If only the pain would stop.
It seemed centered down deep, near her groin, but there was not a square centimeter of the heroine’s body that wasn’t wracked with pain.
‘Crimson Flare?’ she heard the familiar voice ask.
Yes, master?
‘Do you know this woman?’ There was a tumult crashing thunderously around the god, as if all of his minions had decided to shout and argue simultaneously. Before the battered Maiden’s eyes ghostly figures raced to and fro bathed as if in gossamer drapes.
Oh, yes, my lord.
‘Who is she?’ The raucous shouts seemed to increase even more. But she was unable to comprehend what was being said.
She is my friend, my lord. She can help me.
As soon as she had said this, Crimson Flare felt the familiar comfort of Lynn’s slim but strong arms embracing and caressing her body. The intimacy that they carried with them seemed to at last ease the pain of the broken Champion. The sudden relaxation allowed her to finally slip into unconsciousness, finally finding a respite from the agony that had been her constant companion for many hours.
Lynn stared at Gouyannou, hatred and anger evident in her gaze.
‘What have you done to her?’ the blonde demanded.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ replied the drug lord. ‘Nothing she didn’t allow me to do.’
Easing her friend to the floor, Lynn rested Crimson Flare’s head on her thighs as she knelt on the hard wood. The sweat-soaked body of the avenger of Mitropoulos finally seemed at rest.
‘I’m taking her out of here,’ Lynn stated flatly.
‘I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,’ came the reply. ‘You see, there are some things I need her to do for me.’
‘Crimson Flare is not going to help you commit crimes,’ Lynn shot back. ‘She’d rather be dead.’
‘Her desire for a fix will change that attitude. And, well, if she doesn’t help me, then I’ll gladly grant the alternative you offer.’
Gouyannou’s statement struck Lynn like a hard blow to the chest. She knew that the crime kingpin didn’t bluff, and he didn’t make rash statements. She was certain that he would kill Crimson Flare without a second thought. Words stuck in her throat as she considered hurling a simple invective at the heroine’s tormentor.
But she thought better of it.
‘Don’t hurt her any more. I’ll do whatever you want.’
‘Take them downstairs,’ he ordered. ‘Leave them together… for the time being.’
Two well-dressed criminals moved quickly and flanked Lynn. One of them placed his hand gently on her shoulder. She slowly rose to her feet, after soothingly brushing her friend’s face and placing the head of the unconscious Champion of Women delicately on the floor. A third, larger, figure easily scooped up the nude, insensate heroine and followed the trio to the door at the far end of the ballroom.
When the procession disappeared, attention turned to the last female in the room. Maria Blakeman felt all the eyes on her and she knew that the next thing she said would determine whether she lived or died.
‘All right, missy, who are you?’ one of the dark-suited figures near her asked roughly.
Speaking with the thick Hispanic accent that she had grown up with and which she had worked assiduously to rid herself of, she replied, ‘I met her on the way here. She said she was coming for a good time.’ She turned and seemed to flirt with the nearest thug. ‘I, too was looking for a good time.’ She pressed herself against him.
‘She’s a cop!’ A voice from the rear of the room spoke with certainly and clarity.
Bruce Sealing strode through the crowd and into the light. ‘She’s a cop!’ he repeated. ‘Her name’s Maria Blakeman. She was partnered with Tim Westbrook.’
‘Westbrook? The guy who’s got the tape?’ Gouyannou asked.
‘Yeah, that Westbrook. And it looks like she may be joining him.’
Lynn was led to a starkly lit cell in the basement of the great house. It looked like a wine cellar, though larger than the ones Lynn had seen previously.
A moment later, the door opened again and a large thug carried the unconscious Crimson Flare into the room. He took only a step or two into the cool chamber and then he unceremoniously tossed America’s Darling toward the bare centre of the room. She struck the stone floor hard and did not move.
Quickly, Lynn rushed to her side and lifted her head into her arms. Tears formed and rolled down her cheeks. ‘Oh, god, Karen, what’s happened to you?’
Maria Blakeman was led at gunpoint down a different flight of stairs. Bruce Sealing led the way and two very professional-looking toughs followed the policewoman, each with his gun leveled at her back.
At the bottom of the stairs, Sealing walked quickly along a well-lit corridor. They passed by several heavy wooden doors, but finally he stopped in front of a door that was bolted securely. Noisily he released the locks. The door squealed open. One of the men behind Maria grabbed her ass, took a moment to enjoy the sensation, then placed his other hand between her shoulders and roughly pushed her into the dimly lighted room.
‘Who’s there?’ she heard a muffled voice say as she fell to the floor.
‘Tim?’
‘Maria? What the hell—?’
Fareed Gouyannou walked among the crowd assembled in the ballroom. His status had never been so high in Mitropoulos as it was now. True, he had long been a major player in the capital, both as a drug lord and as a benefactor of the arts; but here, in the great city of the state, he had always been regarded as something of a pretender.
Crimson Flare’s destruction of the Savoyards and the Normans, along with the deaths of Cos and Chan, had left a large power vacuum in Mitropoulos. When Ape, a none-too-bright triggerman with more ambition than talent, arose to try to take power, it had convinced the immigrant that the city was ripe for the plucking. He had contacted the former enforcer with a drug deal proposal, convinced that it would fail, and that that failure would open the door to his own rise. He had not, however, expected Ape to fail so spectacularly. His feigned outrage at the theft and destruction of his drugs (what would Ape have given to know that it was actually a mixture of flour, sugar, and crushed aspirin?) had put Mitropoulos into his hands. The demonstration that Nancy, a mere woman, was, in fact, the real power in that relationship told him that there would be no one to compete with him. Gouyannou was taken aback when Nancy had emerged as a surprising rival, but he had not risen to his formidable position without being able to adjust to the unexpected. However, once again America’s Darling had ended the redhead’s grab for power as well.
The stage was set for someone with connexions outside the city; for someone who could draw on wealthy and influential friends, and whose operations extended beyond the reach of Mitropoulos’ masked avenger. Crimson Flare seemed to be the only impediment to securing his hold on Mitropoulos and all the wealth that that promised. This woman would have to be removed.
Gouyannou had seen his opportunity and grabbed it. The day after he had arrived in Mitropoulos to set up his operation, his underground network already reported the ongoing blackmail of Crimson Flare. Within hours, he not only knew that there were three tapes involved in the enterprise, but he even knew the names of those involved. These policemen were rank amateurs! By midnight, he had two of the tapes in his possession.
Gouyannou knew the name Bruce Sealing when the cop had sought him out. At first, he had seemed a typical corrupt cop, but the drug kingpin quickly discovered that it wasn’t the usual kind of corruption he had dealt with back in the capital city. It ran much deeper. Sealing was after more than money, and he was willing to parlay any information, any skill, or anyone he knew to his own gain. He wanted power, luxury, influence, and revenge in equal measure. This made him useful to Gouyannou, at least temporarily so.
The revenge was the key to his character. Gouyannou understood, after fifteen minutes of conversation, that Sealing was always perceived as less than others: Not as smart, not as strong, not as determined, not as able. The resentment of always being less festered at him. Then, when his partners—Tim Westbrook and Gary Paladine—had made their decision about blackmailing Crimson Flare while seeming to disdain his ideas about defeating and discrediting the heroine, the fury inside had rushed to the surface. Sealing’s hatred of Mitropoulos’ Champion of Women was also something Gouyannou noted—and yet another thing he felt he would be able to use.
Sealing had turned over his tape and helped Gouyannou seize his erstwhile partners. Paladine’s tape was quickly grabbed up. It was sitting on the shelf of his video collection—hiding in plain sight never really works. There was no longer any reason to keep him around, so he was last seen being hustled off in the trunk of a Cadillac. That Cadillac was now a block of metal about one cubic meter in size sitting in a junkyard owned by a Gouyannou subsidiary.
But Westbrook was tougher. His tape was not in his home, nor in his locker at the police station, nor at his gym. Efforts to convince him to reveal its location had failed, despite the conscientious exertions of a few of Gouyannou’s men. Westbrook’s closed-mouth resistance actually convinced Gouyannou that he might not have known where the tape was. Was it possible he had given the tape to someone else to store?
In any case, it was a moot point now. The capture of Crimson Flare, coupled with his control of two of the tapes would allow him to first discredit and then destroy the avenger of Mitropoulos. Westbrook and Sealing were no longer necessary.
‘Tim, what are you doing here?’ Maria Blakeman asked, her voice hushed, as if fearful that she might be overheard.
Westbrook’s response was in a normal tone, though swollen cheeks and jaw muffled his words. ‘You know,’ he said simply, painfully.
‘The tape.’
‘Yes.’ Each time he tried to speak Maria felt a shaft of pain pierce her heart. Tears welled up in her eyes. The spandex-clad policewoman moved to embrace her partner. As she did so, he broke down and sobbed.
‘We should never have got involved in this,’ he struggled to say.
‘I warned you.’
‘Yeah, I know. Do you still have the tape?’
‘Yes.’
‘That tape is the only reason I’m still alive.’
‘Gouyannou has Crimson Flare.’
‘Then we’re both dead.’
Pain continued to wrack Crimson Flare’s body. The only moments of respite she had experienced in the last few hours had been those moments she had given herself over to her gods and their minions, and when unconsciousness had come at last, with the arrival of Lynn.
Lynn.
Why was she here?
Through the haze of pain, she felt Lynn’s hands stroking her face and shoulders. Cutting at last through the white noise, she heard Lynn’s soothing voice, comforting, reassuring.
‘…please, Karen, please. What can I do to help?’
Drawing her knees up to her chest, the masked heroine tried to get the words out. But her dry throat and the ever-present pain allowed her to emit only a hoarse gasp. She felt Lynn’s tears drop onto her and roll across her cheek and neck.
Looking around the room, Lynn saw a bare mattress sitting in the corner. The athletic blonde lifted her friend and carried her to what was nothing more than a battered sack. Laying Crimson Flare’s tortured body down, Lynn looked for something to cover her naked form. There was nothing.
‘Oh, god, Karen. I have to help you, but I don’t know how,’ she whispered. ‘What do you want me to do?’
Behind her, the door screeched noisily as it was pushed open. A tall, thin figure stood there a moment, as his eyes got used to the gloomy interior. ‘Here,’ he said, as he tossed the familiar crimson-and-gold sequined costume toward the figures in the far corner. As it hit the floor, there was a soft thunk! barely noticeable even at the distance of a few feet.
Rushing to pick up the Champion’s garb even before the door had closed, Lynn saw that Crimson Flare’s belt had been wrapped in the uniform.
The athletic blonde quickly picked up the gift and unfolded the dimly glittering prize. Yes! The baton was still attached to the belt!
‘Bring Crimson Slut up here!’ Gouyannou ordered.
There was laughter around the room as the men gathered for the humiliation of Mitropoulos’ Champion anticipated a further degradation of the beautiful girl. Two hours had passed since she had been carried from the room. The worst of the storm had passed, but driving rain could still be heard spattering the windows.
Two men walked quickly to the exit. As they approached the door, they turned toward one another and smiled, then skipped forward and began to jog. The sound of male conversation was ratcheted up a notch. Word had been passed from the earlier rapists about Crimson Flare’s attributes. Everyone in the room hoped, prayed, that Gouyannou would select him for the next round.
But Gouyannou had different plans. Crimson Flare must prove her value and fidelity to him. She would demonstrate her fidelity when she arrived here in the ballroom—yes, he thought, laughing, the ballroom—only a matter of moments from now. Then she would prove her value, by using her powers to secure a supply of drugs from a few specified locations around Mitropoulos. Her doing so would establish his position as premier drug lord in the city.
Lynn fingered the baton that she held in her hand. For a long time—she had no idea how long—she had desperately been trying to determine what she had to do. She had been taught the rudiments of the weapon, but her control of its power had never been very good. She had a tendency to use too much force for the job at hand. Karen had told her that that was the same problem she had had to overcome, but with a little practice it would come. Lynn had always suspected that Karen said that just to reassure her, to encourage her.
She looked at the locked door, wondering whether she would be able to make a getaway, leading the powerless Crimson Flare to safety. How many obstacles and enemies would she have to defeat to do so? Were there simply the large number of criminals here, or were there other devices she would have to overcome? Would the baton’s charge last that long? What would happen to them if she failed?
She turned and looked at the masked Champion.
The heroine’s gold-and-crimson sequined uniform had been restored to her, tightly clinging to her petite but muscular figure. Covering her nakedness was the one thing that Lynn most wanted to do to spare her friend any further humiliation. But Crimson Flare was confronted by a much greater danger.
The pain that still wracked her body was evident. If anything, the agony that wracked her had increased. Crimson Flare’s form curled and stretched on the mattress, rolled and drew in upon itself, as she sought respite from an anguish that Lynn could only begin to guess at. Her small hand covered by a crimson satin glove pressed against her crotch, seeking entry to her sex and rubbing against her clit—searching for any kind of stimulation to drive away the pain. Her moans and grunts told of her frustration. Her legs, now bare, with only the ragged edges of her tights visible above her still-glistening black leather boots, coiled and uncoiled slowly.
What to do? Lynn had no idea of how much time she might have, or of how much time she had lost in these futile imaginings.
Suddenly, the sound of the outside locks being loudly opened cut through the cold silence of the wine cellar. She was out of time. She quickly backed up against the nearest wall, pulling the baton behind her as she pressed against the cold stone, and wrapping her hand around the object.
Two men opened the door very forcefully, practically rushing into the large room. Without a word, they fairly raced to the helpless heroine. One of the men, the taller one, with long blonde hair, roughly grabbed the masked girl by the back of the famed costume and yanked Crimson Flare to her feet. Her face hung low toward her chest as his partner, laughing, placed his hands on her hips and pulled them toward him. Then he mock-raped the insensate girl, bumping his own hips against her ass, moving rapidly in and out at the same time he alternately pulled her towards him and pushed her away. The rapid movement made Crimson Flare’s head shudder and dance like a bobble-head doll.
‘Stop it!’ Lynn yelled.
Both men stopped and stared at her. The blonde man took a step toward her, but his accomplice grunted. He shook his head vigourously, and mouthed the name ‘Gouyannou.’ The furious stare that was directed at the petrified girl told her that he would no doubt be back.
The two men dragged America’s Darling quickly into the hall. The slam of the heavy door shook the room, and the heavy metal locking mechanism sounded sharply in the cold air. Crimson Flare’s boots dragging across the stairs leading to the ballroom echoed faintly in the stairwell and into the wine cellar. The sound quickly faded and a cold silence surrounded Lynn.
The pudgy drug lord walked around the centre of the ballroom, sweeping it in his gaze. He sensed that all eyes were on him, and he knew that what he did in the next few moments would establish or undo his reputation in Mitropoulos.
‘George,’ he said in a low tone.
A tall, thin man with a grey crewcut stepped forward. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘You will keep a record of this.’
‘Yes, sir.’ George Joachim had worked for a series of gangland princes both in the capital and here in Mitropoulos. He was a good soldier, reliable, capable, and loyal, until he sensed that his boss was about to fall. He had an innate sense about that. He seemed to know intuitively when each of his employers was about to tumble in the never-ending power struggle of gang warfare. When this warning system fired off its message, he would first distance himself from his chief, and then move to the likely successor, taking both talent and information that his new patron would find useful. It was a talent that had served him well.
George drew out a camera and began photographing the ballroom, taking group shots of the guests, but ensuring that the only individual portraits were of Fareed Gouyannou. Many of those shots were taken at a low angle. Many showed the crowd surrounding him, gazing at him admiringly.
After a moment or two, the door leading to the basement slammed open and the two thugs returned, dragging the barely conscious avenger of Mitropoulos. Before they had taken three steps into the room, Gouyannou loudly barked his next order. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. Leave her there and you go join your friends!’
The two stopped in their tracks, looked at one another and released their charge from their grip.
Crimson Flare crumpled to the floor.
George continued to alternately photograph and create digital movies of the scene.
America’s Darling sat on the hardwood floor. She leaned heavily on her arms and rested on her hip, the sweat on her bare legs gleaming in the bright lights. The gold and crimson sequins of her costume glittered, identifying the heroine unmistakably. Her cowl was torn, allowing a few tufts of her short chestnut hair to be visible; the leather cowl, her shiny black mask, and her black boots still glinted in the light, so that the most serious casualty of the evening’s events was the mystique of Crimson Flare. Her masked face hung low, the high polish of the black vinyl now visibly marred by her earlier experiences. She seemed to be gasping for air, the pain inside her manifesting itself.
Gouyannou seemed to be smiling as he approached her. The crowd fell silent, waiting to see what the new lord of Mitropoulos would do with his captive.
‘Crimson Flare,’ he said quietly.
Yes, my lord?
‘Are you in pain?’
Yes, my lord.
‘Do you want me to take the pain away?’
Yes, my lord. Please.
‘Very well, I will.’
Oh, thank you, my lord.
‘But first…’
Yes, my lord?
‘But first, I want you to serve me.’
What is it you wish, my lord?
‘I want you to get to you knees and crawl to me. Will you do that?’
Instead of responding, Crimson Flare clumsily rolled onto her knees. Then, to the delight and amusement of the men gathered in the room, she awkwardly pushed her body toward the sound of Gouyannou’s voice. Even though the distance was barely four meters, she still stumbled and pitched forward onto her face twice in that short distance. Each collapse brought a roar of laughter and approval from Gouyannou’s watching minions.
As she rose for the second time, Crimson Flare fairly pleaded, Please, my lord, wait. I am coming. I wish to serve you. What she said was barely intelligible. But the sight of the heroine who had struck such fear in the hearts of Mitropoulos’ underworld stumbling and crawling toward their boss was the most memorable moment of this night.
George captured it all in his movie mode. Ten megapixels! Complete with sound!
Fareed Gouyannou enjoyed the sight of the last obstacle to his power in Mitropoulos on her knees crawling toward him. As she finally reached him, first placing her hand alongside his leg and then sidling up to him to sit at his feet, Crimson Flare turned her masked face upward toward him.
He saw vacant eyes there behind her mask. The dark green colour had no life; the sparkle that was so common to young women was gone. Below the rim of the marred but still shiny disguise, her flesh was filthy. A hard crust of a mixture of saliva, semen, and muck from the ballroom floor coated her face below the mask. Only small patches of the smooth, flawless skin showed through the dirt. The flesh on her arms had been equally fouled by her earlier ordeal. But the worst was on her thighs. Streaks of cum, now turned almost grey, stretched from both of the entrances into the Champion, front and rear. The tatters of her colourless tights only seemed to make the image more reprehensible. As she sat, her chest expanded and contracted as she struggled to breathe, to find some respite from the pain that she felt as a result of the good doctor’s cocktails and the physical beating her body had undergone.
‘Crimson Flare,’ said Fareed Gouyannou, ‘please take me in your hand.’
Without a word, the Maiden of Mitropoulos turned, then stopped as if stricken by a shaft of pain through her spine. Finally, putting herself fully on her knees before him, she reached out and pulled down the zipper of his trousers. Her crimson glove disappeared into the opening, and then reappeared, gently fondling his prick.
As she held it, it became visibly larger and harder. Soon it hardened to its full eight inches.
‘Take me into your mouth, Crimson Flare.’
She did so, her eyes staring upward at his face as if seeking approval.
‘Make me cum,’ he ordered, ‘but not too fast.’
For the next fifteen minutes, America’s Darling sucked and savoured, bringing Gouyannou to the brink of orgasm only to back off and allow him to enjoy the experience. She sucked noisily as all the men in the ballroom seemed to relish the experience vicariously.
Gouyannou felt her tongue cross the sensitive tip and then traverse back again. He felt the satin glove, covering her small hand, press and release, press and release, traveling up and down his erection. But his countenance revealed a man in total control. To all the underlings who watched the scene unveil itself, it was Crimson Flare who had to struggle to bring the master to climax, an event that occurred only when he permitted it.
And when he came, it was with full force inside her mouth. The masked Maiden choked on the semen as it exploded into her. Much of it rolled slowly out of her mouth and down her jaw, hanging obscenely in a lengthening stream downward from her chin.
‘Swallow it, Crimson Flare,’ he said.
And she did. The audience roared its approval.
Lynn pointed the baton at the locking mechanism on the heavy wooden door. She hoped that she would not make her usual mistake of using too much force. The very first time she had done this, when Karen was teaching her to use the weapon, she had not only blown a door off its hinges, but she had shattered it into a dozen pieces. In the closed space of this basement, the sound would reverberate loudly and bring dozens of murderous thugs down on her.
She only wanted to open the door.
She thrust the baton at the lock and hoped.
There was a faint explosion and the lock popped open. Then, almost as a comic aftermath, the heavy door slid open, squeaking painfully, a few inches.
Lynn was through the door and on the stairs in seconds. She paused, looking back, wondering where Maria had been taken. But there were no other rooms in this section of the cellars.
She had to see if she could save Crimson Flare.
Running up the stairs in the tight spandex minidress was not easy. The heels didn’t help things, either. By the time she reached the top of the staircase, she had slowed to a walk. In front of her, another door, this one with a barred window, separated her from the next room. She recognised it as the door that opened out to the rear of the ballroom.
She stepped toward the window, hoping that she would be able to make a determination of what her next step should be. What she saw made her blood run cold.
Crimson Flare was on her knees before a shortish, rotund man, who was dressed in an expensive suit. Could that be Fareed Gouyannou? She could tell, even at this distance, what the heroine was doing.
‘Karen, no!’ she said softly. Then, catching herself, she looked about to see if anyone had heard her.
It was only then that the lithe blonde saw the large number of observers in the ballroom. If she intended to rescue Crimson Flare, she would have to deal with a couple dozen toughs.
‘I’m sorry, Karen. I can’t… not… now.’ At that instant, a savage roar coursed through the ballroom as the men watching the scene gave full throat to their approval of Gouyannou’s actions.
She quickly opened the door and slid into the ballroom. The athletic blonde pressed her body against the wall and into the shadows. Lynn made her way toward the exit, holding the baton at the ready.
The chatter in the room quickly subsided as Gouyannou spoke. ‘Crimson Flare.’ His voice, she thought, was surprisingly soft.
‘Yes, master.’ Lynn could barely understand the words.
‘In order to relieve your pain, you must undertake a task for me. Will you do that?’
Lynn stood stock still, right next to the exit. All eyes in the room were on the hapless heroine.
‘Yes.’ The heroine’s speech was even slower and more pained.
‘I want you to go to Mitropoulos Police Headquarters and take certain evidence hags from the Evidence Locker. That is room 442 on the top floor of City Hall. You’ll find it filed in section 05, shelf 11-25, file number 0112-03. It will be two large plastic bags wrapped in white paper. If anyone tries to stop you, you should not be too particular about how you deal with that problem. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘When you return here, I will give you relief from all of the pain you are feeling.’
Crimson Flare seemed to shrink to an even smaller figure as she knelt before Gouyannou. America’s Darling did not recognise what such an act would mean to her crimefighter reputation, only that the promise of relief was genuine.
Lynn slipped out the entrance and made her way across the foyer. She whipped out the baton to its full length in order to deal with the guard she remembered at the entrance.
Pulling the door open, she was surprised that no one stood outside. Taking advantage of the security lapse, she made her way across the driveway, walking quickly toward the closed gates opposite.
‘Hello, Missy,’ the dark-garbed guard said, smiling. There was no one else anywhere around.
‘Hello yourself,’ Lynn smiled as she raised the baton.
The force of the blast was increased by her anxiety. The smell of ozone filled the air and the body of the guard was thrown violently backward against the stone pillar. Smoke rose from his chest, but Lynn did not bother to examine her handiwork. She had to get to City Hall.
End of Chapter Five