THE AMAZING MR ROYSTON

By Aristophanes

I

Supergirl rarely used front doors. Not when on duty anyway. It stood to reason; she could hardly stroll through the main entrance of the RoyCo Tower, wander up to the security desk and say, “Hello, I’m Supergirl; I’d like to see Mr Royston, please. No, I don’t have an appointment. Take a seat and wait? I’d be happy to.” That would be ridiculous.

Instead, she landed gently on the roof, thirty-five floors up. There was a helipad there – unoccupied for the moment – and a set of double-doors that provided access to the building below. They were locked, but didn’t detain her for more than a second. Her acute hearing told her that in breaking them open she’d set off an alarm, but that hardly mattered. She hadn’t intended to pass unnoticed, anyway.

Facing her were three elevators and a door leading to a flight of stairs. She chose the stairs. She was Supergirl – it would be demeaning for her to be discovered waiting patiently for an elevator to arrive. Undignified.

Having scanned the building from the air she knew that Jacob Royston’s office was on the thirtieth floor, on the east side. That had surprised her at first; most tycoons like to rise to the top literally as well as figuratively. Possibly he hadn’t wanted the noise of helicopters too close overhead. Whatever the reason, she knew where to find him.

After descending three floors she heard the sound of booted feet coming up to meet her at the run. Interesting how quickly they responded to alarms here. One flight further down she came face to face with a couple of uniformed security guards. One of them had actually drawn his automatic. She looked at them pityingly with her head on one side. They stared back open-mouthed. She raised her eyebrows, and they stepped back to let her pass. She continued down to the thirtieth floor.

Once there she strode along plushly-carpeted corridors and past several doors. She was aware of heads turning and jaws dropping as she passed – and of a cup of coffee being spilled on a sensitive part of someone’s anatomy – but she was used to that sort of reaction. Finally she arrived at the door to Jacob Royston’s office. Outside sat his executive secretary, a Miss Benson – fifty or so, small, prim, austere; with a stare that could strip paint and a personality capable of intimidating an entire panzer division. She stood up as Supergirl approached, plainly but wordlessly making it clear that she wasn’t going to take any nonsense from such a slip of a girl, especially not one wearing a skirt that short.

“Yes?” she asked in a tone that had made senators turn to jelly.

Supergirl flashed her a smile. “I’m going to see Mr Royston. Don’t try to tell me he’s not in. I can see through doors, remember.”

For possibly the first time in her life, Miss Benson was stumped for a reply and sat down heavily. Supergirl strode past her and thrust open the heavy oak doors to Jacob Royston’s office. It was smaller than she’d expected (most business moguls have egos the size of aircraft hangars, and offices to match), but she could see at a glance that it was appointed tastefully and very expensively. The man himself was sitting behind a large desk topped with black marble. He showed no sign of surprise at his unexpected visitor, but rose from his seat with every sign of friendliness.

“Supergirl, my dear. How delightful to see you. Do come in and sit down. May I offer you a drink – do you drink, by the way?”

“Alcohol, you mean? Only with people whose company I enjoy.” Which was true – alcohol had no effect on her. She’d once tried to get drunk, but had given up after five bottles of Jack Daniels, so now she only drank to be sociable, when enjoying an evening with friends. Something that happened all too rarely, she suddenly thought.

Jacob Royston showed no sign that he was aware that he’d been insulted, or that Supergirl had declined his offer of a seat and was standing with her hands on her hips in the middle of his office. He was in his late forties, well over six foot, lean, immaculately groomed and dressed, and richer than several members of the United Nations. He sat down again and steepled his fingers.

“Well now, what can I do for you?”

“I know all about you.”

“I doubt that; but do go on.”

“I know that the nuclear power plant you own in the Rockies is actually producing weapons-grade plutonium; and that you’re not fussy who you sell it to. I know that your genetic research establishment in Wyoming is secretly working on a couple of pretty unpleasant projects. I know that you’re the true head of the Cremona crime syndicate, and that you’ve got half of Colombia in your pocket. I know that you’re polluting half-a-dozen rivers; that you’ve got a million people worldwide effectively working as your slaves; and I know that it’s time for you to pay.”

“My, my; what a clever girl you are. Not just a pretty face, obviously.”

“You don’t deny any of that?” There was a note of uncertainty in Supergirl’s voice. This wasn’t going as she’d imagined it would.

“Deny it? Why should I? Indeed, I’ll give you some more information. Do you know what’s being produced in my factory in Bolivia? No? Take a look if you get the chance.”

He placed a slight emphasis on the words “If you get the chance,” and Supergirl was disconcerted. Something wasn’t right - Royston was too confident by far. He had to have something up his sleeve. Supergirl scanned the office, her x-ray vision piercing every draw and cabinet. Was there some kryptonite hidden somewhere? No; she couldn’t detect any, not even a speck. There wasn’t even any lead anywhere that could be hiding it. Surely the man wasn’t trying to defeat her by mere bluff?

Jacob Royston saw her looking round. “What do you think of my office?” he asked.

“It’s an office.”

“Oh, it’s more than that, I hope. That rug you’re standing on, for example.” Supergirl looked down in alarm, but the man carried on suavely. “Persian. Silk; five hundred strands to the square inch. Four years in the making and worth a hundred thousand dollars. Or that cabinet over there. Originally made for Louis XIV; some of the most exquisite marquetry you’ll ever see. Behind you on the wall,” Supergirl spun round, half-expecting an attack, “is a painting by Matisse. And this one over here is a Renoir.”

“I prefer Kaj-an.” She felt she had to say something; to take charge of the situation again.

“Never heard of him, I’m afraid.”

“Her. An artist from Krypton who lived a thousand years ago in your terms. None of her work survives anywhere in the universe.”

“Pity. I’m sure other cultures achieved much worth celebrating; but earth people have had their moments, wouldn’t you say? Shakespeare, Homer, Virgil – I have a scroll here with a chapter of the Aeneid. Probably written by a scribe rather than Virgil himself, but I like to think he actually touched it. Would you like to see it?”

Treasure after treasure was described and praised. Supergirl wasn’t sure whether to be sickened by the man’s vanity or impressed by his ability to dominate the situation – any situation.

“And finally,” he said at last, “my favourite possession.” He went back behind his desk, where he opened a draw and took out a revolver.

“A gun?” She’d spotted it when she’d scanned the office, but had paid it no mind. Bullets didn’t scare her.

“A gun? Certainly not. That would be like calling a Ferrari a car, or saying that Mozart wrote tunes. No, this is a Colt Peacemaker, at once the most famous and the most feared weapon in the Old West. And not just any old Colt Peacemaker, either. Pearl-handled, inlaid, and once the property of Wild Bill Hickock. Look,” he said walking over to her, “his initials.”

“OK, a special gun, an antique gun; but a gun all the same.”

“Oh dear; some people have no romance in their soul,” he sighed. “But you should at least notice that I’m pointing it directly at your small but shapely chest.”

Supergirl was incredulous. “You’re threatening to shoot me? People have tried that with much more up-to-date guns than that and I’m still standing.”

“Yes, I know. But the fact that this gun, as you insist on calling it, isn’t up to date is the whole point. I’m fully aware that if I threatened you with an Uzi or an AK47 I’d be wasting my time. But this gun was made in the nineteenth century; and do you know what was special about guns made back then?”

“No, what?”

“They fired bullets made of lead.”

He pulled the trigger.

II

Time slowed to a crawl, which is how it always felt to Supergirl when she used her super-speed. She saw a puff of dirty grey smoke belch from the barrel of the colt, closely followed by a small, dark, spinning projectile. How stupid the man was, she thought. Just because she couldn’t see through lead that didn’t mean that it could actually hurt her.
Casually she raised her right hand to catch the bullet. She closed her fingers around it as it finally arrived…

…and felt a sudden excruciating pain as it ripped through her palm. Still in slow motion, she saw the bullet emerge from the back of her hand, wreathed not in smoke this time, but in blood and gobbets of her flesh. Had it continued on its original trajectory, the bullet would’ve made straight for her heart; but it was deflected upwards by one of the bones in her hand, and tore into her shoulder. Still passing through her body, it collided with her collar-bone, snapping it in two. Finally it burst out of her back – she actually felt the surface of her skin erupt like some nightmarish boil – before burying itself in the wall behind her.

Whether it was the force of the impact, the pain, the shock at being hurt, or a combination of all three, Supergirl never knew; but she collapsed to the floor and lay there bleeding – actually bleeding. She held her mangled hand in front of her face, staring at it in bewilderment. How was this possible? Then she saw Jacob Royston looking down at her, a look of triumph on his face; and she realised with horror that there was almost certainly worse to come.

“How…?” she gasped.

“How? Can’t you work it out? I all but told you in advance. This gun fires bullets made of lead. Now I know that lead on its own won’t have any effect, but it can be used to conceal things from you. In this case, kryptonite. Obviously a very small amount, but extremely pure – and, as you’ll have noticed, rather effective. As indeed it should be, considering that that these bullets cost two hundred grand apiece.”

Supergirl said nothing, cursing herself for her own stupidity. She’d seen the gun – seen the bullets in it, but without really registering what they were made of. She was used to checking for substantial lead screens, not pieces the size of her fingertip. And of course, she’d just had to show off and try to catch the bullet. If she’d just stepped out of the way – something she could’ve done with ease – then it couldn’t possibly have harmed her.

“Mind, you,” Jacob Royston went on, “I can afford it. I’m not afraid to spend money; that’s what it’s for, after all. To get me what I want – and if what I want costs a lot, then I spend a lot.”

Supergirl looked back towards the door of the office. The sound the gun had made must’ve been heard over half the building. Surely someone would come and investigate. But the door remained closed. Possibly Miss Benson was holding the rest of the world at bay.

Jacob Royston seemed to read her thoughts. “No, we won’t be disturbed. I choose my staff carefully, and reward them lavishly. There’ll have to be a few bonuses paid out this month to ensure that no-one heard a thing – but as I said, it’s only money.

“Which brings me back to the cost of these rather special bullets; and another feature of this remarkable gun. Can you guess what it is? No? Cat got your tongue? Well, the guns of the Old West were often referred to as six-shooters, because they could fire six shots without needing to be re-loaded. And this example is no exception. Which is a rather long-winded way of saying that there are five more bullets in this gun, and I assure you that they’re each as special as the first.”

Supergirl raised herself on her elbows and began to drag herself painfully backwards. Royston smiled.

“Leaving so soon? No, I’m sorry, but I can’t allow that. He cocked the gun, the click sounding deafeningly loud in Supergirl’s ears. She felt she had to say something, to show some spark of defiance; to show that she wasn’t afraid, even if this was then end.

“I’m bleeding over your million-dollar rug. Ruining it, I hope.”

“Hundred-thousand-dollar rug, not a million,” Royston replied. “Do pay attention. Though it’s a thought, I admit – perhaps I will get a million-dollar rug.” He looked pensive. Supergirl continued to back away – she’d almost reached the wall now. Just keep him talking a little longer….

“Money isn’t everything.”

“Yes it is. Not in itself, of course; it’s what I can do with money that matters. I can buy anything I want with money; anything. Even your death, as you see.”

“There are some things money can’t buy.”

“So they say. But whatever those things are, I’ve never wanted any of them.”

Supergirl reached the wall of the office. She stretched out with her undamaged hand and took hold of the Louis XIV cabinet, which she threw at her enemy. The force wasn’t as great as she’d hoped, but it was still enough to knock Royston back several feet and leave him sprawled on the floor. The colt, Supergirl was pleased to note, flew out of his hand and was sent spinning under his desk. She got quickly to her feet. She was weakened; but still retained, she hoped, enough of her powers to beat a tactical retreat and work out plan B.

Bursting out of Royston’s office she started to run. She came to a place where two corridors met, and turned left. She didn’t know much about guns, but knew that they couldn’t shoot round corners. Behind her she could hear Jacob Royston shouting instructions. He’d’ve retrieved the gun by now, and would be coming after her; but there was a plate glass window ahead of her – a way out. She ran towards it. She couldn’t manage super-speed, but was still going faster than any human sprinter had ever gone.

She was almost there when she heard the shot. Please let him miss, she thought; but no. The bullet smashed into her back like a kick from an elephant. It narrowly missed her spine, but ripped a bloody path through tissue and tendon, coming to rest against one of her ribs. She screamed.

But she still had momentum. Half running, half falling, she smashed through the window, sending a million shards of sparkling glass tumbling through the air. Thank goodness, she thought, I’m out. Now I just need somewhere to rest up for a bit and get myself back together.

Then another problem presented itself.

“Holy Krypton, I can’t fly!”

III

This was an inconvenient thing to discover when thirty floors up. She felt the merciless pull of gravity as she plummeted downwards, arms and legs windmilling. Her last conscious thought as the ground sped up to meet her was to wonder whether the spirit of Isaac Newton was watching her, grimly satisfied that she had at last proved herself vulnerable to his theories.

She smashed onto an asphalt roadway, making a shallow impact crater and sending cracks radiating in all directions. For a long while her motionless body lay there, whilst faces looked down from the smashed window far above. The she raised her head, astonished to find that she wasn’t dead. Slowly she got to her knees and felt herself all over. No extra bones broken, though every square inch of her throbbed with pain. Pain – so this was what it felt like. How did anyone ever stand it?

Then she heard the squeal of tortured rubber and the blare of a klaxon. She looked up – a truck was bearing down on her. Smoke was gushing from its tyres, but it clearly had too much momentum (was Newton smiling again?) to stop in time. She tried to roll out of the way but she was too late and the heavy truck hit her. It bounced, actually bounced into the air as each wheel passed over her body; and when it came to rest her legs were pinned under the rear tyres.

The agony was like nothing she could ever have imagined. “Death, please take me now,” she whispered, though whether she was praying to the Kryptonian gods, or to those of Earth, she never knew.

Nevertheless, she got a reply. Deep down in her psyche a spark of obstinacy was still burning. “No,” it said to her. “This is not the time to give up; it will never be the time to give up. Fight back; you can do it – you know you can. Fight back, Supergirl. Fight back, Kara Zor-el.”

She looked at the bulk of the truck above her. She raised her hands to it and started to push. She began to lift it – there was more strength left in her than she’d supposed. She pushed harder, and the truck crashed over on its side. She rose to her feet and started limpingly to run.

Across the road was a building site – not satisfied with one RoyCo tower, Jacob Royston had ordered the construction of a second. There was a lot of heavy machinery parked there but it seemed deserted. Probably everyone had already gone home for the day – it was early evening and the sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows. Ahead of her – about half a mile away – she saw a wall about ten feet high which presumably marked the boundary of this particular piece of RoyCo real estate. She headed for it; she reckoned she’d be able to burst through it, or climb it at the worst.

Then she heard the cough of a diesel engine bursting into life; followed by two more. Oh no, what now? Ahead of her and a little to her left a bulldozer belched black smoke and stated to move jerkily towards her. Soon a second started to follow it. Despite the danger posed by this latest threat, she felt a grudging respect for Jacob Royston – he didn’t so much have employees as a private army; and he wasn’t slow in getting them moving.

She considered – normally she could lift a bulldozer with one hand, but right now she didn’t feel ready to grapple with heavy machinery. Which left dodging; bulldozers were not built for speed or fancy manoeuvres. An image flashed into her head. She’d never been much of a sports fan, but she’d picked up a few things over the years. She was the nimble running-back, trying to avoid the attentions of a couple of huge defensive tackles. She ran towards the first machine, then changed direction. It swivelled awkwardly on its tracks, raising a cloud of dust. Another jink, and there was the opening she was looking for. One of the bulldozers had been slow to adjust to her latest change of direction and there was a gap between them. Just a small gap, and it was closing all the time. She put her head down, pumped her tired legs (tired legs? Another new experience) and trusted to luck. She breathed in a lungful of diesel fumes; but she was through with inches to spare. Behind her came the sound of crunching metal – the two bulldozers had collided.

“Touchdown!” she yelled. Then the world went black and she was lifted into the air.

It took her a while to realise what had happened to her. She’d been seized by some sort of mechanical grab. Stupid – she’d heard three engines start, why hadn’t she looked out for the third machine? The jaws of the grab had closed around her waist. Her legs were outside, kicking furiously but uselessly; her head and torso were inside, where it stank of earth and dirty oil. The grab was still trying to close, to snap her in two. She fought back with the strength of despair. The hydraulics shrieked and strained; the engine pitch grew louder and louder.

Her strength was failing; she knew it. The kryptonite bullet lodged inside her ribcage was spreading its poison throughout her body. She was – there was no doubt about it – slowly dying. Which meant that she had to put everything she had left into one last effort. She pushed, she heaved, she screamed her defiance – and suddenly there came the crack of a hydraulic pipe rupturing and the grab flew open.

It happened so suddenly that Supergirl fell to the ground. She picked herself up, saw how filthy her costume had become (some female instincts are the same throughout the galaxy) and tried to brush the dirt off with her hands. Then, holding her head high and proud, she slowly began to walk the last fifty yards to the wall.

At which point a limo drove up at high speed and braked to a halt beside her. The back door opened and Jacob Royston stepped out. He was brandishing the colt.

Enough, thought Supergirl. No, she wasn’t Supergirl any longer. She was just Kara Zor-el. Just a girl – tired, lonely and a long way from home. She’d fought her last fight to save this miserable planet, and she’d lost. And she really didn’t care any more.

She staggered forwards three more steps, then collapsed.

IV

Jacob Royston approached the prone form of his victim. Squatting beside her he ruffled her tousled blonde mane in a gesture which, in other circumstances, might’ve been regarded as affectionate.

“Lift her out of the dirt,” he said to the two men who had emerged from the car behind him. “Put her over there.”

The two men took hold of Supergirl by her wrists and ankles and picked her up. To their surprise she seemed as light as a feather. Dimly, she felt herself being lifted, though she didn’t react at all. She was slipping in and out of consciousness, desperately hoping for final oblivion.

Lying on the ground a few yards away was a section of steel tubing, waiting to take its place in the growing edifice. It was about four feet in diameter, and the men draped Supergirl’s body over it as directed; head and arms hanging down one side, feet the other. Then they retired to a respectful distance, their faces impassive.

Their boss walked over to his prize and looked down on her for a long moment. Then he gently pushed the cape aside and took hold of the hem of her skirt with the tips of his fingers. Slowly, he lifted it up and laid it against her back, revealing the blue fabric of her leotard stretched tightly over the contours of her pert behind.

“Not much more than a handful,” he said to himself; but for some reason his remark penetrated Supergirl’s consciousness, and sparked off a string of memories.

She’d always been petite; five foot three in her bare feet; five foot five in her boots (she’d experimented with bigger heels but had never felt comfortable in them) – and she’d never had much flesh on her, however much she ate. Back when she’d been fourteen or fifteen – doing her best to pass herself off as a normal teenager – she’d spent several afternoons with her girl-friends, trying on each other’s clothes and experimenting with styles and fashions. And she’d never had to ask the dreaded question “Does my bum look big in this?” Well, she had asked it once as a joke; only to have her friends throw things at her in mock outrage. On the other hand, she’d once been caught bang to rights stuffing paper tissues down her bra.

So Jacob Royston was a sexual predator as well as a business one. Why that should come as a surprise she’d no idea. Still it hardly mattered now, especially since her body failed to please him, or so it seemed. Nevertheless, she realised that he was running his hand up and down the back of her thigh, caressing it gently. Get on with it you idiot, she thought; use the gun. Send me to meet my family – or into nothingness, I really don’t care which.

But the stroking went on; and each time his hand travelled up just a little further, until he was stroking her stern as well as her leg. And deep within her a tiny spark re-ignited.

Now he was rubbing her a little harder, and concentrating more on her rear. He’d been right; he could virtually cup both buttocks in the palm of his hand. As if that was her fault – as if it was any of his goddamn business. He continued to fondle her, kneading her like a piece of dough, harder and harder, digging his fingers into her. The flame within her began to burn a little stronger.

Then he changed tack. He gripped the fabric and pulled. There was a ripping sound; and Supergirl’s cute little ass was fully exposed, enabling him to grope her flesh directly. He began rubbing away at the crack between her cheeks. Then he reached lower, his index finger twitching, questing. It found her anus. The tip of his finger rubbed at it; gently at first, then harder and more insistently until Supergirl realised with horror that it was trying to force its way in. To penetrate her; penetrate her where she’d never been penetrated before.

The flame flared up and burned with an incandescent fury. “Enough!” Supergirl screamed, jerking back into life and striking out wildly. By pure luck, she connected with her abuser’s jaw, knocking him to the ground. “Kill me if you have to,” Supergirl yelled at him, “but I will not be treated like some… like some…” she couldn’t think of the word. “Like some you-know-what,” she finished rather lamely. Jacob Royston stared back at her in silence, his expression aggravatingly calm.

Then she saw that he was no longer holding the colt. Had he holstered it, dropped it, left it in the car? Whatever, she had a chance – just a small chance. And even another bullet in the back would be better than… than… she couldn’t even think the rest of that sentence.

The wall was quite close. She forced herself to hobble towards it as fast as she could. She reached it. It was rough and uneven, with just enough handholds for her to climb. She forced herself upwards, boots scrabbling for purchase and fingertips bleeding. She reached the top; there were shards of glass embedded in it, doing further damage to her costume and to the flesh beneath.

A shot rang out. She waited for the shock of the impact, but none came. A miss! About time fortune smiled on her. She threw herself over the wall, landing heavily on concrete, then got up and headed as fast as she could for the cluster of houses she saw before her.

She turned left and right at random, seeking to lose herself in the maze of narrow streets. It was a strange neighbourhood; presumably home to hundreds pf people, but with not a soul to be seen. She considered knocking on a door and asking for help; but the help she needed was of a rather specialised nature.

Then salvation beckoned in the shape of a phone booth. She opened the door and dragged herself inside. She reached for the receiver, then realised that she had no money on her. Of course she didn’t; why would Supergirl carry loose change?

Oh well. With an effort she ripped open the bottom of the coinbox and extracted a quarter, which she fed into the slot. In spite of the state she was in, she smiled grimly to herself. Vandalism and larceny – some crime-fighter she was.

Then she dialled a number.

V

Twenty-three miles away, Barbara Gordon was naked and alone. She’d just enjoyed a relaxing bath complete with soothing oils and scented candles. Now, with soft music playing and a glass of wine within reach, she was sitting on the white leather sofa in her living-room, painting her toenails. She hummed along with the music as she concentrated. She smiled. Her date would be picking her up in an hour. She considered answering the door to him just as she was; but no, it was a little early in their relationship for that sort of thing. Still, it was their third date. She felt a quiver of anticipation.

So; what to wear? What would he appreciate most – that flowing Versace number with the low neckline? Or would he prefer boots and tight jeans? And which underwear? Satin? Lace? None?

She was mentally running through her wardrobe when the phone rang. Instantly she dropped the bottle of nail varnish and flew across the room. It wasn’t the normal phone that was ringing, but the other one – the special one kept on top of a cabinet and disguised as an ornament. Only seven people knew that number – and none of them ever called with good news.

She snatched it up. “Hello?”

“Barbara, it’s Kara.” Barbara could hardly recognise the voice of her friend. It was faint and rasping, as if she was breathing with difficulty.

“What’s wrong?”

“Barbara – I’m hurt. Badly. I need help.”

“The cavalry is on its way. Where are you?” Barbara listened as Supergirl described her location as best she could.

“Don’t worry; I’ll find you. Just stay there.”

“Barbara?”

“Yes?”

“Hurry….please.”

Barbara sprinted for the door of her apartment. She was on the point of slamming it behind her when she suddenly remembered that she was still stark naked.

Slumped on the floor of the phone booth Supergirl waited. She knew there was a race going on, between Barbara and Royston’s henchmen to see who would find her first. She also knew that her fate depended on who won that race – it was out of her hands.

Minutes ticked by; but eventually a car approached, its headlights blazing. She didn’t recognise it. Barbara must’ve lost.

The car screeched to a halt and a figure got out. Relief flooded through Supergirl, though she was also puzzled. She’d been expecting Batgirl, but instead saw Barbara Gordon, barefoot, wearing frayed jeans and an old jumper which was back to front.

“Kara! What in the name of all that’s holy happened to you?”

“Quite a lot, actually; but mainly I’ve been shot.”

“Shot? You mean with…”

“With a kryptonite bullet, yes. It’s still in me. Needs to be dug out.”

“Hang on,” said Barbara, carrying her limp friend to her car, where she lay her in the back seat. “I know someone who can help. I’ll take you to my place.”

“No; take me to mine, please.”

“Why? Mine’s nearer.” The car shot forward, accelerating hard.

“Because if I’m going to die, I want to die in my home. My earth home, that is. It’s not much – but there are a few things there that remind me of my old life.”

“Don’t be stupid – you’re not going to die.” Nevertheless, Barbara turned left instead of right at the next intersection and drove downtown. She pulled a mobile phone out of her jeans pocket and started texting furiously as she drove.

“Barbara?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry about your date.”

“Don’t worry about it. Hey – how did you know I had a date tonight?”

“I heard the music you were playing in your apartment. You always play that album when you’re getting ready for a date.”

“Some people are too observant for their own good.”

“Also, it looks like you got dressed in a hurry.”

“Yeah, just a bit. I’m wearing nothing underneath, by the way; so please, no x-ray vision.”

“I couldn’t if I wanted to. So, who is he?”

“Who?”

“Your date.”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Barbara had expected some reaction to this last remark but got none. She twisted her head round; Supergirl had fainted. She drove faster.

Supergirl’s lair, if that was the right word, was in an unfashionable but quiet neighbourhood. It lay some way back from the road, which meant that it was relatively easy to approach unobserved. Barbara retrieved the key from its hiding-place (money was not the only thing that Supergirl never had with her), carried the limp form of her friend inside, and laid her on the bed.

“Kara, you’re home. Lets have a look at you. Dear god….” She fetched water and towels from the bathroom, and started to remove Supergirl’s costume as gently as possible.

Supergirl opened her eyes. “Just rip it off; it’s ruined anyway.” Barbara did as she was asked and a pile of tattered blue and red fragments soon lay on the floor. She started to dab at Supergirl’s hurts.

“Some of these are going to need more than a band-aid.”

“Never mind them; it’s the bullet that counts. If you can get that out then everything else will fix itself.”

Barbara turned Supergirl over so that she was face-down on the bed. She stared at the bullet-wound in her back. A faint but unpleasant smell was rising from it – the smell of decay. Barbara grimaced. This was serious.

“Can you get it out?” Supergirl asked, faintly.

“I know someone who can.”

“Who?”

At that moment there was a knock on the door. Supergirl looked alarmed.

“It’s OK, Barbara said, I told him to come here.” She left to open the door. When she returned, a man was with her.

“Kara, this is Simon.”

VI

“Hello, Supergirl,” said Simon. He was a tall, fair-haired man aged about thirty. He was carrying a small leather bag. He crossed to Supergirl, knelt beside the bed and began to examine her. Supergirl was acutely conscious that she was wearing nothing but her boots. She expected to see a leer on his face, but there was nothing except professional concern.

“Well,” he said at last. “I can see you really are the Maid of Steel. Anyone else would be dead already.”

“Simon’s a surgeon,” said Barbara. Then, after a pause, “and he’s also my date.”

“Yes,” said Simon, opening his bag and extracting a stethoscope, “but when you promised me a really exciting evening this wasn’t quite what I imagined.” He listened to the internal workings of Supergirl’s body for a bit.

“Simon…”

“Don’t talk. Anyway, I can guess what you’re going to say. There’s no need to worry; I can keep secrets. As far as I’m concerned you’re not Supergirl; just someone in pain who needs my help.”

“Can you help her?” Barbara asked anxiously.

“I hope so. I suppose a transfer to a hospital would be out of the question? Thought so. Pity – some x-rays would be handy. Come to think of it, x-ray vision would be a very useful skill in my job.”

“But can you get the bullet out?”

“Yes, in theory. The problem, however, is that I don’t know anything about Kryptonian anatomy.”

“It’s pretty similar to earth anatomy,” Supergirl told him. “That’s why my parents chose this planet to send me to.”

“I bet you don’t have an Earth blood-group, though. Oh well, here goes. I’m afraid this is going to hurt. I don’t have any anaesthetic with me.”

“It wouldn’t work on me anyway. Go ahead. Just do your best. I’ll die anyway if you don’t.”

“My patients don’t die. I don’t allow it. Right, brace yourself – I’m going to have to cut my way in a bit.”

He took up a scalpel and began to enlarge the bullet’s entry hole. He sensed that Supergirl could feel the pain horribly, though she didn’t move a muscle. He was also professionally interested in her skin. It was silky smooth to the touch, though it was also tougher than anything he’d ever encountered. Even under attack from kryptonite it resisted the scalpel’s blade, and he had to work hard to accomplish his task.

At last he was satisfied, and reached for a pair of long forceps which he worked as gently as he could into Supergirl’s ribcage. Supergirl could feel them inside her, pushing aside tissue, grating against a rib. The pain was like a blinding light in her skull. She ground her teeth against it.

“Hang on…nearly there…Got it!” He removed the forceps and held up a bloody trophy.

“AAAAAAAAAGH!!”, Supergirl screamed. It was a long and loud scream that stunned Simon and made Barbara clamp her hands over her ears.

When the noise finally ceased, Simon, greatly concerned, asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Supergirl panted. “I was just saving that up. I didn’t want to disturb you while you were working.”

“I see. Right, I’d better stitch you up, I suppose.”

“No need. Now that the kryptonite’s gone my body will heal itself. I’ll be fine by morning.”

“Are you sure?” Simon asked; then saw to his amazement that some of Supergirl’s lesser hurts were fading already. “Hmm, you’re right. I’d better be off, then.” He packed up his bag and turned to go.

“Simon?”

“Yes?”

“Thank-you.”

“You’re more than welcome. And, like I say, your secret’s safe with me.”

“I know. You’re a good man, Simon. I can tell that about you. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, please let me know.”

“Well – when you’re back to your old self I’d like to go flying with you, if that’s OK.”

“No problem. Call Barbara in a couple of days. She knows how to get in contact with me.”

“Yes, she obviously does. I wonder if there are any other secrets I’m going to have to keep?”

“And if there are?” Barbara asked.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got a few myself. Do you realise that I’m actually Spiderman? Or possibly Daredevil – I get easily confused.”

“Idiot. Go and wait in your car. I’ll join you later. I want a few words with Kara.”

“Girl-talk, eh? Count me out. Goodbye, Supergirl. If you ever get shot again, call me.” He turned and left the apartment.

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” Barbara asked after the door had closed.

“He’s nice; he’s kind; and I’m pretty sure I can trust him. Does he know about you, by the way?”

“That I’m Batgirl? No. He realises I’m hiding something, though. I think he suspects I’m Catwoman.”

“Ow. Don’t make me laugh – it hurts.”

“Sorry. But you didn’t answer my question. He’s cute, isn’t he?”

“OK, yes he’s cute. In an Earth-bound sort of way.”

“There are more like him at the hospital. Maybe I can fix you up with one?”

“Barbara, you know why that’s impossible.”

“Sorry. Maybe one day, though.”

“I doubt it; anyway, off you go on your date.”

“And leave you like this? No way.”

“Do as you’re told. All I need is to rest up a bit. Go and enjoy yourself.”

“Suppose you get another visitor?”

“Hardly likely. This address isn’t exactly publicised, and I know you weren’t followed. You’re too smart for that. No,” she continued, ignoring Barbara’s attempt to interrupt, “you go and let me get my strength back. Come back in the morning; but come back as Batgirl, or at least put your clothes on the right way round.”

“Lets say we compromise – Simon and I will go and have dinner or whatever…”

“You always call it whatever.”

“Shut up - then I’ll get changed into something more suitable for dealing with bad guys, and come back. I’ll be a couple of hours. Three tops. I’ll let myself in.”

“Just so long as you go. Simon’s waiting – and he wants it as much as you do.”

“You think so?”

“My personal experience in certain areas is pretty limited, but I’m not blind.”

“I hope you’re right.” Barbara kissed her friend on the forehead, then went to find her date.

Supergirl lay back on the bed. Her body tingled all over as her various injuries began to heal themselves. She closed her eyes.

VII

When she opened them again she was surprised to see that nearly two hours had passed. She sat up and checked herself over. There was a mark on her right hand where the bullet had passed through, but the fingers all worked properly. She waved her arm about experimentally; yes, the collarbone was mended. There was a dull ache inside her chest as the result of the surgery but she knew she was pretty much restored to health. Not back to super-power level, but that would come.

She noticed that she was still, incongruously, wearing her boots. She pulled them off and headed for the bathroom, where she ran herself a shower. It was specially adjusted, and produced water hotter than any non-Kryptonian could stand. She stood under the jet for a long time – there was a lot of filth to wash off, both physical and metaphorical. She soaped her behind particularly vigorously.

Eventually she felt clean, and towelled herself down. Returning to the bedroom she noticed that her sheets were stained with her own dried blood. Ruined. She stripped them off and fetched some new ones from the closet. They were pure silk; silk was one of the few Earth luxuries she truly appreciated. Naked, she slipped between them, luxuriating in their smooth feel. She was tired, and tried to get back to sleep. But she couldn’t – she kept thinking about Simon.

She had experienced physical sex. When she’d been seventeen there’d been a boy she’d really liked. He’d been kind, quiet, thoughtful; with beautiful big dark eyes she’d thought she could drown in. They’d gone steady for a couple of months, until one day when his parents had been out of town he’d sort of suggested…

She could still remember the way he’d blushed, and stammered over the words. She’d found it really sweet, and had taken him by the hand and they’d gone upstairs. It turned out he was a virgin too, and they were both rather uncertain. Still, they’d managed – well, something, anyway. He’d certainly enjoyed himself; but though she pretended otherwise, she’d felt nothing. It had been the same the next time they made love, and the next, and the next; until she realised that there was something missing. She’d no idea whether there was something wrong with her, or with him; and she was far too reticent to talk about it with anyone.

Then he’d gone off to college and she’d tried to make her way in the world, and they’d lost touch. From time to time over the next couple of years she’d taken lovers, but though she could please them, they couldn’t do anything to her. She wasn’t a cold fish, she knew. She was hot with desire – but it was a desire that couldn’t be satisfied.

Eventually she’d realised that it was because she was Kryptonian. As well as being super-strong on the outside, she was super-strong on the inside; no male from this planet was capable of satisfying her. She thought about her cousin. He’d been together with Lois for as long as she could remember. Did they? Could they? Perhaps it was different for Kryptonian men. Perhaps if he just held back a bit. Or perhaps he was as frustrated as her. If so, he’d never mentioned it. Well, he was male; what could you expect?

Barbara was the only person she’d talked to about the problem. She’d understood. She’d sympathised. She’d held Supergirl in her arms whilst she cried. But she couldn’t help.

Which left – her eyes strayed towards a certain drawer, but she banished the thought instantly. This was hardly the time for that sort of thing.

But she couldn’t get the thought of Barbara and Simon out of her head. Them gazing into each other’s eyes over dinner; going back to his place; giggling as he led her into the bedroom; linking arms and lips and tongues; feeling their passions mount; tearing their clothes off; and – not to put to fine a point on it – screwing themselves witless.

It wasn’t that she begrudged Barbara her moments of pleasure, it’s just that she desperately wanted to experience one herself. There nearest she ever got… She looked at the drawer again. No. No – but she suddenly realised that her right hand had strayed to her crotch and she was gently rubbing herself up and down. She applied a little more pressure; it felt good. Oh, what the hell. She crossed to the drawer and opened it. She reached to the back, and there, under a pile of neatly-folded jeans, she grasped the thing she was looking for.

It was a dildo. Large and pink, and of ordinary Earth manufacture; but for some reason it worked for her. She’d puzzled about this, and reached the conclusion that it stimulated her Kryptonian insides because it was being thrust into her by her own Kryptonian hand. Why it didn’t simply disintegrate she’d no idea, but it had been the nearest thing she’d had to a lover for almost three years now.

She weighed it in the palm of her hand. She knew she’d feel guilty later; she always did. But she also knew that she was powerless to resist. She lay down on the bed. She spread herself, took a deep breath, grasped the dildo firmly, and began.

And it was amazing. The best ever. Possibly because she was still not fully recovered from the kryptonite attack she felt her toy more vividly than she’d ever felt it before. She began to moan softly. “Oh, oh, oh.”

Harder and harder she thrust; faster and faster. She could feel the juices beginning to flow within her, feel herself starting to build towards a monstrous climax. “Oh, oh, oh…oh fuck this feels good.” Her back arched in ecstasy until she was only touching the bed with her heels, her buttocks and her shoulder-blades. She closed her eyes. She could only see dancing stars anyway.

“Oh, oh, OH!” The moans had become little shrieks, timed to coincide with each thrust. Holy Krypton, she’d never felt like this; never gone on as long as this. She could feel an orgasm building and building – it was going to register on the Richter scale. She grasped the dildo two-handed so that she could thrust still harder. She was beginning to ache with the effort; if she didn’t cum soon she’d explode.

Thrust, thrust, thrust with her hands, pump, pump, pump with her hips; a primeval rhythm as old as the cosmos. Screaming with delight and gasping for breath at the same time. How long had it been now? Ten minutes? Fifteen? And still the volcano rumbled within her; always on the point of erupting but never quite getting there.

“AH, AH, AH!” This is what it should’ve felt like when she was seventeen. Her whole body glistened with sweat – she could feel it gushing from every pore. Still she thrust; and the volcano’s pent-up fury grew and grew.

Far away, she heard the door of her apartment opening. Damnation, Barbara was back earlier than she’d expected. She’d never told Barbara about the dildo – but she was a woman of the world. Besides she couldn’t stop now. She was almost there – she could feel it.

“AH, AH, AH!” Though her eyes were still tightly closed she could sense Barbara standing at the door to her bedroom. “AH, AH …. Sorry, Babs … I …. AH, AH, AH …. couldn’t ….. AH, AH ..…help….. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!”

The volcano erupted. It was Vesuvius, Mount St Helens, Krakatoa. Light exploded in her skull and waves of something truly wonderful gushed back and forth through every cell of her body. She thrashed on the bed, arms and legs flailing, her head beating against the pillow – and still the climax went on.

Then she was falling, falling, falling; tumbling into warm emptiness where nothing existed except the memory of the experience she’d just had. She fell for a very long time.

Slowly, very slowly, the universe re-built itself around her. She felt the bed she was lying on, sensed the room she was in. Her breathing gradually returned to normal. She was utterly spent; but in a beautiful way she’d never felt before. She lay motionless, her eyes closed, the dildo still inside her; clinging to the last vestiges of wonder as they drifted away. Then a flicker of embarrassment. What was Barbara going to say?

“Quite a performance.”

Supergirl sat up with a jerk, her eyes wide with horror. It wasn’t Barbara who was standing there, it was Jacob Royston.

VIII

Naturally he was pointing the colt at her; but it was the expression on his face she most noticed. It was an expression she knew she’d never be able to forget.

“You were right,” he said. “There are some things money can’t buy. So good of you to entertain us for free.”

Us? It was only then that Supergirl noticed that Royston was not alone. Four goons filed past him to stand two on each side of the bed, leering at her. It didn’t take x-ray vision to see that they all had massive erections.

“Allow me to introduce my associates: Mr White, Mr Blue, Mr Orange and Mr Pink. Yes, I know; I should never have let them watch Reservoir Dogs…” he shrugged. “But I’m sure you’ll have noticed that they each hold an antique revolver. A Colt, two Remingtons and a Smith & Wesson, if you’re interested. Now I’m sure you’ll be relieved to learn that they aren’t all loaded with kryptonite bullets. It’s not the expense, you understand – just that such bullets take a long time to make. However, at least one of them is, and since you can’t tell which I advise you to lay perfectly still.”

Supergirl couldn’t have moved anyway. She couldn’t tell which she felt more – fear or shame.

“Now, Mr Blue; if you’d be good enough to remove that object from the young lady.” Mr Blue bent over her and did so; though not without passing up the opportunity of sticking a finger inside her.

“Careful, Mr Blue,” Royston admonished him. “Now pass it over, please.” He sniffed at the dildo; licked it. “Hmm; sweeter than Earth women, and with a hint of something – spicier. Perhaps I’ll get it analysed later. Oh, and I did tell you to remain perfectly still. I notice that you are attempting to preserve a shred of modesty by covering your vagina with your hand. Please remove it – Mr Orange in particular will be most disappointed if he doesn’t get a good view.”

Supergirl did as she was told. “Thank-you. You may be sure that none of these gentlemen will touch you without permission, but I can’t deny them a good look. I think I’ll let it count as their bonus for tonight. Mr Orange; please take your hand out of your pocket. This is not the time for – oh dear, too late. You really should practise a little more self-control.”

To the extent that the lack of an erection demonstrated self-control, Jacob Royston was practising it. On the other hand, from where he stood he did have the best view.

“You wax, I notice,” he said at last. Supergirl said nothing. Actually she didn’t – never had. Neither had she ever needed to shave her legs or her armpits. She sometimes wondered whether this was a result of her alien heritage, or whether in Kryptonian terms she was still under-developed.

“Not that I object to waxing absolutely,” Royston continued, “though I generally prefer something more – womanly. And a slightly fuller figure. Still, I wouldn’t have missed this for a hundred points on the Dow Jones.”

He clearly enjoyed the sound of his own voice. “No doubt you’re wondering how I found this place? Simple – I just planted a tracking device on you. That last shot as you disappeared over the wall – a dart with a transponder attached. Very small – easy to miss if you’re not looking for it. Oh, it would’ve bounced off your skin; but the soles of your boots are made from ordinary leather. Quite a neat bit of marksmanship, even if I do say so myself.”

Supergirl groaned. Outwitted at every turn.

A small beep sounded. Royston took a pager from his pocket and read the message on it.

“Company,” he said. “Mr Pink, Mr White – places if you please.” Two of the goons left the bedroom, presumably to conceal themselves elsewhere in the apartment. Supergirl’s mind raced – she had to find some way of warning Barbara.

Royston seemed to have anticipated this. He stepped closer to the bed. “Not a sound, not a move, my dear – or the consequences will be terrible for you.” He bent over her, parted her lips with one hand and inserted the barrel of the colt up her vagina. It went in a surprisingly long way. “I’m not sure what will happen if I pull the trigger now,” Royston told her, “but since this is, I promise you, a customised bullet, I strongly advise you not to try to find out.”

Supergirl froze. There was the sound of a key in the lock; the door opening.

“Kara? Are you awake?”

Supergirl didn’t dare answer, and soon Barbara – Batgirl now – stood in the doorway to her bedroom, looking stunned.

“Kara! What the hell’s been going … mmmmmph.”

She never finished the sentence. From behind her, Mr Pink wrapped one arm round her waist and with the other hand clamped a cloth over her mouth and nose. Batgirl recognised the smell instantly and reacted almost as fast. She jerked her head backwards into Mr Pink’s face, stamped hard on his instep and drove her elbow into his ribs. He lost his grip on her and she turned to face him. Him and Mr White who was wearing a set of brass knuckles.

Barbara Gordon worked out twice a day. She was an inch under six feet tall, weighed a hundred and seventy-five pounds, and had muscles that would’ve shamed many an Olympic athlete. She was as supple as a gymnast, expert in several styles of martial arts (including the unofficial one known as fighting dirty), and as cunning as only someone who’d spent years fighting hoodlums could ever be. Any man she couldn’t beat by strength alone she could usually overcome by being faster, or more skilled, or smarter, or just more determined. And if any of those options failed there was a selection of gadgets in her utility belt that she could use to tip the scales in her favour.

Nevertheless, she was an ordinary human woman. She had no alien powers like Supergirl, nor was she semi-divine like Wonder Woman. Which meant that sometimes, such as when she faced odds of two-to-one with a lungful of chloroform inside her, she found herself at a disadvantage.

Not that she wasted any time bemoaning her lot. She feinted towards Mr Pink, twisted in mid-air and kicked Mr White in the stomach, driving him backwards. Without even seeming to pause, she swung a gloved fist at Mr Pink’s jaw; but the drug was slowing her and he blocked her strike. He threw a punch in his turn, which she ducked; and for a moment they sparred with each other, looking for an opening.

Then Mr White grabbed her, pinioning her arms, leaving her helpless to avoid Mr Pink hitting her in the stomach. Once, twice, three times. She braced her belly muscles against the blows but they still hurt like hell. Then he punched her on the jaw.

Or tried to. The old moves are the best, she thought, as she jerked her head aside, leaving Mr White to feel the force of his companion’s blow. He collapsed; but as she stepped away from him he swung a leg, catching her on the ankle and tripping her up. She went down on all fours, and had no defence when Mr Pink kicked her viciously in the ribs. The force rolled her over on her back, and then he was on top of her, kneeling astride her chest, and pressing the sickly-sweet smelling cloth over her face again.

Batgirl fought with the fury of a cornered tigress. She struggled and writhed, beat at her enemy, tried to claw the cloth off her face. But the chloroform was in her system, and he weighed fifty pounds more than she did.

From where she lay on the bed, still with two guns pointing at her and one inside her, Supergirl could only see her friend’s legs from the knees down. She watched in horror as they beat and kicked at the floor, struggled for purchase, for some sort of leverage. Watched as their efforts became slower and weaker. Watched as they twitched feebly one last time then lay still.

IX

“Well, well,” said Royston, “this is an unexpected bonus. We knew someone was helping you, of course; but to find out it was someone so distinguished – well. I don’t suppose Wonder Woman lives across the street, does she?”

Supergirl said nothing. Very few people are in a conversational mood when they have the barrel of a gun rubbing against their clitoris. Royston seemed to notice this odd state of affairs. Slowly, he removed the colt and sniffed at the barrel.

“Yes, definitely spicier. Now, I do hope you’re going to be a good girl and not do anything stupid. Mr Blue and Mr Orange still have their guns pointed at you; and if necessary your friend is quite vulnerable to a bullet made from ordinary lead. Remove her belt and put her on the sofa.”

This last sentence was directed to Pink and White, who picked up Batgirl’s unconscious body and lay it face-down on Supergirl’s sofa. It was very similar to the one in Barbara’s apartment, though upholstered in pale blue leather, rather than white.

Royston fetched a stool from the kitchen and sat down by the sofa. He flicked Batgirl’s cape aside and admired her prone form.

“Now, this is what I call a woman’s body,” Royston said, patting her muscular posterior. “No offence, my dear,” he said to Supergirl, “it’s just a matter of taste.”

Batgirl’s costume was made from no ordinary material, but obtained from a trusted source that even Supergirl didn’t know about. It was mainly rubber, though combined with certain other chemicals; resulting in a fabric which allowed Batgirl the freedom of movement she needed, whilst at the same time being tough enough to resist at least some of the consequences of fighting crime. Its best feature (or its worst, depending on your point of view) was that it tightly hugged every curve of Batgirl’s anatomy, so that even the muscle-groups showed through the material.

“Ah, wonderful,” said Royston. “The best ass I’ve felt in ages. Firm, proud and beautifully rounded. And the rest is pretty impressive, too.”

Supergirl watched in sick fascination as Royston ran his hand over Batgirl’s body; remembering her own treatment at his hands. She was glad that Barbara was unaware of what was being done to her. Stroke, stroke, stroke – and now Royston was reaching down between her thighs, groping towards a more intimate violation. And the worst part of it all was the cold, matter-of-fact way in which he did so. He hardly seemed aroused at all – wasn’t even breathing heavily.

Then Royston looked at his watch. “Do you know, I think we’ve just got time.” He stood up. “Prepare her. That armchair will do; but make sure you put it where her friend can watch.”

White and Pink tipped Batgirl onto the floor, and moved the sofa to the other side of the room. They then pushed a matching armchair into its place, side-on, so that Supergirl could see it from where she lay. Then they began to strip Batgirl’s costume off her.

“Be careful not to rip anything,” Royston told them; “that costume will be needed later.

White and Pink exercised the necessary care, but it was still only a few moments before Batgirl lay completely naked at their feet. Then for some reason they replaced her boots and gauntlets before laying her face-down over the back of the chair; head on the seat, arms trailing on the floor, buttocks in the air. Supergirl was reminded of her own position, draped over the steel pipe earlier. Royston was a man of particular tastes, seemingly.

Pink then left the apartment for a few moments, returning with a holdall, from which ropes were produced. Batgirl’s wrists were lashed securely to the front legs of the chair. Next came a steel pole about three feet long. Batgirl’s booted ankles were tied to each end. Then Pink produced a power-drill and a couple of brackets, with which he anchored the pole to the floor.

“I’m sorry about the damage to the carpet,” Royston told Supergirl, “but then you did bleed all over mine.”

He crossed to Batgirl and checked the arrangements. Satisfied, he nodded to Mr Pink. “Wake her.”

Pink produced something from his pocket and uncoiled it. It was a small whip, which he whirled once round his head before bringing it down with a crack on Batgirl’s stern. Her body jerked with the impact, but she didn’t otherwise react.

“Again.”

This time Pink brought the whip down so hard that it drew blood. Batgirl awoke with a stifled scream. It seemed to take her a few second to realise the predicament she was in, then she began to struggle against her bonds. Struggle uselessly.

“Good evening, Batgirl,” said Royston in the genial tone Supergirl had come to loathe, “I’ve no doubt you know who I am; but you can call me Master.”

“The hell I will.”

“Oh, but you will.” Royston ran his hand idly over Batgirl’s behind. “May I compliment you on a splendid physique, by the way?”

“Up yours, mother-fucker.”

“Oh dear. If you’re going to spout abuse, you could at least try to come up with something original.” He took off his jacket, which he handed to Mr White. He removed his tie, shirt, shoes – passing each item to his lackey, who laid them neatly on the sofa. Soon he was naked, standing behind Batgirl, who was twisting her head round, trying to see what was going on.

For a long time Royston stood absolutely still; then slowly, ominously, he began to grow erect. Supergirl, who could see him clearly, gasped. He was enormous. He bent over Batgirl’s squirming figure, reaching round her to feel her breasts and stroke her stomach. She could feel his ferocious member between her thighs, and braced herself for what she knew was about to come.

Slowly, deliberately, he entered her. Not as she’d expected, up the ass, but vaginally. On and on he came; six inches, seven, eight. At first Batgirl struggled; but then she realised that her movements must be stimulating him, so she forced herself to remain as still as possible.

The he began to move; in and out, in and out; slowly and deliberately. Batgirl clenched her teeth and tried not to think about what was being done to her. In and out, in and out; his hands gripping her abdomen. Now a little faster; a little faster still.

Batgirl whimpered. She did so, she told herself, because of the pain and the humiliation; but as Royston kept thrusting into her it crossed her mind – though it sickened her to think of it – that in other circumstances he could’ve been a really good lover.

On and on – three minutes; four; five. Though she fought to hold them in, little moans were forcing their way past Batgirl’s clenched teeth. Suddenly she thought of Simon. He’d been a pretty good lay – kind, considerate, gentle. Actually a little too gentle and considerate. She’d have to tell him some time – a woman wants to be dominated in the bedroom.

Well, up to a point, anyway. Royston was just a sadist; and yet, there was no doubt that he was stimulating her. OK; a sadist with a big dick. She told herself that she wasn’t really enjoying things at all; that it was just a matter of friction and physics. Nevertheless, her moans grew louder.

Six minutes; seven. A sadist with a big dick and staying power. Blood was rushing to her head and her bonds were cutting off the circulation in her hands and feet. The only part of her she could feel properly was her cunt. It was all there was of her; and it was building towards something.

She fought to hold it back. She would not demean herself. Would not. She cursed him, her words coming in gasps and in time with his rhythm.

“You – mother – fucking – bas – tard; - you – low – down – piece – of – aah – of – aah – aah – AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”

The orgasm she’d fought against so hard sent waves of fire through her body. Two strokes later he climaxed, and Batgirl’s brain almost exploded. Jesus, she’d never felt an ejaculation like it – it seemed like he was giving her half a pint. All control left her; she writhed against her bonds and screamed her head off.

Royton withdrew and wiped himself with a handkerchief proffered by Mr White. Then he got dressed, and was soon the image of a respectable businessman again – or would’ve been in more conventional surroundings. Panting, quivering and slick with sweat, Batgirl waited for what was next.

“Now, Batgirl,” he said at length, “what do you call me?”

“A mother-fucking rapist son-of-a-bitch.”

“Oh dear. Mr Pink, if you please.”

Pink plied the whip again. And again; and again. The crack of each stroke echoed through the apartment. After six strokes he paused.

“You will call me Master.”

“Fuck you.”

Six more strokes. Blood was running down Batgirl’s thighs and dripping onto the floor.

“Fuck you to hell and back.”

“I see I shall have to be more persuasive. Lighter please, Mr White.”

White handed his boss a cigarette lighter.

“They all smoke, I regret to say. Filthy habit; possibly the influence of Reservoir Dogs again. Still, it means that they carry useful items like this.”

He flicked it into flame and crouched in front of Batgirl. For a long moment he looked into the helpless superheroine’s eyes; then, with a thin smile, he held the lighter so that the tip of the flame played on Batgirl’s left nipple.

The pain was indescribable. Batgirl threw herself from side to side, trying to escape; but her bonds held her fast.

“Who is your Master?”

“Hnnnnnh.” Batgirl’s teeth were gritted against the agony; but she would not say it. She shook her head.

“Who is your Master?”

“AAAARRRGGH!” Batgirl couldn’t hold back the scream. A horrible smell began to fill the room. But still her pride held out.

“Who is your Master?”

“YOU ARE!”

X

Jacob Royston snapped the lighter shut and turned to Supergirl, for it was she that had answered him.

“Say that again.”

“You are the Master here,” said Supergirl in a quiet voice. “You are my master, and that of my friend. You have conquered.” Then; “Sorry, Babs, but I couldn’t let him do that to you any more.”

Still moaning in agony, Batgirl didn’t reply, nor give any indication that she’d heard.

“Interesting;” said Royston, “this instinct to put another’s welfare before one’s own. You would never have dreamed of saying anything like that if I was threatening you alone, but as soon as I direct my attentions to a friend of yours, you capitulate just like that. I can’t say I’ve ever understood the motivation – I’m just a rather selfish person, I suppose – but it’s a character trait in others I’ve found useful over the years.

“But anyway; now that we’ve established who’s the boss around here, let us move on. You will note that Mr Pink has his gun pressed to your friend’s skull; so if you do anything to displease me her brains will be on your carpet. And possibly on your conscience as well, though I’ve never understood that part.

“In any case, in the light of what we’ve seen this evening you might even enjoy what’s coming next. Mr White; the box if you please.”

White produced a small box which he handed to his boss.

“Yes, Supergirl, I know you’re trying to look inside it, but it’s made of lead. An unnecessary touch, as it turns out – but then I had no idea you had such a passion for dildos.”

Supergirl gasped, much to the amusement of her tormentors.

“Yes, a dildo,” Royston told her. “I realise now that I should’ve had it gift-wrapped, but never mind.” He opened the box and took out the sex-toy.

“Now, unlike yours – which, incidentally, strikes me as a rather mundane item for a superheroine to possess – this is rather a special dildo: modified rather expensively. It contains kryptonite, as I’m sure you’ll not be surprised to learn; but in addition it contains semtex and some basic electronics. Which means that if I press this button here;” he led up something that looked like a miniature TV remote, “then the semtex will explode. Explode inside your kryptonite-weakened body with results that will either be fatal or much, much worse.”

Supergirl fought to keep some measure of self-control, but she couldn’t stop her eyes from widening with horror.

“Yes,” Royston said, “it is a rather alarming thought isn’t it? But here you are,” he pressed the dildo into Supergirl’s hand, “please insert it.”

Supergirl’s jaw dropped. This was just too horrible. She’d expected Royston to do the deed himself but…but… She couldn’t move.

“Something the matter? You rather enjoyed playing with the other one, I thought. Oh dear. Mr Pink, I shall start to count. When you hear me reach the number three, you will shoot Ms Gordon in the head.”

He looked at Supergirl. “You shouldn’t be surprised. Of course I recognise Ms Gordon, without her disguise. I met her at the mayor’s charity ball last April, though I confess I was having trouble placing her until you addressed her as Babs.”

Somehow, Supergirl managed to feel sicker than she did already.

“Also – and please believe me here – I never bluff. Listening, Mr Pink? One. Two.”

“Wait!”

“Very well, I’m waiting.”

Slowly, reluctantly, and only too well aware of Mr Orange craning his neck for a better view, Supergirl pushed the ghastly object into herself.

“A little deeper, please. Splendid. No moans of ecstasy? No, perhaps that was too much to expect. Now stand up and get dressed, please.”

Once again, he astonished her. “I thought having women naked in front of you gave you a feeling of power?”

“Oh no; I don’t have to feel power. I have power. Right now, you’re just a naked girl; but in your costume you’re Supergirl; and having power over Supergirl is a new experience, even for me.”

For the first time, Royston seemed to notice the tattered shreds of Supergirl’s costume lying on the floor. He poked at them with his foot. “Oh dear; I hope you have a more presentable set somewhere.”

Supergirl considered not answering, but the leer on Mr Orange’s face convinced her she’d rather not spend any longer in the buff.

“Behind you; the wardrobe. There’s a false floor.” She told him where the release mechanism was hidden. He fumbled for a second, then held up a replacement costume.

“Ah, that freshly-laundered smell. Incidentally, where do you get these suits made? I mean, you can’t go into a regular store and tell them who you are, can you?”

“I tell them I want to go to a costume party dressed as Supergirl.”

Royston laughed. “You’re lying, but I admire your spirit. Now; taking care not to dislodge my little gift…” He handed over her leotard, her skirt, her boots; but when she held out her hand for her cape, he retained hold of it. “No, I think I’ll keep this as a souvenir. But do see to your hair, my dear – you look a mess.”

There at least she was forced to agree with him. She sat at her dressing-table and plied her brush until her blonde tresses were looking their best.

“Beautiful; now the irons.”

“What?”

“Well, I’ve noticed that even with kryptonite inside you, you can be elusive. So if you’ll just place your hands behind your back.”

Supergirl did so, and Mr Blue snapped a pair of handcuffs on her slender wrists. She tested them surreptitiously and found that she didn’t have the strength to break them whilst the kryptonite pulsed within her. Next, a pair of shackles were locked round her ankles; a two-foot length of chain between them allowing her to do no more than shuffle awkwardly.

“Good, you look splendid. Now sit down, please, whilst we attend to Ms Gordon. Oh dear, she seems to have fainted. No stamina, it seems. Mr Pink?”

The whip cracked again, and Batgirl jerked awake. Her bonds were cut, but her struggles were so weak that Pink and White were barely inconvenienced s they roughly removed her gloves and boots. Stunned and naked, she slumped on the floor.

“Now, Batgirl,” Royston told her, “as I’m sure you’ve noticed, Supergirl is at something of a disadvantage, and will not live more than two seconds unless you do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”

Wearily, Batgirl nodded. Royston indicated her one-piece catsuit, which she pulled slowly on.

“Excellent; that really suits you, I must say. Incidentally, you may be pleased to know that I rate you one of the top ten lays I’ve ever had.”

“Mother-fucker.”

“Please, I did ask you to be original. Now the gloves and boots. I like a woman in boots, as you may have noticed.”

As with Supergirl, Royston retained Batgirl’s cape, but allowed her to re-don her cowl. “But not the utility belt, I think. Don’t want any nasty surprises. Now the ropes please, gentlemen.”

More cords were produced form the holdall, and Batgirl’s wrists were firmly lashed together behind her back. Then her ankles were tied; and her knees. It was expertly done, and very tight; the cords bit into her flesh through her costume.

Then Royston’s pager went again. He glanced at it. “Ah, they’re ready for us. Shall we go?”

XI

Batgirl’s bound form was roughly picked up and carried out of the apartment. Royston gestured Supergirl to follow, and she awkwardly shuffled through the door.

Outside, Jacob Royston’s limo was parked; large, black, gleaming in the moonlight. It wasn’t the car that caught the eye, however; it was the chauffeur standing next to it. A woman – an astonishing woman; six foot six including her stiletto heels, clad in a black leather catsuit whose tightness revealed her physique to be as impressive as Batgirl’s, though not so muscular. The rest of her attire consisted of gloves, thigh-high boots and a peaked chauffeur’s cap under which her hair was hidden. Each of these items was also of black leather.

As soon as she saw Royston emerge from the building, the woman walked briskly up to him and went down on one knee before him, head bowed. He laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Yes,” he said to his prisoners, “she is rather spectacular, isn’t she? This is Miss Jacqui, my personal assistant. She can’t run an office like Miss Benson, but she has other talents. You may rise.”

Miss Jacqui rose and stood facing Royston, hands on hips, legs slightly apart. He fondled her crotch idly. “You wouldn’t believe where I found her,” he said. “Utterly squalid. Some people have no appreciation of beauty.”

Miss Jacqui said nothing; though her gaze was fixed on Batgirl’s body, which had been laid on the sidewalk. Her expression was not a friendly one.

“Oh dear,” Royston said. “Miss Jacqui is a most perceptive young lady and is aware that I have coupled with you, Batgirl. It makes her jealous. It is her one fault.

He fished in a pocket and brought out something. For one horrible moment, Supergirl thought it was the trigger device for the bomb inside her; but though it was of a similar design, it was different. It had one switch, which Royston flipped.

The effect was electric. Literally. Miss Jacqui was jerked backwards as if pulled by the wire. Her body thudded against the limousine, then slid to the ground where it lay thrashing and twitching uncontrollably. Her cap flew off, revealing a mane of long blonde hair. Flecks of foam formed at the corners of her mouth.

Royston flipped the switch back. The instant she regained control over her limbs, Miss Jacqui crawled – actually crawled – back to Royston. She grasped his ankle with both hands and began to lick his shoe, whilst at the same time undulating her hips so that her ass rose and fell.

“Master,” she said. It seemed the only word she was capable of.

“You see?” said Royston to Batgirl. “Everyone can be tamed. Even you, given time. Would you like that? I think you would, deep down. It is a woman’s nature, however much they try to deny it. Now, I’ve told you how much I admire your physique; so I’ll offer you an opportunity. Come and join Miss Jacqui and myself. You can be my deputy assistant.”

For a moment, Batgirl couldn’t answer. What Royston had just said was horrible – yet she remembered a couple of hours previously wishing that Simon had been a little more assertive in bed. There was, she reluctantly conceded, a kernel of truth in Royston’s philosophy, even he’d twisted it to perverted extremes.

Finally, she found her voice. “I’d rather die.”

“Then you shall.” Royston’s tone made it clear that he was making a statement, not issuing a threat. He looked down at the figure at his feet.

“You may rise.” Miss Jacqui got up, retrieved her cap, and stood at Royston’s side, her body-language screaming submission. “I forgive you,” Royston told her. “I know you are loyal. So I shall reward you. You shall send your enemy to sleep. Mr Pink, I trust you still have some chloroform?”

Pink handed a cloth to Miss Jacqui, who knelt astride Batgirl’s bound form and pressed it over her mouth. She panted almost in ecstasy as the helpless superheroine struggled frantically beneath her. Struggled briefly, then lay still.

“Into the car with her.” Batgirl’s body was dumped roughly into the trunk of the limo. Then Royston turned to Supergirl. “You’re wondering if I’m going to invite you to become my slave as well. I’m not. I admit that the idea pleases me, but practical considerations dictate that I dispose of you as soon as possible.”

Supergirl was put in the trunk beside her friend, and the lid was slammed shut. There was the sound of doors closing, and the car began to move.

“Barbara,” hissed Supergirl, “wake up.”

No response. There were, Supergirl knew, ways of dealing with chloroform. Not of negating its effects entirely, but of minimising them; of ensuring that you woke up before your enemy was expecting you to. A shock could do it – like being whipped on the ass. Typical, she thought; there’s never a whip around when you need one. Instead, she butted her forehead against the back of Batgirl’s head. There was a faint moan.

Not enough. Supergirl nuzzled her friend. Drove a knee into the back of her thigh.

“Hnnnnnnh...”

“Come on, Barbara.” Desperate times, she thought. Supergirl put her mouth close to Batgirl’s neck, and bit her. Hard.

“Hnnnh…Aaargh. What the?”

“Shh, Barbara; it’s me, Kara.”

“Kara? Oh god. Oh, my head. Where are we?”

“In the trunk of Royston’s car.”

“Where’s he taking us?”

“He didn’t say, but I don’t think it’s Disneyworld. Look – are you OK? I think I can get us out of here, but I’m going to need your help.”

“Am I OK? Well, I’ve been beaten, drugged, stripped, bound, raped, flogged, flame-grilled, and generally had a bad day. Other than that, I’m fine. Oh, and I think someone just bit me.”

“That was me.”

“What?”

“I had to wake you up somehow. I don’t know how much time we’ve got. Now, are you with me?”

Batgirl took a couple of deep breaths. “Sure. What do you want me to do?”

“Can you reach my cunt?”

“Kara!” Batgirl was genuinely shocked. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you swear!”

“And this is the fucking second time. Now, can you reach it?”

“I guess. Why?”

“Because there’s a dildo inside me. A kryptonite one.” Supergirl decided against mentioning the other little detail. “And unless you can get it out, I’m helpless.”

“Oh. Right then; here goes.” Awkwardly, Batgirl adjusted her position in the trunk to bring her hands level with Supergirl’s loins. “You know,” he said as she struggled, “when I first put on this costume I thought crime-fighting would be glamorous. How wrong I was. In fact, some bits are just plain yucky.”

“You think I’m enjoying this?”

“I certainly hope not. Can you roll a bit to your right?”

Though her wrists were tightly bound, Batgirl was relieved to find that she could still move her fingers freely. Working by feel, she reached under Supergirl’s skirt and groped for her vagina.

“You could’ve worn something crotchless,” she said, fumbling at the fabric of Supergirl’s leotard.

“If you make one more bad joke I’m going to shove something up you and see how you like it. Something with spikes.”

In truth, Supergirl was fighting an urge to vomit. The fact that there was nothing remotely sexual about what her friend was doing didn’t alter the fact that she was basically being violated. She had to force herself to lay absolutely still as Batgirl’s leather-clad fingers wriggled their way into her costume; prised her lips apart.

“Can you spread you legs any more?”

“I’ll try. How’s that?”

“Better. This isn’t easy, you know. There – got it. No damnation, it’s as slippery as hell. Oh God, I’m just pushing it further in.”

“Try again.”

“OK.” Fingers entered Supergirl again. “Nearly – look, I’m sorry; this is going to hurt.” With an effort, Batgirl forced her way deep inside her friend.”

“Oww!”

“Hold on.” She felt the dildo, got the tips of three fingers on it, gripped as hard as she could and pulled. Slowly it began to move; then with a rush and a little sucking noise it came out.

“Ohhhhh.”

“Kara; are you OK? It’s out.”

“Mmm? Yes, yes I know. Thank-you.”

“Don’t mention it. I mean really don’t mention it. Ever.”

“I won’t; but Barbara?”

“Yes?”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“Promise you won’t tell?”

“If you think I’m going to tell anyone about what’s happened in this trunk…”

“No; really promise.”

“OK, I promise. What is it?”

“Well, I hated having that – thing – inside me. But when you pulled it out; just at the last second it felt…”

“What?”

“Good. Is that bad of me?”

“Welcome to the woman’s world, Kiddo. It sucks; and half its inhabitants want you to suck as well.”

In spite of their predicament, Supergirl chuckled. “I’ve finally realised what I want,” she said.

“Non-fattening chocolate?”

“No; a man. A kind and generous man like Simon, only with a kryptonite dick. And yes, I did just swear again.”

“So you did. And you may say some more bad words when I tell you that, as far as I know, sensitive men with kryptonite dicks are rare in this world. Mind you, there is such a thing as genetic manipulation.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“You do that. Anyway; do you feel any better?”

“A bit. It’s going to take some time for the effects to wear off, though. How long do you reckon we’ve got?”

At that moment, they felt car came to a halt, and heard the sound of doors opening.

“Not very long at all, I’d say.”

XII

There was no time to say more for at the moment the trunk was suddenly opened. Supergirl was relieved to see that Batgirl had the presence of mind to feign unconsciousness; and hoped that her own costume didn’t show any sign of disturbance. Fortunately, the light was poor.

Supergirl was lifted out first. She looked around to see where she was. A construction site of some kind, though no the one where she’d dodged the bulldozers. A short distance from where the car had stopped was an area that was brightly illuminated. She tried to make out what was there, but the lights dazzled her. Freed from the influence of the dildo, she was beginning to feel a little stronger, but it wasn’t time to make her move just yet. There were still kryptonite bullets about; and she had to get Barbara out of this as well. Patience. She stood still, as if mutely resigned to her fate.

“Do you know,” said Royston casually, “I think I’ll take that skirt as a souvenir as well. Mr Orange?”

Mr Orange stepped forwards and fumbled with Supergirl’s belt. Fumbled deliberately, in an attempt to camouflage some surreptitious groping; but here Supergirl had an ironic slice of luck. As her skirt dropped to the floor, Mr Orange noticed that Supergirl’s remaining costume did not cover her crotch properly. Fearing that he’d disturbed it whilst fondling her, he pulled it back into place. Thank Krypton for stupid goons, thought Supergirl. He hasn’t even noticed that something vital has been removed.

Nevertheless, she was now wearing just her boots and her leotard, which was cut a little higher on the thigh than she was comfortable with under the gaze of so many pairs of eyes. Nakedness, she realised, was not a simple matter of how much clothing one wore. She’d worn bikinis on beach holidays many times, without giving it a second thought – even gone topless once or twice. Here, she would’ve felt naked in a suit of armour.

There was worse to come. “The collar, Mr Blue.” A stout leather collar was fastened round her neck; so tightly that she struggled to breath. Two steel rings, front and back, were firmly stitched into the collar. Then a length of chain was produced and one end was padlocked to the manacles that secured Supergirl’s wrists. The chain was then passed between her legs, and one link was clamped to the front collar-ring. The chain was pulled so tight that Supergirl had to bend forwards a little to ease the tension. Then a second length of chain was run up her back, linking the manacles to the ring at the back of her neck. Again, the tension was very great and she was forced upright, so that the first chain bit horribly into her crotch. She tested her bonds. She lacked the strength to shatter them just yet, but she could feel herself growing stronger. It was just a matter of time.

Royston’s gang then turned their attention to Batgirl. “She’s still out cold,” one of them said.

“Can’t have that,” Royston replied. “She’ll miss all the fun. The whip, Mr Pink?” Batgirl, still feigning unconsciousness, was lifted out of the trunk and laid across the hood of the limo, so that her ass presented a convenient target.

“Master?” Miss Jacqui suddenly asked.

“If you wish.”

Miss Jacqui draped herself over the hood, next to Batgirl. Royston took the whip from Mr Pink, and plied it expertly. First, he cracked it across Batgirl’s rear, and she jerked back into wakefulness; or at least pretended to. Then Royston whipped Miss Jacqui even harder. Three times he struck her splendid buttocks. Three times she yelped with pain; pain with more than a hint of ecstasy.

“Enough,” Royston said. “We have business to attend to. The party began to move towards the patch of light. Supergirl stumbled awkwardly along, due to the fetters, and the links of the chain digging into her vulva. White and Pink accompanied her, pistols at the ready. Blue and Orange carried the still firmly-bound Batgirl. Miss Jacqui walked close by Royston’s side.

When they reached the lights, they found that they surrounded a large rectangular depression, about two feet deep, the bottom of which was lined with concrete. Glistening wet concrete. Supergirl was made to stand on the edge with her feet together. A further length of heavy chain was wound about her shins, and fastened with another padlock.

“This, my dear,” Royston told her, “is what we call a pile. You did out a large hole and fill it with concrete to provide a firm base for the next stage of construction. As you can see; this pile is nearly done – we’ll pour the rest of the concrete tomorrow and wait for it to set. I’m sure you’ll be interested to know that the concrete already poured is about twenty feet deep. And that’s where you’re going, I’m afraid. You’re about to become part of the foundations of my latest venture.”

Supergirl said nothing. Her powers were returning; but slowly. Too slowly.

“When wet, concrete is a bit like quicksand,” Royston told her. “Now, there’s a myth about quicksand that says that anyone who steps in it sinks to their doom. This isn’t so. The natural buoyancy of the human body – Kryptonian body in your case – means that it is perfectly possible to float in quicksand, or indeed in concrete. Unless, of course, some extra weight is added. Which is where the chains come in.”

He gave Supergirl a push and she toppled forward into the pit. She hit the surface with a wet splat and instinctively tried to get her legs under her. Almost instantly she was up to her chest and sinking further.

“Goodbye, Supergirl. You may be interested to know that you’re not the first inconvenient meddler I’ve disposed of this way – though before you ask, Jimmy Hoffa was before my time.”

Struggling against her chains, Supergirl sank deeper. Come on. She was growing stronger by the second – but seconds were all she had left.

“They say that the more you struggle, the faster you sink,” Royston told her. “It seems that it’s true.”

Supergirl was up to her shoulders before the first link of the chain began to buckle. Nearly there; but also nearly gone. The concrete flowed lazily around her neck; and then a link finally snapped. Then another; and another. Her chin touched the surface. She tried to kick her legs, but the chain round her legs held firm, its weight dragging her down. She tilted her head back to keep her face above the surface. The concrete filled her ears.

Then the manacles parted. One hand was free. She tugged at the collar.

“Watch out boss; she’s getting loose. Shall I shoot her?”

“No; just watch. I think the concrete will win.” Nevertheless Royston reached into his pocket and pulled out the detonator to the kryptonite dildo.

Supergirl saw him with his thumb poised over the button. He didn’t know that pressing it would serve no purpose – but he didn’t need it. He’d been right. The pit was going to win. Supergirl was still trying to free herself from her chains when the concrete closed over her face. One of her hands clawed the air uselessly before following her down. The surface of the concrete heaved and bubbled for a few moments, then grew still.

Supergirl was gone.

XIII

“Kara!” Batgirl wailed, fighting uselessly against her bonds. Royston turned to her as if he’d temporarily forgotten her existence.

“Do you miss your friend?” he asked her. “Don’t worry – you’ll be re-united with her soon enough. Though not before you’ve provided us with a little entertainment”

“Going to rape me again?”

“No; I rarely repeat myself. Now have a little patience. The rope, Mr White, if you please.”

White produced a coil of thick rope from the limo. Batgirl wondered what it was for. It surely wasn’t needed to bind her any more securely. White walked past her, however, climbed some scaffolding by the edge of the pile, and looped the rope over a length of protruding steel. One end he tossed to Mr Blue, who caught it. The other he let dangle over the concrete that was Supergirl’s grave. Despite herself, Batgirl let out a gasp. At the end of the rope was a noose. A hangman’s noose.

“Get her on her feet.” Hands hauled Batgirl upright and stood her by the edge of the pit. Mr Orange approached her from behind and fastened something about her waist. Looking down, Batgirl was surprised to see that it was her own utility belt. It felt heavier than usual.

“Yes,” said Royston is response to her unasked question, “it’s been weighted. We’ve removed all your little toys – some of them most ingenious, I must say – and replaced them with rocks. Just the right amount, with luck.”

White and Orange joined Blue in holding one end of the rope, whilst Pink reached for the noose and tightened it round Batgirl’s neck. He then produced a knife with which he cut the ropes binding her knees and ankles.

“So that you struggle amusingly,” Royston told her. “I hope you won’t disappoint us.”

The rope was pulled up another inch or two. Batgirl raised herself on her toes, teetering on the very edge of the pit. Then the towering Miss Jacqui stepped forward. She put her mouth close to Batgirl’s ear and hissed into it. “He’s my master, bitch. No-one’s going to take my place.” Then she gave Batgirl a shove.

The art of the hangman is an ancient and arcane one. If the noose is fasted just so and the victim allowed to drop a certain distance before being pulled up short, then the neck is broken and death is instantaneous. On the other hand, if there is little or no drop, then the victim slowly chokes to death – a process that can take a surprisingly long time.

Batgirl struggled and jerked as she fought for oxygen. She flailed and kicked with her legs; she strained against the cords binding her wrists. She tried to will herself to hang immobile and wait for death; to deny Royston his last piece of gratification at her expense; but she couldn’t – her instinct for life was too strong. Though she knew it was futile, she fought on.

Royston stood beside Miss Jacqui by the edge of the pit, watching Batgirl’s death-throes. “Isn’t she a lovely sight? The hemp fandango they call it. And what a specimen she is; lovely thighs in particular. Not quite the equal of yours, of course, but still remarkable.” As he said this, Royston ran his hand up and down the back of his mistress’ thigh. She purred with pleasure.

“Of course, that costume helps. Note how it emphasises her contours and catches the light as she kicks. Perhaps you should dress in rubber sometimes. Would you like that?”

“If my Master pleases.”

“We’ll see.”

“Master?”

“Yes; I know what you want. And you shall have it tonight. Several times, I expect, as this has been a most diverting evening. But for the moment, patience. She’s doing remarkably well, wouldn’t you say? However, I do believe she’s weakening at last. Lower away, gentlemen.”

Batgirl heard none of his words. Her world had shrunk until it contained nothing but the rope and her windpipe and the lights which danced before her. So it came as an astonishment when her foot brushed against something. Just briefly; but hope flared up for a moment, only to be dashed almost instantly. There was something under her feet, but it was soft and yielding. Sweet charity; she was being lowered into the concrete. Already she was in up to her knees.

She continued to struggle. The concrete slowly consumed the thighs Royston so admired; the ass he’d whipped. Her stomach disappeared, her chest. Still she fought for life. The concrete was giving her a measure of buoyancy, reducing by a small degree the strain around her throat. But her weighted belt still pulled at her.

Deeper she sank. Her shoulders vanished; her neck, her chin, her mouth, her nose..

“Stop. Tie it off there.”

Royston was obeyed. Batgirl was up to her eyes in wet concrete; eyes that were wide with pain and rage – and fear. She kicked with all her might and managed to rise an inch or two; just enough to snatch a hurried half-breath, before sinking back. She kicked again; rose again; sank again.

A rhythm developed. Kick, rise, breathe, sink. Kick, rise, breathe sink. Great, she thought. I can keep this up for the rest of my life. Or, to put it another way, for about another two minutes.

XIV

Then she felt something; something under her feet. She couldn’t have touched bottom, surely? Royston had said that the concrete went down twenty feet. Wait – whatever it was, it was moving. Realisation dawned. Kara! It had to be; she was still alive, deep under the surface. What’s more she was free of her bonds, and was taking some of her friend’s weight.

Now Supergirl had risen higher. She reached round Batgirl’s waist and undid the utility belt, letting it sink into the depths. Next she grasped Batgirl’s wrists and snapped the rope that was binding them. Above the surface, Batgirl could still see Royston and his henchmen watching her. She knew she had to appear helpless and on the verge of death. Well, after tonight, that wasn’t hard.

Supergirl still had hold of one of Batgirl’s hands. She gently squeezed the fingers into a fist and teased the thumb out straight. It was a message – Supergirl was giving her the thumbs-up sign. All was going to be well; though how even Supergirl could get them both out of here with five armed men still watching over them and kryptonite in at least some of the bullets.

Still, she trusted Kara with her life – quite literally. Not that she had any option anyway. In spite of Supergirl’s assistance, she was weakening. Then she kicked but failed to rise. No more air! She kicked again. Supergirl was holding her down, so that her mouth and nose remained below the surface. Her eyes radiated genuine terror. Royston saw; and smiled.

She felt Supergirl reach for the noose. That must be it; she wanted to break the noose whilst it was hidden from Royston’s eyes, below the surface. Supergirl snapped the rope. Batgirl felt a surge of elation. She was free. Then Supergirl dragged her completely beneath the surface and held her there.

Supergirl clamped her hand over Batgirl’s mouth and nose. It was vital that no concrete got into her lungs. She knew she was taking an enormous risk, but there didn’t seem to be any alternative. She wrapped her other arm round her friend’s waist and held her with her super-strength and she struggled and kicked. She sensed Batgirl’s rising panic as she desperately fought for air. Sorry, Babs; no time to explain. Batgirl’s struggles grew weaker and weaker still. Finally, she went limp. Batgirl was dead.

Supergirl listened intently. Three minutes. That’s all she had. Three lousy minutes. Come on you bastards, take the hint.

“Rope’s broken, boss,” Mr Pink reported.

“That shouldn’t have happened.”

“Must’ve been a flaw in it. Anyway, she’s gone. They’ve both gone.”

“Seemingly.” There was a trace of doubt in his voice. Royston was no fool. No-one built a business empire like his by being gullible. Still, the surface of the concrete was smooth and unmoving.

“Clear everything away,” he said. His minions did as they were told and got into the limo. Royston lingered by the edge of the concrete, staring.

“Master?”

“Mmm?”

“Master has won a great victory this night. Master should celebrate. Master should take his reward.”

Jacob Royston looked at his slave. He felt a pang of regret that Batgirl had spurned his offer. What a pair they would’ve made. He could’ve made them wrestle naked in a pool of olive oil; with him as the prize. Still.

“Master?”

“Yes, time to go. I hope you’re ready to give of your best.”

“I exist only to serve my Master.”

Royston got into the car. Miss Jacqui closed the door after him, then got behind the wheel and drove off. Supergirl listened to the car go.

Fifteen seconds later, two heads broke the surface of the concrete. It was hard to tell which was which, but one was clearly dragging the other. Supergirl reached the edge of the pit, heaved Batgirl’s inert body onto solid ground, and climbed out after her. She bent over her friend, covered her mouth with her own, and breathed into her.

Nothing. She breathed again. Still nothing. “Come on, Babs, you can do it.” She pumped Batgirl’s chest, careful not to press so hard as to stave in her ribs. She breathed into her again.

“Come on, Babs. You’ve never given up in your life.” Breath. “Don’t let the bastards beat you.” Breath. Tears started to run down Supergirl’s cheeks. “Don’t say I’ve killed you.” Breath. “Wake up, Babs, please.”

“Hnnn..Kk-kk-kk.”

Batgirl jerked back into life, coughing violently. Supergirl threw herself on her friend, weeping with joy now. “Oh, Babs – well done. I knew you could do it.”

“Ohhh; my neck. Where are we?”

“You’re not dead.”

“I should hope not. If this is heaven, I’m very disappointed.”

“What have I told you about bad jokes?” Supergirl asked, laughing through the tears.

“OK. What happened?” Supergirl told her briefly.

“So you killed me?”

“Sort of.”

“And brought me back to life?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“I see. And you’ve got your powers back?”

“Nearly.”

“Good. And how long can a Kryptonian hold her breath?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think I could’ve lasted much longer, though.”

Batgirl lay back, luxuriating in the simple ability to inhale deeply. “OK,” she said at last. “What now?”

“Two things.”

“Yes?”

“First; we wash this stuff out of our hair before it sets solid.”

“Check. Then?”

“Then we visit Jacob Royston again. It’s payback time.”

Batgirl didn’t respond.

“Barbara? Are you with me?”

Batgirl took a deep breath, then smiled, her teeth showing white in her concrete-smeared face.

“You bet.”