Miss Americana vs the Boarman Part 10 - In The Boar’s Lair

By Violator

Author’s Note:  oof; sorry - last chapter’s warning ended up being a severe over-estimate.  So, yeah; ‘three weeks at the worst’ turned more into a few months.  Apologies - life has been very, very busy lately.  But - we’re in the home stretch now!  With the Dark Prizm dealt with, it just comes down to our two titular protagonists.  This is the final sequential chapter; after this comes two separate endings.

Our Story Thus Far:  Miss Americana has come to the city of Broodhaven in pursuit of the Dark Prizm, a pack of evil villainesses.  She did so in open defiance of her hated male-chauvinist rival the Boarman, who considers that city his domain.  In the course of a long night Miss Americana was repeatedly defeated and humiliated, has been stripped of her bikini, saw her car destroyed, and was forced to watch as her own sidekick and multiple of her fellow Delta City heroines defected naked into the arms of the Boarman.  At last, both she and the Boarman ended up captured by the Dark Prizm.  Tied up, Miss Americana was forced to watch as the Boarman broke free and took down the voluptuous villainesses one by one… while she ‘helped’ almost entirely by providing a distraction in the form of her own voluptuous body.  Freeing herself afterwards she furiously refused the Boarman’s offer to return with him back to his base, and instead tried to walk out to tell him off to the press for his sexist ways… only to walk right into a stun trap and end up lying, naked and unconscious, at his feet.  Now, with no idea of what has transpired in the meantime, the mighty Queen of Justice is about to wake once more...

With a groan, Miss Americana stirred.  She moaned - feeling her head and body pressed, face-down, against something cold and hard.  Then, with a sudden upward rush, wakefulness slammed back into her like a tidal wave striking shore.  With a moan, Americana surged upwards, shoving her torso up, and lifted her head high - and then let out a loud sharp gasp.

The stalwart superheroine found herself lying in a vast underground cavern.  High overhead, natural stalagmites hung down.  The sides of the cavern were blocky and irregular.  But the ground beneath her was a perfectly flat concrete slab, extending out to the edges of the cavern.

Behind her, looming over her giant buns, an artificially-drilled borehole burrowed out into the rock and then began to ascend upwards at a smooth angle until it passed out of sight.  The flat slab she lay upon extended up it - forming an underground roadway.  Where it led, she knew not - but she guessed that it was some well-camouflaged portal up into the city of Broodhaven, or perhaps a whole network of them.

She guessed this because directly before her, at the other end of the cavern, loomed a dark metal edifice.  A large metal drawbridge was raised, with a seemingly bottomless chasm poised between it and where Miss Americana lay.  Above it, the Boarman’s infamous logo gleamed in gold, and two thick metal bands extended out from either side of it.  At intervals along them, cameras or strange weapons swiveled back and forth, surveying her.

“Oh… oh fuck me…” the Queen of Justice whispered softly.

“He did not,” a soft calm voice suddenly said - echoing through the vast space.

Americana gasped.  Pretty head whirling, she suddenly noticed a small slim figure advancing towards her from a shadowy alcove in the cavern wall, to one side.  She had not spotted her previously in part due to the deep shadows in which she had stood, and her dark clothing; she wore a skintight bodysuit of jet black.  But as she advanced, she saw the flame red hair swirling around her face, and the dark green triangle pointed downwards upon her young but still ample chest - and with another gasp, realized that she was gazing upon Royal Ivy, who she had last seen collecting her sidekick to take her to a mysterious appointment.

Walking demurely and with grace, Royal Ivy stopped a few meters in front of the prostrate Queen of Justice.  She kept a respectful distance, in much the same way one might an animal whose status as either wild or tame was yet unknown.

“Fuck you, I mean,” Royal Ivy spoke down to her.  “He did nothing of the sort to you while you were unconscious.  I can assure you of this, and provide proof if required.  I am aware of your paranoid disposition, and figured it was best to provide this information as soon as possible.”

“M-my paranoid disposition?!” Miss Americana gasped.  Her eyes widened in outrage, at the implications of that statement.  But then, it got swept from her mind - as she looked down - and saw something far more important.

“My… my bikini!” she yelped in shock.

Royal Ivy smiled, and shook her head.  “Yes, I understand the Boarman was still in the middle of your negotiations when they were unavoidably cut short for… some reason,” she said.  “So, he did not get a chance to tell you.  In exchange for your assistance, however meager,” she said - adding the last couple words under her breath, “he has decided to return it to you again.”

Still staring downwards, Americana gasped in disbelief.  For it was as she said.  After spending much of the previous evening naked or topless, suddenly, for the first time in many hours, her huge jiggling cans were once more snug and secure in their enormous customary cups.  Even more shocking, her skimpy panties were once more arcing up over her loins, keeping her pussy nice and secure.  Hands clutching to either side of her buxom hips, fingertips trembling along the edges of her thong, Miss Americana’s head whipped up and she stared at Royal Ivy in disbelief.

“B-but… Rude Ruby cut off my bikini bottom with a scalpel!” she objected, her full red lips quivering in shock.

Royal Ivy smirked, slightly.  “Yes… that is not a problem at all, for Royal Weaver… or any lady with a proper set of sewing skills, for that matter,” she replied back, in a smugly demure coo.

Americana gasped at this.  But, shivering once more, she decided not to look a gift panty in the mouth.  Rubbing her arms, to make sure the strength in them had returned, she slowly looked around again - taking a more careful look at the cavern this time.  She was on the particular lookout for more royals, or anyone else she had missed - but saw no one.  Turning back, she regarded Royal Ivy again - and, hands going onto her buxom hips, began to slowly fall back into her customary power stance.

“So… so what is this?” Miss Americana said.  Her gaze sharpened into the beginnings of a glare, and her full pouty lips started to form the hint of a dissatisfied frown.  “What is happening, exactly?” she demanded.

“I told you,” Royal Ivy said, patiently.  “The Boarman recognizes that, despite your many, um, indiscretions tonight, in the end you provided him with a crucial and quite unexpected assistance.  Had your timely arrival not provided a, ah… distraction…” she said.  Her eyes dipped down briefly, to the heroine’s enormous yet overloaded wobbling bra-cups, in order to briefly take in the two most obvious forms this particular level of super-assistance had been provided in, then swiftly darted up to the increasingly agitated heroine's face.  "Then he might never have had the opportunity to free himself from his bonds without the Dark Prizm’s knowledge,' the redhead continued, with as straight a face as he could imagine.

"Even had they discovered their plan was hopeless, they might still have slain him with great gusto while he was still helpless and bound before them.”  Royal Ivy smiled, and made a magnanimous gesture with her hand.  “So in return, he has restored your bikini to you, and he is not even handing you over to the Broodhaven authorities - as you deserve.  He is simply letting you walk free, in your full and intact super-heroine regalia - as if none of this had ever happened.”

Miss Americana stared back into her face for a few seconds - her huge breasts rising and falling with a few deep breaths, as she took in what the young sidekick had said.  Then, slowly, a look of pure unadulterated rage started to flicker up over her gorgeous, masked features.  Arms rising up, she folded them underneath her immense bra-straining breasts, and glared.

“So, that’s it?” she hissed.  “After… after all we’ve been through together tonight, after all he has done to me, all he has refused to do for me, he’s… he’s just going to dump me off on the curb outside his house?!”

Royal Ivy drew in a sharp breath, her face wincing.  “No, no,” she said, waving her hand back and forth - desperately trying to ward off the storm of indignant invective she could sense was gathering within the buxom, bikini-clad, and visibly-outraged beauty arrayed before her.  “It… it’s isn't like that!”

But it was already too late.  Whipping up a hand, Miss Americana waved a gloved finger back and forth, chastisingly, before the young redhead’s face.

“And, another thing!” the Queen of Justice hissed.  “The Boarman does not ‘let’ me do anything!  I am a free and independent superheroine, and I have the right to go and say and do as I please.  Now then, I will have you know that…”

A look of forlorn dejection slowly spread across Royal Ivy’s face.  Turning her head, she stared out into space… visibly not listening as the stridently-speaking bikini-clad super-beauty continued to gesticulate with rhetorical indignation right in front of her.  Caught up in her own righteous tirade, stomping her feet and repeatedly looking skyward, Miss Americana utterly failed to notice that her teenage target was not absorbing a single word of it.  Slowly, Royal Ivy shook her head back and forth, as Miss Americana’s meaningless prattle continued to pour over her.

“God-damn fucking superheroines…” the redheaded sidekick muttered softly under her breath - while, waving her finger back and forth in front of her, the oblivious Queen of Justice continued lecturing her as if the sidekick was a cashier who had rung up her order wrong and Miss Americana an irate middle-aged woman who wanted to speak to every manager ever born.

At last, Miss Americana’s invective petered out.  Returning her attention just in time not to be detected, the seventeen-year-old redhead forced a smile back on her lips and nodded.

“That’s very nice,” she assured the mighty heroine, who had lapsed down into silently preening before her, with her hands on her scantily-clad hips and her masked head lifted high.  Ivy resisted the urge to reach out and pat her reassuringly on her arm, as she might a small child.  “But as I said, the Boarman has given you back your bikini…”

“It was never his to give!” Miss Americana promptly snapped back.  “It belongs on my body!  Not… not upon whatever well-lit case within his trophy vault he might have chosen to… to hang it up, for all to see!”

Royal Ivy nodded.  “Yes, yes, of course,” she said, impatiently.  “The point is, you are free to go.  Back to your own city.  So, you know… please do so.”

'And don't let the door hit your high-and-mighty ass on the way out,' she just barely managed not to add.

Miss Americana tapped her boot, and glared, hands upon her hips.

“You… you expect me to walk back then?” she asked, seething.

Royal Ivy shook her head.  “Of course not,” she said.  “We can provide a ride back in the Boarplane, or one of our Boarmobiles… or just hire you a private car if you prefer.  Whatever you feel most appropriate to carry a superheroine of your…”  her eyes glanced down, and then swiftly darted back up, “stature,” she finished, having taken a brief but pointed look at the stunning quantity of ass and tits that would have to be carted back, along with the rest of the curvy crimefighter that stood before her.

“Hmmm…” Miss Americana said.  She tapped a finger to her chin, and for a moment she looked tempted.  Then, to Royal Ivy’s deep and visible disappointment, she began to shake her tiara-crowned head vigorously back and forth - like a toddler declaring that two ice-creams simply was not enough and a third would be required to placate her.

“No!” she said.  “No, no, no, no, NO!”  Whirling away from the waiting Boarmobile, she turned to face Royal Ivy and, lifting a hand, pointed it accusatively at her young if considerable chest.  “I am not leaving here,” she declared, “without my sidekick, or my friends - or their costumes!  Bring them forth!  Bring Flag Girl, and Omega Woman, and Lady Midnight, their honors intact.  Then, I will drive away, satisfied!  And not one second earlier!”  She lifted up a gloved finger and waved it, pointedly, towards the unseen sky - which presumably lay somewhere above the untold tons of bedrock poised above their heads.

Royal Ivy groaned, and hung her head - visions of possible precious free time vanishing from her skull as she realized that the superheroine, true to the nature of their kind, was going to make things difficult before giving into the inevitable.  Then, taking a deep breath, she restored her spirits as best she could, and turned back to face the furious Queen of Justice.

“I cannot do that,” she explained, raising up both hands in a plaintive gesture.  “They are free women.  Even your sidekick, in this state, is legally entitled to make her own decisions.  I cannot order them out just to satisfy your… demands.”

Miss Americana seethed, and glared - her head jerking to one side, making her lustrous dark hair sway fetchingly with her pique.  “Well then,” she said, “you had better take me up in there.”  Lifting a hand up, she pointed into the waiting fortress.  “And show me in person!  For I am not leaving until I hear that from their own lips, and see them with my own eyes!  Or,” she added, her eyes flashing, “before I have had a chance to see the Boarman - and give him a piece of my mind!”

Royal Ivy looked away, and then sighed.  “I can do that,” she admitted.  “But,” she said, turning to look the irate super-heroine right in her eye.  “Before you make your decision, Miss Americana, know well… this offer?”  She pointed towards the waiting car.  “It is now, or never.  If you enter the Lair of the Boarman, if you witness the sanctum of our operations… I will not be at liberty to let you leave again afterwards.  Only he will be able to do that.  And only if it pleases him.”

Hands shivering on the hips of her panties, Miss Americana glared.  “I am a free woman!” she declared.  “I cannot accept that!”

“Would you allow the Boarman to enter your own innermost sanctum, and then leave again at his leisure?” Royal Ivy asked, curiously.

Miss Americana’s face quivered slightly, as her brain struggled to resist this logic - and, with a sudden exhale of breath, did so effortlessly.  “That’s different!” the haughty heroine declared, shifting her curvaceous weight pneumatically back and forth from one long leg to the other.

Royal Ivy let out a heavy sigh - and accepted that no amount of reason was going to get her out of this.

“Very well,” she said.  Turning, she made another gesture towards the great gate that lay before them.  With a creak and rumble, the great drawbridge began to descend.  Miss Americana gasped as it extended out and started to drop towards her, its massive length extending out from beneath the gleaming golden Boar-symbol poised above her.

“Last chance, Miss Americana,” Royal Ivy warned her - as, having turned to face the same direction, they now stood side by side, watching the enormous armored gate drop lower and lower before them.  “If you change your mind now, I can let you go.  If you take one step through that door - you’re in His world.  And His alone.”

Americana shivered slightly… and for a moment her gorgeous face looked hesitant.  Then, her furious and self-righteous expression quickly returned, upon her noble masked features.

“I am the Queen of Justice!  I fear nothing!” she declared.  Taking a hand off her hip, she pointed into the waiting gate.  “Take me in there, and let me face him!  I will show him who the superior being is!”

With a shrug, the fire-haired teen acquiesced.  “Very well,” she said.  “Follow me.  And don’t you dare get out of my sight - or there will be hell to pay for both of us!”

“I fear no hells!” the Queen of Justice instantly declared.  But then, a slight shiver of compassion spread across her face, as she realized she could be creating problems for the young teen through no fault of her own.  However, she still had to express this per her own personal idiom.  “But, I will let you act as my tour guide,” Miss Americana said, raising a magnanimous finger and waving it about beside her head, “if you do not mind doing so.”

"Just stay by my side, and for God’s sake don't touch anything," Royal Ivy said.

With a booming thud, the gate finally landed at their feet.  Strutting forward, the two heroines passed across it, their curvy bottoms swaying over the bottomless chasm - and past it, into the glowing portal.  Once they passed, it slowly began to lift up again - sealing them inside.

Beyond the two found themselves in a long straight corridor.  Several closed metal doors, with automated sensors above them, lay at periodic intervals down its length.  About a hundred meters in front of them a second armored gate waited of a more conventional design, with a security reader beside.  Midway down the hall it seemed to open up into some sort of common room, before the corridor resumed on the far side to terminate at the far gate.  In contrast to her own spartan metal base, however, the decor looked closer to a high-end hotel, with plush carpet and soft lighting.

"There are two layers to our base:  the Outer Base and the Inner Base,” Royal Ivy explained, as they began to walk forward.  “We will pass through the Outer Base first.  This is where we Royals live and work.  The Inner Base is his private sanctum.  Even we do not enter there, save by his direction."

Miss Americana wrinkled her nose in disgust, while still smirking.  "I bet it's a filthy pig sty, then," she said.  "The Boarman doesn't seem like the kind of man who stoops to doing his own cleaning."

“You are correct about the second part,” Royal Ivy admitted.  “But not the first.  The Boarman has his own solution to that problem.”

“Oh?” Miss Americana asked, curiously.  Her buxom hips sauntered back and forth under her gloved hands, as they strolled along.  Turning her head, she raised an eyebrow.  “Do tell,” she said.

Royal Ivy shook her head.  “I am not at liberty to speak of them,” she said.  “You may see them or you may not.  The Boarman has them… very well-disciplined.”

This response just piqued Americana’s curiosity further.  But, she could not press Ivy on the matter as a moment later a door opened up a little ways and their conversation was stilled by a storm of giggles.  From the doorway, just a few meters in front of them, three gorgeous young ladies suddenly emerged.  Not a one of them looked a day over eighteen.  Each of them was clutching a white silk bedsheet awkwardly over her lithe body, under which she was quite obviously naked.  Beside the bedsheet, to Miss Americana’s shock, each of them wore only one other thing:  a white sash stretching from her right shoulder down to her left hip.  One of them read Alaska, another Kansas, and a third Maine.

The three young beauties, giggling continuously, were so lost in their own worlds they didn’t even seem to notice the gaping super-heroine and her black-clad escort, standing just behind them.  Then, before they could, another door opened up a little further down.  Royal Star leaned through, a huge grin on his lips.  He lifted up a hand, from which three identical tiny hot-pink bikinis dangled.  Each of them had ‘Miss Teen America’ printed on one or another part of its skimpy surface, in silver script.

“Well, there you are,” he cooed.  “Looking for these?” he asked.  He shook the bundle of tiny bras and panties back and forth, tauntingly.

At this, the girls let out another storm of giggles, and pressed their bedsheets tighter up against their lithe squirming bodies.

“Yes, we are,” Miss Teen Alaska admitted, her eyes darting back and forth between her stolen bikini and the young hero’s handsome leering face.

“We would do anything to get them back,” Miss Teen Kansas cooed, batting her lashes coyly.

“Do you have anything in mind?” Miss Teen Maine asked.  Her eyes darted down from the young hero’s face towards his midsection, then hastily back upwards, and she licked her lips.

Royal Star grinned.  Then at last, he noticed the two figures standing just behind his quarry, and his jaw dropped.  Seeing his reaction, the three beauties cocked their heads worriedly.  Then, they turned around - awkwardly, with the bedsheets still clutched to their bodies - and their sculpted jaws dropped as well.

For a few seconds, the row of stunned young beauties and the superheroine and her escort stood a meter apart from each other, gaping at one another in shock.  Then, a smile spreading across her lips, Royal Ivy waved them to one side - and in the direction of Royal Star.

“Don’t mind us,” she cooed.  “Go, win back your bikinis… or whatever excuse it is you need to make for yourselves.”

At this the three teen beauties gasped softly.  But, they did not need much encouragement - not wanting to spend any more time than they had to before the mighty and famous superheroine in such an extreme state of undress.  As they had been facing away, their naked backsides wiggling before her, it had become absolutely clear that to Miss Americana that each had exactly one thing on their bodies besides their sheets and sashes: a sheen of shining goo running down the inside of each of their pairs of sleek toned thighs.  Nodding, all three turned and, in a little row, swiftly shuffled past Royal Star and on into the room past him.

“Sorry, si - uh, I mean, sorry, Royal Ivy,” Royal Star said, a sheepish blush on his cheeks.

Smirking, Royal Ivy strutted up and patted him comfortingly on his cheek.  “Don’t be.  Just try to be more discrete next time we have a upid-stay eroine-hay running around, or I may have to recommend to the Boarman that you retake opsec training - okay?” she nodded back towards where the Queen of Justice still stood gaping behind her.

“Understood,” he said, nodding bashfully.

“Good,” she said.  Stepping back, she nodded towards where the three teen beauty queens had gone, and smirked.  “Now, be a good Royal,” she said, “and go wreck.  That.  Shit.”

A grin broke out across Royal Star’s face.  “Don’t worry - I will!” he said.  Then - their bikinis still dangling from his hand - the young hero turned and whistling, strutted off in pursuit.  A moment later the door closed, sealing him in with his prey.

Miss Americana stared after him for a few seconds, before finally finding her voice.  “What… what the hell was that?!” she asked.

Turning around, Royal Ivy looked her in the face.  “Oh, yeah,” the young heroine said.  “You probably weren’t aware.  The Miss Teen America pageant is in town in a week.  We uh, used our influence to require all the contestants to come in early for ‘pageant training.’  Considering it was a week of all-expenses paid in a luxury hotel attached to the convention center, we didn’t get a lot of pushback.”

Miss Americana shook her head.  “The Boarman procures underage women for his sidekicks?!” she gasped, hands trembling upon her panty-clad hips.  “That’s… that’s monstrous!”

Royal Ivy raised a finger.  “First of all, they’re not underage.  Okay, yes, they’re teenagers - but so are our boys.  Romeo and Juliet principle applies.  Second, we don’t procure shit.  We make sure they have rich pools of targets readily available - this month is Miss Teen America, last month was All-State High School Womens’ Swimming, month before that was All-Region Cheerleading.  But the guys still have to go up and make their own scores.  It’s a vital part of their training, after all.”

Miss Americana’s hands, still perched upon her broad panty-clad hips, shivered.  “T-training?!” she asked in disbelief.  She nodded towards the door - where a series of moans and soft slurps were just starting to echo out.  “H-how is this training?!”

Royal Ivy sighed, and rolled her eyes, realizing she was going to have to spell everything out as if talking to a first grader.  “Look,” she said.  “We Royals all have very extensive training regimes.  The combat royals have brutal and very demanding daily schedules, ensuring they stay at the top of their development in athletic fitness, hand-to-hand combat, and the usage of their powers.  But those aren’t the only things they train in.  The Boarman is not about to have a new  young hero out there claiming to be his protege who hasn’t perfected the arts of luring a woman into his bedroom, and mastering her there as well.”

“M-mastering her?!” Miss Americana gasped, her lips quivering in disbelief.  For once the mighty Queen of Justice appeared speechless, and she stared at the demure-looking young heroine as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“I must admit, though,” Royal Ivy continued, tapping a finger to her cheek as if oblivoius to the superheroine’s distress.  “I said we don’t ‘procure’ women for our guys, and we don’t.  But at this point, bringing in a bunch of young ladies to congregate near our dudes is getting to be a bit ‘fish-in-a-barrel’.  Three at once is pretty mediocre for one of our boys, really.  Now, if you don’t mind… time’s a-wasting.”

She nodded forwards, and then led the way.  Walking in silence, they left behind the closed door - where the sounds of giggles and slurps had begun to escalate to whimpers and moans - and proceeded on further down the hall.  As they went, they came to an open door.  Royal Ivy peeked in, and then stepped back and shook her head.  “Well, I guess discretion is not going to be the order of the day,” she said.  “Should have known - after a major victory like taking the Prizm, everyone’s going to be in a celebratory mood.  And for a virile young Royal, what better way to celebrate than with wet teen pussy?”

Following in her wake, Miss Americana came to stand in the doorway,and stared.

Beyond the door was what was obviously the Royals' infirmary.  Four beds were ranked side by side, each of them occupied by a wounded male Royal.  

A female Royal was wandering from bed to bed, tending to her wounded comrades.  She had bright red hair, almost unnaturally so, although looking at her roots revealed it was all natural coming out of her, and a downward-pointed red triangle upon her chest.  At each bed she stopped and laid her hands upon the wound of a particular Royal.  Her fingers briefly glowed red, and then murmuring a few encouraging words, she strutted onwards -  leaving a considerably less serious-looking wound in her curvy wake.  From a couple murmured thank-yous Brenda learned her code-name was Royal Scarlet.

But Royal Scarlet was not what drew Miss Americana’s eyes.  On the bed directly in front of her lay Royal White.  Having already been through surgery, and then having had his recovery greatly hastened with Royal Scarlet's assistance, he did indeed have several jagged scars spread across his once-unblemished features.  But he also had another pair of teen beauty queens cuddled up beside him, one under each arm.  And based on the way both beauties were gaping up in awe at the fresh proof of valiant sacrifice arcing across his cheeks, the smirking hero was already learning to appreciate his rugged new look.

"Can you tell us again how you fought Violent Violet?" Miss Texas asked, snuggling against his right.  Reaching up, she traced a finger along his cheek, and sighed in awe as she watched her fingertip trace next to the tooth-mark the wicked she-devil had left there.

"Were you really saving an entire hospital full of mommies and cute babies?" Miss Utah asked, cuddling against his left.  To one side, busy tending to Royal Goblyn, Royal Scarlet smirked.  Clearly, she was not above winging for her team-mates a bit if the opportunity presented itself.

Unlike the three earlier girls, Miss Texas and Miss Utah both still had their skimpy hot-pink pageant bikinis upon their curvy bodies.  But based on the way their sleek bodies were discreetly but unceasingly caressing up against him, they did not want that to continue being true one second longer than medical authority deemed necessary.

At the sight of Miss Americana looming over him Royal White briefly gaped up in shock.  But then, like any good player, he visibly pushed Miss Americana’s presence - and anything else that would not help him get up inside fresh warm pussy - out of his mind as irrelevant.  Turning back to the breathlessly waiting beauties, he gave each a friendly leer.

"Sure thing, babes," he said, his voice in an affectedly hoarse and gravelly rasp.  "I'll tell you all about it.  But you'll have to crawl in a little closer first.  My voice isn't too strong, after what that evil woman, who I single-handedly tamed, did to my throat!"

To one side, Royal Scarlet rolled her eyes, amazed at her comrade's capacity for bullshit.  But the two teen beauty queens bought it hook, line, and singer.  Gasping, they obediently crawled in even closer, the expressions on their faces making it clear they would gladly have slid their bodies down inside his skintight suit if that was what was required.  Which, to be fair, it almost was, for their sleek and barely-covered flesh to press any more tightly or completely up against his.  Soon their gorgeous gullible faces hovered breathlessly just above his, while their large breasts projected down to caress and jiggle directly upon his chest.  Reaching up and around them, the young hero returned the favor by taking one eager handful each of the two girls' taut yet well-rounded buttocks.  Then, caressing their nubile flesh in ways that caused them to squirm and to gasp yet not to object, he began to deliver to them a highly embellished and exaggerated account of his night's confrontations.

Standing by and watching, Miss Americana shivered and gaped silently in shock, despite herself, as she overheard the sheer quantity of self-serving lies the young hero was pouring into his banner-clad companions' ears.  But contrary to her usual modus operandi the mighty heroine could not quite bring herself to speak up, interrupting his game, so as to stridently set the record straight.  Squirming in discomfort against the door jam, she could not quite place the reason why.  Perhaps it was residual gratitude for Royal White’s role, however partial, in saving herself from having yet another of the Prizm’s horrid worms implanted in her.  But, more likely, it was the recognition that, whether he realized it or not, the young hero’s half-truths were really just layering extra gooey icing on an already creamy-filled cake.  

For from where she stood, with a clear view of the two beauty queens’ hot pink mounds presented for her between their squirming thighs - and just a few inches from the hero’s shamelessly fondling hands - it was spectacularly obvious that both gorgeous young ladies had decided long ago they would not be returning to their hotel rooms that night without first getting their pussies filled to the brim with the brave young hero's semen.  Were she to try and step in and cock-block, she would at best create three bitter and frustrated young beings instead of just one, and at worst would simply drive the two girls into even more slavish heights of devotion than they were already dreaming of, in order to spite her.

But, Royal Star, not content to leave well enough alone and eager to make sure that the two young ladies put in their own heroic efforts when it came time to suck his penis, could not help himself.  As he spun his yarn he kept dropping in whispered asides, some real and some fabricated, that all painted Miss Americana as a staggeringly bumbling and incompetent bimbo.  Gasping softly, the two beauties were just as eager to swallow these tales as they were anything else Royal White might want to give them.  Unable to keep listening, but also still unable to intervene, with a blush on her cheeks and a soft moan Brenda whirled her head and did her best to ignore what was going on right in front of her own skimpy swooping panties.

And a moment later, letting out a gasp of fresh shock, she did indeed see something that at least briefly drove Royal White’s tall tales out of her head.  For, in her earlier cursory glance around the room, Miss Americana had not turned her head quite far enough to realize that Royal White was not the only one who had love-struck guests eager to comfort him.

Besides Royal White’s bed, there were three others in the infirmary, stretching out to her right.  Each of them had a male Royal lying in it and each of them, while improving rapidly under Royal Scarlet’s care, were clearly not quite well enough to permit female guests to join them directly in their beds, as Royal White currently was enjoying.

Further around, along the wall stretching out directly from the door to her right, a waiting area had been set up, with six plush chairs all in a row.  Every single seat had a curvy pair of hips, clad only in a skimpy hot-pink bikini bottom, squirming impatiently upon it.  All in a row, a line of six gorgeous teen faces whimpered and bit their lips over their arcing banners, as they each were forced to wait for Royal Scarlet’s approval to go forward and begin comforting the hunky young hero who still lay untouched and unattended before her.  From closest to farthest, Misses Kentucky, Oregon, West Virginia, Idaho, Florida and Hawaii were all impatiently waiting to provide their own heroes with the same tender and intimate compensation for their wounds that Miss Texas and Miss Utah were currently providing to Royal White for his.

As Brenda watched, Royal Scarlet came close in order to wash off an instrument in a nearby sink and Miss Hawaii, at the end of the row, could not help herself.  Lifting up in her seat, she gently rested her hand upon the attending young heroine’s shoulder.

“Excuse me,” the dark-haired, dusky-skinned beauty said, as politely as the impatient squeezing-together motions she was making with her thighs would permit.  “Is he almost ready for us?”  She pointed to where Royal Phantom still lay sprawled upon his table, several bandages on his wrists and ankles and, most excruciating of all, his flesh as yet not caressed by any stunning bikini-clad bodies at all.

Looking up, following the young beauty queen’s gaze, Royal Scarlet nodded, then turned back.

“Five minutes,” she promised.

At this news, Miss Florida whimpered softly.  Based on their position in the row, she was the one waiting to put her breasts up against Royal Phantom’s right pectoral, while Miss Hawaii was waiting on his left.  “Is there any way you could do us a favor… and make it four?” she asked, and then bit her lip nervously - while her bikini-clad bottom squirmed with nervous energy atop her seat.

Royal Scarlet chuckled softly, and then gently detached both teen beauties’ hands and gestured their curvy bottoms back into their seats.  “I’ll see what I can do,” she promised, and then went back to her work.

Standing in the doorway, Miss Americana panted softly as she watched the exchange play out.  Then, she slowly swept her eyes back over the array of unlucky, and also very lucky, waiting Royals.  And as she did so, a particular fact finally bore itself into Miss Americana’s brain:  a reason, besides mere desire to reward them for their sacrifice, that the bikini-clad beauties lined up beside her might be so hot to trot.  It was one that had struck her before, a couple of times - and that she had always pushed aside as ridiculous.  It had helped that in the past, the dark black bodysuits they wore, and the poor lighting they tended to operate in, had allowed her to explain it away as a mere trick of the light every time it had surfaced before her.  But now, that four of them all lay before her, presented horizontally upon their beds in the clear and even hospital lighting, it was no longer possible for her to deny it.  The evidence was presented before her too clearly and too unmistakably to be anything else.

The fact in question was this:  the male Royals were all, without a single exception, extremely well-hung.

Miss Americana had, as mentioned, seen hints of this before, between their legs or in the fronts of their suits - particularly when they got a chance to gaze upon her while she was naked and tied up before them.  But the glimpses had been brief enough she could deny them, and deny them she did - for she simply had not been able to believe that every single young hero born within the Boarman’s domain could be so exceptionally gifted in that one particular way where almost every other super-hero on Earth could barely aspire to be anything but pathetically below-average.

But the evidence was presented for her now, clear as day.  Each and every one of the young men laid out before him had an enormous bulge down the front of his suit.  They did not quite match up to the Boarman himself, but based on the sizes the stunned and distracted heroine was observing each one of them could not possibly be less than a foot long when fully erect, with devastating girth to match.  For a brief moment, she tried to tell herself that they must be fake, false codpieces inserted into their suits for the sake of vanity.  But, the way they grew or shrank or pulsed as their attendant beauties each jiggled or squirmed - particularly Royal White’s, which had expanded considerably before her very eyes since he had first gotten to start squeezing and stroking pliant beauty-queen buns - it was clear that not only were they real, they were completely virile and functional.

Standing to one side, hands on her hips, Royal Ivy smirked slightly as, from the widening of her eyes and the quickening of her breath, it quickly became apparent where the super-heroine’s attentions had become focused.

“You accused us of procuring under-age ass for our boys just a few minutes ago,” she pointed out, amused.  “Who’s the pervert ogling things she shouldn’t, now?” she cooed.

Americana gasped, and whirled back around to face her.  Then, with practiced instincts, she quickly moved to cover for herself.  “I was doing no such thing,” the proud super-heroine said, primly.  “I was simply observing a… most remarkable phenomenon.”

Royal Ivy rolled her eyes.  “Yeah, I’ll bet,” she said.

“How is this possible?” Americana asked.  Desiring deeply to change the topic, she went ahead and voiced the objection she had always used to reassure herself, whenever an inkling of this had entered her mind previously.  “How is it possible that in this city and no other, every last young hero can be so… uh… particularly gifted?”

Royal Ivy gave her an odd look, like she thought she was being punked.  But then she rolled her eyes.  “I don’t know, you tell me,” she said.  Then she shrugged.  “Must just be something in the local water supply, I guess.”

“I… I see…” Miss Americana said.  Permitting herself a glance back, she ran a couple fingers lightly over the front of her panties, before quickly turning back before she could be accused of gazing too long.  “And, uh… any idea what that chemical might be?” she asked, curiously.

Royal Ivy gave her a long look with a raised eyebrow and a quizzically twisted face, and then rolled her eyes and sighed.

“No idea, sorry,” she said.  She turned and motioned her along.  “Come on.  We don’t have all night.”

She led Americana on further.  They soon came into the larger common room midway down the hall, and as they did so, Royal Ivy sighed and shook her head.

“Okay, yeah,” she said.  “Tonight is… not a night for discretion.  That’s for sure.”

“Oh, my,” Americana said, lifting her hands to her lips.

The room was larger than the part visible from down the hallway had let on - or at least, in its current configuration it was.  Several sliding dividers had clearly opened into the walls, allowing several rooms that might usually be split off to be joined into one large area.

The overall effect was of a large and luxurious hotel lobby… although there was no need for an actual check-in desk here.  There were a couple fountains, providing a nice ambience.  Here and there were lounge areas, where plush furniture had been grouped together into intimate seating areas.  In the distance there was a pool, with an attached hot tub.

Across the wide area were scattered around eight Royals, and more than twice that many beauty queens.  Things had not degenerated into a general orgy, at least not yet, and each beauty queen or group of beauty queens was clustered tight about an individual Royal with whom they were captivated.

As she surveyed the large room, Miss Americana was slightly stunned to find that Royal Ivy had not been lying when she said that for a Royal three at once was no exceptional feet.  And that was only with the wounded ones seriously pulling down the numbers.  From what she could see only the two youngest and most inexperienced had elected to try to talk only a single beauty queen into his bed.

One of these sat very close to her, sharing a couch with his target.  He looked so young and gangly, had it not been for the enormous bulge throbbing against the front of his suit, she would not have believed he was past puberty.  But despite what seemed to be a nearly three-year age difference between them, almost certainly equating to a vast gulf in social and sexual experience, the little twerp was showing an almost absurd degree of smooth and unshakable confidence as he steadily worked his hand diown into Miss Nebraska's bikini bottom.  Although given how often her eyes darted down and widened in disbelief at the sight of the aforementioned bulge, whenever she thought he wasn't looking, that part was probably helping a lot too.

But over the rest of the room the ratios were far more lopsided - and for Miss Americana, dismaying.  Over in the hot tub a single Royal was holding court over four beauties, all of whom seemed to be engaged in a continuous low-key struggle to snuggle up closest to him.  Miss Americana could not see what was going on under the water, but the four little piles of skimpy hot-pink fabric lined up daintily along the side gave a clue to how far he had gotten.

Meanwhile, in the pool, there were two groups, each clustered around a Royal, each of roughly the same numbers.  Closer by, on two separate couches, she saw a two Royals each engaged in a dual make-out session.  Both had a girl under each arm, with each girl being in various states of undress.  This seemed fairly unimpressive, at least relative to some of the others… until she noticed the blonde head bobbing up and down energetically above each boy's lap.

At the same time, at the far end of the room, one particularly impressive lad had lined up no less than six.  He seemed to have done it by getting them to challenge each other to a bikini-clad billiards tournament while he first got to lounge around and watch, then came forward to give hands-on instruction.  This had transitioned to strip pool at some point, at which the ladies were collectively losing badly.  With no one nearby to slow his roll or try to peel any off, it looked like in short order the ladies would transition to their next competition:  putting him flat on his back on the table and seeing who could ride him the longest without screaming.

Meanwhile, there was a bank of elevators that seemed, through some secret override, to connect directly into those of the girls’ hotel, or convention center, or wherever they were coming from.  Multiple times as Miss Americana watched, a new elevator arrived, and a new Royal got out - with two or more new bikini-and-banner-clad beauties in tow.  These groups promptly dispersed out throughout the space to new locations suitable to the Royals’ purposes.  From the reactions of the girls’ faces, Miss Americana got the distinct impression that the decor matched close enough that the girls may not have even been aware that they were no longer in their hotel, as opposed to having just ridden down to a new and exciting secret floor that only their hunky escort seemed to know how to access.

Miss Americana took in the sights for a few more seconds.  But she was starting to get more used to it, and soon turned around.  Facing back at Royal Ivy, she put her hands on her bikini-clad hips.

"Does this disturb you, superheroine?" Royal Ivy asked curiously.  A bemused smile on her lips, she nodded back towards the swirling, impending super-stud-and-teen-girl orgy that was clearly steadily heating up just behind them.

Miss Americana's face shivered for a moment - making it very clear that it did.  But then, seeming to not want to admit it, she decisively shook her head.

"No," she said, affirmatively.  She swiveled her head back, to look her in the eyes.  “It… it’s there choice, after all,” she said, nodding towards the sea of beauties writhing in the midst of their own seductions, behind her.  “Who am I to begrudge them some harmless fun with some super-bros?  And besides - if the Boarman makes sure his boys learn courtship and sex, then he obviously teaches them to use a condom.  Right?”

At this, Ivy snorted.

“On those dirty sluts?” she asked.  “As if!”  At Americana’s dropped jaw, she smirked.  “Our boys learn well from their protege,” she told her.  “They, like he, only enjoy a slut’s pussy one way - raw and unprotected.”  She nodded her head up, towards the sea of smitten moaning babes behind them.  “Come morning,” she told her, “there won’t be a single beauty-queen pussy in here that’s not filled entirely with our Royals’ cream.  And by the time they actually strut out on stage, wearing those little sashes and those big fake smiles, there’s not going to be a single flat tummy in that pageant… that doesn’t have a super-bun growing in its little oven.”

“Wh-what?!” Miss Americana gasped, raising a hand up over her lips in shock.

Royal Ivy shrugged - and grinned.  Having grown fed up with her shit, she was clearly feeding off the superheroine’s outrage - not that the quivering Queen of Justice seemed to realize it.  “If you don’t like that,” she cooed, “you’re probably not going to like hearing about all the others.  I would hazard a guess that, if they survive to start their own career, your typical royal has probably fathered a dozen offspring.  Mostly inside models, swim champions, cheer captains - you know, your usual sort of low-grade slut.  Even the dead ones probably average at least a half-dozen or so…”

Her entire body quivering in its bikini, Miss Americana shook her head.  “H-how could you?!” she gasped.

Ivy smiled.  “What?” she asked.  “It’s an important part of their mission.  Probably more important than the crimefighting, really…”

“Mission?” Americana gasped.

Ivy nodded.  “Yep,” she said.  “Displacing the inferior models, who put up with superheroine bullshit - like yours.  But I must say, even combined, while they wage a valiant effort, our Royals are still behind their boss.  Why, in just one night, he…”

Finally, at the last second, Royal Ivy realized that in her eagerness to rub the superheroine’s face in it, it was now she who was breaking critical op-sec.  With a gasp, she clammed up.

“Uh, never mind…” she said, and shook her head - a slight blush appearing on her freckled cheeks.

Fortunately, at that moment, Miss Americana was uncharacteristically quiet.  Squirming in such a way that her enormous jugs sloshed violently in her immense yet overloaded bra, she stared off into the distance.  She was struggling to fit what she had just heard into her worldview, and deal with the implications.  So, as was often her way, she refused.  With a decisive jerk of her head, she shoved the uncomfortable thoughts aside.

‘I’ll deal with that later,’ she promised herself, like a teenager putting off studying for a test, and then turned back to the present.

“Whatever,” she said.

She turned her head, and briefly studied the sea of squirming young lovers, then turned back to Ivy once more.  A smirk slowly spread across her lips.

"I must say though," the Queen of Justice cooed, “it is kind of a shame that, if the Boarman considers this filth 'training', he apparently feels the need to import a bunch of floozies for the purpose.  Haven't you tried, you know, just using each other?"  Looking her up and down, she smirked.  "I think you and Royal Star would make a cute couple!” she cooed.

At this, Royal Ivy’s eyes got very wide, and her mouth dropped open.  For several seconds, she stared at Miss Americana with an expression approaching pure and unadulterated horror.  Then, with a gasp, she seemed to recover herself - even as she continued to blink at the super-heroine in shock.

“He… he is right,” she said softly.  She glanced down to her chest, and then back up to her face.  “You really do have more in your bra than in your brains.”

“What… what was that?!” Miss Americana gasped, shocked.

But Royal Ivy just shook her head, emphatically - even as her body continued to shiver in revulsion within her jet-black suit.  “Never mind!” she said, sharply.  “Let… let us just say that that… that is absolutely forbidden, for… for very good reason, and move on!”

Whirling on her heel, Royal Ivy set off for the distant door to the Boarman’s inner sanctum.  Puzzled, Miss Americana wondered what she had done wrong, and then shrugged and followed.

Leaving the impending orgy behind, the two walked down the long corridor until they approached the far metal gate.  As they did so, they passed glass windows looking onto exercise and training areas - in which Royals were taking advantage of the exotic equipment inside to make time with still more of the bikini-clad pageant contestants… but Miss Americana, having had enough of such things, kept her eyes studiously forward and did not partake of even a single sideward glance until they had arrived at the door.

“This,” Royal Ivy said, standing with her hand poised above the waiting scanner, “is the entrance to the Inner Base.  You have seen enough already.  Enter here, and you leave only at the Boarman’s pleasure.  Are you certain?”

She was.  “Let me in,” Miss Americana barked, hands perched imperiously upon her buxom hips.  “I’m not scared!”

“Very well,” Royal Ivy said.  She put her hand on the sensor.  

This gate was of a slightly more conventional design, with two heavy doors side by side.  But, at the press of Royal Ivy’s hand, it still parted in a slightly unusual fashion.  Due to some unknown security system, it tilted open first at the top.  Then, the two leaves slowly slid open, with a V-shaped passage steadily spreading wider and wider before Miss Americana - opening the way into the Boarman’s innermost sanctum.  At last, the way was entirely clear.

“Ladies first, I insist,” Royal Ivy cooed.

Miss Americana harumphed - and swayed her big scantily-clad butt forward.  Smiling demurely, Royal Ivy followed in her wake.

The room they passed in to proved to be a vast natural cavern with an artificially flattened floor - like the one she had woken up in but much, much larger.  Metal walls and buildings were scattered around, some of them only one story tall while others stretched up to the ceiling of the cavern, tens of meters above her.  Way up there, among the stalagmites, several cameras and drones prowled slowly around, keeping a watch on everything below.

Despite the continuous observation, after the plus hotel-like accommodations of the Outer Base, Americana almost immediately felt much more comfortable.  Here she found the same sort of utilitarian industrial steel-and-piping motif she used within her own base.  Looking around, the superheroine took a deep breath and sighed.

“Why, it almost feels like home,” she said happily.

Stepping through after her, Royal Ivy smirked.  “Yeah… there’s a reason for that,” she cooed.

“What do you mean by that?” Miss Americana asked, sharply.

Royal Ivy smiled, her eyes glittering.  “One of the basic principles of seduction is all about setting up maximum comfort, for your own personal target, wherever you’re planning on bedding them,” she said.  She nodded back towards the Outer Base.  “The Royals bring home teenagers staying away from daddy for the first time in their hotel rooms… so their base is set up with that in mind.  The Boarman brings a different sort of woman home.  Any guesses on what type… superheroine?”

Miss Americana stared at her for a second - and then shook her head, and shoved the redhead’s words aside with a wave of her hand.  “Whatever,” she said.  “That’s just hype.  Now… now take me to him!”

“Very well,” Royal Ivy said, and started leading the way through the vast cavern, down winding pathways, towards its center.  Miss Americana followed.

As she walked, looking around curiously, Miss Americana started to get a feel for the Boarman’s inner sanctum.  Though she could not discern the purpose of every structure she saw, she swiftly developed the impression that the Boarman’s lair was roughly divided into quadrants.  To her right, the walls she passed were clearly heavily armored; and the doors reinforced.  Cameras were numerous, tracking her automatically, and alarm lights stood by, dark but ready.  This, her instincts immediately told her, was his prisoner containment facility.  The occasional high-pitched screech that seemed to echo from within - which could have been machinery, or could have been female vocal cords - sent tiny shivers up her flesh.  It would make sense to put that next to the Royals.

To her left, was the trophy vault.  This was clear enough because below there were row upon row of lit trophy cases, and then above that, suspended from the ceiling by wires, an array of far larger prizes.  Most prominent of these were a gigantic pair of bra and panties, each cup or panel of which was large enough to use as a sail upon a galleon, and which Americana belatedly recognized as belonging to the size-changing villainess Giganta.  There were other oversize trophies as well:  there was a flying saucer that looked suspiciously dome-like, with a round projection right at the top.  Miss Americana belatedly recognized it as a Zellerian space-ship; the same one the Boarman harvested the material for his ultra-light zip-cuffs and spreader-bars from.  There were also a few giant hanging pieces of technology which she didn’t recognize - either of alien or mad-villainess manufacture.

But now that she was looking, she spotted one captured machine she definitely did recognize.  

“My… my car!” the Queen of Justice gasped.  Her head already turned sideways, she skidded to a halt, her hands opening up wide to either side of her curvy scantily-clad hips.

Stopping herself and turning to face the same direction, Royal Ivy nodded.  “Oh, right,” she said - not sounding the slightest bit surprised.

In the distant ceiling of the cavern, a large mechanical door had been retracted.  From it, upon several strong cables, an industrial winch was slowly lowering what was left of the Americanamobile down towards a waiting plinth.  Now that she was looking that way, with a soft gasp, Miss Americana saw that several other high-performance super-vehicles (or the remains thereof) were already on display along the edge of the cavern, on identical plinths. She thought she recognized one as belonging to Green Specter - but shoved that aside as ridiculous.  Others she did not recognize; but considering that one was hot pink with purple lightning bolts, and another was black with a red broken-heart logo, she could guess that whoever their original owners were they had been of the curvy-and-scantily-clad persuasion.

“What… what do you think you’re doing with that?!” Miss Americana moaned, watching her precious car get lowered towards the Boarman’s waiting plinth.

Standing beside her, Royal Ivy smirked.  “Would you rather we have left it lying around beside Hyboria?” she asked.  “Or handed it over to the cops?”

MIss Americana brushed some of her sable hair back, and squirmed.  “Well.. no,” she admitted.  Recovering some of her spirit, she put both hands on her buxom hips and glared.  “But you still have no right to take it!”

Royal Ivy shrugged.  “If you really want it back that bad, I’m sure the Boarman can be negotiated with,” she said.  “Though there might be some fees that will have to be paid, to cover the costs of moving and storage.”  She glanced slyly down at the super-heroine’s scantily-clad crotch, as if considering what few forms of payment the heroine had that her counterparty might be interested in.  Then she shrugged.  “Shall we go on?”

Miss Americana took a deep breath.  Then, she pushed thoughts of her destroyed supercar aside.  It was no good coming across too desperate and needy, before she had even seen him.  It was hardly the only one she had, even if it was by far the newest and most expensive.  From the look she had gotten down into the engine block and cab, this one would be useful only for parts.  It wasn’t that big a deal to have to go back to last years’ model… though admittedly she would have to put up with the fact the bluetooth was on the fritz.

Miss Americana nodded, signaling her agreement with Ivy.

However, it turned out, she wasn’t quite ready to turn away yet.  Now that she was facing that way, she allowed her gaze to drop... and her eyes were briefly drawn to the row upon row of glowing trophy cases that filled that side of the cave, beneath the gigantic prizes higher up.  But she did not have time to focus on that and, reminding herself of her mission, quickly shook her head and looked away.  

“Lead on,” she told her.

Ivy did so.  Miss Americana followed.

Soon enough, they found the Boarman.  The cowled hero was standing in what in a city would have been a central plaza, with large metal buildings looming around him.  Several had large screens on them - though these were currently dark.  Before him, lay a semicircular array of panels set at waist-height, all of which were glowing.

The Boarman himself didn’t even seem to be watching them, instead studying the array of screens in front of him.  As they got near, she saw that, of the several screens that glowed side-by-side before him, the central three showed various stages of her car being laid onto its plinth, which he seemed to be overseeing remotely.  However, the one on the far right showed an overview of Broodhaven itself, in a wire-frame 3D view, with various current hot-spots and police-chases highlighted with blinking red dots.  

But the screen that was nearest them was broken up into four quadrants, each showing a different part of his base.  One showed the party going on between the Royals and the beauty queens.  Another showed a hotel lounge, where what Americana recognized as two Royals in civilian dress appeared to be effortlessly talking the last few stragglers among the pageant contestants into coming away with them.  In the process they were leaving the various average chumps, who had spent the last several hours trying to game the bikini-clad beauties and listen to them talk about their problems, to learn the hard way they would not actually be getting any beauty-queen pussy that night.  Yet another screen, however, showed an overhead view of Ivy and Americana walking up - revealing that even though he had not raised his head in the slightest the Boarman had been well aware of their approach the entire time.

“Miss Americana, my lord,” Royal Ivy said, bowing, and holding out a hand towards the busty super-heroine like a herald presenting a visiting dignitary to court.  Miss Americana opened her lips - and the Boarman raised a hand to stop her.

“Just a moment,” he said.  Then he raised a hand to his cowl.

“Good job, Royal Power,” he said, to the Royal who was currently walking away with Miss Teen California under his arm.  This completed the sweep; all that was left in the hotel was a horde of bitterly disappointed and thoroughly blue-balled other dudes.  “But you would have had an easier time of it if you’d broken her haughty pride a bit better through your earlier encounters, and then established a false threat of separation, to activate her fear of missing out.  If you had done that for both of them, she’d probably be begging to suck your dick by now.  As it is, you’ll probably have to wait for afterplay for that.  Remember that next time - but for now, enjoy.”

“Yes, sir,” Royal Power murmured.

“What was that?” Miss Teen California asked him, softly - as they settled side by side into the elevator.

“Nothing,” he told her.  “Now come here.”  As the elevator doors began to close, but before they actually did, he seized her, pulled her close, and began making out with her.  And not putting up the slightest resistance, by the time the doors actually closed Miss Teen California was running her hands through his hair, her bikini-clad body rubbing against him as she kissed him back ravenously.

The Boarman nodded, approvingly.  Then, at last, he looked up.

But Miss Americana was not quite ready to.  Hands on her hips, she regarded the screen with disgust - and then, raising her own blue eyes to meet his, shook her head.

“Such filth!” she hissed.

He shrugged.  “Young men have to learn their skills somehow,” he said.  “You don’t send a man into armed conflict without training him to shoot, do you?  Same thing.”

Hands sliding back to her ass, Miss Americana kept them both there as she raised her chin, her face still set with offended feminine fury.  “Oh, yes, the exact same,” she said.  “Save that I see no reason why any man should possess this particular set of skills.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he said.  He shrugged, tapped a few more keys, and then lifted his hands and turned fully to face her.  “You wished to see me?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said.  Hands quivering upon her ass, she glared at him as if her gaze alone could bore through him.  “I demand to see my friends, and my sidekick!  Either they leave with me, or they tell me with their own lips that they are staying.  This is my demand.  And I am not budging until I have been satisfied!”

Rather than respond right away, the Boarman sighed, and rolled his eyes within his cowl.

Miss Americana’s face quivered with passion, in response.  Transferring one hand up to her hip, she extended the other out to shake her finger in front of him.  “Do you deny that I deserve satisfaction?” she asked him, waving her red-gloved finger back and forth in his face.

“Of course you do not,” the Boarman growled back.  He gestured up and down her.  “You are a superheroine - a silly creature that does nothing but deny her most natural drives and impulses, sublimating them into uppity and willful misbehavior.  You deserve nothing, but whatever it is I deign to provide you.  And that does not include your friends or your sidekick.”

Miss Americana shivered in fury, deep breaths making her enormous jugs slosh violently in her overloaded bra.  The specific question - or excuse, if she was honest - of her friends, was rapidly falling away in favor of a much more direct and salient issue.

“That is utterly ridiculous!” she snapped.  “Superheroines,” she said, gesturing skyward with the hand not perched upon her buxom fertile hip, “are the equal in every way to superheroes!  We deserve the same respect, the same honor - the same everything!”

The Boarman shook his head.  “Rubbish,” was his one word reply.

Huffing with fury, Miss Americana put both hands upon her hips and glared.

“Superheroines are the equal of any man!” she hissed.  “I myself am living proof!  There is nothing you can do, that I cannot defeat you at, if… if given a fair chance!”

"That is objectively false," the Boarman said.  "This night has proven the exact opposite.  Finally.”

Hands quivering upon the hip-straps of her proud little panties, Miss Americana glared.  “Finally?” she hissed.

He nodded.

“Long have I suspected,” he said.  “But now that you finally brought your big ass to Broodhaven, I finally have proof.  The great Queen of Justice exists just to get captured…”

He waved his hand, and one of the giant screens behind him lit up to show Miss Americana tied naked to a pole, squirming.  Miss Americana turned her head up, and gaped at it in shock.

“To get defeated…” he said.

Another screen lit up showing her getting worked over by Jiutian, in particular the light going out of her eyes as she got brained in the head with her own belt.

“And, in an absolute resort, to give pleasure to your enemies, in exchange for your freedom.”

The screen between the other two lit up, showing her on her knees, lapping away vigorously up underneath Battle Bunny’s daintily-raised skirt.

“All at the hands of villainesses I defeated effortlessly.  So you see, Miss Americana,” he said, as the stunned superheroine stared upwards in shock.  “Despite all your efforts to the contrary, you have done nothing but hand me all the evidence I will ever need that superheroines in general - and you, in particular - are inferior in every way… and really just need to accept your place.”

He nodded downwards, towards his feet - as if implying exactly where that was.

Miss Americana swallowed, and shivered.  Then, a furious glare broke back out across her righteous face, as her customary haughtiness visibly reasserted itself after her momentary shock.

“Th-those are all taken out of context!” she insisted, waving her finger towards the screen.  “They… they don’t mean anything.”

The Boarman let out a heavy sigh.  But, perhaps realizing her explanation was weak, Miss Americana’s glare intensified - and she grew more aggressive still.  Stomping over, she shoved a red-gloved finger into the center of his massive chest, and turning her gorgeous face up, seethed into his looming cowl.

“I demand you give me another chance!” she said.  She swept her hand not pinned into his gigantic pectoral out, as if sweeping a deck clean before her.  “One contest, without any extenuating circumstances - if I win, you have to delete all those pictures!   Let me try, and I will prove I am more than your equal!”

The Boarman shook his head.

“Don’t be silly, woman,” he said.

Hands going to her buxom hips, Miss Americana glared.  “What’s the matter?” she asked, raising her chin.  “Scared?”

The Boarman shook his head.  “No,” he said.  “It’s just that, no such challenge that you could possibly win exists.”  Then, he seemed to catch himself briefly.  “Unless,” he allowed.  Then, he shook his head.  “No.  No of course not.”

Miss Americana’s eye twitched.  Then, she stomped up closer.

“What were you going to say?” she demanded.

He sighed.  “Forget it,” he said.

“What is it?” she barked, and stamped her foot.

The Boarman shrugged.  “Well, fine,” he said.  “If you insist… perhaps there is still one way you could prove yourself my equal.”

“What is it?” she insisted.  “Show me!”

"Very well,” he said.

Walking over, he drew her attention to a large machine nearby, underneath the daming screens.  A huge steel cube, it had a door on it like a bank vault and, beside that, a large control screen.  Sauntering up to stand beside the Boarman, Ms. Americana looked suspiciously down onto the screen.  Then she gasped.  

"Select Training Program?!" she asked, reading what she saw at the top of the screen.

"Yes," he said.  "This is what I use to test and hone my own prowess.  When she-criminals are in short supply I may spend hours a day inside here, to keep myself at peak condition.  If you are really my equal you then could certainly do a mere half hour in here without breaking a sweat.  But, since you are instead a mere overblown bimbo, I do not recommend trying."

Ms. Americana whirled round, and glared.

"I'll show you!" she said.  She tapped her finger on the metal wall.  "Let me in there, right now, and I'll show you!  Anything that gives the Boarman trouble, I can destroy with ease!"

Boarman shook his cowled head.  "I do not think you know what you are asking for," he warned her.  Stepping up beside her, he put his hands on the screen.  "Here," he said, manipulating the interface for her, "at least let me first turn it down to a setting more suitable for you."

With a press of his finger, he brought up a list of training programs.  The list was handily labeled with Toughest at the top and Wimpiest at the bottom.  Each category had a descriptive name.  At the top, of course, was Boar Man.  Below that was Macho Man, then Real Man, then Royal, and so on.  At the very bottom of the list, just below Girly Man and Wimp respectively, his finger pointed at the very lowest setting on the list.  

It was, of course, entitled 'Super-Heroine'.

Ms. Americana felt a flush of indignation rush into her.  A shiver ran through every inch of her body.  Then, throwing her chin back, so that her lustrous raven hair flowed dramatically about her like the mane of a great beast, she fixed her blue eyes upon him and glared.

"Not on your life!" she hissed.  Whirling to face him, she slammed a red-gloved finger into the center of his chest.  "Put it on the very highest setting!" she insisted, gesturing at the door to the machine.  "Put it higher!  I'll break this thing in two with ease!"

Boarman shrugged.  "It is your pride's funeral," he said.  He pressed a button, and the door to the chamber slid open.

Ms. Americana wagged a finger into his cowled face.  "More like yours after I destroy your precious little toy with ease!" she said, so furious spittle flew from her lips.

She marched up to the door.  Then, standing at its entrance, she turned her head to face him.

“Just so we’re clear,” she cooed.  “Once I destroy this thing from the inside out without breaking a sweat, you have to delete all that footage, and return my friends and sidekick to me.  Else, I’ll have to get even  more rough.  Understood?”

The Boarman’s face quivered momentarily, then he shrugged.  “Sure, fine,” he said.

A fierce smile spread across Miss Americana’s face, at having so thoroughly tricked and out-bargained him.  “Then watch, and weep!" she said.  Turning sharply on her heels, she stomped through the door and into the waiting chamber.

Boarman smiled.  "I'll do half that," he promised, and pressed another button.  The doors slid closed and sealed, behind her bikini-clad butt.

Entering the chamber, Ms. Americana stood at its exact center and looked around.  The armored walls were covered in razor-thin gaps that marked numerous hidden panels.  Tracing her eyes across them, Ms. Ameriana smirked - mentally marking where her 'foes' would have to emerge from.  Upon the far wall, exactly opposite the door, was a long dark panel of bulletproof glass stretched from floor to ceiling.  As she stood there, the left hand of the panel lit up with blood-red light.  The red slowly receded, until it was dark again.  Once the red bar had fully receded, the word 'DAMAGE' in red appeared at the top.

"Fill the bar with successful strikes, and you win the simulation," Boarman told her, standing outside and watching through the large bullet-proof window.

"So simple even you could think of it," Americana said, smirking.  Folding her arms beneath her bra-straining breasts, she tapped her foot upon the steel floor.  "Just so you know," she cooed, smirking, "the training room back at my base is way, way better than this piece of amateur shit."

Boarman shrugged.  "Prove it," he said, and pushed a button.

As if on queue, two panels sprung open, and two menacing robot arms came snaking out.  Each seemed to have some sort of fiendish mystery weapon at its tip, encased in a bulbous metal casing.  Without wasting time, Ms. Americana leaped forward.

"Ha!" she shrieked, as she struck first one and then the other just behind their bulging casings.  Both tentacles shivered, and promptly fell limp to the floor with a clang.  As it did so, a tiny bit of red appeared in the bar, filling it by perhaps ten percent.

"That was easy!" Ms. Americana declared.  A look of fierce glee appeared upon her regal face, as she retreated back into the center of the room and stood in a fighting crouch.  A few strands of her raven-dark hair hung down decoratively across her beautiful masked features.

With a slight crackle, Boarman's voice came through a speaker in the wall.

"Those were for warm-ups," he said, standing and watching her performance from outside.

But within the steel testing chamber, through the hiss and crackle of the speakers, Ms. Americana was sure she could hear grudging respect in his voice.  "Don't get all defensive, just because I'm better than you," she cooed.

A moment later, another hiss announced the opening of three more panels behind her.  Whirling around, Ms. Americana spied with glee three more tentacles, each tipped by whirring blades.  With a bellowed battle-cry that caused her immense breasts to shake inside her gigantic patriotic bra-cups, she lunged forward.

"For the Honor of Delta-City!" she cried as she struck one tentacle with her fist.

"For the Glory of the Goddess!" she cried, as she slammed a second tentalce onto her thigh.

"For the Pride of Superheroines Everywhere!" she said, as she stomped the third to the floor beneath her foot.

All three tentacles fell to the floor, spitting sparks and writhing like men might after taking a solid foot to the groin.  Through the tall window the bar was now a third full.  Backing up, Americana put both hands upon her hips and, legs spread wide, looked down at her handiwork with pride.

"You must be a super-wimp!" she sneered, “if these were any challenge at all!"

"Those were decoys, tits for brains," the Boarman’s voice crackled, drolly.

"Wh-what?!" Miss Americana gasped.

It was too late.  The two tentacles she had thought already defeated had risen silently back up while she was busy with the new arrivals.  They lunged forward and wrapped around her forearms - just above where her wrists were parked to either side of her fertile swollen hips.

"Oh!" Ms. Americana gasped.  Head whirling, she gaped back over her shoulder in shock.  "G-goddess help me!" she said.

But the Goddess did not seem to be in a helping mood.  Despite her squirms and gasps and struggles, Ms. Americana's mighty arms were inexorably drawn back and pinned behind her hourglass-shaped torso.  Once the coiled tentacles had them in place, holes opened up in the bulging tips.  From these holes two rings shot out, and snapped closed around Ms. Americana's wrists.  In moments the rings turned, joined, and clamped together.

"Oh!" Ms. Americana gasped.  Her jaw hanging open in shock, she tugged desperately at her wrists.  But, sealed together tight by the Boarman's alien-metal handcuffs, they would not budge from behind her rounded ass.

Outside, the Boarman watched, and chuckled, enjoying the show.

"A mere thirty seconds and the so-called Queen of Justice is already bound and helpless," he gloated.  He pressed a button to momentarily pause the action, and the timer.  "Are you ready to give up, kneel before my boots, and admit that that is your kind's natural place?" he asked.

Still pulling desperately at the cuffs, and still going nowhere, Ms. Americana gasped.  Then, moments later, her lips twisted into a snarl.

"Never!" she spat.  "This... is nothing..." she said, straining with the effort of another mighty tug - which accomplished nothing.  "I... will defeat this attack in moments..." she assured him.

"Very well," he said, pressing the button to unpause.  "Then we shall continue."

Ms. Americana gasped.  Still struggling, she watched, eyes blinking wide, as another tentacle slithered down from above and approached her - a mechanical hand at its tip.  She stared at it, as it grew closer to her.

"Wait..." she whispered, in sudden trepidation.  "Wait, I just need a… a couple more seconds to.."

"Nope," he said.

Spreading out, the hand suddenly formed a flat open palm - and then struck Ms. Americana hard across her regal right cheek.

"Glurgh!" Ms. Americana whimpered, spittle flying from her deformed lips, as her gorgeous head was swatted round until her chin nearly touched her shoulder.  The hand didn't let up, smacking her back across her left cheek, and then her right, and then her left again.  Ms. Americana stumbled back and forth, moaning and shivering, but unable to do anything else, as she was pimp-slapped about the room.

Then, while the mighty heroine was still reeling, the mechanical hand lowered down, and rotated - while still remaining perfectly flat.  Shaking her head to recover from being briefly dazed, Ms. Americana stared at it... and her eyes went wide.  "Oh!" she said.  Moments later, before she could do anything else, the hand slammed up in between her open legs.  Seizing her by her feminine regions, it gave them a tight squeeze.

"GAAAH!" Ms. Americana shrieked, her eyes bugging out.  Between the swat and the squeeze, she doubled over, enveloping the insolent invading hand between her sleek and mighty thighs.  Giving her stinging vulva one last squeeze, the hand slipped free before it could become trapped.  Meanwhile, another hand descended from above her, and seized hold of her rudely by her hair.

"Nice defensive position," Boarman said to her, as Ms. Americana's bikini-bottom-clad buttocks lifted up high before him and jiggled, as if inviting his inspection.  "What do you call it?"

"Oh!" Ms. Americana gasped.  Face towards the ground, her lips shivered in outrage.  "You... you chauvinist..." she started to hiss, in outrage.  But before she could say anything else, another mighty robo-pimp-hand swung down and delivered a mighty swat directly to the center of her uplifted derriere.

"AIIEEE!" Ms. Americana squealed.  Her body jerked under the force of the impact.  Her head flew back, her lustrous raven hair flying, and she let out a stunned shriek.  

The hand didn't let up, or give her a chance to recover.  Blurring through the air, it wailed own upon her uplifted round buttocks again and again.  "Ah!  OH!  AGGH!" Ms. Americana screamed, as she got spanked with mechanical power and precision.  Her taut yet gigantic ass jiggled and wobbled spectacularly inside her skimpy panties, as the cruel mechanical palm did its work upon her backside - still presented directly up towards the Boarman through the window, as if for his viewing pleasure.

The machine did not let its victim-in-training get too used to any one form of attack.  Ms. Americana gasped and moaned as, helpless, she was jerked up and down, to and fro about the chamber - each new position just providing a new avenue for her helpless body to be pounded.  She gasped as she was slapped repeatedly across the face, groaned as her boobs were bounced and groped, and squealed as her ass got whipped and spanked.

After a couple minutes of this, a horrified realization slowly dawned upon Miss Americana's masked face.

"W-wait..." she moaned.  Then she squealed, as she took a backhanded pimp-slap across the face, sending her bikini-clad body reeling.  "These... these attacks..." she said, as she managed, just barely, to get back on her wobbling booted feet.  "They're...kind of... AGH!"  The wind rushed out of her, and her eyes bulged behind her mask, as she took a punch to the gut, doubling her over and sending her hurtling ass-cheek-first into a wall.

"What about them?" Boarman asked, as he watched her slide down the wall until she sat at its feet, her long bare legs spread wide.  

"They’re… they’re kind of sexi–AIEEEE!" Ms. Americana started to say - only to be cut off with a shriek as a mechanical arm snapped down, seized her by her hair, and jerked her back to her feet.  The mighty heroine wobbled back and forth upon her long, mighty, yet drunkenly-stumbling legs - and it looked like if two more tentacles hadn't coiled around her upper arms to hold her up she probably would have collapsed right back onto her ass.  The masked heroine shook her head, groaning woozily... and then gasped.

For, as she was held onto her feet, two more mechanical arms had descended, right in front of her.  But they didn't punch her, or slap her, or slam her.  Instead, as she watched, wide-eyed and panting, both hands opened up wide... and lifting upwards, gently cupped her boobs.  They gave the twin giant jugs a little bounce, making her cleavage jiggle between her straining cups.  Then the thumb of each hand rose up to the center of her trapped teat and, rubbing in little circles through the fabric of her giant cup, began to tease her nipples.

A moment later, a third hand slid up from below, in between her breasts, and began fingering her bra catch.

Ms. Americana's jaw dropped.  For a couple seconds, she stared at the groping hands in shock.  Then her face twisted with a combination of disbelief and outrage.  "What... what kind of training machine IS THIS?!" she demanded - even as she watched in helpless fury as it continued to play with her tits.

Boarman looked down at his panel, and then looked back up at her.  "Oh, whoops," he said.  He shrugged, and smiled.  

"I left it on Superheroine by mistake.”

Americana's jaw dropped.  "Wh-WHAT?!"

"Yeah, sorry," he said, not sounding sorry.  "I forgot, I had a super-booty-call over last night and she was in here, getting worked up.  But hey - that should just make things even easier, right?”

“What?!  I… no… that would be…” Miss Americana tried to argue - her tongue getting tied as she attempted to pick between two sets of implications.  But before she could, the mechanical hand preempted her by flicking open her bra-catch.

"Oh... G-Great Justice!" she hissed, eyes blazing in fury, as she watched her huge yet overloaded bra explode open.  Her massive bare tits burst forth to sway and jostle ponderously before the merciless machine.  The mechanical hands that had been squeezing and tormenting her jugs promptly leaped away.  Looping around behind her, they seized her strapless bra before it could fall too far, and carried it away like a trophy.

In their place, two fresh new tentacles rose up and positioned themselves in front of the tips of her jostling jugs.  At the end of each tentacle was a large metal cup... from which could be heard a little hissing suction.

"A... a super-heroine used this for training?!" Ms. Americana gasped, staring at the cups in shock.

Looking through the window, he smirked.  "Less heroine, more semi-reformed villainess," he admitted.  "And less training," he continued his admissions, "...and more like foreplay."

"WHAT?!" she bellowed.

But before she could say anything else, the cups slammed forward.  Sealing themselves against the ends of her gigantic jugs, they began to suck for all they were worth.  Then, within the cups, little rotating teasers lifted up and began to keep the pressure on her already tenderly engorged nipples.

He shrugged.  "I'm a busy man," he said, as he enjoyed the show she was putting on, squirming and thrashing pneumatically as her giant tits were sucked.  "I can't finger all the cunts who want to ride my Boar-jock.  You super-broads are all so stuck-up and full of yourselves, every last one of you thinks you deserve a few hours of my full attention just for the privilege of getting loaded up from my nuts.  If I had to spend an hour with my hand down the panties of every stuck up slut who came strutting up to throw shade at me I'd never get anything done.  So I made something to get you ultra-whores all warmed up and ready to put out."

Outside, a small aperture had opened up on the outside of the machine.  From it a metal arm extended - and, from a hook at the end there dangled the gigantic cups of Ms. Americana's captured bra.  He reached up and toyed with one of her giant patriotic cups with his fingers, while still watching the show.

"And hey," he said, as he toyed with her captured top, "I figured... why do I need two separate machines, one to train on and one to put you super-sluts in the mood to do what you were fucking born for - when one is more than enough?"

As he had explained himself, Americana's jaw had steadily dropped lower and lower - both at what she was hearing and at the suction working over her breasts.  

"Oh!" Ms. Americana gasped.  "Oh, you... you chauvinist FIEND!" she squealed.  Her breasts distending under the force of the suction, she doubled over of her own accord.  Her lips twisted in a furious snarl, she stared down at the tormenting of her big proud rack in outraged disbelief.

"But hey, no big deal," Boarman continued.  "Surely it's nothing to the great Queen of Justice - right?"

"OH!" Ms. Americana thundered, shivering in shock.  But before she could make any other reaction she gasped - as she felt two more cold tentacles alight upon her body.  Alighting down upon her uplifted, enormous yet perfectly toned ass, the tips of the tentacles nuzzled teasingly at the edges of her panties.  Belleaguered boobies briefly forgotten, Ms. Americana whirled her head around and gaped wide-eyed back over her shoulder - just in time to see each of the mechanical tentacles slip up underneath the seat of her proud panties, hooking through them just below their golden straps.

"No!" Ms. Americana shrieked, staring back at her violated panties in shock.  “No, stop!  Y-you can’t!”

But she could but watch, helpless, as the metal tentacles peeled her proud panties up and over the rotund swell of her ass.

"Y-you fiend!" she gasped, as her panties were tugged down below the base of her ass, and went shooting off down her legs.  She squealed and squirmed, but despite her struggles it was but moments before her little panties got jerked away over the ends of her feet.  With an almost delighted-sounding mechanical squeal, one of the tentacles zipped away - holding her panties.

But unlike with her bra, the tentacle carrying her panties performed a slow and lazy S-curve through the chamber - so that they swooped around and in front of the stripped and captive heroine.  Ms. Americana hissed in frustration - her snarling face glued to every taunting motion the machine made with her sacred panties.  She snarled, and glared in fury, as it paused to wave the dainty garment back and forth mockingly, right in front of her face.  Then, with a zip the machine darted away - carrying her panties trailing away in its wake as it took them away from her.

But nothing Boarman's merciless machine did was entirely for show.  As it had mocked her with her own panties, the cruel contraption had been quietly preparing new torments for its latest shapely subject.  Descending down right behind where her panties had been - almost as if the defiantly skimpy garment had been used as a makeshift curtain to be lifted away for its introduction - there appeared a new tentacle.  Ms. Americana gasped, her eyes going wide - as at the end of this one she beheld a near-perfect replica of a large penis, pointed directly at her face.

"Oh... oh my..." Ms. Americana whispered - as she stared down the waiting phallus in shock.

Then, with a buzz, yet another threat emerged.  In her distraction with her panties, Ms. Americana had erroneously left her thighs spread an obliging distance apart.  Now, at the end of yet another tentacle, a cylindrical object rose up between her parted thighs and presented itself outside the entrance of her newly exposed pussy.

"B-by the Goddess..." Ms. Americana hissed.  Her eyes, going wide, darted backwards in horror.

But it was too late.  Before she could close the gate which she had accidentally left ajar, the tentacle had pushed upwards... nuzzling up against the entrance of her pussy.  Then, when it had sunk ever so slightly up in between the lips of her defenseless cunt, the machine suddenly gave a little spin of its rotary teaser up against her twat.

"Oh... G-Great JUSTICE!" Ms. Americana squealed.  She could not help herself.  Despite her best efforts to resist, just a couple seconds of spinning from the teaser up against her twat set her entire buxom hindquarters to quivering.  When it stopped a moment later, the entire business end of the teaser was shining with her glistening fluids.

"Oooh!" Ms. Americana said.  She shivered - pinned down, waiting helplessly, for the next assault of his machine.  Eyes glued to the dildo looming in front of her face, she slowly shook her head.  "How... how on earth would you ever trick even one self-respecting super-woman into this thing?!" she asked

The Boarman shrugged. Beside him another mechanical arm had extended out, beside the one holding her bra.  From a hook on the tip of this one her panties dangled.  Reaching up, as he ruminated, Boarman casually plucked Ms. Americana's most sacred and skimpy garment up, and studied it.

"Every woman is a little different, and requires a slightly different approach..." he said, idly contemplating the superheroine’s panties.  Then he turned back, and looked at her through the window.  "But if a super-bimbo I was attempting to seduce seemed to be particularly stupid and gullible, even by the standards of her kind,” he said, “well... I might for example, tell her that this was my training machine, and dare her to enter and prove herself my equal.”

"Oh..." Ms. Americana gasped.  Her blue eyes, staring down the length of the dildo, suddenly got very wide.  "Oh, you... you giant fucking PRI-..." she started to say.

Before she could get out another word, both the dildo and the teaser surging forward into the helpless heroine's waiting body.

"GLURRRGH!" Ms. Americana finished wittily wittily, as the big dildo sealed up her lips - and then shoved on further.  Her eyes rolled upwards and leaked tears, as the big thing started to spread her throat.

Meanwhile, the teaser shoved its way rudely up into her cunt, and promptly set to buzzing and spinning.  Instantly, fluids started to splatter out onto the interior of her thighs, while Americana's whole buxom and naked lower body began to wiggle with wild and helpless abandon.

"GLLLUGGHGG!" she moaned, eyes blinking wide in stunned shock, as she got brutally and efficiently seen to at both ends.

Rubbing the crotch of her tiny panties between his thumb and fingers, Boarman chuckled.

"As you probably know," he said, as he enjoyed her wiggles and jiggles under another automated assault, "there are two ways a heroine may survive her encounter with her enemies:  overpower them, or satisfy them.  Just so you know, this machine is designed to simulate both."

"MBBBLM!" Miss Americana moaned back, her eyes rolling in her skull, as her lips slurped helplessly while her hindquarters jiggled uncontrollably around his machine's plunging rearward assault.

"Given your lack of success with the first method..." he purred, "may I suggest seeing if your skills are more suited to the second?"

By way of response, Ms. Americana bleated and squealed.  Her face danced with outrage - around the huge dildo whose merciless thrusts repeatedly deformed her lovely features with its sheer girth.

But she had little choice.  Whether out of conscious reaction to his advice, or just pure instinct kicking in, within another few deep pumps of the dildo down into her throat Ms. Americana, physically at least, had given in.  Eyes fluttering closed, and lips sealing themselves around the big thing as best they could, the air inside the machine began to fill with slurps and gurgles and moans - as she did her best to give the mechanical thing pleasure.

Returning her panties to the waiting hook, Boarman put his hands on the control console and pushed a few buttons.  

Upon a display screen in front of the Boarman, a diagram suddenly lit up - showing a simulation of Americana's tongue as it began to caress up and down the false cock.  Beside it, pulsing meters measured her suction force, heart rate, and the level of fluid detected in her pussy.

"Hmm..." the Boarman said.  He adjusted some dials.  The buzzing of the teaser in her pussy went up in frequency slightly, and its shaft began to add little circles to its rotation.  Ms. Americana let out a little squeak, her buxom hindquarters shivering... and, a few seconds later, the digital representation of her tongue upon the display began stroking its cock a little more vigorously and suction went up by twenty percent.

Then, a tone sounded.  The Boarman glanced over, and saw a message was coming in.  He muted the line into the interior of the chamber, where Miss Americana continued to thrash and whimper regardless, and accepted the call.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” Royal Seer’s face said, upon her screen.  “I know you were… busy,” she said, taking a deep breath.

“That’s alright,” he said.

He glanced up through the window, and smiled.

“Miss Americana is proving even more easy to work with than I expected,” he added, as he watched her jiggle.

“Very good,” Royal Seer said.  She glanced down, and then back up.  “I called because our sensors indicate our latest guests are... ready for their final interrogation."

Averting her gaze - for she was after all a well-bred young lady - Royal Seer brought up a video feed.  It depicted the interior of the Prizms' cell.  All five of them were in the midst of extremely sweaty and intimate activities.  Two of them - Violent Violet and Jaded Jade - lay flat on their bunks with their legs spread as wide as possible and their cunts presented towards the camera.  Their fingers slammed furiously through said sloppy slits, coated with moisture.  Though the sound was off, based on the way their heads thrashed back and forth and their jaws hung open, they were screaming out - their bodies shivering with desire for the release they had only just learned was possible.

Meanwhile, Savage Sapphire and Ghoulish Goldie had thrown their energies into making out with each other - although anyone with a remotely discerning eye could tell that, while they were deriving pleasure from it, the act was primarily performative.  Between passionate kisses their pretty heads repeatedly turned and glanced hopefully up towards the camera - only to sigh, and turn back to swapping spit - making it clear that the way their sleek bodies were continuously writhing and rubbing up against one another was designed, first and foremost, to entice a hypothetical observer to want to exist in the space in between their continuously intertwining flesh.

At the same time, on the floor in between her sisters, Rude Ruby was on her knees.  Her thighs were spread wide, and one hand pumped and massaged continuously at her leaking pussy.  Her other hand was up by her face.  One long finger extended between her open lips.  Her eyes never leaving the camera, Rude Ruby subjected her finger to an unending series of licks, slurps, and kisses - demonstrating the slavish devotion she would show towards worshiping the much larger real thing, if just once given the opportunity to kneel at her hated enemy's feet and do so.

Even though she had averted her gaze, Royal Seer had apparently still seen enough that her shapely hips gave a quick, involuntary squirm beneath her.

"What... what do you think, sir?" she asked.  Blushing slightly, she looked back at him.  "If you're busy, I could send a Boarbot in to... deal with them," she suggested, gently.

Watching the five wicked beauties vigorously play with themselves, the Boarman shook his cowled head and snorted.

"It wouldn't last thirty seconds," he said, as he observed them.  "Not that that would likely slow them down any..." he added, as the Prizms writhed before him.

"Well then, should I just gas them, and send them into Hyboria as-is?" Royal Seer suggested.  She turned her head back just enough to look him in the eye, but not to see anything else.  "I know you're still... busy... with that superheroine," she said.

"Hmmm..." the Boarman said.  He tapped a finger to his chin, continuing to observe.  He seemed to note in particular the way Savage Sapphire and Ghoulish Goldie's large breasts pressed and jiggled together; the thick flows of glistening ooze pouring up around Violent Violet and Jaded Jade's pumping fingers, and the tenderness with which Rude Ruby's tongue stroked up and down her long finger.  Then he shook his head.

"No," he said, his sharp cowl-tips shaking back and forth, as he observed the room full of hot, naked, voluptuous flesh that awaited him.  "Much as it pains me, and much as it may divert me from dealing with my very important business with this one," he added, nodding back towards where Miss Americana's buxom form continued to wriggle and writhe oblivious behind him, "I will go and deal with these unruly harlots again.  If I must."

At this, Royal Seer gasped softly, and her eyes shone.

"Oh!  I don't know what the city would do without you!" she confessed.  She shook her head.  "You're so brave."

The Boarman took one more moment to observe the five busty she-criminals who lay waiting to get their ardor pounded flat beneath his superior force, once more - and snorted.  "Yeah, to put even my dick into those filthy fucking holes you'd have to be," he said, nodding towards the Prizms.  

If Royal Seer heard this remark, she gave no sign of it.  Still smiling happily, she gave a prim nod.

"I will begin the preparations," she assured him, and then cut the feed.

Turning back, the Boarman regarded Miss Americana for a few seconds.  Then he reached down and, pressing a single button, unmuted the microphone.

“I’m afraid I have to go away for a little while,” he informed her.

Inside, trembling atop the mechanical arms seeing to her from both ends, Miss Americana bleated loudly.  Her eyes flew open wide, and blinked in stunned tear-streaked shock, at this news.  But, though she did her best to bellow her outrage into the thick tentacle pumping in and out of her lips, all that came out was an unintelligible series of moist, high-pitched gurgles.

The Boarman shook his head.  “Yes, yes,” he said, “don’t worry.”  Reaching down, he adjusted some settings, turning several sliding switches up to higher positions, and setting a couple of timers.  “I will ensure the machine delivers sufficient variation to keep things interesting for you, even though I am not present.”

Her eyes crossing and blinking in horror over the large dildo violating her lips, Miss Americana let out a string of interesting yet unintelligible noises in response to his announcement.  Her full lips attempted to beg, to bargain, and to threaten - and all this accomplished was to slurp noisily around the huge tool filling them, and to cause even larger quantities of her slobber to drool forth from the thick shaft and hang in tendrils from her chin.  Then her meaningless objections went up an octave as, in response to his changes, the teaser working at her pussy suddenly shifted into higher gear.  A few seconds later her voluptuous buttocks began to shake uncontrollably, as fluids began to spatter out from between her mighty yet helplessly wide-spread thighs.

At the heroine’s reaction, the Boarman chuckled.  “You’re welcome,” he told her.  Then, muting the feed again, he turned and walked away.  Miss Americana was just lucid enough, and her vision just free enough, to watch his muscular silhouette recede away into the distance… and realize she had been left all alone inside his machine.

On and on, the machine worked her.  True to his word, it varied things up on her from time to time.  Early on in the proceedings, very shortly after the Boarman left her, a mechanical arm descended into view, holding a high-end pair of VR goggles with integrated speakers.  It let her see it, and Miss Americana shivered, and bleated.  But there was nothing she could do.  Though she strained and struggled she could not resist as the visor was fitted into place over her gorgeous face, and locked around the back of her head.

Now, able to control everything she saw and heard in addition to whatever sensations or penetrations it wanted to deliver to her body, the Boarman’s fiendish engine really let her have it.  It cycled the proud and buxom heroine through a variety of scenarios - retracting its control from her ever so briefly, giving her the briefest moments of hope before she was defeated again and again.

First, the mighty heroine found herself facing a vast army of thugs.  Though she was naked, she snarled in defiance, and engaged them fearlessly.  And yet, she proved no match for them.  One by one, they faced her one on one, not even bothering to gang up on her - and one by one, they put her in her place, schooling her effortlessly.  Soon enough, she ended up flat on her back, in the inner city, before her laughing foes.  And then, they had their way with her.  First, they held her down, and used fingers.  Once more, they proved too much for her.  One by one, the same men who had shown her up in one way did so in a second, as they made her squeal and shiver with just their touch - while the rest continued to bathe her in laughter.  Then, they began to bring out their dicks.  Panting in awe, Miss Americana could only lie back and moan in anticipation as the first victorious member poised itself at the entrance to her pussy.  Then, moments before it would have thrust in and penetrated her, the horrid false world dissolved away into blackness.

But, the one that replaced it would be no more comforting.  In the next she faced an evil luchador in a wrestling ring.  After being seemingly effortlessly defeated, her masked foe bent her over the top rope, and proceeded to inflict a series of punishments that seemed to entirely involve his finger inside her pussy, until she begged to submit to him - all the while the massive audience pointed and laughed.  After that, she faced a supervillain in an open street, surrounded by vast crowds - and once more, after inevitably being owned, had to endure their howls of laughter as he proceeded in broad daylight to have his way with her.

Over and over, Miss Americana faced foe after simulated foe.  Over and over she was defeated utterly, and then paid a super-heroine’s price for her subjugation.  Her punishments took many forms:  of being slapped around, of being spanked, of being posed naked with her opponent’s boot planted upon her, of being forced to suck or to kiss boot.  Through it all, just two things held true.  As fluids poured from her well-abused pussy, the whimpering heroine became increasingly and intensely aware that no matter how many times she was defeated, nothing was allowed to penetrate her pussy that was larger than a finger, and that no more than to be immersed up to the first knuckle inside her.  And on top of that, although the stroking fingers, and tentacles, and other foul implements of victory being used upon her repeatedly got her up to the very edge, she was never permitted to actually climax.  Over and over her helpless clitoris was teased and toyed with, bringing her up to the very cusp of a furious squirting orgasm - only for the scenario instantly to end, and another to begin, leaving her helpless vaginal lips dripping and unsatisfied.

And, as one last insult to be added to her drooling injury, every time the scenario ended to leave the buxom heroine sweaty, dripping, and conquered, a brief screen popped up informing her of two pieces of information.  The first was the running tally of her own victories and losses:  with the Miss Americana Defeated number growing steadily larger with each failure, while the Miss Americana Victories number remained at all times and mockingly at zero.  Then, beneath that, the internal machine informed the conquered super-heroine of exactly how many hundreds or thousands of times the Boarman had faced that same scenario - and that he had never lost once.

The first number, Miss Ameriana could scarcely dispute - though she soon lost track as the number of times she had been owned began to blur together, and had to start taking the machine's word on faith.  The second number, she reflexively rejected as made-up lies… at first.  But the longer she spent in the machine, the more times she ended up panting and naked and dripping before another damning number, the less her increasingly delirious mind was able to resist them.  Gradually, like a parasite worming its way into its host, the damning numbers that seemed to prove her own vast inferiority wormed their way into her exhausted brain… and became lodged there, as yet another accepted fact.

Miss Americana would never remember exactly how many simulated bouts she faced, at the hands of the Boarman’s machine.  Even the numbers started to blur, as her eyes became perpetually watery, so that she knew it had to be at least twenty, but possibly up in the thirties.  At last, whether from a failure of her flesh of her noble spirit, it began to become obvious that further resistance was futile.  In three engagements in a row, despite being given ample time to prepare, the mighty super-heroine barely resisted at all, but seemed almost resignedly to allow her curves to be snatched up and returned to the shivering punishment phase once more.  At this, the machine seemed to recognize its subject was entirely beaten, and transitioned modes.  The scenarios continued to cycle - but it no longer bothered to present her with a chance to resist.  Instead, Miss Americana was passed from one punishment cycle to another to another, without even having the chance to fight back.  One minute, she was in the nest of some great oozing monster, being worked over with its tentacles.  The next she was in an inner city strip club, being held up against the pole while a criminal hand tormented her between her legs.  The next she was on an alien spacecraft, being forced to watch as the invasion her own failure had permitted proceeded before her, while the examination device she had been strapped into prepared to conduct a series of foul experiments.

So long did this phase go on, that even what little coherence remained within Miss Americana’s lovely head began to fade.  Her eyes blinking drunkenly over whatever it was that was momentarily plundering her wide-open lips - it might have been a tentacle or it might have been the lips of a dark thug, she could barely even remember - Miss Americana lost herself amidst the swirl of humiliation and sex like in a waking erotic dream.  And yet still, nothing was allowed to penetrate deep into her pussy, and though she was brought up to the very edge more times than she could count, still her dripping hind-quarters were denied any actual release.

The same could not be said of her mouth, and in due course what little was left of Miss Americana’s gag reflex was entirely swept aside.  Occasionally, she did feel whatever large object was currently thrust deep inside her oral cavity pulse and throb, as it ejaculated within her.  But, rather than the foul salty taste of semen which she unfortunately knew a little too well, when this happened she instead tasted a faint sweetness.  With a soft whimper, through the illusory hormone-heightened haze of the simulation, the mighty Miss Americana realized that she was being periodically injected with nutrient-laced fluids, to make sure her busty body was continuously ready for more despite its long ordeal.

Finally, through the delirious fog that filled her well-pumped head, Miss Americana heard a faint tone.  “Simulation complete,” it said.

Gradually, the last stroking spinning teaser was withdrawn from her pussy.  The thick implement currently inside her lips - it might have been a tentacle, it might have been a penis, she could no longer recall, though she had been sucking on it reflexively regardless, having been steadily subconsciously taught that doing so generated more pleasure for her pussy - slurped up and out of her.  Miss Americana gasped, as she was brought up into an upright, standing posture.  But her hands remained bound, and her ankles too - in a forcibly spread position.  The VR goggles remained in place upon her face as well, rendering her blind and deaf and helpless within the temporarily merciful space of the machine.

“Simulation complete,” the machine intoned again, for her.  Then, it rendered its verdict.  “Superheroine Defeat:  Total,” it said.  “Superheroine Defeat:  Total.”

Miss Americana shook her head.  “That… that can’t be right!” she said.  “It’s not possible!”

“Superheroine is defeated,” the machine said, regardless.  “Prepare her for transfer to holding cell, for post-defeat counseling…”

Miss Americana still could not accept it.  “It… it wasn’t a legitimate contest!” she said.  “You didn’t fight fair!  Y-you have to let me try again!”

But the machine ignored her.  With a gasp, hearing the whir and swoosh of machinery around her, through inertia alone the goggle-blinded heroine felt herself being carried - upright, and with her mighty thighs held wide-open - through the unknown.  She felt, as much as heard, the opening and closing of a couple large armored doors as she was ushered out of the simulation chamber itself.  Mostly through the ponderous motion of her own large bare breasts, which were very sensitive to every start and stop and every turn or sway, the mighty heroine could tell she was being transported a significant distance through the Boarman’s lair.  Another set of doors opened and closed.  She felt herself being placed onto her feet, and heard the faint ‘clank’ of the soles of her boots coming to rest upon metal.   A mechanical hand reached down, tugged off the VR goggles and took them away.  Moments later the clamps that had kept her ankles held wide, and her wrists pinned together behind her back, released, and withdrew as well.  Her head no longer covered, with a soft gasp Miss Americana heard a large mechanical door closing behind her, and then the soft whirr of machinery fading into the distance - as whatever robot of industrial subjugation had brought her here zipped back away to its lair.

For several seconds, Miss Americana stood there, panting softly.  She looked around, her blue eyes wide.

Around her, everything was almost pure darkness.  She could tell she was in a large metal room, but could make out almost no other details amidst the gloom.  A single bright white light, like a spotlight, shone down upon her.  The edge of the glow barely illuminated a large sliding armored door, directly behind her naked buns.

For just a moment, the mighty heroine almost thought that her recent ordeal was in fact actually a dream.  Her belly filled up with the machine’s electrolyte-rich ‘cum’, the panting heroine found that despite her long ordeal in short order her sleek and super-humanly superb flesh was almost fully recovered.  Her muscles soon felt rested, her breath returned to normal.  At the tips of her enormous breasts, her nipples were perpetually tented out to their maximum extension - but given their nakedness and the chill of the room that was not entirely unexpected.

Two things remained that proved beyond doubt what she had just been through was real.  First, although a bit of her usual spirit started to come back rapidly, her mind remained distinctly fuzzy and befuddled in the wake of what it had been through.  Second, and much more visible:  down between her legs, her tender bare pussy was literally dripping forth tendrils of oozing slime - and all up inside her tender cavity, the mighty heroine could tell that she was, without exaggeration, wetter than she had ever been in her life.  And, unlike everything else, that was not going away.  In fact, the longer she went untouched, the more the ache inside her grew, and the more oozing lubricant seemed to flow down into a pussy that was already so wet it seemed to be preparing itself to have sex with a man with a dick the size of a telephone pole.

But the mighty heroine did not have time to dwell upon that.  For a moment later, a second light came on in the dark space, revealing that she was not alone.  The Boarman stood right in front of her, beneath his own spotlight.

“Oh…” the mighty heroine gasped.  Her head still recovering, she let her eyes run up and down him.

He did not look to have changed at all.  He stood before her, he was still in full costume - while she was naked.  Her eyes roving up and down him, now had no fear of his briefs… or at least, could not resist lingering there for a moment, before leaping away before they spent too long gazing upon the long lurid bulge that still lurked there.

But, in crossing down into that region, with a gasp, Miss Americana did see something new.  From his belt, the Boarman now had both pieces of her proud skimpy bikini dangling - her huge-cupped bra on his left, her tiny panties on his right.  The sight of them hanging there, to either side of his enormous package, made her eyes go wide, and caused her to take in a sharp breath of shock.  But then her blue eyes had to swiftly dart back upwards, as he suddenly took a step forward - and came to stand so close that if he wanted to he could have easily reached out and touched her pretty much anywhere from the thighs up that he wished - a fact she was suddenly intensely and continuously aware of.

“Hello, Miss Americana,” he said.  His rumbling deep voice was smooth and casual, sounding about as apologetic as if he had made her wait on him for fifteen minutes before finally showing up for coffee.  “I apologize that I had to leave you for a short time,” he said.  “I hope you enjoyed your time with my machine, and that by keeping you well-stimulated it dulled the sting of my own absence at least slightly.”

Miss Americana took a deep breath, and shook her head.  “En-enjoyed?!” she gasped, staring at him with wide blue eyes.  One hand perched upon her naked buxom hip, the other lashed out and stabbed a finger into his chest.  “You tricked me into there!  How… how dare you?”

“Tricked?” he said.  “You demanded to be let in - as I have ample video showing.  I know you are a superheroine, and are just doing what comes natural to your kind, but please refrain at least from blaming others for your own misbehavior when it is trivial to prove otherwise.”

Putting both hands back on her hips, Miss Americana shivered with naked rage before him.  “That… that may be,” she admitted, grudgingly.  “But, you still tricked me, when you said it was for training in combat.  Not… not for molestation, and groping… and worse!”

The Boarman rolled his eyes.  “I showed you very clearly that it had a ‘Superheroine’ mode,” he told her.  “You should have been able to divine quite clearly, from that, that it would be equipped to deal appropriately with your breed.”

Miss Americana hissed, and her hands shivered upon her naked hips - which, though they had recovered considerably, still prickled slightly with the sweat of her long ordeal.  “Appropriately?!” she gasped.  She shook her head, in fury.  “Oh… oh that is IT!  I have HAD IT!”

And with that, leaning forward and waving a strident finger in his face, Miss Americana gave the Boarman a giant-sized piece of her mind.  “You!” she hissed at him, “are a… a pervert!  You are a male chauvinist creep!  A brutal barbarian, and a toxic brute!  It’s like you crawled out of the god-damn Stone Age!  I cannot believe a man like you still exists!  You… you fucking PIG!”

The Boarman heaved a heavy sigh, and shook his head.

“Alright, Miss Americana,” he said.  “I grow tired of this.”

“Y-you grow tired of this?!” she snapped, hands trembling atop her bare hips.

“Yes,” he said.  “Many times you have tried to engage me in fruitless debate.  You have attempted to publicly belittle me.  For years, this has been going on.  Now, you have barged your way into my city, destroying everything you touch, and still you insist on marching up into my face and spitting insults at me.  I think we should finally settle this, right here and right now, and deal at last with the root cause of your public animosity towards me” he said.

“Agreed!” Miss Americana said, hotly.  Hands on her hips, she stomped a foot, and glared at him in fury.

“Good,” the Boarman said.

Then, without another word, he stuck out his own right hand, and slid it right up in between her legs.  He pushed it right up to the very apex of her mighty naked thighs, and seized hold of her there.  And, her wide blue eyes staring into his cowled face, Miss Americana’s sculpted jaw dropped open in shock - as she felt one of the Boarman’s thick gloved fingers promptly and rudely pushing right up into her sopping-wet pussy.

To be continued...

Afternote:  there are going to be two endings to this one.  One of those is a traditional 'heroine loses' ending.  The other is, believe it or not, a Miss Americana Wins ending.

Fair warning real quick on the second one:  as some of you may be aware I've been cross-publishing these over at Literotica, rewritten to feature my own 'original' characters; with Valiant Valkyrie in the starring role.  Despite that, all of the chapters so far were originally written as Miss Americana chapters... with the exception of the 'heroine wins' ending.  That one, and that one only, started as a Valiant Valkyrie chapter, and I was originally thinking of making it exclusive to that version.  But, I decided to go ahead and make a Miss Americana version as well.  However, be warned, it does contain some 'revelations' about her that may strike some as out-of-character; hopefully you enjoy regardless (presuming you are into fendom-oriented material in the first place).

SUMMARY:  Miss Americana wakes up at the gates of the Boarman’s underground fortress to find her bikini has been restored.  Royal Ivy is there, and offers the heroine a ride back to her own city, in thanks for helping save the Boarman; but Miss Americana refuses, demanding instead to be allowed to see her friends and confront the Boarman.  Royal Ivy leads Miss Americana through the Outer Base, where the Royals are barracked, on her way to the Boarman’s inner lair; while there Miss Americana observes the Royals frolicking with a large quantity of pretty scantily-clad young women   Passing from there into the Boarman’s inner sanctum, she confronts him beside a large machine, which is revealed to be his training machine.  After a heated exchange, she is convinced to enter the machine to prove herself his equal.  She gets quickly owned, and her costume taken once more and delivered to the watching Boarman outside.  The Boarman gets a call letting him know subjects are waiting for his personal interrogation, and he lets Miss Americana know he is leaving before walking away, leaving her inside the machine.  VR goggles get fitted over Americana’s face, and she is subject to a seemingly endless series of scenarios in which she is first defeated and then subjected to the sexual wills of a wide variety of foes - while continuoulsy being denied any actual release of her own.  Finally the machine announces that the simulation is over, informs her of her total defeat, and then delivers the heroine to a darkened room for ‘debriefing’.  The Boarman appears before her, her bikini hanging from his belt.  She begins telling him off, at which point he says that they should finally stop playing around and deal with the root cause of her animosity to him.  She hotly agrees - at which point the Boarman puts his hand between her legs and thrusts a finger up into her pussy.