches helplessly as Connie is rapidly fucked to a mindless climax by her own animal paramour, she resolves to endure. Just hold on... you can get us out of this... just... hold on...True, as Connie makes a quiet grunt of dumb resignation while her dog splatters its spunk into her, Miss Adventure finds herself grinding her pussy back on her own lover's hot knot, her cunt thrilling with pleasure and milking the iron-hard rod as she explodes in another shuddering, moaning orgasm. But she tells herself it's just an accident. Whoops... just... just make sure you keep still... just hold on... just got to hold on...

 

She can hear the rest of the pack capering and howling outside, a dozen strong. Her eyes roll back in her head and her hips writhe again as she thinks of all those big, hot doggie dicks thrusting into her, her snatch exploding stickily in another climax as she thinks about the sounds she'll make while they spunk inside her and knot her tight teen fuckhole. Just... just hold on... she thinks desperately as she shivers in the wake of the climax, every fibre of her body struggling with the command and against the powerful rutting instinct the unnatural coupling has awakened inside her. Just... hold on...

 

The howls of the dogs answer her, raw and lusty and primal, as they wait their turn. And the heroine whimpers weakly, her defiled body shuddering in horror or anticipation, she's not even sure which anymore. Just... just hold on...

 

* * *

 

“Fuck!” curses Violatrix in mounting frustration as she tries to restart the Cadillac's engine. For the fifth time in a row, it coughs and wheezes and fails. “Fuckfuckfuck!”

 

The drive through Newvale City's embattled streets has been a nerve-wracking one to this point. She'd moved tentatively, keeping to shadow and back alleyways as much as she could, trying not to admit to herself that her hands were shaking in fear on the steering wheel. The radio kept up a steady stream of announcements renewing the lockdown, and restating ever more emphatically the need for young women to stay indoors. She'd gotten the impression that the robots were on the run, now, but far from neutralized, and could pop up almost anywhere at a second's notice.

 

And once she'd heard a heavy metallic crash just around the corner from an alleyway she was navigating... and had to stop dead, cutting the engine, her heart in her throat as she waited for one of the fearsome automatons to make its appearance. She tried to tell herself she was planning battle strategies, but in her mind she was simply praying. Had the crash been a robot? She still doesn't know. After five minutes of waiting for the sound to recur, she'd finally chanced starting the car again.

 

With this kind of slow, crabbed, stop-and-start progress, it had taken forty minutes to cover a distance she could normally cover in ten. But somewhere along the way, the car's fuel line had sprung a leak. So focused had she been on keeping an eye out for robots that she hadn't seen the trail of gasoline the Caddy was leaving behind it until it was too late. And now, a mere seven blocks from her destination, the vehicle is utterly dead.

 

Jenkins, you cheap fucking bastard! She rages at the dead junkyard owner as she furiously twists the key again, to no effect. This is all I fucking need!

 

Finally, she gives up, trying to quell the rapid beating of her heart as she looks out at the deserted streets, her eyes wide and frightened. Fuck... everybody has the sense to be off the streets except me, she thinks with chagrin, suddenly regretting her decision to flee Jenkins' Junkyard. But then, what else could she have done? Stuck around and explained to an angry street gang that she'd gotten their contact killed? Fled out of the city with barely enough money to buy a couple tanks of gas and a few nights in a hotel? She has no choice, she knows; she needs that payoff from Ivana Schruer, even more than she did when she first arrived here.

 

Violatrix realizes there's nothing for it. She'll have to get out and walk the rest of the way. Granted, the Schruers' house is only seven blocks away now... but with her body screaming with pain and her trembling limbs leaden with utter exhaustion, they're seven of the longest blocks in Creation. Biting her lip, the desperate villainess tries the key a couple more times, then sighs in resignation as she climbs out of the Caddy.

 

Fortunately, the car died at the mouth of a small, obscure alleyway, out of sight. Tottering on her heels like a weary streetwalker at the end of a long night, Violatrix rubs at the pain in her wrenched neck and shoulders as she tentatively steps to the alleyway's edge, looking out onto the street first left, then right. There's nothing. Dark storefronts on the south side of the street where she is, and ivy-grown stone houses on the street opposite, the border of the Atlantic Heights neighbourhood where the Schruers and many other of the city's leading lights make their home.

 

Here goes nothing, she thinks, gathering herself.

 

She tries to match her usual confident stride as she moves out into the open, her whip in one hand for protection, just in case. But she's too tired, and the best she can manage is a slow, tottering, weaving gait like a woman just learning to walk in heels, stumbling more than once and just barely catching herself from collapsing. Painfully aware of what a ridiculous spectacle she must make, the mercenary grits her teeth, mentally tallying it up as one more humiliation she'll one day revenge on Newvale City.

 

As she's halfway across the street, though, Violatrix is suddenly conscious of the feeling of being watched. Her heart thumping, she turns to look back at the alleyway, scans the street again. Nothing. But then, turning forward, she sees something in the storm drain at the edge of the road.

 

No, not just something. Nine somethings. Nine glowing pink lights clustered in a circle, shining balefully at her out of the storm drain, like eyes.

 

Oh, no...

 

Violatrix hates herself for the little squeak she lets out as she unceremoniously drops her whip and turns to run with whatever energy she has left. But no amount of adrenaline can cut through the exhaustion in her limbs, and two steps into the attempt she finds herself sprawling on her face with her shapely ass in the air, gamely trying to wriggle back to her feet as she flings a terrified look over her shoulder.

 

KRRAAANNGGG! Her terror spikes as she sees the storm drain's cover flying into the air as a set of metallic tentacles come bursting from beneath it, reaching unerringly toward her with their glowing pink tips as her struggle to regain her feet grows more frantic. No no NO gotta get away GET AWAY... thinks the busty alabaster-skinned brunette in a whirl of horror as she tries to surge to her feet, gives another breast-jiggling stumble, then looks back to see the tentacles boiling toward her like a squid claiming its prey. NONONONONO...

 

She gathers herself for a last desperate attempt, but her time has run out. “NNOOOO!!” she squeals aloud as she feels cold metal wrapping around her thighs, her ankles, her waist, her heaving breasts and her graceful, swan-like throat. Her hands fly up to grip and tug at the metallic appendages wrapped around her curvaceous body, but none of them will budge... and now she can feel herself being pulled toward the storm drain! “NOOOOOHHHHH...” she gives a shrill, strangled cry as the mechanical force rapidly reels her in like a fish on a hook. Skidding across pavement and then feeling cool, fetid darkness suddenly envelop her, the bad-girl's hands fly out to grip the drain's edge with manic desperation. But in only a moment more, her grip falters and she's pulled entirely out of sight, her final cry echoing through the streets above: “HEEEEELP MEEEEEEE!”

 

It's a cry of despair. She knows there's nobody to hear her.

 

Nevertheless, she can't stop herself from squealing in fright as she finds herself whipped down into darkness and abruptly submerged. Choking, gagging in terror, she's sure she's going to drown as she finds herself pulled through the stinging, foul-tasting water that fills her mouth and nose and that she barely keeps herself from breathing in as she struggles vainly in the tentacles' titanium-hard grip.

 

It seems to go on forever. Her lungs are on fire, near to bursting as she holds her breath with the very last of her resolve, the final ounce of her strength. She's immersed in filth, immersed in horror, captive, stars bursting before her eyes as she exerts every ounce of willpower to keep from drowning.

 

Finally, it's over. She pulls in a sweet gasp of air as she finds herself lifted free of the vile fluid, as if she's being reborn from the amniotic sac of some horrid demon. It's at that moment that it fully dawns on her that all this time, she's been immersed in, and gagging on, raw sewer water. A couple of gasps after that realization, her body rebels and she heaves up the bilious contents of her guts, puking vigorously once, twice, three times even as she feels the metallic tentacles lifting her up. “Aghhhcckkkkkhhhhhh! Huuuuuacccckhhhhhhh! UUUGGGHGHH-UHUAAAACCKHHH!” she retches piteously, gagging in horror as her curvaceous body heaves and strains in its utmost attempt to expel the saturating miasma of slime and sludge that seems to have invaded every part of her.

 

After a seeming eternity of messily vomiting up the filth from within, Violatrix gradually becomes conscious of her surroundings, realizing she's far removed from the storm grate where the mechanical monstrosity took her. In the deep darkness of the city's storm sewers, the only light is the robot's glowing eyes limning her voluptuous form. The robot's tentacles are holding her high in the air for inspection, her mind reeling as its unfeeling gaze traces its way up and down her shapely body. She whimpers, struggling in utter helplessness as the dim pink light plays over her. She's been pulled far from the place where she was taken, deep into some forgotten part of Newvale City's sewer system.

 

At first, the voice she hears seems like a hallucination. “YES, UNIT 307,” it says, echoing through the dark in crisp, Russian-accented tones. “SHOW ME WHAT YOU HAVE.”

 

“Guh...” she gasps as the tentacles hold her higher, then whimpers as the appendages around her thighs and ankles splay her shapely legs wide apart until they're at right angles to the rest of her. “Please... aghhhh... please let me g – go.... don't... don't do this...”

 

“HMMMMMM...” muses the voice, seeming to emanate from a speaker somewhere within the robot's metallic mass. “VERY INTERESTING SPECIMEN, 307. WE MAY SALVAGE SOMETHING FROM THIS DAY YET. LET'S SEE A LITTLE MORE OF HER, SHALL WE?”

 

The tentacles around her breast and waist uncoil, the rest of them seeming to tighten even more as if to compensate, Violatrix's breath coming in short gasps past the constricting pressure around her throat. The trapped villainess' eyes widen as she sees the two now-freed tentacles hovering close around her body, the enormous glowing pink dildoes at their tips illuminating her like flashlights, playing over her heaving double D's and her taut, latex-clad hourglass figure. The sight of those dildoes sends a cold shaft of terror right through the core of her, and she feels tears spilling down her face as she realizes how deep her predicament is.

 

Then she hears a whirring sound and sees the forward segments of the examining tentacles part slightly. Emerging from within the huge coils of metal are a host of much smaller tentacles, black and rubbery, questing into the reeking sewer air like blind snakes. But she quickly discovers that, working together, these new appendages are profoundly dextrous, good at solving puzzles. “Aghhhh... no... puh... please....” she begs, her hands fluttering in a vain attempt to impede their efforts. First, they wriggle under her jacket and shred it apart forcibly, neatly grabbing her cell phone from her pocket and tossing the rest of it as scraps into the sewage blow. Next, the zipper at the front of her bodysuit is quickly yanked down all the way to her crotch and the material spread apart to fully expose her proud, firm, mouth-watering tits in all their glory, the big pink nipples stiffening instantly in the cold air. The strap-on is swiftly unbuckled from around her waist and lifted away, and then, to her horror, the zip at her crotch is undone and the material there pulled apart as well, the cold air now playing across her partially bared buttocks, her naked, shaven pink slit and the tight pucker of her asshole.

 

For years, Violatrix has been binding women into compromising positions just like this one, crudely baring their vulnerable bodies and delighting in their powerlessness and fear. Now that she has a chance to be on the receiving end, she doesn't like it. The intensity of the shame she feels at her weakness and helplessness, of the dread that seizes her as she wonders what's going to happen next, turns the reeking air into a thick soup in her lungs. Her heart pounds like a jackrabbit's. Not to me, not to me, it's not supposed to happen to me... The tears pour down her face now as she weeps in unstinting self-pity, instinctively trying to move her arms to cover her juicy jugs and her soft cunt... but the tentacle around her neck tightens warningly, choking off her air supply completely until she puts her arms out at her sides and the pressure relaxes.

 

“VERY NICE INDEED,” comments the voice dispassionately. “A MASKED AVENGER, PERHAPS? 307, IDENTIFY THAT ACCESSORY SHE WAS WEARING.” After a momentary pause in which the miniature tentacles holding her strap-on turn it over meditatively, the voice registers genuine surprise. “WELL, IMAGINE THAT. ONE OF MINE, AND A DESTROYER MODEL AT THAT. A LITTLE DATED, BUT STILL... HARDLY CIVILIAN HARDWARE. OR MASKED AVENGERS HARDWARE, EITHER. I WONDER WHAT THIS YOUNG LADY'S STORY MIGHT BE.”

 

“Uggghhhh... sir... muh... my name is...” Violatrix starts to choke out, but the tentacle at her neck swiftly tightens and cuts off anything more than her whimpers of terror and her ragged attempts to keep breathing. Her shame and humiliation is deeper than ever, now... because now she knows exactly who that voice is. The villain she'd once idolized, whose achievements had inspired her own career, now has her in his clutches. And while meeting him had been a distant dream of hers, once, she's now learning the true horror of what that means.

 

“OH, WE'LL GET INTO ALL THAT LATER, MY DEAR,” says the cold voice of Professor Pervo conversationally. “I'M PLEASED TO SEE THAT MY DEVICES INTEREST YOU. I'M SURE YOU WON'T MIND IF I LET THEM... ENTERTAIN YOU FOR A WHILE AS YOU MAKE YOUR TRIP TO ME. I LOOK FORWARD TO MAKING YOUR ACQUAINTANCE IN PERSON.”

 

What... oh no... oh GOD... As the voice fades away, she can see her strap-on in the grip of one of the tentacles – being manipulated by the black rubbery mini-tentacles emerging from within – laid alongside the pink glowing dildo built into the robot's own appendage. She sees the mini-tentacles twist the strap-on's dial... hears it whirring to life as it's moved between her splayed, muscular thighs. She knows the sound intimately. Oh God NO not the destroyer setting oh God OH GOD...”Ngggaaaghhhh...” she gurgles, her fingers scrabbling uselessly at the tentacle locked around her neck, her curvy body jiggling enticingly as she squirms in helpless panic. No no NO please don't let this happen PLEASE GOD don't let this happen I'll be good I'll be a GOOD girl PLEASE GOD NO...

 

But there's nothing to hear her prayers, and a moment later Violatrix is introduced first-hand to the joys of her own strap-on as the robot rams it brutally home in her tight twat, burying the vibrating weapon to the hilt! “GGGHHHHAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!” she gives a choked but still blood-curdling wail as the agony of the dry entry knifes out from her torn, stretched cunt and into her abdomen. Her eyes are like saucers behind her mask as, despite the pain, she can immediately feel her body responding to the insidious, powerful vibrations, the rapid, irregular revving of the vibrator coaxing out her slick cunt-nectar against her will as the fake cock starts to pump vigorously in and out.

 

“AGGGHHHHH-AGGHHHHH-AAAHHHGGHHH...” she moans miserably as her eyes roll back in her head, the unfamiliar feeling of being on the receiving end of a hard forced fuck overwhelming her utterly. Within a couple dozen thrusts, her body is moving instinctively in time with the plundering pole, her titties jiggling as her vibe's destroyer setting quickly reduces her to a horny slut whose aching, dripping cunt submits utterly to its conqueror, clasping and milking the plastic shaft as her juices begin to loudly squelch and splatter around it. She can feel molten butterflies fluttering in her belly as the tool mercilessly rapes her toward a soul-searing climax. Drool starts to drip from her open mouth. “AUUUGHHHHH-UUUGHHHH-AUUGHHHH-AUUUUGHHHH-UUUUHHUUGHHHHH...”

 

Just as the moment of crisis is almost on her, she jerks in terror as she feels something probing at the mouth of her tight asshole. It's something big and hot and blunt, vibrating in time with the destroyer that's wrecking her sloppy cunt, but much, much thicker. The robot's in-built dildo! “NNNGGGAAAAAHHH-HAAAAHHHHHGHHHH...” she moans as she feels it start to push steadily in. She's never taken anything in her tightest place before, but she knows with a sense of doom that her days of anal virginity are about to end. The knowledge brings an extra edge to her grunts of passion as the pounding of her pussy picks up speed and force, the hot vibrator nestling at the mouth of her sphincter, dilating it...

 

“AAAAAAAAUUUHHHHAUUUUUGHHHHHHHHHH!” she cries out, her climax hitting her like a freight train at the exact moment that the robot's massive dildo rams home in her cherry ass! The red-hot agony of the brutal, un-lubricated anal invasion combines with the white-hot ecstasy exploding in her cunt to drive the slut into a near-swoon. Her body jerks and twitches spasmodically as her fuckhole clutches and squirts and sends waves of pleasure rioting through her body to contend with the pain knifing out from her ravished ass as the thick intruder begins to fuck it, heedless of her wails of torment as it matches the pace and force of the phallus in her cunny. “AUUUUUUUUGHHHHHHH! AUUUUHHHHHAUUUUGHHHHHH!”

 

Writhing in delirium at the double-penetration, she feels her ass start to loosen and accept  the vibrator pumping into it as the pain begins to fade and the doubled power of the corrupting vibrations in both tight channels swamps her consciousness. With appalling speed, the penetration of her ass shifts from searing agony to even-more-searing sexual heat as she squirms sensually under the prurient pummelling of her cunt and cornhole. It's mere moments before she feels her sugar walls start to quiver, her sopping twat's way of telling her another shattering climax is headed her way, and fast. No no NO I'm gonna cum I'm gonna CUM I'm gonna CUM again... she thinks disjointedly as her head lolls back in passive, submissive abandon. A few thrusts more, and more, and more, and more of the twin tools plowing into her nether holes, and then...

 

“AAAAUUUUGGGHHHH! AUUUGGGGGGLLLLLMMMMMPHHHHH!” As the new wave of ecstasy slams into her glistening body, another tentacle takes advantage of her parted lips and rams its glowing, pink dildonic tip into her warm, wet mouth. “GGGGLLLLMMMM-HHHMPHHHH! HHHGGLLCCCKHHHHH! GGLLCCCKHHHH-GLLLCKHHHH-GLLLLCCCKHHHH...” She moans around the fake cock filling her mouth and pushing into her throat, sucking instinctively as the horny instincts from the triple-fucking take over. Her cherry red lips wrap around the glowing instrument almost lovingly even as her eyes go extra-wide in shock!

 

Thoroughly pacified and dominated by the ruthlessly mechanical pillaging of her every hole, Violatrix barely notices as she's lowered toward the water again, about to be submerged as the robot prepares to embark on the next phases of its journey.

 

There's one advantage to being nearly insensate to everything but forced sexual pleasure: as she's plunged again into the horrid, filthy, stinging water, the captured villainess no longer fears drowning. After all, she's already drowning in depraved orgasmic ecstasy. As she explodes in passion even after plunging into the chill, fetid water, the hot-to-trot slattern has to admit to herself that she doesn't care if she ever feels anything else. Her whole world is the hard phallic invaders taking her to the peak of rapture over, and over, and over again...

 

12

 

The bitch mewls with pleasure, grinding enthusiastically onto the sixth big rottweiler cock to dominate her today. Her pussy liberally drenches the beast's pulsating knot with juice as the latest in a chain of machine-gun orgasms sets her slick love canal to clutching and caressing the hard shaft inside her. Her glassy eyes reflect no thought, no doubt, no self anymore; nothing but pure, instinctive wantonness.

 

For a while she'd tried to resist it. She faintly remembers how her former self had thought about holding on, about escaping, about revenge on someone whose face even now is fading from her jumbled mind. She'd thought herself a... “heroine” then. She'd tried to tell herself she'd get away from what was happening to her. But inexorably, with each ripping thrust of a dog's hard shaft into her perpetually virgin-tight sopping fuckhole, as the endless waves of orgasm claimed and claimed and claimed her and made all attempts at thinking futile, as she squirmed and climaxed through one interminable knotting after another, she'd learned the truth. The pack, her new masters, have taught her what she is. Her own flesh has taught her.

 

She belongs here. Her ultra-sensitive body is made for pleasure, and to pleasure. It's her only function. The brute fact of having a group of junkyard rottweilers run a train on her has made the truth inescapable: she's a bitch. Their bitch. Anyone's bitch who comes along.

 

Even though she feels some strength returning to her limbs, she no longer thinks of using it to break free. She doesn't even know how to think of using it that way. Whatever happened would only end with her getting fucked, and fucked, and fucked into mindless jelly. She vaguely remembers that as a “heroine,” she once knew how to “discipline” her senses so they wouldn't overwhelm her, wouldn't make her vulnerable like this... but the bitch knows nothing of “discipline” or how to achieve it. The word has no meaning. She knows only how to wallow in the riot of sensations that sweep through her with hurricane force, knows only how to give in, to let her mind and will be ripped painfully asunder along with her constantly-healing hymen when the next spear of canine cock-flesh invades her tight teen twat, thrusting through the soup of the copious loads deposited by its packmates, the river of spunk overflowing and splattering underneath her and sluicing down her thighs where it's slowly drying.

 

“Mmmmphhh... mmmmphhh...” the bitch moans faintly through her gag as her instincts take over yet again, her hips twisting as she grinds back against the knot to be rewarded with another sweet, shuddering orgasm, the muscles of her vag contracting almost painfully. There's a guttural sound in her moans now that almost echoes the barks of her canine lovers. She remembers that she'd shrieked in impotent rage, she'd sobbed and bawled hysterically as she began to feel her old self letting go. All that is behind her now. The function of a bitch is to fuck and get fucked by one cock after another while she helplessly cums all over them, and those cocks won't stop no matter how much she cries and rails against her fate. It's easier this way. Easier to just submit.

 

She gives a little whine as she feels the delicious knot beginning to deflate, her latest lover preparing to leave her. Blinking, her eyelids sliding over her itchy eyes like sandpaper – the words early signs of dehydration wander across her mind but she doesn't know what they mean – she looks over at the other bitch with something like envy. The other bitch is still impaled and being knotted, but doesn't seem to draw any pleasure from it . She's a bronze-skinned beauty with a dead, vacuous gaze who's lain inertly under the attentions of her own string of doggy masters, the faint breaths inflating her nostrils and the occasional involuntary grunt the only signs that she's still alive. A weird and painful feeling stirs inside the bitch when looking at those dead eyes, so she looks away again and the feeling goes away.

 

Finally the dog pulls out and wanders off, sated. The bitch can hear him joining the others of his pack, feeding noisily on something very smelly behind them. Abstractly, she notices the light has changed as she lies meekly in the sticky pool of noisome fluid left over from the pack's amorous activity. The sun is setting. Beside her, the last of the dogs to take the other bitch finally finishes his business and drifts off to join the feast. Drifting in semi-consciousness, the bitch waits quietly to be used again.

 

A roaring, rumbling sound brings her out of the half-swoon. Over top of it she can hear the sounds and rhythms of blaring rap music. A great howling and yapping goes up from the pack as they rally to protect their meal from any would-be interlopers. As the music cuts out and car doors slam, she can clearly the sounds of fierce growling and the snapping of teeth, can hear someone say: “What the fuck – goddamn --” and then the crack of a gunshot, the high sound of a dog yelping in pain. More gunshots ring out, then more as the sounds of the pack dissolve rapidly from ferocious growls into cries of keening agony and then into nothing at all.

 

The bitch lies quietly through it all, indifferent, not caring any more who takes her, knowing only that someone will. The sounds outside now are of men, big men, at least six of them. She hears their words without understanding them, but she can feel the emotions behind them: confusion and bewilderment at the scene they've found.

 

“Goddamn,” reports one of them in a deep voice. “Look at this shit... I think that's Jenk, man.”

 

Somebody else walks over to join the voice's owner and then walks away again, briskly, to vomit. The others converge, too, another voice saying: “Motherfucker. Somebody did him good. That is fucked up. His dogs was eatin' on him.”

 

“Why they attacked us,” says a third voice. “They got the taste of human meat.”

 

“Oh, we got to pop a cap in someone's ass for this, for real,” says the first gangbanger. “But who? And where the fuck's that seller he was lining up?”

 

“I ain't got no idea... but look over there,” says the second voice. “They sure as hell brought the merch.”

 

The bitch feels herself tingle in anticipation as the men walk up and cluster at the back of the wrecked van. She feels their eyes sliding over her, her pussy juicing up as she waits for the inevitable. But to her faint surprise, the men aren't doing anything but standing and looking down at the two bound beauties, stunned.

 

Finally, one of them clears his throat and says: “Maybe... maybe Jenk had himself a real good party before he went out.”

 

“Hell for that,” disagrees the deep-voiced one. “Fuckin' dogs been at these bitches and you know it. Man, that ain't right.”

 

“Well... you got to admit, Chill, they still fine as wine,” says another.

 

“They fuckin' stink,” the deep-voiced one responds. “And ain't no therapy in the world gonna make earners out of them after this. I say we leave 'em.”

 

“Leave 'em?” someone else says in disbelief. “That's a super-bitch there on the left. You ain't just leave some shit like that. Gangs of motherfuckers pay out for that ass even if all she do is lie there. And plus they like the only people got a chance of telling us how Jenk got hit. And we gettin' the goods for free.”

 

“Ain't nothin' never free,” the deep-voiced one, 'Chill,' says flatly. But after a grudging pause he adds: “Aight, though, I guess you got a point. We can't work 'em local, gonna be too much heat after something like this. Tito, call your Latin connects and set somethin' up.”

 

“For tomorrow?”

 

“Tonight. We got to move 'em fast, for real, while the cops is still cleanin' up after all that weather blew through earlier. Make it in a few hours, give us time to try and get 'em to talk first.” After a moment, Chill goes on: “Somebody find some bolt cutters so we can get the super-bitch loose. And rig up a goddamn hose or something, ain't no way I'm touchin' her like that.”

 

As she hears the men going into motion and her fate being decided, the bitch feels a pleasant lassitude coming over her. It's going to be nice to have a little break. But she could hear the blood pumping into the cocks of some of those men even as they'd looked disgustedly at the  dog spunk creampie oozing from her pussy. She can smell the lust even now. And she feels her clit swell as she wonders what those hard dicks are going to feel like inside her.

 

She knows she'll be finding out, soon...

 

* * * 

 

Violatrix is almost surprised to regain consciousness. Remembering the water closing over head, the climaxes rocking her voluptuous body, she was almost certain she was going to drown, that the robot's devastating domination would be the last thing she'd experience.

 

But it's not going to be that easy.

 

She's lying on a cold steel deck inside a dark, cavernous space, her holes still gaped and throbbing and her jaw aching from her treatment at the hands, or rather the tentacles, of Professor Pervo's mighty robot. She vaguely remembers that at one point, the plastic instrument that had been stuffed in her mouth had begun to feed her oxygen, allowing her to survive the long underwater journey to... wherever she is. As she lies shivering in the puddle of salt water where the robot has dropped her, she hears its mechanical steps walking away.

 

Mercifully, her strap-on has been pulled out of her pussy. But as she lies, sobbing, clasping her arms around her, she realizes that every ounce of confidence she'd ever had has been pounded and climaxed out of her. Weak as a kitten, fragile as a porcelain doll, she's utterly at the depraved mercy of whatever is out there in the darkness. She once enjoyed striking fear into helpless victims; now, waiting for agonizing moments for her captor to reveal himself, she learns second by second what fear really means. The spasm of craven terror she'd felt on first seeing one of Pervo's robots, the dread she'd felt at falling into his grasp, none of it compares to bone-chilling anxiety that shudders through her now as the looks blindly out into the unknkown and waits to learn her fate.

 

“WELCOME, MY DEAR,” echoes the voice of Professor Pervo all around her suddenly. “WELCOME TO THE SMS NAUGHTYLUS.”

 

As he speaks, light suddenly banishes the darkness. A bright, lurid pink light that reveals a strange hangar-like space in what must be a submarine... but bigger than any submarine she's ever dreamed of. She gasps as she sees, off to her left, a colossal round porthole door that the robot must have gone through. But it's as she looks forward that she sees a more strange and baffling sight that has her rubbing her eyes and blinking in disbelief.

 

“I'D LIKE TO INTRODUCE YOU TO MY CREW, THE PERVONAUTS,” goes on Professor Pervo coolly. “THEY'LL BE PROVIDING YOU WITH THE TRADITIONAL NAUGHTYLUS WELCOME.”

 

The surreal sight in front of her is a group of figures in fully-body black latex suits, wearing black motorcycle helmets with the visors down. The really surreal part, though, is their stature: all two dozen of them are dwarves, not one of them over four feet in height! Though, judging by the bulges at the crotches of their suits, they're certainly endowed where it counts.

 

The soaked and bedraggled beauty looks at the bizarre spectacle with dismay. In her state, even fighting these miniature men is beyond her. But there's no mistaking what the “traditional Naughtylus welcome” is going to involve, as the group salutes her smartly and then, as one, drop their hands to crotches of their suits, unzipping and freeing the disproportionately big, veiny pricks adorning their tiny frames. Looking around her, Violatrix begins fearfully to try to crawl away. “Please...” she says aloud as she scrabbles exhaustedly along the deck, looking up around her, addressing herself to Professor Pervo: “Please... you've made your point, sir... please... I promise not to resist you, you don't need to do this...”

 

There's no answer. The anonymous dwarves advance on her, fanning out into a semicircle around her as they waggle their big dicks menacingly. Her panic rises. Somehow, the humiliation of being fucked by these miniature freaks seems a more unbearable prospect then anything else that's happened to her in this long, hellish day. The busty brunette whimpers as she gets on all fours, her massive tits swaying beneath her as she tries to climb to her feet, tries to get  up so that she can run.

 

It's a mistake. The rearward presentation of her exposed pussy and ass gives the little Pervonauts their first opening. Even as her legs fail her and her writhing attempt to flee goes nowhere, she hears rapid running footsteps on the deck behind her, and... “AWWWWWHHHHAWWWWW!” she bawls pitifully as she feels a long, hot cock ram unceremoniously into her asshole, sinking balls-deep inside her as its diminutive owner grips her curvaceous hips, hanging on with surprising strength as she tries to wriggle him off her. Her struggles soon stop as the Pervonaut starts in with some vigorous hip work of his own, drawing deep, wrenching moans from her as his prick rapidly pummels her well-prepared rump: “UUUUHHHHUGGGGHHHHHHHHH! AUUUUUGHHHHHH! UGHHHHHH-UGHHHHHH-UGHHHHH-UGHHHHHH-UGHHHHHH-UGHHHHHH-UHHHUUUUGHHH...”

 

Horrified, she can feel her defenseless body responding to the ass-rape, her pussy starting to juice up as waves of unwanted pleasure wash through her with each thrust of the throbbing member in her bunghole. Then her horror deepens as she realizes the other Pervonauts are closing in all around her, her whole world suddenly becoming a deranged panorama of latex-clad dwarves and their big, waggling pricks and their molesting little hands. She can feel them grabbing on to her bodysuit, yanking vigorously at it and shredding it away to cast its pieces aside on the deck. She can feel them squeezing and slapping her fabulous mams, making her squeal as they yank brutally on her big nipples. She can feel sausage fingers working their way into her juicy pussy, first one, then three, then five, stretching out the glossy flesh and making her cunt nectar run freely as she mewls and squirms. There are hands and cocks all over every inch of her, stroking and playfully slapping her flawless skin. There are hands grabbing her hair, pulling her head down, and she can see a couple of them wrapping her silky tresses around their pricks and using them to jack off. And as she cries out in ever-deepening humiliation, she suddenly finds a big cock plugging her open mouth: “AWWWWHAAAWWWNNGGGLCCCCKHHHH! CKHHHHHHH-CLLLKHHHHH-CLLLKHHHH-CKHHHHHHHH-GGGLLLLLCCCKHHHHHH!”

 

She moans miserably around the salty cock, helpless to stop her spit from running out around it and down her chin as its owner fucks her face with the same determination as the one ramming her ass. Her eyes roll back in her head as the situation overwhelms her, as she feels her snatch getting hotter and wetter as some of those questing fingers find her stiffening clit and start smacking it in perfect time with the pricks plundering her at both ends. It's like being ravished by a troupe of tiny baboons, the ultimate in degradation, but that fact isn't stopping the waves of depraved delight from tormenting her aching, dripping twat, her sugar walls clutching at the thick digits of her finger-fuckers as a soul-rending climax heads her way like a freight train. She tries gamely to resist it, but that delicious cock keeps pumping into her throat and making her see stars, those fingers keep thrusting into her painfully stretched cunt and spanking her sensitive clitty, that sinful prong of hot man-meat keeps skewering into her ass again and again and again and again...

 

“GGGLLLLLAAAAAAAGGGCCCKHHHHHHH!” she bawls around the pulsating dwarf cock in her throat as the shattering climax hits her like a tsunami, her cunt spasming wildly, her juices jetting out of her as she sobs in shame, devastated by the knowledge of how completely the troupe of tiny freaks is dominating her. “AAAAAHHHHGHH-LLLAAAACCCCKHHHHH-AHHCCKHHHH-AHHHHHCCKKKKHHH-GLLLLAAAAAAGGGHHHCKKHHHH-GLLLCKHH!” Her fuck-pig squeals get louder as the pricks in her ass and throat pick up speed, their owners driving toward their own climax until she suddenly feels them both tense and bury their lengths to the root in her orifices, their nuts jumping as big bullets of scalding jism fire one after the other into the dank depths of her bowels, as seaweedy spunk floods her throat and she's forced to choke it down. Her eyes roll, her nose buried in the dwarf's musty pubes as she gulps and gulps and gulps the man-batter down, feeling it sliming its way down her gullet and churning in her stomach.

 

After that first bitch-taming climax, her consciousness starts to fragment, her orgiastic “welcome” to Professor Pervo's domain splintering into a nightmare panorama of individual horrors and humiliations. The fragments embed themselves in her memory like shards of glass from a broken mirror:

 

... she'll remember the time when one of them makes her hold out her tongue while he paints her face with his jism, and she looks up to see he's raised his visor to reveal a face of hideous, simian ugliness jeering at her, her cock-stuffed quim spasming and squirting even as a wave of disgust sweeps over her and the first splash of his spunk lands on her forehead.

 

... she'll remember being forced with vicious slaps and spanks and curses to crouch over one of the Pervonauts lying prone, pumping her exhausted body up and down and impaling her sloppy cunt on his prick as she's made to jack and suck a circle of waggling cocks until they sperm all over her.

 

... she'll remember when they produce a bit gag seemingly from nowhere and force it between her teeth, then drive her around the deck with hard smacks from a leather strap, taking turns riding her like a pony and filling her ears with their hooting, demonic laughter.

 

... she'll remember when they bring out the rope and tie her up face-down on the deck, her thighs splayed and her wrists secured to her ankles... and she'll forever remember the moment when she realizes that this was the very same position in which she'd left Miss Adventure and Connie Coneja languishing what seems like an eternity ago, remember thinking that maybe she is dead after all and that this is her punishment in hell, and remember cumming hard over and over and over again as cock after cock after cock after cock violates her from behind, filling her ass and pussy to overflowing with throbbing members and their hot, sticky spunk.

 

Finally, the seemingly-endless orgy comes to an end, the depraved and hideous Pervonauts exhausting their considerable staying power and untying her ropes to leave her sprawled on the deck, her spectacular body coated with sweat and cum. As the laughing Pervonauts walk away, she hears the Russian-accented voice of Professor Pervo echoing around her.

 

“THANK YOU, PERVONAUTS FIRST WATCH,” he says almost warmly. “YOU'VE DONE AN EXCELLENT JOB OF GIVING OUR NEW GUEST A PREVIEW OF HOW SHE'LL BE EARNING HER PASSAGE ON THE NAUGHTYLUS. SECOND WATCH, ARE YOU READY?” There's a short pause as if he's listening to something, and says: “VERY WELL. SECOND WATCH, PLEASE COME FORWARD AND WELCOME OUR GUEST.”

 

Second Watch... whaaaa...? Her broken, exhausted mind whirling as she hears the words, Violatrix feels a cold, jagged spear of terror twist in her guts. Then she hears the tramp of a new set of small, marching feet, and looks up blearily to see a fresh troupe of Pervonauts waiting in front of her, their latex suits immaculate, their visors blank and menacing, their massive cocks poking stiffly out at their crotches. Oh no... NO...

 

“P – please...” she moans piteously. “Puhh... Professor... please no more... I can't... I can't take any more... please... no more...”

 

“YOU UNDERESTIMATE YOURSELF, MY DEAR,” replies Pervo coldly. “AND YOU'LL CERTAINLY BE WORKING ON YOUR STAMINA DURING YOUR TIME HERE. YOU MIGHT AS WELL GET USED TO IT. SECOND WATCH, PROCEED.”

 

Feeling despair crushing down on her like a two-tonne weight as she watches the dwarves briskly free their big pricks from their uniforms and advance on her, Violatrix whimpers as she realizes that this is just the beginning. Her stay on the SMS Naughtylus is going to consist of this, and nothing else but this... because she's in the inescapable clutches of Professor Pervo, legendary breaker and maker of whores.

 

The last of her resistance crumbles, and as the first Pervonauts of the Second Watch reach her, the thoroughly-defiled, once-glamorous brunette resignedly opens her mouth to start sucking cock.

 

* * *

 

Bass-heavy hip hop music pounds through the gangbangers' hideout, the soundtrack to a scene of squalid depravity. All five of the big black men are naked but for their boots and the bandannas around their faces or on their heads, sipping on forties of malt liquor as they lavish their attentions on the taut teen body of their barely-legal guest, still clad in nothing but her blue boots, gloves and choker, her blue eyes glassy with mindless lust.

 

“Awwwwwww yeeeeeaahhhhhh,” groans the gangbanger pushing his cock into the bitch's ass. “Fuckkkk... this bitch is so goddamned tight...”

 

“And she stay that way, too,” agrees his friend underneath her, whose ten-inch black fuckstick is buried to the hilt in her sopping cunt. “Like a fuckin' virgin... doesn't loosen up at all...”

 

“Super-bitch can suck a dick,” remarks the third gangster fucking her drooling mouth as she opens it wide for his cock, panting through her nose as she bobs her head up and down with enthusiasm. Her runs his hand through the close-cropped fuzz of her blonde hair as he says: “Almost wish we could keep her...”

 

The bitch loves the feeling of three hot cocks whispering their song of sin and submission inside her all at the same time. This is so much better than when they first brought her here and kept asking her things she didn't understand, shouting at her about someone named “Jenk.” As her naked vulnerability had worked its magic and their attention had gradually turned to the pleasures her nubile young body could offer them, she'd known a moment of fear when one of them had protested, saying something about sloppy seconds from a dog. But it wasn't long before lust got the better of disgust and they started taking advantage of the opportunity fate handed them. The first one to go balls-deep in her cunt had gotten the surprise of his life as he found himself – seemingly impossibly given her activities of that afternoon – ripping through her newly-healed hymen, her warm blood spattering out to coat his cock and her inner thighs as he plunged into a slick love canal tighter than anything he could dream of.

 

From that moment on she's plunged back into the swamp of carnality with utter abandon. This is what a bitch deserves; she feels fulfilled, she feels right. There's nothing else to do, nothing to think about, nothing but pleasuring any cock that comes within range, turning soft cocks into raging hard-on's and plundering pricks into fountains of hot, slimy spunk. Her aching pussy clasps and spritzes juicily around the pole pounding it as another in a constant series of mini-orgasms shudders through her, making her suck the cock in her mouth even harder. “Mmmmhmmmmphhhh...” she moans contentedly as the one in her ass starts to pump deeper yet.

 

The more she throws herself into the wild, depraved fucking, the less she hears of the sounds coming from the other room, where the sixth gangster disappeared with the Latina beauty she now thinks of as “the other bitch.” Somehow, those sounds – leather slapping flesh, flesh slapping flesh, faint reflexive moans and grunts – wake a faint painful sensation inside her. She quenches it by wriggling her hips even more enthusiastically to meet the thrusts of the big black cocks stretching out her pussy and ass, sucking the one throbbing in her mouth so deep she has to open her throat and fight down her gag reflex. “GLLLCCCKHHHH-CLLKHHHHH-CLLLLKHHHHH...” The sloppy sounds of the blowjob echo even above the blaring music.

 

The two remaining gangsters are stroking their cocks and waiting their turn, grinning at the spectacle. One of them – the biggest one, who the others call Chill – is talking on his cell phone as he does so. “You hear that?” he says in his deep voice. “It's like my man Tito telled you. This bitch down for anything. Anything. We been fuckin' her brains out for two straight hours and she ain't slowed up none.” He pauses for a moment, then says: “Yeah, she got some kind of healing thing, too... naw, man, it's the best part. Leave it alone long enough and her cherry grows back, believe that. You know the kind of money you could make with that?” Then after another pause: “Naw, it ain't even nothin' to it, man. She real tame, like, a straight up bitch. All she want is dick, any kind of dick. Yeah, you heard me right, I said any kind.” Then another pause, and: “Now why I try to sell you up some kinda hood rat, Hernandez? You hurtin' my feelings here. She fine as wine and thin as win, and that ain't no bullshit neither. Real fresh and young, like, eighteen most. Blonde bitch, lily-white, like a fuckin' model except real tiny.”

 

The bitch knows that conversation is the sound of her fate being decided, but she doesn't care. All she cares about are the cocks pumping faster and faster into her wet holes, her Nubian ravishers hollering as their prodigious pricks start to twitch... and then finally, as one, are buried balls-deep, the feeling of their hot jizz being volleyed into her ass, cunt and throat at the same time bringing the bitch to a wild, wrenching climax of her own. “GLLLAACKHHH-AGGGHLLCCKHHH-GLLLLCCKHHHHHHH!” she chokes down huge spurts of spunk as her nether holes fill up and overflow with jism, the world reeling around her as waves after wave of orgasmic delight blast through her body and squirts from her lubricious squack.

 

Chill is holding up his cell phone with a smirk, capturing the orgiastic sounds for his listener at the other end. Then he puts it back to his ear and says, “What I tell you? Bitch is straight up wild and shit.” Pause, then: “Ain't no such thing as a bitch that's too hot, is there... Naw, man, naw, ain't no way he come looking for her, we covered our tracks... Hey, since when is the Latin Lords so squeamish, man, I thought you essaes was all like down for the struggle an' shit? Hey, look, wait man, don't hang up man, don't hang up--” His face goes sour as he looks at his phone, the other line now plainly dead. “Fuck.”

 

“What is it?” pants the gangbanger popping his spent prick from the bitch's ass.

 

“Latin Lords ain't wanna touch her neither,” says Chill irritably. “Soon as I describe her, they be all like fuck, it's that sidekick chick from the magazines, we ain't need the heat.” He shakes his head. “Shit, all these motherfuckers knew we was gonna be selling a super-bitch. It matter which one? Did they really think a super-bitch was gonna come without a little heat?”

 

All three of the gangbangers around the bitch have pulled themselves away from her now, leaving her flushed and panting as she sits up on her haunches, gathering up a stray glob of sperm from her chin and gobbling it down as she looks at them blankly, waiting for them to use her again. She doesn't understand. Two of them have hard cocks right now, why aren't those cocks inside her? She looks at those big wobbling pricks and licks her lips suggestively to encourage them.

 

“Well, we ain't need the heat neither, Chill,” says the gangbanger whose slimy load is currently dripping from her cunt. “Don't get me wrong, I could fuck this bitch all day long, but I ain't want a bunch of Masked Assholes kicking my door in. And this ain't just any superbitch, Hernandez right on that one. We gots to get rid of her.”

 

“Think I ain't know that?” Chill grates. He scratches his jaw thoughtfully as he says: “We can't just kill her, they'll hunt us forever we do that. Where can we unload her fast that wouldn't care about the heat?”

 

After a few moments, one of the others says: “Well, Tito did say his uncle got a joint down in Tijuanita. It ain't no Masked Avengers in Mexico, they got them 'Los Santos' motherfuckers down there, half of them so-called heroes straight up run them cartels anyway.”

 

“Tito's cheap-ass fuckin' uncle?” chimes in another. “Fool, that no-account nigga ain't gonna pay us shit. He sends us a key of somethin' he calls blow an' we ain't even gots to cut it by the time it gets here, it's already like four parts detergent.”

 

“He'll rip us off,” agrees Chill, but more meditatively. “But he would take her. And he got the means to move her. And we got to get her out of state tonight, no question.” After a moment he says: “Aiight, somebody go tell Tito to stop whatever that shit is he's doing and make the call. Tell him to say we sending his uncle a 'token of respect' or however he want to say it.”

 

One of the gangsters nods resignedly and heads to open up the other room, but the bitch barely notices as she realizes that Chill and his friend are getting up, their stiff pricks bobbing as they move toward her. She promptly and eagerly wraps her fingers around their poles as they stand over her, jacking their cocks and smiling up at them. Chill reaches down to stroke her cheek almost tenderly.

 

“You been fucked up pretty bad, ain't you?” he asks musingly, something like sadness in his eyes. “Shame to sell you to Tito's uncle, he just gonna fuck you up even worse. But we ain't got no choice. Sorry about that.”

 

“Fuck 'sorry,'” his less philosophical friend snorts. “A bitch is a bitch. Start suckin', bitch.”

 

Nodding obediently, the bitch opens up. As Chill's throbbing prick slides into her warm, wet mouth and she begins to bob and twist her head up and down that meatstick, she feels a sense of satisfaction in watching his eyes close as he savours the pleasure. Let the future bring what it may... for now, she has what she wants.

 

13

 

The Adventurist's Eyrie is deathly quiet, the images on its massive wall of monitors muted. A silent, brooding figure watches them, massively muscled in his red spandex suit, his silver hair glinting in the reflected light of the screens, his face impassive behind his wraparound shades. Only the tightness of his jaw betrays what The Adventurist is feeling.

 

A chime sounds, and a computerized voice says: NEWVALE CITY POLICE COMMISSIONER HUGH JORGEN REQUESTS ENTRY.

 

After a moment, The Adventurist hits a key on the massive keyboard in front of him, waiting quietly as Jorgen comes up the elevator. As the elevator doors open, he greets his old friend in his mellow baritone: “Hello, Hugh.”

 

“Good to see you, Big Red,” says the Commissioner from under his white, drooping mustaches, his massive body bent under the weight of days of frenetic activity in the wake of the robot attack. The cop's own dark shades hide the bags under his eyes, but not the pallor of his skin. “How're you holding up?”

 

“Maybe I should ask you that question.” The Adventurist doesn't turn away from his monitors at first. “You look like Hell.”

 

“How would you know? You haven't even looked at me.”

 

“What I'm hearing tells me what I'll see when I turn around.” Newvale City's premier superhero steeples his fingers in front of him. “Your heart rate's up. It only gets this way when you're coming to tell me bad news.”

 

“I guess maybe so.” Jorgen jams his hands into the pockets of his rumpled trenchcoat. “Well... I heard back from the Mayor's Office. They talked to the Justice Department, and... it doesn't look good.”

 

The Adventurist's jaw tightens further, but he says nothing.

 

Jorgen suddenly registers what's on the screens. The rapidly flashing images are of roadways, highways, towns, abandoned buildings and burnt-out cars in locations that look totally unfamiliar. “Hey, where are you getting these feeds from?”

 

“I've refitted the Adventure-Cams with solar cell technology,” replies the hero, referring to the small flying remote cameras that serve as his Eyrie's eyes and ears. “It gives them a range well outside Newvale City. I've got them sussing out the routes they could have used to move Adora and Connie Coneja south.”

 

Frowning, Jorgen says: “I thought the FBI were pretty clear about jurisdiction issues.”

 

“Jurisdiction issues?” An edge of anger surface's in the hero's voice. “Since when did Hugh Jorgen put jurisdiction over innocent lives?”

 

“Since when was The Adventurist about thumbing his nose at the government?” counters the Commissioner a little defensively.

 

The Adventurist shakes his head. “I'm not thumbing my nose at anyone, Hugh. Technically, all this is simply in citizen support of the FBI investigation anyway. And practically, you know I'll get results before they will.” Swivelling around in his chair, he adds: “Of course, those results won't mean much without a green light for an emergency operation from Justice. Why are they stonewalling?”

 

Jorgen shrugs uncomfortably. “Well... you've got to understand, Red, everybody's impressed with what you managed. Right after the battle, we all assumed one of Pervo's robots must have gotten Adora. The way you put all the evidence together, figured out what really happened... there's nobody who isn't impressed.”

 

“I'm the Adventurist, being impressive is my job,” says the hero almost curtly, now. “And I haven't put the whole picture together yet, I would need more police support for that. Get to the point, Hugh.”

 

“Well, it's just... for one thing, the White House right now, they think the loss of Adora is tragic and everything, but we know Professor Pervo is still loose off the Eastern seaboard right now, maybe even planning to attack another city. They don't see the sense of focusing on a couple of unrelated abductees in the face of that threat.”

 

“We don't know it's unrelated,” the Adventurist reminds him. “The mystery woman sighted at the Hard Eight motel might have been using devices that Professor Pervo himself developed. And I guarantee you Pervo himself is long gone. But that's not the real reason, is it?”

 

“There's more,” confirms the Commissioner, his shoulders bowing and his moustaches drooping even more. “Justice thinks the operation you're proposing in Tijuanita would jeopardize ongoing DEA undercover work and contacts with the Los Santos brotherhoods in Mexico.” The Adventurist snorts at that, and Jorgen puts up his hands. “I know, I know. Scumbags masquerading as capes, most of them. But the DEA needs them, some of them anyway. And also... Justice has some concerns about your investigation, and your state of mind.”

 

The Adventurist is impassive, but a dangerous tension builds in his stance as he asks simply: “How's that?”

 

“Well... they're thinking about an inquest into Bertram Bulger's interrogation – that guy's probably going to sue you when his cranial swelling subsides, you know – and into the matter of that Crips outfit you messed up. To determine whether they really did shoot at you before you attacked them.”

 

“Nothing like that's ever been necessary before.”

 

“You never killed anybody before, Red. Let alone two mopes in one sitting while putting four more in comas.”

 

“Goddammit, Hugh, it's a different breed of gangsters today, what do you want from me? Chill and Tito pulled AK-47s out from their couch cushions the moment they saw me!” There's real anger in the Adventurist's voice now. “Listen. There's nothing mysterious or supernatural at work this time. I can find Connie and Adora! Another few days and I guarantee I will know where they are! These people holding them are amateurs and bottom-feeders, we can storm them and end them in literally minutes. And these... these bureaucrats, given what those girls are facing right now, what's going to happen to them if we don't find them, they want to put me under the lamp instead of acting? And you're siding with them?”

 

“I'm not siding,” says Jorgen. “I'm just asking you to think. How many people did the Masked Avengers save today?” He paces a bit as he talks. “Pervo surprise-attacked this city with over two dozen of those giant robots. Without the capes under organized leadership, the National Guard would've arrived too late. It was you that made the difference. Saved hundreds of lives and probably dozens of women from fates worse than death.”

 

“So that makes it okay for us to abandon Adora? Because we saved a few people?”

 

“Nobody's saying 'abandon Adora,' “ Jorgen counters. “Think about it. Justice is just trying to protect your reputation. If you get an image as a loose cannon, the Newvale City Masked Avengers as a whole are threatened. The whole concept of superhero unions could take a hit. You're the institution, Red, and this city needs that institution. You can't have any dirt on you, even a hint of it, or believe me, there are people on Capitol Hill who'll use it to take you down and consequences be damned. And the Attorney-General knows it.” The Commissioner holds out his hands in appeal, and says: “You're a living lie detector, Red. So I know you know that I'm telling you the truth when I say we'll get these guys. We just have to do it through the normal channels. And it's like you said, they're small timers. How hard can it be?”

 

After a moment, the Adventurist grimaces and shakes his head. “I know you believe what you're saying, Hugh, and I know you believe in the normal channels. I'm not sure I do, anymore. I've got a keen sense of smell... and right now it smells a rat.”

 

“I'll put that down to grief,” says the Commissioner gently. “Look... the Feds have asked me to give you every assurance that they're a hundred percent committed to finding these sonsofbitches. In the meantime... they've formally asked for your help in tracking down Professor Pervo. If you comply with the request, there won't be any inquests.”

 

The Adventurist is silent for a long, long moment. Finally, he says: “This is a shit deal, Hugh. This is grimy back room politics with a young girl's life. A young Masked Avenger's life. You know that.”

 

“I know it,” says Jorgen wearily. “Sometimes there's nothing we can do about that, Peirce. Sometimes shitty cards are all life deals us. I hate it as much as you do.”

 

After a moment more, the red-clad superhero finally nods, the droop in his massive shoulders curiously matching Jorgen's as he says: “Fine. Tell the damned Feds they have a deal. And that they'd better not drop the ball.”

 

Nodding, Jorgen knows better than to try further conversation. Silently turning and walking back to the elevator, he leaves his old friend to his grief and fury.

 

For a long time the Adventurist is still, his head bowed, after the elevator door closes. Then, abruptly, he lifts the enormous swivel chair he's been sitting in and hurls it through the monitors with a shower of sparks and a cry of rage: “ADORA!” As the Eyrie descends into total darkness, he slumps to his knees, the rage dissolving into impotent tears of sorrow and frustration.

 

Adora... I'm so sorry... I failed you...

 

* * *

 

In his cabin some miles away and deep beneath the sea, Professor Antonin Pervov sits carefully watching a single small monitor, the feed dark but the sound of pained whimpering coming clearly over the microphones. His sallow, spectacularly ugly face is set in concentration behind his trademark coke-bottle glasses, his thin and reedy body hunched attentively in his filthy lab coat, his hair slicked to an oil-spill shine with what must be vast quantities of pomade. As a particularly loud whimper comes from the bunk in the small, shadowed room he's surveying, he gives an approving grunt and scribbled in the notebook on his desk.

 

A voice comes from the doorway. “Professor, would you like some tea?”

 

Broken from his observation, the Professor almost reacts with a flash of irritation, but suppresses it. His little creations are too sensitive, it doesn't do to upset them needlessly. “Very good, Arkady, thank you,” he says to his steward. “I'll take it in here.”

 

The little dwarf trundles in with a tea service on the tray in his pudgy hands. As the Professor's personal steward, Arkady doesn't have to wear the latex uniform of most of the Pervonauts, instead employing an immaculate black suit. But he has one thing in common with all his brethren: a miniature replica of their maker's ugly, beetle-browed features. The Pervonauts had been his first and only experiment with self-cloning, or indeed cloning of any kind, the experiment that proved to him he ought to stick with robotics and cybernetics. Yet he's inordinately fond of them, despite the unexpected dwarfism problem that he'd failed to solve over four successive batches, and despite or perhaps because of the fact that they thus present him with a multitude of tiny mirrors of his own ugliness.

 

“How goes the work, Professor?” inquires Arkady politely as he sets out the tea and sugar. The Professor smiles as he counts cubes into his tiny cup; this is is the other gratifying thing about his little creations, that they're always curious about just the right things.

 

Stirring, the Professor leans back, glancing more casually at the darkened monitor. “Well, you know how dissatisfied I was to have only one specimen from this raid.”

 

“Yes, and at the loss of the robots, Professor.”

 

The Professor winces ruefully. “Yes, and that we lost every single robot of the new S-series units but one. Damn that cursed Adventurist through all eternity.” He has to admit, he really thought he had machines this time that would have an edge over the meta-humans, would allow him to fight them head on. This latest raid hadn't just been to capture new specimens, although there was that; it was also to humiliate the Adventurist with a crushing defeat, and to steal some of his precious masked heroine colleagues from under his nose. Too reckless a scheme. He must have let emotion over his prior setbacks at The Adventurist's hands get in the way more than he'd realized. “Still, the situation has a silver lining.”

 

“It does, Professor?”

 

“Indeed. It's going to give me a new kind of data.” The Professor sips daintily at his tea. “You see, I've never conducted a full range of experiments on a single subject with resources at this scale. If all had gone to plan, there would now be at least twenty-three other specimens getting their share of the Pervonauts' attention right now, and we would have spread out the sleep deprivation, sleep creep and gang-rape experiments between them on a rotating schedule. Now this single subject is undergoing all of them simultaneously.” He refers to his notepad and adds: “Right now, she's showing signs of intense psychic distress even in the closing moments of stage four non-REM sleep, reflexively making noises almost exactly as if the gang-rape was ongoing. And we're a scarce seven days in.”

 

“Remarkable, Professor,” says Arkady. “Do you think she will survive the full course?”

 

“I think so, she's physically quite hardy,” says the Professor. “But her previous identity may be completely wiped. Especially when we get to the drug cocktails and the whipping, simulated drowning and electroshock tests in stage three.” He takes another sip of tea: “If this process effects a complete personality wipe, I might consider implementing it for all my specimens in future. It would be easier than trying to work in and around the old psyche.”

 

“That would mean a bigger crew, Professor,” Arkady says solemnly.

 

“Much bigger. But the Naughtylus has room to grow.” After a moment more, the Professor asks: “Am I right in thinking we've been completely without sonar contacts from NATO for the past five days? I lose track.”

 

“Your assessment is correct. We're free and clear, Professor.”

 

“Good, good.” I must get back to the Island and lick my wounds, rebuild, build better. Next time I want my robot creations to leave that Big Red Nincompoop crushed and bleeding. The Professor looks at his watch and says, “Well, thank you, Arkady,” and the diminutive steward salutes smartly and marches out.

 

Leaning forward and grabbing a small mic beside the monitor, the Professor pulls it toward him and says: “Very well, the subject has been down for seventy-five minutes. Experimental Team Nine, you may proceed at will.”

 

He watches intently as the door to the cage on the monitor slides soundlessly open. A small dark shape slides into the cell, climbing up and perching itself atop the helpless woman bound spread-eagled on the cot... unzips at its crotch... and slipping a very special present in the sleeping beauty's warm cunt, a present the little Pervonaut begins to slowly pump in and out of her quiescent fuckhole. In a few thrusts, she begins to grunt and moan... then gives an exhausted squeal of horror as she emerges from the depths of sleep to realize what's happening to her! “NNNNAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!”

 

The Professor slaps his thigh and grins as that squeal, as usual, gives the signal. Suddenly, glaring floodlights illuminate the cell, revealing a ring-gagged and exhausted specimen being merrily fucked by a grimacing Pervonaut, panting in horror as her cunny stretches around the ravishing dick while he squeezes and mauls her massive, jiggling tits. She sobs and whines and looks blearily around at the identical grimacing, hideous faces jeering at her through the bars of her cell, rattling the metal loudly with truncheons and broom-handles as they laugh at her predicament. In seven days, the specimen hasn't slept more than eighty minutes at a stretch before being woken in exactly this way. It never gets old! The malignant scientist laughs quietly to himself as he makes a note in his book.

 

They can't keep this pace up forever, of course. The Pervonauts have to inject drugs to keep up their massive erections with the staying power required to raise maximum fear and awe in the specimens, and they need rest, too. But for the next week, there will be experimental teams on duty around the clock, either fucking and spanking and abusing the specimen while she's awake, or screwing with her whenever she lapses into sleep.

 

It serves her right, the Professor thinks spitefully. The buxom brunette bitch has a classical, hourglass alabaster beauty – aside from those ridiculous tattoos on her upper arms – reminding him immediately of the girls at the first American college he'd tried to teach at who'd distorted his name into the taunting insult “Professor Pervo.” The very first time it had happened, in fact, had come from a brunette beauty who looked remarkably like this one. That was the day he'd embarked on his quest to make the women of the world fear that nickname, and the men of the world jealous of it. A quest he enjoys thoroughly to this day. So it's very fitting that this lone and most unfortunate specimen, to be used for a new phase of that quest, should look just like a woman out of his past.

 

And even more fitting that she should turn out to be none other than Vita VandenBussch – as she'd immediately confessed in her first interrogations – the runaway spawn of the wealthy VandenBussch family, playing at amateur villainess with a few borrowed devices of his design that she bought with daddy's money on the black market. The thought of it makes his teeth clench. There's nothing the Professor hates more than a poseur... except maybe, as someone who fled Russia with nothing more than the shirt on his back, a pampered poseur. He has no qualms about meting out the most severe punishments his dark and rotten soul can conceive.

 

And when we're done with the punishments... what to do with the shell that's left? Sell her? Keep her as a pet? Rebuild her into something new? The Professor muses over the possibilities as he watches one of the Pervonauts climb into the cage past his mate, and promptly bury his big sausage of prick in the squalling specimen's throat. Seeing this, the Professor's brain switches tracks. Contemplating the spectacle this stunning, helpless beauty presents with cocks in her mouth and pussy amid a scene of nightmarish noise and mockery, he lets his hand stray to his lap. It's only scientific to assess my own responses at such moments, he tells himself as he always does, just before unzipping his fly, letting his freakishly large dong leap forth to attention. Science, after all, has no boundaries... We'll have to see how the specimen responds to the “real deal” soon... Yessss... very soon...

 

* * *

 

Avenida Heroica, the street at the heart of Tijuanita's infamous red light district, is hopping. Drunken tourists roam the streets, drug deals take place virtually in the open as cop cars drive by, the glittering lights of the clubs outdazzle the stars while a dozen different kinds of music pour out into the night, and the showy limousines of politicians and drug lords, famous entertainers and even-more-famous luchador “superheroes” of the Los Santos brotherhoods, glide through traffic to pick up streetwalkers or cruise toward more discreet hired flesh indoors. 

 

It's in a very small club off the main drag, however, that tonight's most special show is to be found. It's advertised on the billboard outside of “Tio's Place,” and even then only cryptically: “FIRST TIME ANYWHERE – ANGELITA, THE GIRL WITHOUT SHAME!” To those few in the know, the phrase “without shame” means a very specific kind of show, it's not just a flourish. And some very important people in the know are coming to the club tonight.

 

Tio del Rio, the club's owner, paces in the club's entryway in anticipation of his honoured guests' arrival. The tall, skinny pimp and drug smuggler – though he affects gold and diamond jewelry and a tailored purple silk suit – is an operator, but not quite the kingpin he presents himself to be. He inhabits a small niche in Mexico's criminal landscape, a niche that revolves not around the badly-cut garbage he ships and sells as drugs, but around this club and the entertainments it provides. Entertainments that draw so many of the rich and corrupt from both sides of the border that Tio's Place has stayed untouched even by the recent cartel wars. It's a success that depends on having an eye for great acts, acts with something very special. Each act can be make-or-break for the club. It's the legends that spread by word of mouth that keep Tio's Place and Tio himself alive.

 

So, Tio has to hope that his fuckup of an American nephew – his now dead fuckup of an American nephew – and his own instincts are right. And he has the added worry that one of America's most feared superheroes might be onto him, and on his way here.

 

Well, got to play it out, thinks the pimp as he combs his short, kinky hair. He can feel his heart rate jack up a notch as a limousine of his first dignitaries of the evening pulls up, quietly disgorges its passenger, and glides away. Here it is, Tio. Showtime!

 

“Welcome, my friends, welcome!” Walking out nervously, Tio blurts out the greeting too loudly as he extends his hand to none other than El Caballero, rated by some as the most powerful man in the Los Santos brotherhoods. Naturally  the massive super-luchador, his eight-foot-frame wrapped in a white tuxedo and his face cold and impassive behind his ornate diamond-studded black and silver mask, disdains the hand and the man. On his arm, though, the young and devastatingly beautiful golden-skinned Celestina – reputed the most powerful woman in Los Santos – shakes out a shimmering mane of black hair and flashes her silver gaze and perfect white smile at Tio, asking him charmingly to show them their seats. The pimp tries not to look like he's staring at her slender, shapely body encased in its brief silver mini-dress as he complies.

 

Dammit, he thinks as he seats them in the small house near the equally-small stage and orders over a bottle of the house's best. Look at her! He suddenly wonders if Celestina will outshine the best he could put on that stage. But it's too late to wonder about that.

 

Besides, there are too many guests arriving. Too much to do. Tio scurries back to the door, greeting each of the VIPs personally and seating them personally: a drug kingpin and his moll, another drug kingpin from a competing cartel – he gingerly seats them at opposite ends of the room – a famous pop musician and a bevy of his groupies, several Mexican politicos and army figures, a table of Mafiosi from California. Between them and their entourages, these groups nearly fill the small space, leaving only one table unseated.

 

That table is for the final arrival. A surprisingly nondescript young man who climbs out of a smaller limo than the others brought, he's dressed in a simple shirt and slacks... but he carries himself with an unmistakable air of authority. He does shake Tio's hand when it's offered and says: “You must be Tio del Rio.”

 

“I am, my friend, and you must be from our friends...”

 

“You can call me Alan.” The man's voice is serene. “I can't tell you which agency I represent, sorry. But I can tell you I'm glad to be here.”

 

“Good,” says Tio anxiously as he walks Alan in. “I can't tell you how glad I was to hear from you. So... we're all set, then? No... problems?”

 

“It's all taken care of,” Alan reassures him as they sit. “Our friends in the capital don't often get a chance to stick it to the Masked Avengers. Your call to your local boss bounced back and forth across the border several times before the info hit Washington, you know, and when it came up there... well, let's just say our friends ran with it straight into the end zone.” He gives a detached, enigmatic smile and exchanges little waves with a very interesting array of underground criminal figures in the room as he talks. “Turns out the Adventurist used a bit of... excessive force in investigating, see. They checkmated him with some well-placed inquest threats, and the Attorney-General had no choice but to go along. So now the issue of the day is giant robots and chasing down some crazy Russian in a submarine, but more importantly, the issue of the day is not disappearing heroines. Beautiful, right?”

 

“Right,” Tio agrees, wanting to be convinced despite not understanding have of what Alan is talking about, and at the same time discomfited by the supposed ease with which his phone call had been intercepted. “Whatever you say, Alan... uhhh, and thanks again. I never expected such high-level attention.”

 

“No problem.” Alan nods as one of Tio's waiters brings wine over to the table and fills his glass. “The FBI is 'on the case,' of course. But their Director's on side, too, he'll make sure they take it nice and slow.” He raised his wine glass to cheers Tio, who raises his own and tries to look more debonair than he feels. “Nice to be part of the family, hey, Tio?”

 

“It sure is.”

 

Tio must still sound nervous, because the American suddenly looks at him oddly and then, a dawning understanding in his eyes, says: “Oh shit, I'm sorry, man. I forgot your nephew was one of the fatalities. What a jerk I am.”

 

Tio shakes his head, looking down, pretending to be overcome with emotion. In fact, he doesn't give a toss about his dead fuckup of a nephew, he just wants this show to be over so he can breathe again. “Thanks, Alan,” he chokes out finally. “It's not a problem.” He looks up again, clinking glasses with the American spook and scanning the stage... waiting for the signal...

 

... there it is. One of the stagehands pops his head out and gives a thumbs-up. Ready. Tio gets up and rambles for a few moments about their unique and stimulating show tonight, thanking everyone for being here, remembering about half of what he says, and then heads back to the table cursing his habitual stage-fright and wondering if the stagehand had looked frightened or confident, it's hard to say. He gulps at his wine as the lights in the little room and on the stage go down.

 

Here goes nothing.

 

Their in-house announcer is on the speakers as a disembodied Voice of God, speaking in dramatic tones as canned orchestral music swells: “My friends, you are about to witness a struggle between Good... and Evil!” At the word “evil,” a spotlight appears on the stage and a tall, rangy figure dressed in black appears within it. One of the club's bouncers and enjoying himself thoroughly, he's wearing a fake mustache which he's twirling with gusto as he gives the crowd an evil, conspiratorial grin. “Behold, the Villain!” There's a smattering of applause as “the Villain” bows with a flourish.

 

“Today, the Villain is up to something truly Villainous,” goes on the Announcer as “the Villain” disappears briefly behind the curtain. “For there is an innocent girl in the Village who he covets – the lovely Carmelita. Every day, the Villain tips his hat to her, and every day she ignores him... until today!” With a dramatic musical cue, the Villain reappears with a woman over his shoulder. Clad in a white dress, she's meant to be kicking and struggling... but in fact is merely there, like a sack of potatoes, being greeted by the sound of confused and scattered applause.

 

Tio gnaws at his fingernails as we watches the scene unfold. If they're going to lose the audience before the crucial moment, this is the likeliest point for it to happen... but the risk is necessary. The comely girl in the white dress is of course Connie Coneja, part of the two for one deal his nephew struck with him. Tio had only realized when she arrived that she was virtually catatonic, and she hasn't improved much. Her lovely eyes are dead inside, and her body puts up only the most token and unconvincing of struggles as the Villain shreds away her dress to reveal her beautiful but inert naked body – dappled with faint bruises – then claps a dog collar around her neck and ties her to the stripping pole on the stage.

 

Connie, or “Carmelita,” is one of those depressing spectacles one sees at the worst and most run-down clubs, her petite and delicate beauty not enough to compensate for her obvious brokenness. There are mutters of discontentment in the audience as they realize it, and Tio looks up at the booth where the announcer is hidden and gives a subtle “hurry it up!” hand signal. The announcer's voice booms: “Poor unfortunate Carmelita! Who will save her from the Villain's clutches?” As the Villain gamely menaces his uncaring prey, the music changes, a choir soaring in over top of the strings. “Luckily there is a Girl Hero Descended from Heaven to protect the innocents of the Village! Hearing Carmelita's cries for help, she comes flying to her aid – the Champion of Purity, Angelita!”

 

A musical fanfare rings out over the speakers... and for a long moment, nothing else happens.

 

Tio feels his heart in his throat as fights not to surge to his feet and run backstage to take things in hand. As the second tick by and the crowd begins to mutter in consternation, the announcer tries again: “Ladies and gentlemen, the Champion of Purity... Angelita!”

 

Now there's a fierce rustling of the stage curtains, as if a struggle is taking place. The rustling goes on a few seconds more... and then the star of the show comes stumbling out and sprawls on the stage face first! Jesus... Tio puts a hand to his mouth, smoothing his expression and trying to play his reaction as if he's seeing a planned part of the show, and indeed he hears some of the Mafiosi laughing at the pratfall.

 

As she climbs slowly to her feet, “Angelita” sets to rest any worries he had about her being outshone in beauty. The petite, delicate-looking teen is clad in the same blue stiletto PVC boots and the blue fingerless gloves and choker that were her only clothing when she was shipped to him, her pert and perfectly-proportioned nakedness otherwise fully on show, her smooth and flawless skin almost unbelievable after the ordeal she reportedly went through to get here. He'd contemplated putting her in a replica of her real costume, but had decided that might be a taunt too far and instead opted for the blue angel wings strapped over her shoulder and the blue Mardi Gras mask from which her dazzling eyes look out in terror and confusion. Her adorably close-cropped golden hair shines under the stage lights almost like a miniature halo.

 

Utter confusion is written on her perfectly sculpted features. Tio had learned when she first arrived that most of the time, she remembered being Miss Adventure setting out to help her mentor with a crisis... and then her memory was a total blank, a void filled with anonymous howling demons, until they took off the choloroform mask she'd been shipped with and she awoke in Tijuanita, a whore in the stable of Tio del Rio. She knows nothing, consciously, about how it happened, or about why all her confidence and skill and control seems to have deserted her, why – despite her super-strength – she's simply too fearful to fight her way free. Her healing factor might restore her body, but something has broken deep in her soul that it can't touch. The nightmare of bewilderment and terror is written all over her face as she looks around at the crowd and tries to wrap her arms around her humiliating nakedness, whimpering, her lip trembling.

 

So far, so good, the pimp thinks with satisfaction. Now look at your friend...

 

Right on cue, she sees “Carmelita” collared to the stripper pole in front of her, the black-clad Villain now mugging above her as he does his best menacing look and evil laugh. In the couple of days he's spent with her, Tio's learned that while she has no conscious memory of meeting Connie Coneja, Miss Adventure always recognizes her instantly, a look of fear and guilt and shame flooding into her eyes as tears run down her cheeks... just like now. Suddenly holding her hands to her mouth to suppress a sob, “Angelita” looks stricken as she sees the dull-eyed Latina beauty. After a moment, she finally tears her eyes away and looks up at “the Villain” menacing her friend.

 

Now, step forward, and Villain step back... Tio choreographs them silently. The Villain does back away, hastily, as “Angelita” steps forward, just a little bit too hesitantly to catch him. The moment isn't without threat: occasionally, as his stage hands and security people have learned to their cost, she can still put her super-strength to violent use, often doing it accidentally or unthinkingly. But true to form, she now shows a fundamental inability to confront or pursue the menacing figure of “the Villain,” to believe in her own skills or powers. Instead she sinks down beside “Carmelita,” drawing her much-abused friend into her arms and weeping. Connie lies slumped in her embrace, as unresponsive as she is to everything else.

 

“Driving off the Villain with her courage and purity,” the announcer intones: “Angelita has rescued her friend... or has she?” The music grows ominous as he goes on: “Or has this been the dastardly Villain's plan all along... to lure both beauties to the same place... and trap them!”

 

The proudest moment of the night for Tio is the big cage he'd rigged up to the stage's edge rising up on its motorized tracks and snapping into place flawlessly, enclosing the naked beauties behind seven feet of wire as the curtain behind them fall away to reveal a hastily-denuded backstage area enclosed in a matching cage. “Angelita” cringes in terror as it happens, her eyes going wide as she huddles beside her friend, darting glances all around her. Tio smiles in satisfaction; he's seen this before, too, the complete collapse that begins at the slightest sign of stress or danger. Soon the results of that collapse will be truly spectacular.

 

“What a disaster for these poor, pure beauties!” the announcer says. “Trapped by evil, they are at the mercy of a depraved Villain's whims! What will happen to them!”

 

A stagehand is visible at the rear of the cage, opening a door. And moments later, it becomes clear what's to happen to the two girls: one by one, a pack of a half-dozen pitbulls comes trotting into the cage to a sudden chorus of laughs and whoops from the audience! On the spur of the moment, the announcer cues up a different musical track, and the annoying and repetitive strains of “Who Let the Dawgz Out” mix with the exicted barking of the pitbulls to incite even more raucous laughter from the audience. There's an edge of anticipation to the laughter; this is the kind of show they come here to see, and Tio finally feels himself relax. Now we're hitting it.

 

To his pleased surprise, “Angelita's” collapse is proceeding more quickly than he's ever seen it happen before. She's clapping her hands over her ears and rocking, and he realizes it must be something about the music, that particular song. Filing the information away for future use,  he applauds with everyone else as he watches the transformation begin, as the ex-heroine's body stops rocking and shivering and begins to writhe, as her hands slide down to play with her pert C-cup breasts and her tight pink pussy... as the confusion in her eyes vanishes under  a glaze of madness and lust.

 

In the space of a mere few seconds, the frightened remnant of Miss Adventure is gone. Only the bitch remains. And as the crawls sensuously out to entertain and seduce the horny pit-bulls, as he listens to the crowd growing ever more delightedly raucous around him while they watch her suck and fuck the dogs' throbbing shafts with giddy, unnatural enthusiasm... Tio del Rio grins in the knowledge that she's definitely going to be the most profitable whore he ever bought.

 

Good boy, Tito, he spares a charitable thought for his nephew. You didn't die for nothing. This is a slut for the record books!