Ms. Americana vs Boarman 2:  In Police Custody

By Violator

Acknowledgement:  many thanks to NoComeupance for helping out with the legal and procedural details, as well as general proofreading and feedback, for this chapter.  Any remaining errors are obviously due to my implementation.  

Our Story Thus Far:  Miss Americana has pursued the evil villainess Rude Ruby into Broodhaven, just across the state line from Delta City and the domain of her hated male-chauvinist rival known as the Boarman.  Unfortunately, she was ambushed by the rest of Rude Ruby’s colorful sisterhood, collectively known as the Dark Prizm.  Defeated and tied up, Miss Americana was saved at the last second only by the timely intervention of the Boarman himself.  But rather than release her, the contemptuous hero has stolen the loyalty of her sidekick and left her behind.  Now our story continues as, with the Queen of Justice still tied up and helpless, the Broodhaven Police belatedly arrive on the scene…

With a slam of doors and a chorus of shouts the Boys in Blue of Broodhaven burst in.  Predictably they entered moments after the Boarman had vanished.  Swarming up the steps and platforms of the snaking factory gantries, they converged on Ms. Americana's position.  Then, seeing what awaited them, they slowly lowered their guns.  Smirks started to spread across their lips - and a few low chortles rolled around the room.

Caught before the sea of cops, Ms. Americana squirmed.  Her huge bare breasts shook back and forth, surging like the tides, before them.  Her buxom hips thrashed back and forth, clad in nothing but her swooping skimpy panties.  But despite her best efforts she remained firmly bound, chained to the steel post pressed to her jutting round buns.

'Well... better make the best of it...' she thought, gritting her teeth.

"Th-thank the stars you've arrived, officers," she called out to the sea of staring cops arrayed before her.  She could not help herself - she squirmed again, and tugged at her bonds - which once more just made her huge boobies sway and jiggle before their piggy gazes.  "In... in case you were not aware I am Ms Americana, the Queen of Justice!  A... a gang of ruffians managed to overpower me, and bind me in this... rather compromising position."  

She licked her lips, took a deep breath, then continued.

"Quickly now!" she commanded, putting every ounce of authority she could into her melodious voice.  "Unfetter me, that I may pursue them with all due haste!"

At this, the cops looked around.  They smirked, and chuckled, but not one made a move to come forward and help her.  Then, one portly fellow stepped forward.  His badge read 'Lt. Zippuli,' which made him the ranking officer on scene.

"Well, well, well now, Ms. Ameri-cans," he said.  He glanced down at her huge tits then back to her masked face, and sneered.  "I don't think today is your lucky day!"

Ms. Americana shivered.  But lifting her head high, she fixed the officer with a powerful super-heroine stare.

"What are you waiting for?!" she hissed.  "I am a super-heroine!  I am in pursuit of a gang of criminals!  Release me and let me go about my business, at once!"

"Yeah," the officer sneered.  "The only problem with that, Ms. Ameri-babe, is that the only criminal I see here is you."

"What?" she gasped.

"You are engaging in dangerous law enforcement behavior without the legal authority what to do so," he purred.

"I am the greatest heroine of Delta City!" she said.

"Yeah... we don't recognize the authority of Delta City around here," he said.  "By Broodhaven law, you are an illegal vigilante."

"Well then, so is the Boarman!" she snapped.  "Go arrest him!"

"The Boar-who?" Lt. Zippuli said.  Making a clownishly confused face he looked back and forth at his men, arrayed to either side of him, who made equally exaggerated shows of raising their arms and shrugging visibly.

"The Boarman!" Ms. Americana snapped.  She whipped her hips back and forth, in frustration - which did little but show off the insane curvature of her buxom hips, wiggling about pneumatically inside her tiny swooping panties.

"Oh... you seem to be referring to the urban legend what people go on about," Lt. Zippuli said.

"Don't know why people keep reporting him, when he so clearly don't exist," another cop said, smirking.

"Must be something in the water," a third cooed.

Ms. Americana stamped her foot.  "What a pack of lies!" she said.

"Nah," another cop, with prominent buck teeth, said, snickering.  "It’s just a convenient legal fiction to keep the city courts from bein’ completely clogged up wit’ paternity suits."

Lt. Zippuli shot him a glare.  One of the other cops slapped the buck-toothed one.

"Officer Shmuckatelli back there don't know what he's talking about," Zippuli said.  "Now, we're going to take you down to the station, Ms. 'Greatest Heroine in Shit City we don't Care About.'   Are you going to come quietly... or do we get to get rough?"

Americana glared then cast her eyes aside, her lips pouting.  "I'll cooperate," she said sullenly.

Snickering, the police cut her down.  Then, as they were slicing away the ropes, one brought forward a pair of handcuffs.

Ms. Americana glared at them.  "This is unnecessary!" she said.  But, having given her word, she obediently kept her arms together, behind her curvaceous backside, as the ropes were cut away from them.  Coming forward, with a grin, Lt. Zippuli personally slapped his cuffs on the arrogant amazon.

"There's a good superheroine," he cooed down at her, over her shoulder, as the second ring of the cuffs closed around her wrist.  Standing around her, several of the Broodhaven cops whooped and leered, openly, as the buxom panty-clad Queen of Justice got locked in their cuffs.

Then, growling, Ms. Americana got marched out of the factory and to a squadron of parked patrol cars.  She gasped in horror as she got out of the factory - to see a tow-truck, beeping, lining up behind her sleek super-car.

"What are you doing?" she gasped, as from the loading dock she watched the operator - a civilian who could not help but openly ogle her jiggling stunning charms as he worked - clumsily arrange his hooks under the bumper of her car.

"It's parked illegally," Lt. Zippuli said.  Putting a hand on her head, he coaxed her over towards a waiting Broodhaven P.D. cruiser.

"That's... that's ridiculous!" Americana said - even as she obediently allowed her athletic panty-clad curves to be forced along.

Still staring in awe at her giant boobs and her tiny panties, the tow-truck operator absent-mindedly yanked down the control on his winch.  Having been equally as jiggle-distracted when he'd placed the hooks, the super-car lifted up about a meter or so - and then suddenly slammed back down as the bumper tore off with a loud 'screech!'

"No!" Ms. Americana moaned, watching in horror.  The proud Americana-mobile slammed back down onto its finely-tuned suspension in a way that made her wince.  It rocked back and forth for a few seconds, letting out a series of screeches and warning alarms.  Then, suddenly, two airbags erupted, blowing out the side windows.

"Look!" one cop laughed, pointing at the two giant bags of gas billowing through the super-car's windows.  "They're nearly the size of the bitch's tits!"

Several of his fellows promptly laughed.

"Oooh!" Ms. Americana hissed, shaking in fury.

The stricken A-branded supercar continued to shake.  Then a few seconds later, with a loud 'whoop!' it suddenly sent a gigantic oil slick spurting out to cover the astonished tow-truck operator's shoes.  He gaped downwards - and then with a loud yelp, lost his footing and went down.

"Heheh!" Officer Schmuckatelli chuckled.  "Her car fuckin' shat itself!"

"You... that is a finely tuned instrument of justice you are messing with!" Ms. Americana hissed.

"Yeah, yeah," Lt. Zippuli said, shoving her down into the back of his car.  "You can pick it up down at the impound lot when and if you get out - whatever's left of it, anyways," he said.

Cuffed in the back seat of the cruiser, Ms. Americana shivered with fury.  From the top of the loading dock a dozen cops all had phones or body cameras openly positioned to film her, jeering at her, as she squirmed.  Pantied ass shivering against the filthy seat, Ms. Americana was horrified to see that it was littered with cigarette butts and carved sexist graffiti from its various previous occupants.

"I... I will sue your stupid city for every cent it is worth!" she hissed.  "That car costs more than you will earn in your life!"

"Damage to illegally parked property is not the financial responsibility of the City of Broodhaven," Lt. Zippuli recited boredly, as he walked around and climbed into the front seat.  "Disputes subject to mandatory arbitration, under state law."  He grinned - and adjusted his mirror down so it was entirely focused on her tits.  "Now let's go," he said.

Seething, filmed by a dozen cameras, Ms. Americana was pulled away from the site of her latest defeat and her half-destroyed car and taken away through the winding streets of her nemesis's city.  Soon she arrived at Broodhaven Police Headquarters.  Lt. Zippuli pulled up and then opened the door for her.

"We... we can't go in the back way?" Americana asked, from inside the back of the car.

Lt. Zippuli sneered.  "I thought you liked publicity," he said.

Ms. Americana groaned.  But, not willing to call his bluff, she slid her scantily-clad ass over the filthy seats - he had of course been sure to open up the opposite door from the one he'd put her in through - and clambered awkwardly out.

Fortunately, there was not the wall of press she had been half expecting.  Instead, only three local sad-sack reporters were hanging around.  But their faces immediately lit up like pinball machines, as they saw what Zippuli had dragged in.

"Holy shit..." one reporter said.  Coming forward he started snapping picture after picture of the hand-cuffed Ms. Americana.

"That... that who I think it is?" another reporter asked.  Leaning his camera out he got picture after picture - which, based on the orientation of his lens, could not possibly be capturing anything more than a few inches above the top of her gigantic bare breasts, or a few inches below the crotch of her skimpy panties.

"You gonna claim to be an impostor?" Lt. Zippuli asked the stricken superheroine.  Ms. Americana glared back at him, but said nothing. Holding her by the upper arm and grinning, Zippuli walked her right past the snapping cameras and into the station.  Ms. Americana gasped in horror as she was brought straight into general admission.  All around her, drunks and hookers and other common criminals left hanging around waiting for the law to admit or eject them gaped in disbelief at the glorious goddess being led through their midst.

"Hey, Lieutenant," the admissions officer said, from behind her desk.  She grinned, leaning forward to check out the goods.  "Checking this one in?"

"Yep," he said.

"What am I being charged with?" Americana demanded, hotly.

"We got forty-eight hours to figure that out," Lt. Zippuli said.  “In the meantime, you are involved in an active criminal investigation as a ‘woman of interest’.”

"I'll say!" another cop said, gaping at her ass in awe.

"Clear room two for our guest," Zippuli said.

"Already done," the desk officer said.  She smirked.  "I got the first pics ten minutes ago."  Tilting her monitor, she showed off an internal police email.  Ms. Americana gaped in horror - as it was entirely filled by a high-quality photo, focused on her spectacular scantily-clad backside - with her cuffed wrists prominent.  The words "Broodhaven Police Department" could be made out clearly upon the rings of the cuffs, embossed into the chrome.

The desk officer spun her monitor back around, and then whipped out a form.

"Name?" she asked.

Zippuli looked at her expectantly.

Squirming in her panties, Ms. Americana cast her eyes desperately around the room - and found every cop and criminal staring at her, in mixtures of awe and lust and derision.  She shook her gorgeous masked head - half expecting to wake up.  "This... this is ridiculous!" she said.

"Name?" the desk officer asked again, eyes turning up expectantly.

Brenda licked her lips.  "Miss Americana," she said.

The desk officer held her pen poised over the blank booking form, and rolled her eyes.  She printed AMERICANA in the last name box, but left the first name empty.  "Your FULL name, please?" she said.

Ms. Americana shivered.  "I'm... I'm the Queen of Justice!" she insisted.

The officer sighed, and then wrote "MISS" in the first name box.

"Property?" she said.

Zippuli looked over his shoulder and nodded.  Another officer who had accompanied him from the crime scene stepped up and tossed something onto the desk.  It resolved itself into Americana's golden belt, which landed with a heavy clank and lay before her broad, bare, flat belly.

"That's it?" the officer asked.

Americana swallowed.  Then, slowly, she nodded.

"One.. belt..." the officer said, writing that in the appropriate box.  Then she grabbed the belt and stuffed it in a black plastic bag.  From a reel she peeled up a sticker with a number that matched the one on her form, and used it to seal the bag.  Then she tossed the bag into a large plastic bin that lay beside her.  It landed with a heavy thump, among several others.

"That's my power belt!" Americana said.  "I need that to fight crime!"

"More than you need, like, a bra?" the desk officer asked, eyeing Brenda's giant breasts and smirking.

"The-the Boarman took that!" Americana insisted.

"Riiight," the desk officer said, rolling her eyes.  Several other cops chortled.  "Your dumb-ass personal property will be returned intact," she recited, with the bored tone of someone who had said the same thing a thousand times a day, "when your dumb-ass gets discharged.  Whenever and if ever that is.  Now, sign for your property - unless you don't agree it's actually yours."

She handed up a pen - but Zippuli shook his head.  "Nah, this bitch is too dangerous to uncuff," he said.  "There's a better way."  Reaching out he took the pen, and smirked.  "Open your mouth, gorgeous," he said.

Americana gaped at him in shock.  "You... you have to be kidding," she said.

Lt. Zippuli raised an eyebrow.  "You wanna actually get your belt back, or does it become Broodhaven PD property?" he asked her.

Ms. Americana shivered and glared at him.  Then, obediently, she opened up her lips.  He smirked, and stuck the pen in.  She closed her pouting lips around it.  Standing tall, she squirmed for a few seconds.  Then, with a sigh, she bent low.  Arms cuffed behind her, she brought the pen down to the paper and, very awkwardly, made her mark in the box indicated.  As she did so she heard whoops and cheers as the rest of the room, treated to the sight of her scantily-clad ass lifted high and wiggling, her panty-clad mound peeking out at them between her mighty thighs, let her know how much they appreciated the show.

She stood back up and looked down.  The words 'Ms. A' were just barely legible, awkwardly scrawled upon the form - though they spilled halfway out of the box provided for her to sign.

"Looks like a fucking kindergartner did it," the desk officer commented.  "But it will do."  She slid the form back up to herself, while Zippuli, smirking, plucked the pen out of Americana's opulent mouth.  Noticing that it had her red lipstick-marks around it, he slid it into his front pocket for safe-keeping.

"Alright," the officer said, looking over the rest of the form.  "Given that name, we'll skip the address.  Now we just need height, weight, and-"

"Nuh-uh," Zippuli said.  He nodded at Ms. Americana.  "You actually trust this slut to give you any of that for real?  No way."  He held out his hand.  "Give me that."

"Sure, Lieutenant," she said, shrugging, and handed him the form.

"Thanks," Zippuli said, taking Miss Americana's official booking form.  Then he turned and looked at her.  "C'mon, babe," he said.  "We're going to do this next part the fun way."

Gasping, tottering atop her long legs and her high-heeled boots, Americana allowed him to lead her deeper into the station.  They passed more cops and more criminals, all of whom gaped at the topless, hand-cuffed superheroine in awe.  Soon she was led into an interrogation room.  Then, coming forward, he undid her cuffs.

Gasping, Ms. Americana strutted a few more steps into the room and then turned around.  Rubbing her wrists to get some of the circulation back, she looked around her, to get her bearings.

The room was long and bare, with plain white walls.  Two walls had long dark reflective panels in them - and with a shiver, Americana instantly recognized they were two-way mirrors, beyond which any number of additional Broodhaven cops might be watching and leering at her.  There were also several cameras pointed down at her, one from each corner of the room.  They whirred and then zoomed in ways that were not random, focusing in to better document her body - so clearly she was also being watched from a control room as well.

A long table ran down the center of the room, but with plenty of space to either side.  There were a few chairs.  A half-dozen officers had accompanied Zippuli into the room and stood to either side, flanking him - in between her and the only door.

"Alright, Ms. Ameri-tits, here's the game," Zippuli said.  "We gots you dead to rights on trespassing.  DA probably won’t want to charge you on just that.  But, like I said, that gives us forty eight looong hours what to investigate you further.”  

His eyes flicked up and down her, as if implying exactly what he wanted to investigate.  Hands on her hips, Miss Americana sniffed, and glared - but for the moment said nothing.

“On top o' that,” he cooed, “by law I have every right and duty to rip that mask off, and those gloves so I can get your prints."  He leered at her, his smile broadening.  "I'm guessing you don't want that."

Ms. Americana's breath caught in her throat.  She shook her head.  "No..." she admitted, softly.

"So we’ll make you a deal, babe - I'll let the dumb little mask slide, and let you keep on them gloves - if you play along and be a good little girl."

Americana took a deep breath.  "And what does being a good little girl entail?" she asked.  Her eyes darted down to his fly, suspiciously - but as yet he had made no move towards anything that overt.

He smirked.  "Well now, if I tell you, that would spoil the fun," he said.  "First things first - let's get more cameras in here.  Those are okay," he said, nodding up to the permanent ones on the ceiling, "but I really want some nice super-high-definition rigs for this quality of, ah, suspect."

"Way ahead of you, Lieutenant," one of the cops purred - as behind them the doors opened, and two studio-quality digital video cameras on tripods were dragged in, along with several professional-grade still cameras.

"Good," he said.  He nodded towards Americana.  "Now someone Mirandize this bitch before she gets all uppity about that sort of thing."

Zippuli left the room and an officer stepped forward and recited the usual spiel.  Ms. Americana rolled her eyes as she listened - while in front and behind her the tripod cameras got set up and focused in upon her.

"You know I've probably said that more times than you have, right?" she sneered at the Broodhaven PD cop after he got done reading her her rights.

"Do you understand these rights?" he asked again, boredly.

"Yes I understand them," she said, hands on her hips.  "Now that one about the lawyer?  Yeah.  How about that?"

"Wait, wait, hold it," Zippuli said, waving a finger - having just re-entered with a big cup of coffee in his hand.  "You have that right," he admitted.  "But it would cost us a lot of time, waiting for her to get here.  You know what we could do with that time?  Why, we could take those gloves off and start printing you... and then, if she's still not here, maybe that mask too."  He grinned.  "How are we feeling about our rights right now, Ms. Americana?"

Standing with one long leg extended, hands upon her panty-clad hips, Ms. Americana glared at him.  She tossed her head, her long raven hair flowing around her masked face.  He had her dead to rights.  But, as much to preserve her pride as anything, the mighty heroine decided rather than straight backing down to demand a quid pro quo instead.

"Alright," she said.  Lifting her arms up, she folded them over her bare breasts.  "I'll waive my right.  On one condition."

Zippuli's momentarily bright expression darkened.  "What?” he asked.

"Who are the Dark Prizm?" she asked.  "Where did they come from?"

He looked up at her and raised an eyebrow.  "Don't you already know?" he asked.  He smirked.  "You want me to read the wikipedia entries on the Joker and Doctor Doom for you, too, while I'm at it?"

"Just humor me," Americana growled, her scantily-clad hips whipping back and forth.

He gave her a look - then, shrugging, he played along.  "I don't know that much that ain't public knowledge," he admitted.  "The Dark Prizm was originally a bunch of hippie-dippie feminist college student types, what got it into their demented snowflake heads that if they became superheroines they could remake the world like their professors told them it should be.  So they snuck into a lab in their university what had a DoD contract, and stole a top-secret formula.  Only problem was, since they all majored in, like, intersectional basketweaving or whatever, when they took the formula they got the proportions all wrong."

He stopped, and smirked.

"Basically, they way overdosed on 'bitch'" he said, and sneered.  "And the rest, as the man says, is history."

She gave him a dour look.  

He chortled, then shrugged.  "To be hundred percent fair it wasn't all their fault.  Since they were, y'know, stealing, naturally enough the Boarman burst in and fucked it all up for em’.  But since he had just gotten done ‘dealing with’ High Heel and Silver Star that same day, he must have been off his game - they got away.  But ever since that day, their drug-addled brains have had one very clear fixation as to the source of the world's problems:  men, in general, o'course, but superheroes to be specific - and the Boarman in particular."  He shrugged, and grinned.  "So, y'know, pretty much the usual for the sort of super-evil ladies what we get in these parts."

“Hmmm,” Miss Americana said.  Hands folded under her enormous jiggling breasts, her eyes narrowed and she smiled thinly, as she realized she had caught him out.  “The Boarman did that, you say?” she cooed softly.

“Ah!” Zippuli said, catching himself.  He squirmed his big piggy body, but then shrugged.  “I mean, one of the seemingly endless series of copycats and such-forth what claim to be the so-called Boarman,” he clarified, sheepishly.  “I wasn’t there, you see, was just relaying - and as you saw, even a bunch of our junior officers and such still routinely fall for the myth what says he really does exist.”

“I see,” Miss Americana said.  Putting her hands down on her buxom hips she smiled, smugly, at his visible discomfort at being tripped up.  But, at the end of the day, while it was gratifying catching him in the lie, it didn’t help her much.  Even if she could prove a singular Boarman existed - no small task, given how invested every aspect of the city’s power structure was in pretending otherwise - it wouldn’t do anything to invalidate the charges they had against herself.  Plus the Boarman was hardly the only hero who resorted to such convenient cover stories, so going after him in that way would probably just make her a lot of unnecessary enemies.  Frowning, she pushed the Boarman back out of her head, where he belonged.  She instead went back and mulled over what Zippuli had told her about the Dark Prizm, and then looked back up.  

"So… that's it?" she asked, raising up a sharp eyebrow.  “That’s all you know about one of the most lethal and notorious criminal gangs at-large in your own god-damned city?”

Zippuli frowned.  "I mean, I could give you the list of all the BPD officers they've killed - or maimed - or castrated," he said.  Behind him, a couple of his men squirmed, as if remembering some particularly uncomfortable little-officer-down reports over their radios.  "I could tell you about the time they put chemicals in a college football team's jockstraps that left them all permanently singing soprano - just because their quarterback made some off-color comments about his cheerleaders.  We could talk about them Vox News anchors, what where they made the hot blonde nail the shouty guy with a strap-on on live television, to 'change the discourse'.  But we're here to talk current events babe, not ancient history.  'Specially since we still haven't worked out whether you're working with them or not."

Americana gasped.  One hand clutching over her heart, she raised the other to her cheek in shock.  "Me?!" she gasped.  "Working with the Dark Prizm?  How could you even think that?!"  She stomped her foot - which had the nice side effect of making her immense bare breasts slosh and jiggle violently before the awed officers, and their merciless cameras.

Zippuli grinned, enjoying a front-row seat to the aforementioned effect, then leered up at her.  "Well they did leave you alive, which ain't their normal MO," he pointed out.  "But we're getting ahead of ourselves."  Sitting forward, he slid her incomplete booking form to one side, and took out a fresh piece of paper.  "Why don't you just give us your version of the story, Princess?" he asked.

Hands dropping to perch archly on her buxom hips, Ms. Americana glared - but then slowly nodded.  "Okay," she said.  She shifted her curvy body back and forth - and smiled slightly, despite herself.  "It's good to see you're actually starting to take me seriously," she said.

"Just get on with it," he said.  Holding the blank paper in front of him, he reached up to his pocket and drew out the pen she had used with her mouth.

For the next few minutes Ms. Americana recited the events leading up to her capture - her hot pursuit of Rude Ruby, her ambush by the rest of the Dark Prizm, and how they had forced information out of her using her sidekick.  Zippuli seemed to be taking copious notes, which gratified her.  Meanwhile two cops with high-end still cameras fitted with enormous lenses roved about, taking numerous pictures of her from every angle.

"Hmmm," Zippuli said, studying his paper and rubbing his lips.  "And what was in this case?"

Ms. Americana stiffened.  Remembering that she had pointedly refused to answer when the Boarman had asked her the same question - and knowing that there was probably nothing happening to her now he would not swiftly become aware of one way or another - she made a snap decision.

"How would I know?" she said.  "I just know it was stolen from a bio-lab, and probably dangerous."

"Sure, sure," he said, sighing, making another stroke with his pen.  "So... how did you end up chained up again?"

She launched into a detailed explanation of her stances and tactics, but after thirty seconds or so Zippuli shook his head in frustration.  "No, no," he said.  "I just can't follow this, it's a mess.  Look - act it out for us."

"What?"

"Don't tell us, that will take all night," he said.  "Show us."

Americana considered, then nodded.  "Okay," she said.

In short order, they had directed Ms. Americana to certain portions of her fight, and had her adopt the stances to show them what happened.

"So then you landed on your belly, and had to look up at your opponent," Zippuli said.  "Can you show us what that looked like?"

"Sure," Ms. Americana said.

Going down onto the interrogation room floor, she crouched down on all fours - her ass lifted up high behind her atop her spread thighs and her hands pressed to the floor to either side, and then looked up.

"Interesting," Zippuli said.  The men with the big digital cameras went around, in front and behind her, and snapped a bunch of pictures.  "Can you show us your expression?"

"Sure," Ms. Americana said.  Turning her head up, she gaped upwards as if in awe - while her buxom hips, clad only in her skimpy panties, squirmed back and forth as she remembered what had happened.  The high-end cameras zoomed in, the men holding them crouching down around her to get better angles, and snapped picture after picture.

"Alright, got it," Zippuli said.  He studied his paper.  "Now, let's go forward a few seconds.  You got kicked in the cunt and ended up flat on your back.  Can you show us that?"

"Of course," Americana said.

Flipping around, she laid herself out flat on her back, and then spread her mighty legs wide, her booted feet quivering upon the floor.  Then she arched her back, reached down, and grabbed her panty-clad crotch, as if clutching it in pain.  The cameras orbited around her, going up and down, snapping more pictures.

"You had also just gotten your bell rung by an uppercut," Zippuli observed.  "Can you show us what effect that had?"

"Sure," Americana said.  Keeping one hand squeezed to her mound, she lifted the other up to her head.  Still lying flat with her legs spread wide, she clutched her other hand to her hair and thrashed her masked head back and forth, as she imitated moaning in pain.

"Perfect," Zippuli said.  "Now, when they propped you up on that console and then kicked you in the ass.  Can you assume the position for that?"

"Certainly," Ms. Americana said.

Standing up, she bent over the edge of the table, her hands propped up on it.  Her hair spilled around her, while her huge breasts hung down beneath her, jiggling just over the top of the table.  The cameras went too and fro, taking plenty more pictures.

"When you got kicked, were your legs like that?" Zippuli asked, pointing.

"No... they were wider," she said.

"Show us," he said.

"Okay," she replied.  Slowly, with some difficulty she spread her legs wider, until they were spread out at nearly a forty-five-degree angle to either side.  Her voluptuous ass, clad in her little panties, was lifted high and presented itself, particularly her mound.

"So then your opponent kicked you in the ass.  Jenkins - could you show us a kicking pose?"

"Sure," one of the cops said.  Lining up behind Ms. Americana's uplifted and perfectly-presented, curvaceous bottom, he formed a kicking pose, with his boot poised right behind her sculpted buns - as if he himself were in the process of kicking Ms. Americana in the ass.

"Is that the right posture?" he asked.

Looking back over her shoulder, Ms. Americana shook her head.  "No - it was more of a drop kick."

"I see.  I don't think Jenkins is good at drop kicks.  Peters - you want to give this a try?"

"Sure thing, boss," another cop said, grinning.  One by one, policemen came forward and mimed themselves delivering a mighty kick into Ms. Americana's uplifted backside.  Each time, Zippuli reminded Americana to once more turn her face forward and mimic her moaning expression from the moment she had been struck - and the cameras snapped again and again.  More officers were called in, but still couldn't get it right.

At last, Ms. Americana had had enough.  "Look, enough of this!" she hissed, after a dozen officers had all taken their turns pretending to slam their boot up between her spread legs, without anyone getting close to how Rude Ruby had done it.  "This is pointless.  We're getting nowhere."

"Okay, okay," Zippuli said.  "So what about this time that Savage Sapphire stuck her hand between your legs and started to..."

"No!" Ms. Americana said.  Then she looked down, and saw his paper.  She gasped in shock - to see that it didn't have a single word written on it.  Instead, the paper was covered in cartoons of buxom half-stripped female bodies, mostly lacking heads or feet, being menaced by a variety of enormous dripping cocks.  Surging to her feet, Ms. Americana stabbed a finger down into his paper.

"You're not even taking notes!" she hissed.  Putting her hands on her hips, she glared down at him in fury.  "You're not taking this seriously!" she complained.

"On the contrary," he said, "I am taking you exactly as seriously as you deserve..."

"Well, I'm not answering any more questions, until you start showing the proper respect!" she said.

"Very well," he said.  He shuffled the doodle-covered paper back out of sight, and brought her booking form back up.  "Then it's high time we got this done."

"What more could you possibly need?" she snapped.

"Address?" he asked.  He looked up at her, expectantly.

Ms. Americana squirmed, and swallowed.  "Pass?" she asked.

He looked down, then looked back up, and smiled..  "Height and weight?"

Ms. Americana squirmed.  "Can we... can we just skip those?" she said.  The first was not much of a problem, but like many women she had a deep aversion to letting anyone get exact numbers on the latter.

He looked down, smirked, and then looked back up.  "Measurements?" he cooed.

Her jaw dropped open, in disbelief.  "That can't be on there," she said.  She held out her hand.  "Show me where it has those!"

He flipped the form over, face down on the table.  "Mask?" he cooed, smiling at her.  "Fingerprints?"

Ms. Americana took a deep breath, and then glared.  "V-very well," she hissed.  "Measurements it is."

He smirked, and pointed towards an open section of the room.  "Assume the position," he said.  Shivering, Ms. Americana obediently walked over and stood at attention, as if she was a posed mannequin.  At his direction she lifted up her arms and put her hands on her head and then kept them there.  "We're gonna need some tape measures," Zippuli said.

"Once again," an officer cooed, reaching into his pocket, "way ahead of you lieutenant."

Grinning, Zippuli took the tape - and then came forward to do the deed himself.  Americana gasped softly - but continued to stand at attention as he came around to stand behind her.  She watched, lips quivering in horror, as he looped the tape up and brought it into position on her breasts.  It ended up tucked up just underneath her huge bare nipples.  Behind her, Zippuli whistled.

"God DAMN!" he said, as he looked at the number.

Turning her head, her cheeks pink under her mask, Americana glared back at him over her shoulder.  "Just... just get on with it!" she said.

Grinning, Zippuli crouched down and slid the tape down to her narrow waist.  Ms. Americana's flesh prickled, and she squirmed involuntarily, as it caressed down across her - and then gradually pulled tight around her abdomen, running just over her belly button.  Once again, behind her, Zippuli whistled.  "Sweet Jesus," he said.

"H-hurry up!" she snapped.

Next was the worst part.  He pulled it down onto her hips, and wrapped it around.  He kept slipping, and 'having to' slide his hand around and nudge the tape back into proper position, across the swooping front of her panties.  Ms. Americana repeatedly gasped, her lips quivering, as she felt his fingers poking and prodding at her gigantic ass - as they did their best to keep the tape flat and level as it arced across her juttingly rounded buns.  At last, pulling it taut - so that it indented slightly into the curvature of both of her giant toned buttocks - Zippuli got his final number.  He yelped in awe.

"Great galloping big-tittied ghosts!" he said, as he mentally calculated Ms. Americana's hip and breast ratios, and got a dizzying pair of figures.

"S-satisfied?" Ms. Americana hissed, as he finally stood back up from behind her.

Looking at his paper, Zippuli shook his head.  "No," he said.  "These are insane.  They can't be right."  Then he looked up, at the row of cops standing in front of him - and grinned.  "Anyone else want to try?" he asked.

Beside him, standing and shivering in her panties, Ms. Americana's jaw dropped - and she let out a little tiny tormented moan of horror as she realized what was about to happen.

It was worse even than she first imagined.  One by one, the cops came forward.  Crouching down, cackling and grinning, they pulled the tape taut first at her breasts, then her waist, then her hips.  Each one seemed to struggle more - to take even more time, to 'have to' reach out and adjust them in more places, before he finally got his numbers.  And under the inspection of each one Ms. Americana found she could hold even less still - had to squirm and shiver even more beneath their roving insolent touch - as she was measured and felt up again, and again, and again.

And every one, every last one, when they stood up, took one look at their numbers, shook their heads in disbelief - and announced - standing right beside the gasping and jiggling half-stripped superheroine - that some-one else would have to give it a try.

Zippuli started up a white board, with a name and three numbers going down it - soon in several sections moving down the board as more names got filled in.  More cops were called in, and then still more - until it seemed quite likely that every single officer in the entire city would have his turn.  And through it all the cameras filmed and flashed, eagerly - capturing everything for all time.

"This... this is ridiculous!" Ms. Americana finally hissed, after what seemed like the hundredth cop had taken his fumbling turn - and withdrew, a gigantic smile on his lips, out from behind the body he had just spent the last several minutes clumsily pawing over.  

"I agree - we're going nowhere," Zippuli said, looking up from his chair over the wall of numbers behind her.  Turning, he looked at her, and grinned.  "If we're ever going to get an accurate number," he said, motioning toward her midsection with his pen, "those panties are going to have to come off."

Looking down, Americana gasped in horror.  All around her, a throng of watching cops leered and chortled.

"My... my panties?!" she gasped - her buxom hips wiggling back and forth, clad in said proudly patriotic and defiantly skimpy garment - and nothing else.

"Yeah," Zippuli said.  Leaning forward and reaching out his hand, he traced their intended path from her sleek crotch all the way down her legs for her, with the pen that still bore her lip marks upon it.  "Hurry up.  Get those panties on the flo-"

Suddenly a great commotion started outside.  Looking up, Ms. Americana squirmed back and forth - and gasped with relief, not sure how she would have dealt with the policeman's command.

"Out of my way!" a brash female voice said, from just outside the door.  There came a deep yelp, as of a very beefy cop being shoved aside with uncharacteristic ease.

"What the?" Lt. Zappuli growled, spinning around in his chair.

Moments later the door flew open - and a giant pair of tits surged through.  These proved to be the leading element of the towering buxom form of Omega Woman, which followed them into the interrogation room a moment later - her gorgeous face burning with fury beneath her short blonde hair, and her staggeringly curvy and invincible body jiggling imposingly in its angular, red-and-black bikini.

Moments later, in Omega Woman's pneumatic wake, a second heroine strode through:  the ebony-skinned and lavender-clad body of Lady Midnight, her gorgeous face lifted high.

"We have a court order!" Lady Midnight called out, stridently.  "Out of our way!"  Purple-gloved hand held high, she waved a rolled-up sheaf of official-looking papers back and forth before the cops, like a child magician might use a wand to ward away a throng of twisted but skittish monsters.  The junior cops, backing away warily from the unfamiliar heroines, dutifully acted the part.

Sitting in his chair, looking up at them and growling, Lt. Zippuli did not look amused.

"What the fuck is all this then?" he growled.

While Omega Woman stood with her hands on her stunningly wide hips and used the force of her bulletproof feminine glare to keep his officers at bay, Lady Midnight marched up proudly, to tower over him in her sleek and skimpy purple costume, and holding the wad of papers out, thrust them into his chest.

"We have an order from a federal judge!" she announced, poking him with it.  "A Writ of Habeus Corpus ad Prosequendum,” she added smugly, enjoying the way his face fell further with each new Latin syllable she pronounced at him.  “Ms. Americana is required for an immediate appearance and is to be released into our custody - at once!"

Zippuli looked at the papers, suspiciously, then back up at her face.  He was, obviously, not a lawyer.  But he had been a cop long enough to know where his boundaries usually lay.

"That... doesn't sound quite right..." he growled.

"You can refuse it if you like," Pamela Grier admitted down to him from behind her mask - putting every ounce of her District Attorney persona into her steely coo and her prim expression.  "But if you do so, you'll need to charge her.  And that will create a paper trail that I think you will find hard to explain to the army of Delta City press that's about to descend on this place.  Not to mention go and appear before the Judge to explain your refusal of her lawful Writ."

Zippuli grimaced.  That still didn't sit quite right with him - but was starting to sound like more than enough paperwork and general trouble that continuing his filthy games was no longer worth the effort.

"Alright, alright," he sighed.  He waved his hand, from Miss Americana towards the door.  "Take her."

"We'll need her belt, and her booking form," Lady Midnight said, smiling sweetly as she swayed back and forth before him, savoring her triumph.  "Oh, and delete all the footage you took too."

Zippuli freely handed over the booking form, and nodded to one of his officers to go fetch her belt.  But he balked at the last one.

"All footage is internal BPD documentation and evidence," he said.  "We ain't deleting shit without way more than one piece of paper."

By this point, Omega Woman and Lady Midnight were already distracted, hovering over Americana and helping comfort her and fix her hair.  From down by her side - where she had clutched it, scarce noticed by anyone during their initial dramatic entrance - Omega Woman pulled forth a stylish leather jacket and threw it over Ms. Americana's shoulders - all she could get on short notice to cover the mighty topless heroine, since any stores open this late were unlikely to keep superheroine bra sizes in stock.

"That's fine," Lady Midnight said, stroking Ms. Americana's shoulder in comforting super-feminine camaraderie.  Turning her gorgeous dark head, she smiled down at him like a school teacher confidently laying down the law to an unruly student.  "We had just better not see a single frame of it leave this department, ever - or there will be problems."

Looking up, Zippuli smiled.

"That's okay," he purred - getting one last lascivious look at Ms. Americana's scantily-clad hips, extending down out of her new jacket, before they were helped out of his view.  "We'll only be bringing that footage out for every Christmas party, every policeman's ball, and every office screen saver from now until the end of time."

Lady Midnight, distracted helping to fix Ms. Americana's hair, wasn't listening - and only heard that he had agreed.  "Good, good," she said and, with Omega Woman, quickly hustled Americana out of the room.

Inside the police were left alone - with just an empty spot where Americana had stood, and a well-used tape measure dangling from one officer's hand to remind them of her.

Well, that, and an absolutely enormous supply of crystal-clear, high-definition imagery - in still pictures and video.

Slowly, the officers looked around at one another.  Then, as one, they threw their heads back - and began to laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

Outside, Ms. Americana gasped as Lady Midnight and Omega Woman swiftly led her away - flanking her on either side as they hustled down the hallways of the Broodhaven Police Headquarters.  All along their route, through cube farms and holding areas, cops and criminals stopped and gaped at the trio of buxom heroines in awe - but, as if moved aside by forcefields projected in front of them by the power of their enormous sloshing breasts, all stood to one side and did nothing to impede the muscular and pneumatic ladies as they swept past.

"Oh, thank heavens," Ms. Americana said, looking to each of her comrades in turn - with the expression of a shoeless woman who has just seen a pair of cute designer pumps on sale.  "Thank you so much!"

"Don't mention it," Omega Woman said.

"It was our pleasure," Lady Midnight cooed - a smug smile on her lips, as another couple Broodhaven cops hastily got out of her way.

One appeared - holding the bag he had been sent to retrieve containing Ms. Americana’s belt.  With a sly smile, Lady Midnight held out her hand as she approached.  Gulping, the officer handed it over.  Taking it without breaking stride, Lady Midnight ripped the bag open and handed its contents to Ms. Americana.

"Thank goodness," Ms. Americana said, caressing her fingers reassuringly over the familiar golden hardness of her belt.  Then, she looked up.

"It's a good thing," she said, "that you were able to get a judge up at this hour!"

"Oh, that?" Lady Midnight said.  "Well, Judge Debbie does owe me a few favors.  But let's just say it's also a good thing they didn't read this."  Passing a desk with Lt. Zippuli's name on a plate, Lady Midnight smirked - and tossed the wad of papers out to land on it.  Lt. Zippuli could presumably wait until morning to find the signed copy of Senior Circuit Judge Deborah Scirica's strawberry tart recipe.

Coming out of the station, the three moved across the street towards the city impound lot.  A crowd of gawkers gathered with every step they took.   Paying them no mind, Americana slid the belt around her hips and buckled it - and gasped with pleasure as she felt her mighty power flooding comfortingly back into her once more.  At the entrance to the lot the attendant briefly looked ready to give them guff - and then realized how many heroines he was dealing with, backed down, and meekly told Ms. Americana where her car was.

"Alright," Omega Woman said, as they approached Americana's logo-emblazoned super-car - amidst a sea of illegally-parked beaters and seized drug-dealer BMWs.  The Americana-mobile looked worse the wear after its tow - missing one bumper and with several dents and scratches - but, its advanced air-bags having self-retracted, and the defensive oil slick having come from a spare tank, it still appeared drivable.  "Let's get you on your way,” Omega Woman continued.  “Once we're all safely back in Delta City we can regroup and debrief."

Ms. Americana had been uncharacteristically quiet during the long walk across the lot - her focus mostly on trying to keep her borrowed jacket closed over her boobs.  But at this, her face suddenly became animated again.

"What?" she gasped.  Breaking out of the supporting grip of her two friends, she stepped forward and then whirled to face them - her buxom panty-clad hips swaying agitatedly back and forth beneath the hem of her jacket.  "We are not going back to Delta City!" she said.  "Not until Rude Ruby and her Dark Prizm have been defeated!"

Putting her hands on her dusky round hips, Lady Midnight shook her head.  "I didn't stick my neck out with that judge's note just so you could get arrested again, Ms. Americana," she said.

"They won't touch me," she said.  "Not with you two by my side - not tonight at least."  Putting her hands on her hips, she lifted her masked head high and gave them her best dissapointed-school-teacher glare.  "And are you two really prepared to just slink away from this, with the job unfinished?  With the honor of Delta City, of its heroines - no, of superheroines everywhere - at stake?"

The blonde and ebony heroines exchanged a glance, and bit their lips.

"Well..." Omega Woman said.

"When you put it that way..." Lady Midnight said.

They both looked guilty.  But from the way they were squirming, it was clear that they were still not quite convinced.  So, Americana played her trump card.

"And what about the Boarman?" she asked.  "Haven't you two, haven't all of us always wanted a chance to show him up - to rub his arrogant face in our triumph, to prove him wrong?  Well - now is that chance!  Are you just going to pass it up?!"

At this, the two beauties slowly nodded - and then, gradually, smug smirks spread across their full red lips.

"Alright," Lady Midnight said.  "Let's do it."

"But if you're going to beat off the Boarman," Omega Woman said, "then we'll have to act fast."

"That's right," Americana said.  "We'll need to leverage all of our superior superheroine reasoning and crime-solving skills to take him."

"Fortunately," Lady Midnight cooed, "you know something he doesn't."  Pausing a moment she turned her head first one way and then the other - making sure that as they stood in the impound lot, the three defiantly scantily-clad beauties were indeed alone.  "Alright," she said, turning back, "now that it's just us girls, tell us Americana - what was it they stole?"

Ms. Americana bit her lip and blushed.  Not quite trusting Lady Midnight's eyes, she too took a quick look over her shoulder as well before she answered - although the look on her face was more of someone hoping not to be overheard saying something embarrassing, rather than someone desperate to keep a tactical secret.

"A sperm sample," she said.

"S-sperm sample?!" Omega Woman gasped - one hand shooting up to her chin as her incredibly buxom and fertile body squirmed in shock in its straining bikini.

"From who?" Lady Midnight said.  "Or... what?"

"From Dragon Queen's lab, after I busted it - five months back or so," Ms. Americana said.

"So... if it's sperm... what does it grow into?" Lady Midnight asked.

"I have no idea," Americana said.  "Professor Whirter might."

"He's, uh..." Lady Midnight said, choosing her words carefully.

"He's stable," Omega Woman said.  "But, after what Rude Ruby did to him... I don't think he's going to be talking for a while.  Or typing.  Or peeing."

"But Rude Ruby was after that specific sample?" Lady Midnight said.

Ms. Americana rubbed her chin.  "Seemed to be," she said.  "She stomped almost all the others open with her feet.  It was like an oil slick in there, only semen.  A... cum-slick, I guess."

Suddenly, a light seemed to go off over Omega Woman's head.

"Wait," she said.  "Who cares what it does, let's think about this another way!  So, it's a sperm sample, right?"

"Yeah..." Americana said.  Slowly, a look of dawning realization appeared upon her face as well.  "Which means," she said, excitedly, "that it was designed to go into a womb!"

"Not just any womb..." Lady Midnight said, her eyes going wide as she followed along.  "If it's Dragon Queen then that seed was almost certainly designed to go into..."

"A superheroine womb!" Ms. Americana gasped, finishing her thought.  

Taking a deep breath, all three heroines squirmed a bit.  Their eyes briefly seemed to widen, and their breaths quickened, as they contemplated the implications.

"Or... or a super-villainess womb..." Lady Midnight allowed.

Omega Woman squirmed.  She had been at the business end of Dragon Queen's sperm-sample delivery systems a few too many times for comfort.  "I'm... just going to guess..." she said softly, "that they won't want to use their own."

"So..." Americana said.  "Where would you find a super-female womb..."

"On short notice..." Omega Woman said.

"In Broodhaven..." Lady Midnight said.

For a moment, they were all silent, looking down and pondering.  Then, as one, their heads darted up with gasps.  They turned and looked at the moonlit sky.

To one side towered the enormous edifice of Grant Tower, the tallest building by far in the city.  And squatting nearby were the low domes of its most infamous building - the place whose name sent a little gooey chill into the body of any super-woman, good or bad, that heard it.

"HYBORIA!" they all gasped, as one - eyes blinking wide in horror.

Next Up:  Miss Americana visits the notorious Hyboria Hysterium...