I am blushing like a schoolgirl but try my best not to fidget. His eyes are scanning across my svelte figure probingly, carefully examining every inch of a tall and athletic frame. A skin-hugging costume leaves little to the imagination. The sheer fabric, weaved from a batch of unstable molecules, conforms perfectly to every bend, dimple, and bump. Strips of the nearly indestructible cloth taper down from beneath my breasts, adhering to the sides of a narrow waist and joining with my bikini bottom at the top of my hips. My tummy is bare, as is my lower back. The bikini bottom is black but fits me so snuggly that an outline of my labia is visible to the inquisitive eyes inspecting me.
“Um-huh,” he mutters while tapping his chin with a slender finger.
I stand tall, proud, and remind myself that this man is no stranger. I have known him since the beginning, since the first time he slipped a hypodermic needle into the vein of a naive but willing young woman and injected her with Caantonium serum. In a sense, he is my father, as responsible as anyone for the creation of Ms. Marvelous.
“So, what do you think, Thomas?”
He continues to eye me, focusing frequently on my breasts but also taking the time to examine my hips and legs. He circles me slowly, getting a good look at my butt. A gentle hand moves my golden hair from one side to the other so that the back of my neck and shoulders can be inspected. I feel the cool stainless steel of a stethoscope pressing against my skin. The stethoscope falls away and his hand softly caresses the crease of my spine, between my shoulder blades, then slides lower on my back and intently across the bare flesh. “Um-huh,” he repeats.
“Anything more specific?”
He eventually slides past and stands in front of me, close, and peers into my wide blue eyes. Fingers gently touch my cheek. Without asking permission, he carefully removes my mask and slips it into the pocket of a white lab coat. He can see that I am blushing, now, and I think I see a glint of amusement in his expression. Not like my father, I think. Too young for that. And certainly too good looking.
“You say that it is getting worse?” he finally asks.
“Maybe not worse…” I stammer. “Maybe just… I don’t know. Like they know that it is my weakness and they are getting better at taking advantage of it. If only it were still a secret, like when I first started out. If only they didn’t know.”
“The criminals, you mean?”
I nod my head. “It’s like, you know, they’re getting more persistent or something. They keep trying, no matter how many times I knock them down, and eventually someone touches me in the right spot… a sensitive spot… and I… well, you know?”
“You become aroused?”
I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “It is more than that, I think. I have these… fantasies. It is hard to explain… to control… almost like, I don’t know, like I want something to happen.” He holds me, his hands moving slowly down across my shoulders and arms. He massages the muscles, releasing the tension. “Do you? Want something to happen, I mean?”
“I… don’t think so. I mean, why would I?”
His demeanor remains stoic, an impressive feat considering his usual boyish charm. “But the fantasies are quite vivid, yes? And can I assume that they are of a less than delicate nature? Domination themes, perhaps? And in these fantasies, are you the submissive one? Are you overcome by a stronger, more persistent, opponent? Overpowered? Do your adversaries have their way with you?”
My cheeks are absolutely burning, now. “I suppose,” I whisper in a voice so soft that it is barely audible. “Sexual masochism, to one degree or another, is not uncommon in young women. In your case, however, it may be that normal subconscious fantasies of being forced into sexual acts against your will have been somehow augmented by the Caantonium. Do you imagine yourself being bound? Are you tied up or otherwise rendered helpless? Are you humiliated?”
I am slow to answer and he continues the inspection. Deliberate hands brush across my chest. There is an almost apologetic look in his eyes as he carefully lifts the sheer fabric and folds it above my breasts. The air in
the examination room suddenly seems cool as it caresses my bare skin. My pulse quickens as knowing fingers draw the first of many broad strokes around the outsides of my soft, round mounds.
“And do these fantasies, vivid as they are, weaken you physically? Or is it just that they enfeeble your will? Do they enervate your desire to resist?”
I turn my head to the side so that I do not have to look at him. A medical exam should not be this erotic. Thomas Eiffel is a doctor and a scientist. I am his patient. But I cannot deny the response of my super-powered body to his probing touch. The circles that he is tracing on my breasts are becoming smaller. My breath grows short as skilled fingers draw ever closer to my nipples.
“Yes…” I manage to reply. “They weaken me in both respects, almost as much as the unabashed efforts of my despicable foes.”
“Um-huh…”
My nipples become hard pebbles between his gentle fingertips. I bite my lower lip and realize that Thomas is not examining my breasts as much as he is watching my reactions. Yet, he is not a purely impassionate observer. He is also a man and has been in my presence for almost twenty minutes, looking at my incredible female body, breathing in my supercharged pheromones, touching and feeling me. He knows as well as I do of my power to attract, of my uncontrollable ability to fill both men and women with sexual desire. I do not need to look down to know that my tits are swelling or that his fingers are now stroking me more intently. I do not need to look down to know that there is a spot of moisture staining my bikini bottom and that there is a large bulge protruding from beneath his lab coat. Will he be able to restrain himself, I wonder? And what about me? Can I restrain myself? Or is the fantasy now stirring in my head a thing that cannot be ignored? Damn, why does this young doctor have to be so good looking? And why do his fingers have to be so talented? I cannot help myself. I am forced to acknowledge the images forming in my mind, forced to think about a doctor taking advantage of a young female patient. She is helpless to resist him, helpless to prevent him from ravaging her angelic body. She does not pull away as he torments her tits. She does not cry out as he carries her in his arms and lays her on the examination table. He removes her costume, peeling it away just as he did her mask, striping bare the vestiges of her power. He spreads her long legs and climbs between them. He drives home an enormous cock. The young super-heroine is defeated utterly, her amazing body pillaged and plundered time after time until, with no strength left, she gives herself up entirely to the overwhelming sensations and becomes his devoted servant. “I…”
“It is alright,” he says softly. “Just a little bit more.”
My head turns toward him and wide blue eyes stare spellbound into his face. His expression is not quite as stoic as it had been. The demeanor of professionalism seems to have faded, if only just a bit. His lips are slightly parted. His breathing is irregular. I can tell that he is excited. The investigation continues. Oh, god, my nipples are so hard. Powerful sensations are streaming through my tits and filling my body. I look down at his fingers, watching dumbfounded as they draw light circles around and over my swollen boobs. A capitulating sigh escapes from between my pouting lips. It is becoming difficult to remain standing. I feel weak. I feel powerless.
This is not a normal examination, obviously. Thomas has been expertly stroking my sensitive mounds for more than three minutes. The fantasy of being dominated and fucked by this man is now strong in my mind. It threatens to steal away my identity, to transform me into something other than a heroine, to change me into something more akin to a sexual slave. My breasts are heavy, engorged with blood. Veins throb beneath the flushed skin. My pussy, though untouched, is wet with desire. Oh, god, maybe I do want it, I think. Maybe I do want him to throw me down across the examination table and rape me!
“No…” I manage to whisper. “No more… that’s enough…”
His face changes, as if he is snapping out of a trance, and his cheeks redden. He clears his voice. “Yes, well then… I think that I have all the information that I require.”
He folds my costume back the way it was, once again covering my breasts. I can tell that he is self conscious about the hard spike poking up from beneath his lab coat and I try not to stare. We are both uncomfortable and the room remains silent for a long time. Finally, he touches my chin and forces me to look at him. “You are more than just pheromones, Jody. You possess the strength of ten men. My best advice to you is not to let your enemies touch you. Strike them. Debilitate them. Finish them. Use the powers that the Caantonium gave you. Be brutal, if you must.”
I compel myself to focus, to breathe, to abandon the lingering fantasy and return to reality. “I do not like hurting people, Thomas, not even criminals. I use only as much strength as is required.”
He steps back, putting some distance between us. His hands are in his pockets, purposefully hidden and unthreatening. The demeanor of stoic professionalism has returned, more quickly than I would have thought possible. “I am sure you will do what you think is best. But if you are hoping that I can provide some cure for your condition then I am afraid that I must disappoint you. For, you see, there is really nothing to be cured. Your sensitivity to sensual stimulation, this condition that we have named the Sartak, is an ingrained part of your enhanced physiology. And though it is rooted in your endocrine system, I believe that it possesses some type of direct channel into your central nervous system that allows it to stimulate your brain. Surely, this is the only plausible explanation for such an, um… overactive imagination.”
If only I could regain my composure as quickly as Thomas. But my body remains aquiver with erotic sensations. My golden-tan skin is flushed. Swollen nipples are aching. A moist womanhood yearns for satisfaction. This is not what I had in mind when I came here. I came for answers, not a demonstration. And now, aroused and weakened, all I can do is pretend to be fine.
“What do you mean?” I ask in the best voice I can muster.
He pauses, thinking. “I believe that multiple processes are taking place within your body, Jody. The aspect of physical stimulation is rather easy to understand- your body is many times stronger than that of a normal woman, many times faster, and, most would say, many times more beautiful. It is also many times more sensitive, so sensitive, in fact, that stimulation of its erogenous zones can send it into a state of erotic system shock.” “The Sartak.”
“Yes, a convenient acronym for System Adrenal Response Threshold and Kinesis. We have known for some time, of course, that the Sartak only seems to appear in our female agents. This is apparently due to the female body’s superior ability to absorb Caantonium. And while the increased Caantonium uptake allows us to produce stronger agents, the drawbacks of this weakness are so severe that the Agent-X Program no longer wastes its resources on-”
“On people like me.”
Thomas notices my scowl and quickly apologizes. “Ah, yes, that did not come out right. It is not so much a waste as a… well, you know.”
I decide to let it go. After all, of the three female agents created by the Agent-X Program, two are dead, having quite literally been fucked into oblivion, and the third has abandoned the program to pursue to a career as an independent crime fighter. Still, I stick by my decisions. In my short stint as Ms. Marvelous, I have done more good than the Agent-X Program ever has or likely ever will.
“In any case,” he continues, “we have a basic understanding of why your body reacts the way that it does to sexual stimulation. What is not so well understood is why you experience these fantasies of being dominated. Once again, my theory is that there is some kind of direct connection between your hormonal system and brain. It seems that physical stimulation causes changes in the neurosensory pathways, leading to increased activity in the basal ganglia and anterior insula cortex. Put simply, the sensations that you feel evoke fantastically vivid erotic images while simultaneously suppressing your inhibitions.”
“Oh, god,” I groan. “So, you’re saying that I am destined to become an impulsive nymphomaniac any time a criminal manages to rub a hand across me?”
Thomas shrugs sympathetically. “It might be possible to discover more in a truly clinical observation. If we were to hook you up to neuroimaging monitors while at the same time evoking your sexual fantasies, we might be able to learn the specific causes of your condition.”
“What would this require?” I ask hesitantly.
He pauses before answering. “It would require that I observe your climax, Jody. To be blunt, I would have to stimulate you to the point of an orgasm.”
I blush uncontrollably as thoughts of Thomas touching me with those talented fingers visualize in my head. To have him stroking me, fingering my clit, patiently rubbing me until I can endure no more, until I explode in a fiery climax-
“I do not think that it is such a good idea,” I cough.
“I can assure you that we would take every precaution, of course. There would be little danger.” “There is always danger,” I quickly correct him. “For me, an orgasm is a potentially life-threatening event. Besides, I am not in the habit of letting men… I mean… letting them touch me… in that way.” He seems to understand and for a moment the expression of a doctor is replaced by that of a friend. His eyes soften and I think he sees me differently, not as an indestructible super-heroine but as an innocent, twenty-
two year old girl. He cannot know all the things that I have seen, all the evil and corruption that I have witnessed. In his eyes, I am young and virtuous, barely more than a child. But then, all too quickly, the eyes harden and the doctor returns.
“We needn’t make a decision, now. In any case, there are likely to be psychological factors at work, as well. Certainly, the extraordinary physical and mental responses you have reported when encountering men that have, um… had you before… tend to indicate that something is happening that goes beyond the purely physiological. And because the Sartak drastically lowers your inhibitions, it is likely that you will continue to be especially vulnerable to erotic fantasies when coming face to face with former sexual partners.” He stammers for a moment, fearing, perhaps, that he has unintentionally insulted me. “Um, is it alright if I call them that? Sexual partners, I mean?”
“Assholes. You can call them assholes.”
“Yes, well… unfortunately, we simply do not understand much more about this process at this time.” “And I do not imagine that finding out is a priority?”
His shoulders droop. “The Agent-X Program does not currently have any female agents, Jody.” “No, I do not suppose that you do. Thank you for your time, Thomas. I know that you did not have to see me.”
He stops me before I reach the door, touching me lightly on the shoulder. An unwanted quiver of excitement works its way through my aroused body and for a moment I think that he wants to continue the examination. A hand reaches into his pocket. “I think you will be needing this, Ms. Marvelous.” I take back my mask and smile. No regrets.
I am tumbling through the sky. A long blonde mane flaps wildly behind me in the rushing air. It is like screaming in my ears, the howl of the wind, taunting me as fall. My speed is increasing. I have the power to fly but this is not flying. This is falling… out of control…
“Uuunnnggghhh…”
All I can feel is pain. Every nerve ending feels like it is on fire. A million ravenous ants digging beneath my skin. The ground is rushing up to meet me. I try to regain control, try to adjust my angle of descent, to slow my velocity, but it is no good. I am a meteorite, a prisoner of gravity. There can be but one result
The impact is jolting. My right shoulder careens off the railing of a fifth floor fire escape and my body cartwheels end over end. An electrical wire momentarily slows my fall before snapping in a shower of white-hot sparks. I glance upward at the clear blue sky in the instant before smashing down atop an old Chevy Impala. The sheet metal roof collapses beneath me, crinkling like an empty soda can stomped flat beneath the boot of a heavy man. It conforms to the shape of my body, nearly trapping me within sharp metallic folds. “Oh, god…” I groan while browning out. “Hope no one… inside…”
I lay there atop the crushed car, my body feeling like mush and my vision clouded by flickering stars. It is then that I see her for the first time. A glint of sunlight reflects off of bronze-shimmering body armor as she slowly descends from the sky. The hiss of a jetpack grows louder as she passes just overhead and lands nearby. The shrill sound fades as she turns the unit off. I think I hear a muted chuckle. I cannot see her, now, but she is there, beside the car, on my left side, looking down at me.
“Still alive, delicious child?” she asks in a voice that is partially muffled behind a metal mask. “Surely, there is more to the famous Ms. Marvelous than this?”
My fingertips bite deep into the crumpled metal of the Impala’s roof as I struggle to lift myself. I want to meet this unidentified foe as a champion, strong and brave, to show her my unbending resolve, but the best I can manage is an agonized whimper. I collapse back onto the car and groan miserably. Every part of my five foot nine inch body feels broken.
“Poor little girl!” she exclaims with mock sympathy. “Allow me to help you off of that old clunker!” My arm is gripped by strong, armor encased fingers. I am dragged from atop the car like an inanimate thing and allowed to flop down onto the hard asphalt. I roll onto my left hip and grasp weakly at the leg of my foe. I gasp as pain stabs through my body. It is then, just as I manage to pull myself up almost into a sitting position,
that I feel her fingers intertwining with my hair. She pulls back on my head, forcing me to look upward into the mirrored glass that hides her eyes.
“As much as I enjoy having you grovel at my feet, child, I would much rather hear you beg for your life. Will you beg for me? Will you?”
I shift my position atop the ground, forcing long legs to fold and slide under me. I grab her wrist in my hands and struggle to rise. A violent tug on my hair reminds me that she is in control and that my defiance will not be tolerated. The mask reveals no expression but I can tell that she is enjoying this. I see my face reflected in her goggles. I see how hurt and defenseless I look. I see the powerful armored hand gripping tightly to my scalp. Suddenly, she lifts me up. A powerful blow to my stomach nearly finishes me. My hands fall away from her wrist, dropping weakly to my sides. My feet sway inches above the asphalt. A limp body dangles in front of my opponent, a trophy for her inspection.
“You will learn to beg,” she snarls from the other side of the mask, “and it will not be a pleasant lesson!” I am airborne again, flying backward through the air, over the Impala and into the deepest recesses of the alley. I land with a thud, my backside skidding across the rough blacktop, my head banging against the brick wall. I am seeing stars again. I can hear nothing but the slow and steady footsteps of my heavily armored opponent’s approach. But my super-powered body recovers quickly and the sound of those metallic boots clanging against the asphalt is like the toll of a bell. If I do not find the strength to get up and fight, I realize, it might very well be a death knell.
“I do not beg,” I state while struggling to get to my feet. “And I don’t go down without a fight. You may have ambushed me in the sky but now that I know where you are, I figure things will get a whole lot more even!” The armored warrior pauses some fifteen feet from me and I have my first opportunity to get a good look at her. The green and bronze suit that she wears is obviously high-tech. Small servos and motors power the arm and leg joints. Titanium rods serve as a sort of exoskeleton. Interlocking metal plates cover her rotund body from head to toe, leaving no obvious vulnerabilities. A multi-pocketed utility belt is strapped firmly around her wide waist. On one side is a bronze clasp and fastened to it, dangling from her left hip, is a coiled bullwhip. On her back is a bulky device and I quickly postulate from observing the twin-vented exhaust tubes on either side that this must be the jetpack engine. It seems extremely advanced and my guess is that it allows the woman to fly just as fast and nimbly as me. The ability to take flight, always one of my greatest advantages, won’t be of much use to me in this battle.
My blue eyes glance across the large cylindrical object fastened atop her right arm. The device completely encompasses her forearm and is clearly a weapon. My eyes narrow as they spot a puff of smoke rising from the end of the barrel. This must be the device that shot me from the sky.
“Who are you and what is that thing?” I demand to know.
The helmet bobs up and down, as if the woman is laughing to herself. “I owe you no explanations, Ms. Marvelous, though I shall give you one never the less. I am called Copperhead and I work for the Serpent Squad. You are familiar with us, I think?”
My cheeks flush with anger and… something else. “Oh, I remember the Serpent Squad. I easily defeated two of your members, Cobra and Diamondback, not long ago. You are the group of bounty hunters hired by Don Refrain to capture me!”
“Yes, bounty hunters, but not ordinary bounty hunters. Among other things, we specialize in dealing with annoying super-heroines. Cobra and Diamondback were considered to be among our best and you were very fortunate to have defeated them. But from what I have heard of the battle, it was not as easy as you would have me believe.”
The redness of my face becomes a darker hue. Indeed, the first two members of the Serpent Squad nearly beat me. And though I will not admit it to Copperhead, I remember quite well how they violated me with their cybernetic tentacles. Even now, just thinking of it, I can feel my athletic body becoming aroused. I remember how it felt as one of the slimy things wrapped around my leg and slipped underneath my costume. I remember it forcing its way between my nether lips and penetrating deep inside my hole. I remember how it throbbed within me, tormenting a sopping pussy, and how I was quickly reduced to a quivering mass of over-sexed female flesh lying helpless at my opponents’ feet. The tentacle nearly brought me to the point of climaxing and had it not been for their own impatience, the two bounty hunters would surely have captured me that day.
But I also know that it does little good to dwell on such things. I may have the strength of ten men but, as Thomas so aptly demonstrated just a short while ago, I also possess a vulnerability to sexual stimulation. My
fantasies, even my memories, can make me weak as a kitten. Even thinking about it, thinking about how the tentacle repeatedly worked its way in and out of me, driving me to the point of erotic insanity- even thinking about it makes me feel weak. And I cannot be weak. Not now. Not when I am facing such a powerful adversary. “I won and they lost. That’s all you need to know.”
Copperhead’s voice has a metallic tint to it as she answers. “They may have lost but I will not. You are facing the first team, now, one of the best that the Serpent Squad has to offer. We never give up on a contract, especially a contract offered by Don Refrain. I am tempted to give you the chance to surrender, though I know that you will decline. And, to be honest, I prefer it this way. I like to make my victims suffer a bit before I deliver them, hogtied, to my employer. You asked about my weapon- it is an advanced energy emitter called the Rapier. The technology is too advanced for a simpleton like you to understand but you can think of it as the world’s most powerful microwave oven. It is great for cooking things, especially cocky young heroines who do not know when they are overmatched!”
My eyes open wide as the barrel of the weapon is pointed at me. I try to move, try to get out of the way, but my body is still sluggish and I can only brace myself for what is to come. A bright white light emanates from the end of the barrel. Bits of yellow, like the sparkling of thousands of tiny candles, flicker around the end. There is a loud clicking noise and then it hits me, an invisible beam of atomized energy, slamming against me like the blast of a shotgun, a wide spread, striking me head and toe and everywhere in between. Once again, my slender body feels as if it is on fire, as if I am standing on the surface of the sun, and I scream like I have never screamed before.
I lose consciousness for just a moment and when I come to I am lying on the cool ground, my svelte figure trembling. The first breath is difficult- I have to force my lungs to expand so that air might be drawn into a burning chest. It is possible that my heart stopped, I think, possible that I was very close to death. Even now, the rhythmic beating that I hear in my ears seems tentative, as if my body is unsure that it should still be functioning. But this is not a good day to die. I am too young and I have too much left to do. I refuse to be defeated. Yet, once again, I
hear the footsteps of my armored foe clanging off of the asphalt. Once again, I hear the bell tolling. “Still alive, delicious child?”
I compel myself to rise. I am on my knees, Copperhead standing over me, the barrel of her insidious weapon aiming directly for my head. “Stop asking that!” I mutter through gritted teeth. “Don Refrain wants you in one piece but I find myself curious and a bit… insulted. I am curious as to how many blasts you can survive. I am insulted that you have lasted this long!”
My vision is blurry but I can see clearly enough to know that the Rapier is pointed at a spot directly between my eyes. I can sense that she is about to pull the trigger. I can see the white glow of awful energy flickering inside the barrel. Tiny yellow flickers- “My god!” I think. “She is going to fire again! She is going to murder me!”
“Goodbye, child. It has been nice knowing you-”
I react instinctively, my left arm jutting forward and my hand pushing the barrel just far enough to the right to cause a miss. The loud clicking sound reverberates between the walls of the alley and I feel raw, naked energy passing by my head. I hear it, whispering into my right ear. “You should be dead!” it seems to say.
I jump to my feet and we wrestle. I clutch the weapon with both hands, knowing that if I lose this tug of war I will likely be shot and killed. The servos on her elbow joints whir and prattle. God, she is so strong! She pushes me back against the wall. She tries to yank the weapon away but I hold on for dear life. Somehow, I manage to spin her around. I slam the thing off of the unforgiving bricks. I slam it again. Little sparks jump from tiny cracks in the metal casing. I slam it a third time and then a fourth. The bricks are crumbling. At last, a fifth and most devastating impact against the wall causes the cracks to widen. Light and smoke jump from the weapon and then
I regain consciousness in the center of the alley, my back wedged against the shattered windshield of the old Impala. A cloud of black, billowing smoke indicates that I have been out for only a few seconds. I slide off of the hood and stand on shaky feet, waiting for the air to clear. When it does, I see Copperhead, still standing next to the wall, only it is no longer a wall but rather a pile of charred bricks. The building has been opened up, gutted by the explosion, and I am amazed that it has not collapsed completely. Thank the gods, there does not seem to have been anyone inside.
“Still alive, Copperhead? Maybe you should rethink this?”
The fat woman is not happy. “Damn you, girl!”
Her arm is smoking, the weapon completely destroyed. Wisps of smoke stream out from beneath her armor and she is forced to tear off the helmet. It falls from her hand and rattles across the ground, bouncing erratically over the rough asphalt, before coming to rest near a garbage dumpster. The irony is not lost on either of us- I will turn her entire suit into junk before this battle ends.
“Give up!” I demand. “Without your weapon you are no match for me!”
She is breathing heavily, struggling to endure the pain that is racking her obese body. I examine her face, pleased to finally see this woman as she really is. As butch as they come. A purple-dyed mohawk is cut short to an otherwise bald head and there is not a bit of makeup on a puffy face. Mid-thirties, maybe. Not a bit of feminine beauty but she is not one to care, either. Veins protrude from a stout neck. I can see that her bulk isn’t entirely due to the suit. She is a big girl, rolls of fat squeezed into the armor. And there is a crazed look in her eyes, one I have seen before but only in the eyes of the wickedest of people. It is a scary look, one that seems to say that she cares for nothing and no one, maybe not even herself.
“I am far from finished!” she replies angrily. Her first step toward me is clumsy but she recovers quickly. Other than for the damage to her right arm, the suit still looks intact. “Rest assured that I have other weapons at my disposal, child, some of which have been devised just for you!”
I watch with interest as she opens one of the pockets on her utility belt and removes a surprising device. Interest transforms into disgust, however, as I see it for what it is. It is a thick dildo, six inches long, with a metal base and flexible rubber shaft. Ridges run its length. There is a slight, lengthwise curve to the thing. The molded tip is fat and heavy. Altogether, it appears to be an accurate representation of a real, fully erect, penis. The wicked look in her eyes grows more pronounced. She smacks her lips. My skin begins to crawl.
I stammer, struggling to control the outrage that I am feeling. “You do not really think… I mean, you cannot believe… that you are going to be able to use that on me, can you?” I ask indignantly. “Don Refrain told me all about your weakness,” she answers haughtily. “Such an interesting thing, a vulnerability to sexual stimulation- and something that I am more than prepared to use to my advantage!” I motion toward the dildo with a flip of my hand, as if the device is so ridicules that it scarcely deserves my notice. “That is hardly the type of high-tech gadget that I have come to expect from the Serpent Squad!” Copperhead ignores me and grips the dildo in her left hand. She positions its metal base atop her right leg, about halfway down her thigh, sliding it into a small, circular opening. It clicks into place and, when she removes her hand, the dildo extends outward from her thigh like a small, somewhat floppy, spike. “The simplest devices are sometimes the most effective,” she says almost proudly. “At the very least, this dildo will give you something to worry about as we resume the battle. But, for now, allow me to introduce you to yet another toy I like to keep around. I call it the Slave-Master!”
I watch as Copperhead lifts the coiled bullwhip from atop her hip. But this is no ordinary whip, I soon realize. The thick rawhide strap has been supplemented with tendrils of metal to reinforce its strength. As a demonstration of its effectiveness, the obese bounty hunter snaps the whip overhead and takes aim at the pile of bricks that once formed the wall of the damaged building.
“Crack!”
My eyes open wide as I witness one of the bricks get sliced cleanly in two. The Slave-Master snaps overhead a second time and I have to dive over the fender of the Impala to avoid its deadly touch. Sparks leap into the air as the end of the whip bites deep into rusting American steel. I grab a nearby garbage can and throw it at my foe- it is an absurd attack and Copperhead easily deflects the can with a sweep of her arm, causing it to spin off wildly toward the other side of the alley. She advances, bringing me within range of the whip. I barely dodge underneath the next strike, taking cover behind the car. But I cannot continue to hide behind this old clunker. I need to get closer and take the fight to my enemy. I use my flying power to zoom up and over the abused vehicle. My speed catches Copperhead by surprise. She tries to strike me with the whip but it cuts through the air wide of the mark. I bear down on her like a fighter plane, strafing the ground, arms extended in front of me, my fists clenched into tight balls. The impact is jarring as I slam into this armored opponent. Her bulk is lifted off of the ground and thrown backward over the pile of rubble that was once the wall of the building. She lands on the opposite side, in a cloud of dust, her armored form bouncing and tumbling through the debris and crashing to a rest against some old crates deep inside of the demolished building.
I follow her inside, wanting to take advantage of my opportunity. But though Copperhead’s armor is dented, she is far from finished. She catches me in the midsection with a powerful kick, knocking me back and driving my athletic body through some crumbling drywall. We are both on are feet quickly but now it is she that
has the advantage. Before I can react, the whip is in the air, cracking once above my head and then down across my left shoulder. I wince as pain stabs through my body, the lash cutting downward across my back and leaving a large welt. She pulls it back and strikes again, this time lashing me around the waist. The Slave-Master traps me
within its coils, not cutting my bullet-proof skin but ensnaring me tightly within several loops of tough leather. There is a desperate look in my eyes as I grab hold of the pliable shaft with my hands. Copperhead thinks she has me and we stare at each other like hunter and prey, locked in a tug-of-war, testing one another’s strength. It seems that it may be a draw, neither of us willing to give an inch to the other, when something unexpected suddenly occurs. To my surprise and utter dismay, the bounty hunter presses a button on the handle of the whip and reveals its secret, a charge of high-voltage electricity that runs the length of the vile cord and blasts through my abused body like a tornado through a mobile-home park.
“Is that high-tech enough for you?” she shouts to be heard above my screams.
After what seems like an eternity, the electricity runs its course and the charge is finally expended. I am still on my feet, but only barely. My hands drop away from the shaft of the whip. My body is trembling. My hair is standing nearly on end. I am too stunned to talk, too stunned to react. Copperhead laughs and gives the Slave Master a violent tug that lifts my body off of the ground and sends it spinning through the air. I crash through the wall and land outside, back in the alley and atop the pile of bricks, my injured spine arching to its limit over a peak of jagged edges and rough corners. I lie there for several seconds, my svelte body motionless atop the pyramidal mound of debris.
I know that she is approaching, that she is standing over me, but my spine feels broken. A single brick, the topmost on the pile, jabs painfully into the small of my back. I open my eyes just in time to see Copperhead’s smug face, lips turned upward in a victorious grin and those crazed, psychopathic eyes staring hungrily down at my nubile form. The servo motors of her armor whir and I feel one powerful hand take hold of my left shoulder while another grips my right thigh. She lifts me overhead as if I weigh nothing and then drops me down across her right knee with a vicious backbreaker maneuver.
My once powerful body wilts atop her right thigh. Her knee digs painfully into the small of my injured back. I feel the rubber dildo pressing against the inner curve of my slender waist. My head and shoulders droop downward toward the ground. My arms dangle lifelessly, the backs of my hands scraping against the shattered bricks. My legs are numb. I am conscious, but only barely. And then I feel something else, something different from the pain. It is between my parted legs, the pressure of a thick, armored finger, pressing into my gap, forcing its way between my nether lips even through the stretchy fabric of my costume. I gasp, too weak to stop her, too stunned to prevent her from penetrating an inch inside my hole. And then something else, the armored finger vibrating unnaturally, pulsating back and forth with an ungodly quick rhythm, literally quivering its way deeper into my pussy.
“Oh, god!” I cry out. “What are you doing?”
Her left hand flattens against the bare skin of my stomach, securing me atop her leg. “The servos in this suit can oscillate at whatever speed I want, little dove, giving me the ability to use my own finger as a kind of vibrator. It is a tight fit, but once I am fully inside of you, you will be finished!”
And with that simple declaration, the pain and all that has happened to me does not seem to matter anymore. As Copperhead’s vibrating finger penetrates a second inch into me, and as my body is roiled by a new set of sensations, I know that this fight has taken a drastic turn for the worse. The bounty hunter does not intend to beat me into submission- she intends to rape me into submission.
“No!” I shout while struggling to escape. “I will not let you!”
But as her finger continues to vibrate, and as I feel the first faint stirrings of unwanted arousal deep within my vulnerable pussy, I have to wonder if there is truly anything that I can do to stop her. Oh, god! Might this be the end? Might this be the end of Ms. Marvelous?