NOTE TO ALL MY LOYAL FAN: DEEEPEST APOLOGIES FOR THE UNCONSCIONABLE DELAY IN FINISHING "H2H2". NO EXCUSE, SAH. AS A CONSOLATION PRIZE, HERE'S SOMETHING FROM BACK WHEN I WROTE A LOT—LONG AGO, IT SEEMS. THIS TOO IS ONLY PART 1 OF 2 BUT SINCE THE 2ND PART IS ALREADY WRITTEN IT WILL FOLLOW QUICKLY. SO LOOK FOR SOMETHING MORE IN THE NEXT WEEK, MAYBE 10 DAYS—EITHER THE REST OF THIS OR THE REST OF "H2H2."
CRIES & WHIMPERS
Part One:
Meet Major Jones
You probably won't believe it, considering everything that happened later, but the part of that night I remember most clearly is walking up to that bouncer and having him look us over and then going right on past him and inside!
Sure, I knew what Ralph said the amulets would do, but you know Ralph—would you trust him? Me neither. I mean, wearing the things none of us looked any different to each other, let alone the 40-year-old men we were supposed to be. Eddie was still a 16-year-old wiseguy, Ralph looked like a redheaded freckle-faced doofus, Wally was the ultimate clean-cut All-American teenager, and me, I still looked like Howdy Doody.
Okay, the girls said we'd look like 40-year-olds to everyone who wasn't wearing the amulets. But I knew Ralph's girlfriend, and Renee was flakier than he was (which takes some doing) and her friends were as bad or worse. Then again, I guess that's what witches are. Flaky, I mean. Not cheerleader types.
Besides, do you believe in magic? I mean real honest-to-God (or maybe the devil) sorcery—amulets, potions, that kind of thing? Neither did any of us.
Well let me tell you, that night suuure changed our minds! About a whooole LOT of things!
It was all Eddie's idea to begin with. You could figure that, then Ralph, who couldn't keep his mouth shut to save his life, blabbed to Renee. But that's what kicked the whole thing into high gear because she and her coven decided to help out and just sort of took over. They were the ones who said we should hit The Flesh Factory on that particular night. They insisted the amulets would only work then, and giggled to each other. You know, like girls do when they have a Big Secret.
I felt like some kind of guinea pig.
Anyway, the bouncer at the door just waved us in, no sweat. He even said "Welcome to the Big Night, guys." That was magic enough for me—or so I thought at the time. No one going in with us gave us a second look either. But it sure felt weird: four high school kids mixing with all these truck drivers and bikers and guys in suits and the like and no one noticing.
There were a couple of posters by the door that had so many guys clustered around them I couldn't catch more than a glimpse. But it got ol' Johnson stirring down in his boxers: long gleaming thighboots and what looked like a pair of pink watermelons and a head-mask of some kind. I wanted to see more but Eddie pulled me inside.
And it sure was noisy. And crowded. And smoky. Gi-normous speakers in the corners at the ceiling blasted out rock at concert levels, and with these crazy flashing lights everywhere and the cigarette smoke and all, you could barely see where you were going, let alone hear yourself think.
But man, we were in! And we sure as hell hadn't come here to think.
We even found a table right at the end of this runway that stuck out from the stage! Most of the other men were still milling around, talking to these dancers in cages along the walls. They weren't wearing much more than go-go boots and g-strings so Ralph wanted to go talk to them too, but Eddie said we shouldn't push our luck.
Besides, the waitress who came by to take our orders was as foxy as any of the dancers. She had big soft tits that spilled over a black lace teddy that was a couple of sizes too small and you could see the shadow of her bush through the lace. Ralph opened his mouth to order but nothing came out. Eddie, though, stayed cool and said just "Beer."
She nodded, popped her gum, and swayed off. Boy did she sway! Everyone watched the cheeks of her big ass roll around the teddy's bottom. Then of course we all made like it was no big deal and kinda slouched down, but I know what I was doing under the table, and I'll bet they were doing the same. Wouldn't be the last time, either. In fact—no, you'll have to wait for that.
So the beer came and we had to drink it to fit in. I never liked the stuff but after a glass or two (maybe three) it started to taste pretty good. By then I was definitely feeling relaxed.
Wally wondered, "How did those chicks know about this place?"
"You can't tell what they know," Ralph replied in that ominous X-Files voice of his, "so don't go calling them 'chicks.' They really don't like it."
Wally made a big show of not caring. But he fingered his amulet nervously. In the darkness the weird little symbol in the center was glowing faintly. They all were. I figured that meant they were working. I wondered what would happen if they stopped working. Renee and her friends had a weird sense of humor.
At some point the rock music died away and the stage lights came up and the MC came out. He was this short hairy troll with a big mustache, wearing a circus ringmaster's outfit: top hat, red sequined tails, shiny boots, the whole bit.
The crowd let out a bellow that made Ralph spill his beer. It sounded hungry and eager. Even Eddie glanced around. The MC held up his hands and I could tell he was barely able to repress excitement. Either that or he had to take a leak real bad.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" he yelled, but the roar just went on. He sure as hell wasn't the one everyone wanted to see. Finally he took the mike and screamed:
"GENNNNTLLLEMENNNNN!!!!"
Which, blasting through the huge speakers with an ear-splitting shriek of feedback, got him some quiet. Not much, but enough.
"Gentlemen! I know who you've all come to see." A few whistles. "And she's 'warming up' backstage right now."
Louder cheers. He leaned into the mike. "I'd tell you what she's doing to herself to warm up, but I don't want a riot!"
Everyone cheered, including us. I was getting real curious. This was a pretty hardcore bunch we were with, and anyone who could get them that hot and bothered—
"BUT FIRST!!"
Dead silence and puzzled looks around us. The MC obviously expected this because he got real close and confidential with the mike. "Guys. Do you trust me?"
There were a few yells of "Fuck no!" that got scattered laughter.
He looked wounded. "When I say that the act I'm about to introduce is the only act I would dare to put on before Her, would you believe me?"
A curious kind of buzz was all he got in return. Gathering confidence, he barely whispered into the mike. "What we have for you, exclusively with The Flesh Factory and only for tonight—is easily the most amazing act I've ever been told about!
"I say 'told' because I mean literally that it's for tonight only—our mistress of ceremonies only described it to me. And what's more, she specifically forbade us advertising what you're about to see. In a few minutes you'll understand why.
"It may be illegal."
That got a stir from the audience. Now everyone was really interested.
"Is this what the girls were talking about?" I whispered to Ralph. He shrugged.
"In fact, to be honest I'm not sure why she brought this to us, but I've learned never to question the motives of savage and beautiful animals."
He stood back, spread his arms grandly. "You lucky studs! Loosen your zippers, because tonight you're going to find out for sure whether the guys with you are right-handed or left-handed!"
Eddie snickered.
"Prepare yourselves for the most amazing act you'll ever see—
"The Cat … and her Kittens!"
-2-
The curtain opens. Behind is a set that looks like a cage, with a couple of pedestals and a chair.
"Lion taming?" Eddie says.
Those are the last words out of anyone for quite awhile. I'm looking at Eddie, so what I see first are his eyes going wide and buggy and his mouth dropping open farther than it ever had—and you know Eddie, nothing fazes him.
I turn back to the stage.
I hear a jaw creak. Real close, like it's mine.
In the utter stone silence her stiletto heels rap like gunshots, and you can hear the thigh-high boots creak. She's a lean mean steaming goddess in black vinyl and leather, lithe as one of those aerobics types on TV but with tits like—like I dunno what, but they're huge!
Of course I recognize who she's supposed to be. I mean, she has these little pointy ears on her headpiece-mask and a switchy tail over her ooo-succulent ass, and claws that kind of appear and disappear on the fingers of these shoulder-length gloves.
And no, I didn't think it was the real thing—what would the real Catwoman be doing in the Valley, let alone a strip joint?
Man, I don't think that room had ever been so quiet. The MC's gone but no one saw him leave.
Just a sec, I wrote this next part down:
"She didn't so much stride across the stage as prowl, like she was hunting prey. Her vinyl catsuit gleamed in the stage lights like a coating of black oil, highlighting the sinuous but opulent contours of her spectacular body. Swaying as though elegantly naked, her great boobs should have been too big for so slender a figure—they were almost too much for their ribcage—but the feline Amazon carried them so effortlessly and frankly that they only emphasized the lissome muscularity of her body."
Pretty good, hah?
I can't believe those enormous tits of hers, but we aren't sitting close enough to make out her nipples through the smoky air. Then I notice she carries a pair of what looked like dog leashes in one hand.
You'll never know how hard it is to tear my eyes away from that "ebon vision of wanton ferocity" to follow those chains to where they disappear into the wings.
Until Catwoman gives them a casual tug.
I'm pretty sure I hear a whimper from offstage—then Catwoman barks "Kittens!"
The leashes relax and the Kittens appear.
And Wonder takes over. Literally. Times two.
I mean Wonder Woman and Wonder Girl, stupid! They're the ones wearing the collars the leashes are attached to! When they come mincing out onto the stage the whole audience takes a breath.
Of course no one thinks they're the real thing—no more real than Catwoman—but I've seen pictures of Wonder Woman and her sister from the late 70's before they disappeared and these two are close enough to make you ache.
You know where.
The Amazon Princess (as they used to call her) sure lives up to that name: she's a full head taller than Catwoman, almost 7 feet in her high-heeled boots. Heck, she's bigger in every direction: tits like basketballs of jello shaking in (and around and over) the jam-packed eagle-top of her costume, legs that (as Eddie likes to put it) go all the way up to her armpits. She's all boobs and legs and this resplendent waterfall of black hair down her back to one fiiine big star-spangled ass.
And muscular! I'm not talking about the kind of trim springy muscle that toned women like Catwoman have, either. I mean man-muscle: broad rounded sinew-packed shoulders, bulging biceps, heavy triceps and corded forearms that ripple and flex right through their long gloves. I'd never seen a woman with so much muscle and such enormous boobs together.
This dancer (or stripper or weight-lifter or whoever) changed the original costume in a very sexy and kinky way: the swimsuit is still red, yellow and star-spangled blue with an eagle spreading its wings under the immense breasts as though trying to heft all that jiggling titfat, but the bottom now bares all of those loong spectacular legs down into red vinyl hipboots even taller than Catwoman's. She's also added a mask and arm-length gloves of the same stuff as the boots.
Can't say I mind the changes. This broad's tits are way bigger than the original Wonder Woman's, they've moved to a whole different part of the alphabet. Doesn't look like the costume has kept up—it can barely support them!
Oh, and did I mention? Topping off all those muscles and boobs and legs: drop-dead gorgeous, what we can see of her face. Ice-blue eyes behind that mask that would be killer if they didn't look so miserable and a little dazed.
Yeah yeah, I'm coming to Wonder Girl. The chick playing the Teen Titan for this act is kind of a funhouse mirror version of her "big sister": shorter, wider, softly meatier—nowhere near as well-muscled as Wonder Woman. She comes about up to her "sister's" gigantic swaying milkbags, with a pair of mammary monsters of her own that are almost as big as Wonder Woman's and look even bigger on that shorter chunkier bod. She really is all tits and ass: her buttcheeks hang out around the costume bottom like it isn't even there. It digs so deep between those jiggly rounds that it might as well not be.
About our age and real cute, too—no mask on her face—but with a more intense version of the vacant not-having-any-fun-but-unsure-what-to-do-about-it look that Wonder Woman wears. She has on the same red gogo-type boots I remember from her pictures, but with flaring elbow-length gauntlets now.
And the kicker, the frosting and the candles on the cake, is that in addition to being collared, both of these incredible women are bound and gagged! I'm not shitting you! Their gloved wrists are tied behind them at those sweet sumptuous asses. Wonder Girl has a fat lipstick-smeared ballgag jammed in her mouth while Wonder Woman's teeth are clamped around some kind of bit-&-bridle thing.
I gotta admit it: I get a strange kind of kick out of seeing the Amazon Princess's brawny muscle-packed arms bound behind her in those long bitch-gloves.
Manomanoman, all that fabulous femininity on stage at once: Catwoman, Wonder Woman and Wonder Girl. Didn't matter a bit they weren't the real thing, it was still the six largest tits I'd ever seen, in mags or in person—though that didn't last long, the way-far-biggest was yet to come, wait'll you hear!
I mean okay, this is my first strip joint, but even so I can tell these 3 are in a whole different league from your usual strippers.
"Wow!" is all Eddie can finally croak. Takes him a few tries, too.
Pulling a whip from a holster strapped to one vinyl-clad thigh, Catwoman prowls around her colorfully costumed captives and twitches it menacingly. Wonder Girl's wide innocent eyes follow the Cat, drooling around her mouthball into the Grand Canyon cleavage between those humongous quivering no-way-innocent milkbags. Wonder Woman stares straight ahead like she's ignoring the Feline Fury, but chews nervously on the bit between her teeth. The armgloved hands tied at her lavish butt curl into red vinyl fists that make her corded forearms stand out. She does a good job of pretending to be enraged but helpless.
Suddenly Catwoman cracks the whip across both Wonder Sisters' asses, making them jump with girlish squeals of surprised pain. And the whip actually looks like it hits them!
That breaks the ice for the audience: everyone laughs and applauds. You should've seen the look of embarrassment and wounded pride Wonder Woman gives us! Wonder Girl just blushes and looks down, lips working around her ballgag.
Abso-fucking-lutely priceless!
Catwoman barks "Kittens!" and Wonder Girl's attention is riveted on her. Wonder Woman just looks her way. This angers the vinyl-clad vixen and she starts slashing the Amazon Princess's powerful thighs between her bootcuffs and asscheeks. Diana (that's the real Wonder Woman's name so I'll use it occasionally) just stands there and takes the first few lashes with her masked eyes closed and teeth clenched around the bit, then lets out a sob and moves away from her tormentor.
Wonder Girl, watching tearfully, follows. She keeps a real close eye on that whip. Her gauntleted fingers spread over those big bare asscheeks, which are red as her face.
"Up, kittens!" Catwoman yells. She picks up the chair just like a lion tamer and prods them with it.
And damned if both gorgeous huge-titted Amazons don't climb onto the pedestals and kneel, like lions in a circus—alright, lionesses! Catwoman makes them lean forward and the audience whistles at the way Wonder Woman's gigantic tits all but overflow their scant straining bustier. There just isn't enough room in there for all that jiggling heaving mamm-meat! Wonder Girl's humongous udders, jam-packed into her costume so tightly they bulge out of its arm holes, hang down to her knees.
About then I could've drunk a gallon of milk.
Little did I know.
"Turn, kittens!" Catwoman orders.
And gives their luscious shimmying butts another sharp taste of whip. Wonder Girl spins on her knees like she's on a turntable, while Wonder Woman moves more slowly, trying I guess to maintain some dignity like the real one would. But even when you're as tall and beautiful and classy as she is, it's hard to be dignified with your shoulder-gloved hands tied behind you, a bit between your teeth, and saliva dripping down your chin. Especially when every movement makes the two tons of tit-blubber hanging from your chest slosh and bounce and threaten to come avalanching out over its sagging bustier.
The audience cheers.
Now all you can see of either Amazon are her bound gloved hands and legs and ass, and let me tell ya, that's a lot of mega-primo cheek! Wonder Girl's butt is bigger and softer—it shimmies and shakes all by itself—as well as being the barer since her costume bottom isn't much more than a thong between twin gleaming bastions.
Wonder Woman's buns are like an athlete's, tighter and sleeker, and Catwoman has to give them a few hard slaps to make them jiggle. Of course she gives them more than just a few—hell, she stands between the crouching sister Amazons and beats on their buttcheeks like bongos, into a frenzy of quivering globular assmeat.
We all love it. Eddie gets up the nerve to yell "Play 'Wipeout'!" and everyone starts calling out song requests. The meaty tattoo of cheek smacks sound like a machinegun.
And man, do those pink bowls shake and blush as they're beaten red! Wonder Woman takes her spanking like a real Amazon would, just grunting occasionally. Wonder Girl makes up for her sister's fortitude by squeaking girlishly then glancing back once when Catwoman is pounding both gloved palms on her outsized blushing ass. Only those of us sitting close enough get to see the tears glistening on her cheeks and how the ballgag bulges out between her clenched teeth. Priceless, man!
Then Catwoman steps back and, raising the bullwhip, lashes it out at the bound braceletted wrists sitting on Wonder Woman's big crimson butt. There's an ear-splitting crack and the ropes just explode from the Amazon Princess's hands! Man, she was downright surgical with that thing!
"Kitten!" she barks. "Show 'em!"
Slowly, like she's carrying a Sherman tank on her back, Wonder Woman turns on her crimsonclad hands and knees to the audience. Gorgeous face red as her gorgeous ass, she licks her luscious lips and her eyes dart about as though looking for an escape. And (this is so great!) while she does this, her gloved hands are kinda slithering up her out-fucking-rageous bod towards that sagging out-fucking-rageously overloaded bustier, like they have minds of their own.
Or maybe I should say the audience's mind of their own.
The noise starts to build as the vinyl-clad hands spider up to the mammoth eagle-cups and splay over Wonder Woman's enormous domes, gets louder when they grip the costume's low-slung neckline, and explodes into a roar when, with their Amazonian owner looking on in helpless (and very realistic) horror, they jerk the bodice down
and those humongous heaving blubber-whoppers tumble out to swing free and naked and impossibly magnificent!
We howl like animals. Yeah, all of us, even goody-twoshoes me. Even Ralph. Eddie is almost hoarse.
He should've saved his breath. With what followed he could barely whisper for the whole rest of the week.
-3-
I'll tell you, it's like that Catwoman bitch is reading our minds.
Wonder Woman kneels there on that pedestal and plays with her own gigantic tits, looking real unhappy about it but kinda turned on at the same time, and I'm thinking: whoever she is, this actress/stripper is great! The Feline Fury stands behind Wonder Girl on the other pedestal and casually fondles her enormous boobs. Her shoulder-gloved hands just reach right in through the arm-holes of Wonder Girl's top to grope those gigantic glands underneath—you wouldn't have thought there was room! The teen Amazon has no self-control at all—she whimpers around her ballgag and tears stream down from her squoze-shut eyes.
Of course everyone yells for her to "Haul 'em out! Let's see!" but Catwoman has something better in mind. Whispering in Wonder Girl's ear, she uses one blackclad hand to untie the mouth-ball and the other to give a huge blubberbag a squeeze that makes Wonder Girl squeal like an Amazonian pig as the fat red globe pops out of her drooling mouth.
We all applaud.
With many a tearful glance back to Catwoman (who is stroking her bullwhip meaningfully), Wonder Girl goes over to her spectacular costumed super-sister as she hoists those humongous shimmying hooters to her lips. Suddenly the teen Amazon cracks a gauntleted palm across Wonder Woman's gorgeous sweaty face! The Amazon Princess lets out a surprised gasp and drops her monstrous udders, but they never hit bottom because Wonder Girl grabs them, sinks gloved fingers into all that heaving chest blubber, and battens onto their big pink nipples like she hasn't had a drink in years!
We all cheer like lunatics.
Shocked, Wonder Woman stares down at her super-sister burying her cute tear-streaked face in a soft monstermelon as her crimson-gloved hands pump that ponderous pontoon. You can hear the moist slurping sounds all over the room.
Diana winds an armgloved hand in the tit-sucking teen Amazon's hair and at first it looks like she's going to jerk her away, but the crimson-clad fist pauses, then the statuesque superwoman throws her head back with a groan and pulls her in even closer! Wonder Girl's bleat of surprise is muffled by all that burgeoning boob-fat. She actually struggles against Wonder Woman's embrace for a moment but the tall leggy muscle-bound Mammazon is too strong for her—and maybe she doesn't struggle all that hard anyway.
For a moment, the only sounds in the entire room are wet eager slurpings and suckings and Wonder Woman's moans of pleasure as she hugs her enthusiastic sister to that boulderous bosom of hers. It's like she's forgotten the audience for a moment.
Catwoman enjoys the show as much as we do. She stands off to the side, arms folded under her own vinylclad jiggle-mountains, chuckling.
Then, seemingly on their own again, those traitorous filthy-minded crimson-gloved hands of Wonder Woman's find their way down between her spectacular boot-sheathed legs, which join in the conspiracy by spreading wide apart. The Amazon Princess is so caught up in Wonder Girl's enthusiastic suckling that she doesn't seem to notice, until one hand pulls her star-spangled crotch aside and the other one drives first one, then two, then three vinyl fingers deep into the sumptuous pink treasure within.
More sloshings join the slurpings as the fingers begin to move in and out and all about. That super-statuesque superwoman is super-wet!
"Kitten." Catwoman hands her the whip, handle first.
Which Wonder Woman promptly stuffs into her slack pussy, as far as it can go! And begins pumping into that hot spicebox with both gloved hands—slowly at first, then faster and faster!
While Wonder Girl really goes to town on her boulderous boobs, squeezing them together so she could get both big pink nipples into her drooling mouth at once, licking and kissing their vast soft hulks, mauling and stretching them out and making her big sister groan and dildo herself with the whip handle even harder.
Hard? Goddam right I'm hard, my dick feels like it's going to explode right through its zipper. I glance around the table and no one else's hands are visible either. And the only reason the rest of the audience isn't making more noise is because they can't.
-4-
From back stage, Paige Powers listened to the audience roar, uneasy despite herself. Sure, they always yelled and howled and whistled like that for her, but she knew that if anyone tried anything, she could handle them no sweat. And besides, when she was "on" it was just good rowdy fun—the guys liked a woman with gargantuan tits who knew how to shake 'em.
With this act they sounded more like a scene from "Gladiator", where the Romans watched the Christians being eaten by lions.
But the scene out on stage was sure aimed at that kind of reaction. "Wonder Woman" had forced "Wonder Girl" to kneel and eat her out—right there on stage! She was holding her "sister's" tiara'd head to her bushy snatch while the shorter, chunkier teen Amazon dildo'd herself with the whip handle. It wasn't faked, either. "Wonder Girl" was actually licking "Wonder Woman's" pussy, sticking her tongue as far between those tumid fucklips as she could. And "Wonder Woman's" moans and gasps of pleasure were real, too—Paige had done that kind of thing often enough (too often) to know the difference. It was amazing, the things you could get away with these days.
And My God, Paige couldn't get over the muscles on "Wonder Woman"! Was she a weight-lifter or something? Those immense boobs of hers swayed and jiggled like the real thing, but how was that possible? Paige had worked out with dumbbells a little in college—mostly for her back, carrying a pair of watermelon-sized tits like hers was no joke—and lost 5 inches from those whoppers before she stopped. Of course, 5 inches from a chest like hers was barely noticeable, but she was still glad when it came back.
She had to admit that for amateurs the two gorgeous women were good even without the one playing Catwoman, who had disappeared somewhere backstage.
The scene was making the costumed mega-bombshell a bit queasy (and a little horny too—that Wonder Girl has one helluva tongue—but let's don't go into that okay?). It was too close to the kind of thing Savage Fury had been forced to do more often than she liked, after being trussed up like a gorgeous titan-titted turkey despite all her superpowers.
And here she was now, barely dressed as Savage Fury and waiting to undo that for this howling mob (taking a whole lot longer to remove this costume than most super-scumbags do).
Of course, she wasn't only wearing The Cowled Crusader's costume—as Ron the Slimeball MC kept saying with that horrid leer: "'Wearing' is an overstatement, Tits—but so are you." She hated the way he called her "Tits", and would casually play with her gargantuan milkbags like they were his personal jiggle-toys. If she wanted to stop him she could—hell, she cream him with just a flick of her baby finger, because she really was Savage Fury.
But everyone here thought that, like this sweet hot duo, she was just "an incredible simulation." And she wanted—needed—to keep it that way. So she had to let it pass, and just bite her lip when he fondled her fabulous floppers or played with her pussy or ….
It was so incredible and unbelievable that she, one of the strongest women in the world, should even be here, pretending to be someone pretending to be herself! All because it was the only way she could make the money she needed to keep on being the superheroine she pretended to be but
let's face it, honey
was really just a housewife from the Valley with unbelievable powers and (as Asian Dawn put it) "even more unbelievable boobs."
Paige hated money. Always had. Wasn't any good at it. Never had been. Walt handled the family finances and she let him, gladly.
But it was getting tougher and tougher to hide her expenses as Savage Fury. And that last time had been too close in a whole lot of ways.
But who knew you'd end up in the hospital for pity's sake??
And it had all been because of the stupidest thing, which she could've easily avoided if she'd just been Paying Attention—in this case, to the weather.
Night fog.
Heavy enough to dampen but not soak her down. So she hadn't lost all her power—just enough. Enough to keep a weakened Savage Fury conscious while she was royally beaten, raped and roped by that gang of hijackers when they turned her trap for them into their trap for her.
Just don't think about it, okay?
So of course ….
-5-
As the payroll-carrying helicopter touches down on the roof and they yank the door open, you jump out like a tigress, scattering the dozen scumbags like bowling pins, six down for the count right off ….
"Come and get it, boys!" you yell.
And are suddenly aware of the thick fog swirling around the rooftop, a murky wall to your super-senses. Even more aware of your super-strength draining away as the fog condenses on your fabulous scantclad body and mammoth heaving tits ….
"Getting wet," you think grimly, throwing the punks around like so much trash. "Gotta make this fast …."
But it's already too late ….
You should've worn a wetsuit!
You pick one up to hurl him into a knot of his friends but he's heavy and you have to strain to lift him overhead, giving two more the opening to plow their fists into your gut. You go "OOOOLLGGGHH!!" and drop their buddy right onto them as you fold to your thighbooted knees ….
Too winded by the double belly-blast to take advantage of the scant, and final, respite ….
Because then the rest of the gang is upon you, helicopter and loot totally forgotten ….
Fists swarm in from the senses-dulling fog like disembodied meat-seeking missiles. They hammer your jaw and lush lips bloody, plow into your massive milkblimps smashing them to bruised punching bags of blubber, bombard your heaving gut and sides and broad bare back like a brutal meteor shower ….
And the only sounds are the meaty smack of fists on tender flesh, punctuated by gasps and cries and grunts of pain: "OOFFHHH!! UGGGH!! AAAAA!! NOOOO—!!"
Frantically you use what's left of your strength to hurl the hijackers back then turn to run. But after the beating you've received, your flight is more of a totter—you stumble on your skyscraper heels and a pair of them tackle you, bringing you down with a shrill grunt ….
They take you by the battered boulderous boobs and haul you squealing to your spikeheeled feet again, slam you back against a radio tower.
Coarse jeering laughter as they gather around staring: "That's it, Muscle Mama, squeal like a pig for us!"
"F-fuck you," you manage to stammer.
A knee smashes your bulging barely covered cunt and, throwing your cowled head back, you sing their request at the top of your lungs.
Several knuckle-bombs do their damnedest to punch your belly button back into your spine and a few more try smashing your big hard nipples so deeply into their mammary mountains that they hit your ribcage. Red-faced, barely able to even gasp, you stare in helpless wide-eyed agony at the fists that pound your ponderous pontoons, burrowing wrist deep into the doughy chest-hulks.
"Mmm, we like 'em big and soft! Don't we, guys?"
You just hang from leather-sheathed arms stretched across the tower's crosspieces. Dazedly watching blood drip from smashed lips and nose onto titanic bruised tits.
One of them jerks your head up by its crimson ponytail and mashes his lips to yours in a brutal slavering kiss. His tongue spears between your lips, filling your mouth, and you struggle weakly, moaning into the foul smooch.
Your costume bottom has long since been kicked up into your snatch so it doesn't even provide minimal protection when his hand strikes like a snake, grabbing your pearl of a clit and squeeeezing it
Hard.
Even louder and more sincerely than before, you sing their favorite song to the stars somewhere above this horrid fog. And collapse to the roof, boot-sheathed knees drawn up, whimpering and clutching your agonized dripping twat.
"Who said you don't need kicks?"
The world dissolves into a bedlam of body-battering head-slamming boots, and you sing out more howls and wails and groans as they kick you around the roof like an Amazonian soccer ball. The creeps stomp your mammoth tits against your chest like watermelon-sized balloons, grind their nipples under hob-nailed soles while more boots tromp your cowled head and take turns mashing their heels into your throbbing swollen pussy ….
Your frenzied cries leap up an octave when the scumbags grab lengths of 2x4 and start hammering your writhing thrashing awesomely overblown body as though trying to pound you right through the roof ….
Then there's a pause. On your side moaning, you open a blackened eye, just a slit.
"Say 'come and get it, boys!'" a voice whispers.
"Wh-what?"
A brutal boot smashes across your bloodied masked face. "You heard me, cunt!"
"G-go to hellllLLLLLLLPPPPPP!!" As a hobnailed boot stomps down on the side of a titanic soft tit.
The humiliating words come out as a raspy whisper: "C-come and—and get it—GGGHHH!"
The boot grinds the gigantic udder into the roof, spreading all that mammary abundance around like so much bulging pink bread dough.
"Louder! Like you mean it, you overblown cow!"
"C-come a-and get it, bastards!" you bawl frenziedly.
"Close enough, right guys?"
And so they do.
But first they give you the old trampoline treatment, because the leader (who turns out to be the helicopter pilot) is suspicious of this whole scene. He's watching all sides of the rooftop as he almost absent-mindedly kicks you over onto your back and grinds his boot-heel into your mouth to stifle your protests as a man stands on each gloved wrist.
"See," he explains, kicking your masked face ("unhh!!"), "if you are the real Savage Fury, what goes on? How come you're so easy to beat the crap out of? Only way to figure it is, it's a trap of some kind. You keep us busy while Justice Juggs or Scarlet Dragon or one of them sneaks up on us from behind. Seems like a lot of trouble to go to for just us, but maybe that's how you super-cunts get your kicks."
You're about to tell him in no uncertain terms how you get your kicks—and even demonstrate … except that you can't pull your leather-sheathed arms from under the feet of the men standing on them. So all you do is jerk up red-faced, tongue trying hard to follow spittle spraying into the cold night when he tromps down on your gut ("ooolghh!!"). He boots your cowled head back to the ground ("uhn!!") and continues:
"So, like, if you are Savage Fury, your reputation is really seriously overblown—unlike the rest of you I may add. And if you aren't, then you must be the stupidest chick in the world as well as the biggest-titted!"
Guilty on both counts!
And that's when the trampoline treatment begins, as the crooks take turns jumping with both feet onto your stomach, smashing your insides flat against your spine and jacking your boot-sheathed knees up with each gut-blasting eye-bulging mouth-gaping impact.
And the wrenching pain is so extreme, the bludgeoning stomping so brutal that your guts feel like they're being mashed and pureed and squeezed up into your throat like toothpaste
And the only thing that keeps you from humiliating yourself at the feet of these jolly jumping bastards and bawling like a baby is that you can't catch a breath, every atom of air is pounded from your lungs before you can even draw it in, even superstrength (if you had any left) isn't any good when you can't fucking BREATHE ….
And it's actually a relief when some feet crash down on your gargantuan milkbags mashing them and grinding your nipples against your ribcage.
And then the brutal boot-barrage pauses, and you open the one eye that can still accomplish that miracle, at least a little. Knowing what you'll see and trying hard to be resigned but still
Afraid.
You can't hold back the moan or mute the fear in it, even though you know what an aphrodisiac it is to scumbags like this. But what the hell—those dicks couldn't get any harder.
You manage to mutter out of puffy swollen lips: "You motherf—"
The rest is punted right off the tip of your tongue, taking a lot of blood and spittle with it.
Then it's like Desert Storm on The History Channel with all these hard curving cruise missiles zeroing in
and you're an Iraqi communications center.
The rampant organs are crammed into every hole you've got, mouth pussy asshole all filled to bursting, again and again, more of them pistoning between your titanic fist-clenched milkbags and grasped in your numbly stroking armgloved hands ….
A couple of quick dirty orgasms are shocked out of your thrashing awesomely-overblown super-body, but then for a long merciless time it's all just pounding and grunting and writhing in a sea of sweat and blood and foul breath in your masked face, raucous insults, coarse cheers and pain. Cum by the pint is hosed into you and all over you and it rains jism and more fills your mouth and sluices down your throat till you're drowning in it ….
Like so many of those pink bunnies, the crooks just keep pounding and cumming. Out of a delirium of pain and degradation you see the pilot grinning down at you as he kneels astraddle your cowled face and stuffs the biggest hardest dick of all into your pulped blood-smeared mouth while the rest hold you down and laugh at your frantic struggles and the way you choke on all that rampant lip-stretching gristle and its gooey gushing discharge that geysers up from your widestretched mouth and slops all over your cheeks and chin ….
Till you gag on the foul urine that follows it, and your throat closes so the stinking yellow fluid bubbles up over your masked face. But another evilly grinning face is there saying "Drink it all, Superjugs, or we tear these things right off!" and brutal fingers grip your hard thumb-sized teats and twist them
So having nothing left in you to fight these monsters with, you gulp down mouthfuls of foul acid piss till it dwindles to a drip. Then, when brutish fingers twist your big tender nipples till the titflesh corkscrews, you meekly lick the slack piss-soaked organ off
and finally turn your cowled head to one side coughing and gagging, but not quite throwing up ….
And while you're occupied with that, they (oh of course!) start to bind your leather-sheathed elbows and wrists together behind you, while arguing about your fate.
"And I say we take her with us!"
"Yeah, look at 'er, man! We c'n fuck her all week and the weekend too! I never seen tits like those!"
"And that mouth! She could blow us all at once!"
But the pilot is still suspicious. "I don't like it, it's too easy."
"What's not to like, f'Chrissakes?? We take her with us, tie her up and bang her whenever we feel like it!"
"Yeah, Mick! You think you'll ever in this life grow tired of all that??"
Lying there grunting numbly as your glove-sheathed elbows are pulled together across your broad muscular back and tightly roped, you know what the best tactic would be: to do a little wiggling, a little moaning, and convince Mick and the boys to take you along. They'll probably fuck you and make you suck their dicks some more before you dry out. Then you make sure they never have sex again, let alone walk normally. And you take your time doing it. Never fails to cheer you right up after a nasty night out.
But the fog is still too thick to snap the ropes like thread and there isn't a ghost of a breeze to even move it around a bit let alone blow it away. And dawn is probably hours away—you can't tell for sure because you tend to lose track of time when you're being gangraped ….
And when one of the creeps jams his knee between your lavish sweaty buttcheeks to pull the ropes around your gloved wrists as tight as possible and you find yourself licking and kissing the shoe of another, you know you're way past "best tactics" and all you want to do is get the hell out of here!
So, reluctantly, you start to thrash around the roof, cowled head aching from the pounding it's received and stomach achurn with all the cum and piss you've been forced to swallow, angry at your own stupidity and frantic because because one of those scumbags knows his bondage and these knots are tight, your shoulder-sheathed arms are going numb below the elbows which will make this even more difficult.
Predictably (scumbags are so that way) two of them break off the argument to start kicking your cowled head about between them like some kind of soccerball ("unh—ooo!!"), twisting back and forth on your broad shoulders, blood and spit exploding from your plush smashed lips in all directions.
Th-they're ("ughh!!") not even ("NGKK!!") checking to see ("OOF!") if I'm unconscious!
Next thing you know, you're on your back being dragged across the roof by your booted ankles and someone has cum all over your gargantuan heaving tits. This image springs into your dazed mind of the two clowns who'd just kicked Savage Fury unconscious standing over her sprawled mega-body jacking off together and squirting their jism onto her monstrous world-renowned mamms while cracking dirty and stupid jokes. And that gets you just mad enough for one burst of what little super-strength remains
To jerk your thighbooted legs free and kick the two scumbags as hard as you can and send them reeling into the knot of men at the chopper. They all go down like bowling pins and you leap to your feet
Or rather stagger to your feet, go to one leather-sheathed knee with a yelp when one of your 6-inch heels turns, wobble up again.
While behind you: "Hey!" "Shit!" "Get 'er!" "Man, lookit that ass shake!"
Your mother's words come back to you: "Busty women don't run, dear—it makes them look ungainly and ridiculous."
Blindly, you ignore her advice as fast as your boots will allow ("and no woman runs in heels—it's undignified"). Very glad these creeps don't think you're the real Savage Fury. Oddly embarrassed at the way your awesome bare ass shimmies and shakes and the way your enormous milkbags bounce and bound about, but also aware that the only two crooks able to chase you are the pair who just frosted your fantastic floppers with their sperm, because they're the only ones without stone-ache erections from this near-naked fabulously fleshy display.
Pride makes you want to turn and face the two. Panic and weakness makes you speed up.
And then suddenly you're falling.
You have a long dizzying moment to realize you've run right off the roof. You fall and fall—later you discover it was a 22-story dive. You bounce off a cornice with a cry, plummet through what feels like a spider web and finally crash like an awesomely voluptuous meteor to the pavement ….
Where you come to a few moments later in a self-made crater, moaning, ponderous aching pontoons spread out beneath you like a pair of nerf beachballs. After a few minutes you regain enough of your wits to discover you've not only fallen beneath the fog, but the impact snapped the ropes binding your gloved wrists behind you ….
When your eyes finally focus behind their mask, you see that what felt like a spider web was a clothesline, and its dresses and underwear now litter the alleyway you've fallen into. You're actually wondering who would leave their clothes out on a wet night like this when you hear voices approaching from the end of the alley. Your landing has not gone unnoticed ….
Everything will be fine if you can just hide until you dry off. But there's no place to hide, the alley is a dead-end. And let's face it, you probably look the way you feel: like shit. Bloodied cum-splashed monster-titted shit ….
No way you can be found like this! … As the voices approach you stagger to your feet, stumbling to your booted knees again when your cowled head seems to shoot up ten times faster and higher than the rest of you. Pain flashes from your ribs with each movement.
Great. The fall must've—OOOO!!—busted a couple. This really hasn't been your night!
But you figure you must have a little super-strength left, otherwise you'd be totally unable to move. And it's barely enough to get your costume off—thighboots and armgloves slipped off and the cowl skinned from your head—and stowed behind some boxes that don't look like they've been moved in years ….
From the clothes littering the ground you find a muumuu that comes within a mile of fitting your colossal chest and manage to pull it on without tearing it, then take a towel and wipe all the cum from your face, and the last thing is remember to take the credit card from its secret pocket in the lining of your right thighboot. It's the one you got specially for this job and were so proud of your cleverness: the name on it is "S Fury" and the address is a PO box that Walt knows nothing about. You've never had to use it and you hope you won't need it now, but just in case ….
Everything would've been fine, too, because the people who came to see what that crash had been were the sort of kind considerate folks you wish were your neighbors and only too anxious to help a big beautiful mugging victim in any way they could. Would've been fine, except that (Thank God you waited till the very last to do it!) once you'd slipped the bodysuit (or "bodyfloss" as Scarlet Dragon calls it) off under the muumuu, the beating and rape and fall hit you like a ton of bricks, right in front of them, and you barely had time to stuff it into a pocket with the credit card before ….
Next thing you know, you're in an ambulance on a gurney and they're throwing open the rear doors and unloading you into the E.R. of Valley General ….
It's okay, you keep telling yourself as the doctor examines you (ahead of a lot of other patients who were there first) and talks over your head of cracked ribs, abrasions and contusions, possible concussion. Once you get the costume on again you'll heal up fast. This is why you got the card in the first place, you can pay it off somehow ….
-6-
And this was the best "somehow" she'd been able to come up with. The hospital bill was a small fortune for just an overnight stay, before she was strong enough again to check herself out (against doctor's orders, at least until he got her home phone number). She'd tried the unofficial way twice in the night but dizziness and too many aches to count dropped her right back into the bed.
Paige hadn't even considered the problem of how to pay the card off until she'd retrieved her costume from its filthy hiding place. But just the minimum was more than she could handle!
If she got a real job with a paycheck and regular hours she'd have no time for Savage Furying and anyway Walt would take care of that money too. Besides, since there was no way she could tell him the real reason for the job, he'd be offended that she took it, assuming she thought he couldn't support them both. Besides besides: the only jobs she was qualified for didn't pay nearly enough—unless she went along with the kind of after-hours recreation that bosses always wanted from her. And she'd given that up forever when she married Walt!
Then she'd discovered this gig. All you had to be was halfway decent looking and stacked (for which she was way overqualified) and willing to flaunt it for a roomful of howling maniacs (which she did every time she went out as Savage Fury anyway). She made more from one night of playing with her snatch and gigantic tits out there on the runway than she would in a month of pounding a typewriter or some sleazebag executive's skinny little dick. Plus they paid in cash, so she didn't have to worry about taxes or other records-type things.
And best of all, Walt would never know. Even if he even went to strip joints (which he didn't) this one was at the airport, way on the other side of the Valley. She only did it Friday nights when he was sometimes too tired even to fuck, and she took off everything but her cowl so there was no chance anyone else would recognize her either.
It was perfect. Well, except for two things: having to sort-of lie to Walt about what she was doing (definitely not the kind of "evening workout" he imagined) and except for—
As though the thought brought him, a hand cupped a great bare buttcheek and Ron the Scumbag MC's oily voice spoke at her shoulder. "Pretty good act, eh Tits?"
Paige suppressed a shudder. She had to be extra nice to this hairy little troll so he'd give her the full 25% of the night's take they'd agreed on. There was no contract of course, and it turned out there was more than just stripping involved.
"C'mon." He hooked a finger in her g-string and pulled her along. "I'm hornier than a 3-ball toad."
The towering Amazon followed docilely, gazing down at the bald spot on the fat little hedgehog's head. She wasn't looking forward to the next half hour or so—sometimes it took that long to get him off. His index finger rubbed intimately along the furrow between Paige's moist heavy pussylips, its knuckle nudging her stiff clit. He leered back at her.
"Whoa, this thing's hard as a little cock! Guess you are enjoying the show! Maybe you oughta add a little b&d or lez to your act."
She let that pass. She had more than enough of both in (un)real life.
To make matters worse, they met "Catwoman" in the narrow corridor coming the other way. The tall beautiful vinyl-clad brunette smirked at the way Ron led his giant-jugged pet slut along. Ron in return shamelessly ogled Catwoman's lithe sinuous body with its own huge boobs in that gleaming painted-on black. Though not much compared to Paige's swaying meatblimps (she thought with a mental sniff) they were still impressive.
Impressive she can even breathe in that get-up!
"Join us?" he leered.
"In your dreams, troll-boy," she snorted.
Paige was just as glad, not only because she definitely wasn't up for a 3-way in that cramped little office but also because the "villainess" had added to the costume in a very pronounced fashion, that made Paige's pussy itch—or rather, Savage Fury's.
But Ron pulled her by her skimpy g-string to the dingy little nook he called an office, where after several attempts he managed to close and lock the door. Plumped himself down in a saggy old easy chair that yowled like a cat, spread his legs and waited. For maybe a second, before snapping up at her:
"C'mon Tits, you know the routine."
After a moment Savage Fury sighed and dropped to her boot-sheathed knees before the mountainous bulge at his crotch. She pulled the taut zipper down (thankful it came so easily, it could be a bitch if he was really hard) and reached an armgloved hand in to wrestle out the rampant monster of a dick her lips and tongue had come to know all too well in the last few weeks. Steeling herself yet again, the Mammazon Manhunter stroked it with her leathern fingers and felt it grow.
She wondered why the little troll bothered to lock the door. The times someone had walked in while she was servicing him, they'd talked as though she wasn't even there, totally ignored the cowled head bobbing up and down in Ron's lap and the slurping sounds her pumping wide-stretched lips made ("Tits, I like to hear my meat bein' sucked!").
And as Fury (not bothering to suppress a shudder) leaned forward to give that enormous rigid dong a long wet lick, she thought of Walt at home: watching TV and trusting her implicitly. Stretching her opulent lips around the great organ's plum-sized head, she tried to concentrate instead on the money she'd make tonight by sucking this creep's awesome dick, then taking her costume off and opening her pussy wide for all those other creeps to ogle and whistle and cheer.
Once you're out there it'll be okay, you can relax and let your wild side out, get crazy like always and God knows what you'll let them do with you. They can be awfully inventive with those beer bottles and cigarettes. I wonder if smoking with your asshole can cause cancer?
And then it would be over for another week, and she could spend the rest of the time being extra nice to Walt.
I mean, it isn't like you're cheating on him. It's like this guy has Savage Fury tied down and like so many others is forcing her to swallow his rampant cock. And you almost never feel guilty when that happens. Ashamed and humiliated and angry (and oddly enough, thirsty) but not guilty ….
Thankful for the cowl and the dim light so Ron wouldn't have the satisfaction of seeing how her face burned with shame, she lowered her wide-stretched mouth onto his mammoth organ and started slowly to suck the awful-tasting hogleg. Did he ever shower?
Uuuup ….
Doown ….
Uuup ….
Dowwwwnn ….
How would this hairy repulsive troll react if he knew the gorgeous costumed Mammazon who meekly swallowed his gigantic joint every Friday and smeared his cum all over her titanic tits so she could lick it off for him was the real Savage Fury herself?
At least you've never had to fuck him—mainly because you blow him so good he doesn't have anything left to stick in you. No way you could be that "nice" to him!
And at least Ron hadn't brought any more of his horrid friends in here for her to suck off too, while he watched and got hard again. Once had been bad enough. She'd never forget kneeling there with 3 cocks squirting cum all over her masked face and shoulders and gigantic tits—and then Ron sent her on-stage before she could towel all that goo off!
Paige would have just marched out and screw the credit card, but, blinded by jism and still new to the place, she made a wrong turn. And the roar that had greeted her when she stumbled onto the stage looking like she'd had a bucket of cum dumped onto her—well, that was when she realized this might not be so bad after all. In fact, she kind of liked it. But only "kind of."
And it's only for a couple more weeks. Then you can pay the card off and shine this whole sick sleazy scene for good—
Savage Fury licked the great hairy balls as she ran her gloved fingers the length of his great stalk and he moaned. Through the flimsy door she could hear the crowd going hog-wild. Even she didn't often get them that stirred up.
—Probably .