Wearing civilian clothes, Officer Bruce Sealing stood in the shadows around the edges of the ballroom, a short distance behind a small congregation of Fareed Gouyannou’s men and their ladies. The men, as Gouyannou required, were richly attired, wearing the latest fashions in the latest style, and, as was also expected, much in the way of gold (and faux gold) accoutrements. The dress of the ladies, hired for the occasion, was much more varied. Leather hot pants and micro minis were common, but many were attired as fashionably as their escorts.
As the heroine was thrown to the floor, Sealing felt a surge of excitement through his body. Too often he had been underestimated, even by his friends; but this time, this time, he would have the upper hand against those who were smarter than he was, or who thought they were better than he was, and he would earn—no, he had already earned—the gratitude of very powerful people. Westbrook and Paladine had wanted to limit the take from the tapes of Crimson Flare’s torture and defeat. Hell, Westbrook hadn’t even watched the entire event, preferring to fast-forward through the conquest of Crimson Flare to see if what he had found was merely a collection of copies.
But Sealing had watched all of his tape. And there was plenty there. Plenty for the tabloids, Fox News, even Entertainment Tonight. And there was stuff for Mitropoulos’ underworld, too. Information he had passed on—at a price—to Fareed Gouyannou to allow the drug kingpin to overpower and capture America’s Darling, information that had brought her to her current state.
‘OOOOOOooooohhhhhhh!!’ Crimson Flare lay on her back, her bound wrists and ankles preventing her from getting to her feet and facing her attackers. Her chest rose and fell as she tried to catch her breath. The masked crimefighter’s face took on a determination behind her mask and she turned her shoulders to try to get onto her stomach. The vision of her flawless thighs and hips captured the gaze of all who were there, including the Judas who watched more with rage in his eyes than lust. Many of the men in the crowd smiled as the helpless heroine ever so slowly twisted her body so that she was now face toward the floor, resting on her elbows. She pulled her knees up under her, raising her hips. The women’s eyes shot wide as they saw the Champion of Women struggle to stand, her bound ankles hindering her, the powerless heroine helpless in the hands of these men. Many of these hired ladies felt fear grip their insides for this girl who seemed to offer so much promise, a promise of respect for—well, if not for them, then certainly for their daughters.
‘Get her! Get her now!’ Bruce Sealing thought to himself. He would get his opportunity to manhandle the superslut, just as he had long said he could; his new friends had already promised him that. And his new friends had already paid him well for the information that had led to her capture.
One especially large man, dressed in leather and holding a four-foot length of steel pipe, reached down and roughly grabbed the back of the heroine’s costume. James ‘Jan’ Leathers had encountered Crimson Flare some weeks earlier, while he had worked for Ape. At that time, she had infiltrated this same mansion in her successful raid to destroy Ape Greystook’s drug buy. Leathers had been injured—and his best friend Hagood had received injuries to which he eventually succumbed—at the hands of the powerful avenger. He had a score to settle with her.
As Leathers lifted the fragile-looking young woman from the floor, her bound arms and legs weakly flailed about. She swung them ineffectually in an effort to free herself from Leathers’ grip. Lifted from the floor by the huge man, she looked even smaller than she actually was.
He held her a few inches above the bare wooden boards, and some of the thugs in the crowd giggled as the trapped heroine stretched her black leather boots downward toward the floor as part of an effort to—to what? Escape? Surrounded by her enemies and stripped of her power, escape was not in the cards.
Gouyannou stood before his prisoner, impeccably attired in a silk suit and shirt, and smiled. ‘It is time to release you, Crimson Flare…,’ he said.
On hearing this, the crowd in the room fell into a stunned silence. Did he really mean to free Crimson Flare? Leathers stared at him fiercely.
‘…from your pain,’ he concluded, a smile washing across his face.
He turned toward his follower who was toting the small black leather case. ‘If you please, Doctor,’ he said quietly.
Her bound wrists had stolen her strength, and Crimson Flare sought desperately to saw through those ropes that weakened her with her claw. But there wasn’t enough time. Already, Leathers had wrapped one massive arm around her, pinning her left arm to her torso. With his hand, he reached between the heroine’s right arm and her chest, pushing that extremity away from her body. With his free arm, he took hold of the crimson glove that covered her right arm to the elbow and pulled it toward her wrist, bunching the satin against the enervating loops of rope.
The track marks were still visible, just barely.
The audience nearest the sight audibly gasped at the evidence of the masked avenger’s earlier trial at the hands of the Normans.
‘Oh, dear god. Oh, no!’ a beautiful woman, dressed in a very brief, very red miniskirt, said, clearly distraught.
‘Doctor Callahan, if you please,’ Gouyannou said.
The redheaded man with close-cropped hair withdrew a hypodermic needle from the case. Holding it vertically, he removed the plastic cover which protected the stubby needle. Then he flicked the side of the syringe with his index finger and noticed as tiny air bubbles rose to the top of the solution encased therein. Pressing the plunger, he expelled them easily. The faintest whiff of alcohol seemed to taint the air.
The doctor then turned toward his charge. Even through her dizziness and pain, Crimson Flare understood the danger of her current situation. She pressed against Leathers’ body in a desperate—and vain—attempt to get herself out of the doctor’s reach. When another of Gouyannou’s henchmen grabbed her arm to hold it still, Crimson Flare’s resolve shattered.
‘Please,’ she stammered. ‘P-pl-please, please, don’t do this to me.’
‘The mistake the Normans made was in making you dependent on drugs only in a weakened state,’ the drug kingpin told her, speaking calmly and evenly. ‘What Doctor Callahan has developed will lead to an addiction even when your wrists are freed. And when that happens, you will become my most secure supplier.
‘You’ll be able to get drugs for me from any source, even the police headquarters drug locker.’
Although Crimson Flare continued to resist, squirming in the grip now of two men, weakened by the rope around her wrists, the doctor had no difficulty tightening the wrap around her upper arm and finding the vein.
‘No… please,’ Crimson Flare pleaded. ‘Please, no. Don’t.’
Warmth washed over her body. Warmth and relaxation. Within a matter of only a few minutes, her eyes glazed and stared straight ahead, unfocused. Her protests were reduced to incoherent mumbles.
‘No. N-n-nnnoo, d-don….’
Bruce Sealing watched as Crimson Flare slowly fell limp into the arms of Gouyannou’s men. Knowing that he had risen suddenly in the estimation of the drug lord, thanks to the information his had passed on to Gouyannou—information gleaned from simply watching the single tape he had been given by his partners—he wondered what information might be contained on the other videos. If he could secure those other tapes from Westbrook and Paladine, who knows what he might be able to provide his new patron? He needed to get that information. Could he wrangle the means from Gouyannou without giving his new boss access to the source, a source which in itself might be lucrative to him?
Sealing’s attention was suddenly drawn to the beautiful captive, whose torment he had anticipated so ecstatically.
Crimson Flare was struggling to hold her head up, her eyes behind her shiny black mask becoming unfocused, the lids drooping. The heroine’s words, at first only slurred, became increasingly unintelligible. Her bound wrists dropped into her lap; her legs, bound at the ankles, no longer supported her weight and her glittering form fell back against the huge men who had restrained her.
The police officer smiled, as did most of the men in the ballroom, as the Champion of Women slowly crumpled to the floor. Crimson Flare lay on her side, knees bent with her gloved hands lying under her hips. Her body only made small, writhing movements as the comforting warmth of the aphrodisiac flowed through her and across her sensibility. Her shiny black leather boots, bound tightly at the ankles by what seemed to be luminous white ropes, made a soft shuffling sound as they moved slowly in tandem, up and down along the wooden planks of the ballroom floor; the prisoner drew her legs toward her chest and then pressed them downward and away. She did this time and time again.The heroine’s colourless tights gave off a brilliant sheen in the ballroom’s illumination, a lustre that, as her legs moved and curled, itself also moved, accentuating the round musculature of her thighs. The sequins on her crimson costume reflected that light also, the familiar uniform’s dramatic tautness across her hips serving to underscore the sensual nature of her movements. Though the movement was only small, the curvature of that flawless erotic posterior was heightened by the lustre of the glistening reflectors that clung to America’s Darling like a second skin.
Indeed, both the males and the females in the audience were attracted by the close-fitting costume that encased the near-unconscious girl. The men seemed to be pulled toward her, unconsciously seeking to remove this final protection from this delicate, apparently fragile, apparently helpless, girl. The women, on the other hand, were repelled, fearful that once this final line of protection for the Champion of Women had been breached, her vulnerability would be evident to all.
Weakly, Crimson Flare gave voice to the demons that now filled her mind, demons born of Dr. Callahan’s special mixture. ‘OOOoooooooooohhhhhhhh, Sta—Sta—! —cy!! ’ The final utterance was barely audible.
Fareed Gouyannou walked the ballroom floor between where his prisoner now lay and his audience. ‘The man who has made tonight’s entertainment possible—the newest member of my inner circle—whose information led to the capture of Crimson Flare, has informed me that a special combination of stimulation is all that is needful to bring this vigilante under our complete control. This combination of elements will bring her under our complete control.’
Officer Bruce Sealing stepped back into the shadows as he smiled. There was no need to create unnecessary enemies at the moment of his triumph. He would allow Mr. Gouyannou to be the center of attention.
‘Jan,’ Gouyannou ordered, ‘if you would, please, uh… stimulate… her.’
As if responding to the unspoken wish of all of the men in the hall, Leathers reached behind the inert figure resting at his feet, feeling for the costume’s clasp at the back of her neck. Releasing the hook, he then gripped the metal tongue of the zipper and slowly opened the glittering costume. As he did so, the brilliant uniform ballooned slightly across the torso of the defeated champion. When he had opened the back of the familiar garb completely, Leathers tugged at the costume’s front, just below the chin of the unresisting figure below him.
Finally, the small perfectly round mounds of Crimson Flare’s breasts peeked over the glittering top. There was a collective withering of spirit among the women packed into the room, as if this exposure of Crimson Flare was symbolic of a more general victory over them. Tears formed in the eyes of more than a few who gazed on the defeated figure. A few others tried to escape by slowly backing toward the exit, no longer able to endure the humiliation of the Maiden of Mitropoulos. However, most of the women stood by and watched stoically. The defeat of Crimson Flare had established their place in this room.
For the men who watched, the sight of Crimson Flare’s tits was enough to allow them to give voice to their triumph. A low growl swelled across the room, a sound that magnified as the costume was pulled down farther. As the hapless avenger lay, barely conscious, they watched as her chest rose and fell rhythmically; the two perfectly formed mounds topped by the pale pink nodules transfixed the collective gaze of her enemies who were gathered to watch her destruction. And they vented their appreciation.
‘Fuck her, Jan!’ one voice said loudly.
‘Yeah, fuck her!’ other voices followed. ‘Fuck her!’ Fuck her!!’ ‘Fuck her!!!’ Each time the cry was louder until the intermingling of voices became just one undifferentiated roar, urging Leathers to do his worst with the prisoner.
Settling next to the captive, Leathers listened to the voices urging him to act; at the same time, he stared at the heroine’s movement, her hips sliding slowly, up and down, as if encouraging someone who had just entered her to enjoy the fantasy that had begun to grip her.
‘Fuck her, Leathers!’ the voices continued to urge him. But he knew what Gouyannou wanted. And Gouyannou was his boss.
Gently, but without any apprehension, he allowed his right hand to float above her right breast. And ever so gradually, his middle finger extended downward until the nail, worn long by any male standard, gingerly poked the pink aureole now standing rigidly upright in the middle of that delicious mound.
‘Ah—Aagghh—aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!’ she whispered, breathily.
‘Already she is receptive,’ Fareed Gouyannou said softly, mostly to himself. The shouting was replaced by a murmur which gradually filled the room.
Another of the female ‘guests’ departed, unable to stand the sight of what she was sure to follow.
As his nail, barely touching the pink, perfectly round aureole, brushed against the sensitive receptor, Crimson Flare’s legs straightened, quivering visibly in an exultation that had now taken over her mind and body. Crimson Flare’s breathing quickened audibly, great gulps of air drunk greedily as Leathers and Gouyannou watched with anticipation.
Leathers reached his left hand toward the other breast. Both mounds were now streaked with sweat. Cupping it gently, with his little, ring, and middle fingers, he lightly lifted the firm mammary, allowing it to slide easily toward his palm as he twisted his wrist in order to receive the firm prize. As it rolled into place, with his thumb and index fingers, he pinched the hardening nipple.
‘NNnnn—nnnnnnggghhhlll! NNnnn—nnnnnnggghhhlll!’ The helpless girl felt desire rise in her and she pressed her hips down hard onto an imaginary lover, seeking fulfillment.
‘Watch as she seeks to satisfy her lust,’ Gouyannou said slowly. ‘Watch as the super-slut gives vent to her desire.’
Rubbing the hardening nipple between his thumb and forefinger, Leathers was surprised with the speed with which it stiffened. The pink tissue jutting heavenward felt as hard as a marble in his grasp. When he looked down at the masked heroine’s face, he saw sweat streaming from her forehead, rolling across her gleaming black mask, and down onto her neck and shoulders.
All in a matter of moments.
What had Gouyannou learned about this fearsome opponent that had brought her down so quickly?
Bruce Sealing watched as the information he had gathered from his video was put to use in defeating and then humiliating Crimson Flare. The criminals who had earlier captured Mitropoulos’ Champion had placed on the tape, which had been taken by Tim Westbrook from the Conservatory, the close association of capture, drugs, and sex in the heroine’s mind.
He didn’t understand all of it, but evidently the red-headed girl who tortured the Maid of Mitropoulos did. There was some gangbanger named Chan who had started the ball rolling, months ago. He had determined that Crimson Flare was a virgin, and somehow this status was tied to her strength. If she could be forced to cum, Chan and the redhead had concluded, it would have an effect on her strength; maybe it would destroy it. It was a possible way to eliminate this troublesome meddler and restore the gangland balance to Mitropoulos.
They had used a drug cocktail to bring Crimson Flare to her knees and under their control; they had given her a habit, made her dependent. And while she was in that state, she had had innumerable sexual escapades with the Normans, as part of her need and desire to get more drugs. That accounted for the track marks on her arms.
But something—
GGGoooooooooooddddd!! Oh, god, please!!’
Her shout was both a consummation and, at the same time, filled with fear. Its raw emotion frightened many who heard it, but to Sealing it was only more evidence of how correct his information was. He watched as the heroine pressed her body toward Leathers, struggling to nuzzle her jaw against the inside of his thigh, trying to press her mouth between his legs.
The erstwhile policeman returned to his effort to organise his thinking and his future in Mitropoulos’ gang world.
But something had gone wrong with their plan. Instead of destroying Crimson Flare’s strength, the orgasm had made her stronger. And this had somehow allowed her to defeat the Normans and escape.
That was when Chan had betrayed the redhead. He had abandoned his relationship with her and taken up with Crimson Flare. And Chan had been killed. Sealing suspected the redhead was behind it, but there was no way to prove that.
What followed is unclear. In part, it was because the tape ended before everything could be spelled out. That was why the policeman wanted to get the other tapes, the tapes that his late partners had had. The rest of the story could get him even bigger rewards. He had to find where Westbrook and Paladine had hid them.
What he did know was that Crimson Flare’s dependence on drugs was overcome when she was restored to full strength. When her wrists were bound, she was susceptible to their domination. And the drugs were associated, in the mind of this Champion of Women, with sexual pleasure and gratification.
The evidence for that was there for anyone to see. Even from his distant vantage point, he saw the now-half-naked body of Crimson Flare twisting on the floor, trying to turn her body into Leathers, desperately trying to find some kind of release for the tension that had gripped her. Her legs were stretched along the floor, her bound ankles pushing, weakly it seemed, her torso, angled upward into the lap of the muscular Leathers. Her hips also rested on the polished wooden planks; but her body twisted toward the big man so that her exposed chest was only partly visible to the audience watching in stunned silence. Only her bare back could be seen clearly.
She had finally pressed her face now all the way to his crotch, and Sealing could tell from the expressions crossing Leathers’ face that she was alternately biting and attempting to kiss his covered sex organs. There were even moments when the bliss that became evident reflected the hummer she applied to his enlarged prick.
Everyone else knew it, too.
‘Jan’ Leathers was living a dream. With his left hand, he played with Crimson Flare’s breast, his thumb flicking a nipple that had hardened even as he amused himself with it. His right had by now moved from her right breast to beneath her lowered costume, beneath even the colourless tights that shimmered across her exposed legs, his fingers searching through the short curly pubic hair for her sex. Even before he found it, the amount of moisture covering the heroine’s muff was indisputable.
Already she was lubricating. Already she was ready to be entered. Gouyannou had promised that he would be given the opportunity to have this girl. His tingling organ told him that that opportunity would have to come soon.
When his hand finally made it to her already-receptive vagina, he could tell that her clit had flowered, welcoming his searching fingers. He gently tapped it with two fingers, eliciting a soft moan from the now-helpless avenger. Her body slumped weakly against his, her strength now completely gone, her face now staring vacantly up at him from behind the shiny black mask, sweet-smelling sweat pouring down the sides of her face from beneath the close-fitting black cowl. Her dry ruby red lips were pursed, quivering, lying slightly open as she breathed deeply. Behind the mask, her deep green eyes were unfocused, tears welling up in them as she responded to the urges that filled her slowly twisting form. She looked as though she were about to burst out sobbing.
Her neck and the back of her head rested against his abdomen, her bare shoulders filling the space between his spread legs as he squatted to support the Champion. She lay, utterly helpless, totally in his power. With her wrists bound, she moved her arms only minimally, but what movement there was brought the satin gloves across his own right hand, buried by her costume and tights. Deep beneath the costume, Jan’s fingers were still gently tapping, almost absently, at the rosebud that only he knew was present. When her unconscious mind realised that this small motion on her part served to press his fingers against and more deeply into her sex, and that this touch seemed to encourage him to probe deeper into her, Crimson Flare, symbol of womanly virtue, pressed her bound wrists against that hand with greater force.
Her exposed body was soaked with her sweat. It created a sheen that covered her small breasts. The rising and falling of her chest allowed those perfect mounds to almost glisten in the light from the chandeliers suspended from the ballroom ceiling. In her dazed, confused mind, she saw herself finding him, bringing her lips against his penis, and then stimulating him so that he would rape her. She wanted to do all these things; she even saw herself accomplishing them. But in this room, she was just too weak to do more than merely pressed her bound, gloved wrists against his enshrouded hand.
As Leathers pressed his finger into the beaten girl’s vagina, he could feel her honey fairly gush forth, pouring over his hand with the sweet-smelling nectar. At that moment, her body convulsed, gripped by an earthquake of emotion that tore at her mind and shook her body. She voiced a cry of such pure sexual desire that not a single man who heard her was unaffected. Officer Bruce Sealing watched, transfixed like all the others present, as the Maid of Mitropoulos, the city’s protector and avenger, embraced the basest elements of her nature. He watched and reveled in the moment.
‘Uh! Uuhh! UUUuuuuuugggggghhhhhhhhh!!’ The masked beauty stiffened, stretching her body to her full five feet four inches from Leathers’ lap across the floor of the ballroom. After a brief pause, her desire again filled the room. Barely conscious, she lay almost completely still, but her tone was filled with an evident sexual exaltation. ‘OOOhhhhhh! OOOOoooooooogggggghhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmm!! MMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmmmnnnnnnngggggllllhhhhhhh!!’
As his finger probed the heroine’s insides, Leathers recognised the smoothness that was a product of her lubrication. He could tell she was ready to be entered, and he knew that Gouyannou had promised him that he would be given that opportunity in front of this audience. How many more would follow? Only time would tell.
Although she could do so only weakly, Crimson Flare pressed her thighs together, trapping his hand at her entrance and his finger within her. The jolt of pressure, and the attendant pleasure, that the man had brought inside of her led her to swallow with difficulty, almost painfully, and she breathed shallowly, with the same difficulty. And then the hapless heroine pressed her hips downward onto his hand, pushing him deeper, deeper inside. America’s Darling inhaled deeply, and Leathers watched as those perfect mounds, topped by the rock-hard nibs, lifted with her chest.
Bruce Sealing watched, too, smiling at the destruction of Crimson Flare.
A brief moan, this time small and weak, elicited from between her slightly open lips, a moan which only Leathers heard, but which was so filled with pent-up sexuality, and so helpless, that he felt his prick tingle and erupt to full size in a moment. He almost came in those mere seconds. Fareed Gouyannou would have to give him the prisoner soon, or the opportunity would be lost.
Gouyannou walked toward Leathers and his charge. The squat, stout man’s bearded face was very serious. ‘Dr. Callahan’s first injection was an aphrodisiac whose strength would overcome and dominate our… heroine’s…’ here he smiled a little, ‘…sensibilities,’ he concluded. ‘It would serve to allow us to contain her great strength while we brought her under our control. The second part of this process is, shall we say, a little more, uh, pleasurable, for all who will be involved.’ He turned to face his hireling. ‘Mr. Leathers, would you remove Crimson Flare’s bonds?’
The powerful thug was surprised by the order, but he had no alternative than to obey.
‘Now, Doctor, would you prepare your second dosage?’ Fareed announced to the assembly. ‘This little gift is heroin-based—heroin for the heroine,’ he chuckled, and a small laugh rolled through the crowd. ‘It will be strong enough to overcome even her immense strength, particularly as she will be, uh,’ he paused for a moment, ‘otherwise occupied while the immediately subsequent doses are introduced. The drug will take over her body and create the craving for more. More of everything. More of the drug. And more of the sex.’ He was smiling broadly now as he gazed down at the helpless prisoner.
‘Yes. Crimson Flare will be hooked on this drug habit. And she will be insatiable in her demand for sex to pay for it.’
End of Chapter Two