Alley Kat

By Mr. K

1.

Next, you slide your right arm into the sleek sleeve of your costume and pull it up over your shoulder. You feel it conform to the sinew of your body and seal itself. Just as if it had a regular metal zipper, the self-sealing second-skin adheres to itself and against your body as though it were a second skin. It covers you as though it were a living thing.

“There we go.”

You pull your mask into place. You look at yourself in the full-length mirror.

“Ok,” you whisper aloud looking at yourself. You are covered in jet-black from your legs to your torso to your arms and neck. Your mask adheres itself to your face. The hue of your catsuit is a sleek, clean black that shimmers with a glossy sheen when the light hits it just right. Your stocking boots and gloves are stark white and also skin tight. There is not a single gap between your skin and the material of your costume; in silhouette, you look naked. There is a broad oval gap - an open space - across your cleavage. This is you again.

“Ok. No problem. Back in the saddle.”

You are Alley Kat again. Last night, once all was said and done, once they had done what they wanted to you, you were just Mel. Your costume was in tatters and you were a ragdoll. When they were done with you, you were soaking wet and wearing what was left of your catsuit costume in rags. You were just a woman named Mel who was happy to still be alive. You had been beaten, and your costume was tattered, but you were alive.

“I’ve got this,” you say aloud, looking at your reflection.

It isn’t like this was your first defeat as Alley Kat. It wasn’t as though this was the first time Vixen, your sister, beat you. It was late last year that she captured you, in fact. Gold, Night, Star, and you. All three of you were her guests in her mansion up in the hills that overlooks the city. As you stand there, tonight, smoothing your hands over the fresh costume, you remember that night. You remember waking up on the hard, cold floor of a cell.

“Wakey, wakey, little sister,” came your sister’s voice through the speaker in the ceiling. There was no mystery as to what was going on – she had lured the three of you there, trapped, isolated, and neutralized each of you, and now her games were going to begin. You look down at your hips and waist tonight, remembered that she had fit you with a chastity belt that night last year.

“Wake up, kitty cat,” you remember her laughing as you struggled up to all fours, then slowly, painfully to your knees.

“Like the belt? Here, let me show you something.” Your screams, you recall now, a year later, echoed in the metal walls of the cell. Your own voice sent agony through your own ears as a sudden torrent of pain radiated up from your captive crotch. You remember the way your body arched and writhed against the metal floor. On that night, your hips thrusted up, your palms slapped the floor, and you saw only the darkness and splashing colors behind your squeezed-shut eyes. It was while you were going through these contortions that your sister entered the cell.

“Hey, Mel,” she laughed. You could just barely hear her through your own screaming. There was a loud click, the pain ended instantly, but you still lay there, panting and cringing. You feel your muscles tighten again, now, tonight, as you remember how your vulva twitched and the muscles in your legs shuddered. That was then, but you feel it again, now - Vixen, loomed over you in her hip boots, her upper torso bare and slick. Her skin glistened with some mingling of sweat, lube, and musky perfume.

“Hey, sis,” you remember her laughing as she looked down at you that night. “How’s it going? You know, I loved capturing you. It was so cool when the electricity surged through the floor, up through your stocking feet … It was just cool capturing you and your friends. Look at how hard your big nipples are sissy poo!”

You are months away from when it happened – months away from when your sister ambushed you and the two other heroines. You are free, alone in your apartment, and in a brand-new black-and-white super-sheer cat suit. It’s almost identical to the one you wore on the night of that captivity. The only difference is that this one has been treated with a sort of resin. It wards off fire and chemical attacks better than the one you wore last night. It has a wet-look gloss to it. That isn’t why you look down and scan your body right now, though. Your recollection of how hard your nipples were, and how swollen your vulva was that night. You feel heat rising in your face. You breathe, imaging you can draw it down and cool it off. You will have complete control of your body, you determine.

You recall your sister’s laugh again, and how she towered over you. She wore a sleek, tight leather belt, from which sprouted the curved girth of a massive, black strap-on. She carried a riding crop.

“I’ve been entertaining your friends,” she said, smiling broadly. She reached down and took hold of the strap-on. “Well, truth be told, I’ve been fucking them. That’s what I mean by ‘entertaining,’ really. You got that, right? You were always were the one with words.”

You remember how you were still riding the crest of waves of pain as you watched her squeeze the strap-on toy. You had already noticed that the fake cock had a very real hole at the end. It was thick and veiny, you vividly recall, but, most of all, you remember that it had hole at the end like a real cock. As your sister squeezed and stroked, a small gob of pearly white fluid budded at the tip of the dildo. She smiled and squeezed harder as the gob turned into a thick, dripping streamer, and finally a stream that leapt past your face. It splattered on the floor with a loud, wet report.

Standing here now, tonight, you remember this being the moment you accepted your helplessness at the hands of your sister, Vixen.

“Get up on all fours like a good kitty,” she said.

Still standing, now, tonight, in your new, fresh costume, and remembering your captivity, you feel a tightness in your chest as you recall getting on all fours.

“Now, lick up that simulated cum that I put on the floor of the cell. Right there. Next to your face.”

You felt the burning in your cheeks then, and you feel it now.

“So, here’s what’s going to happen. You will wear this belt that I’m wearing, and I will put that belt that you are wearing on one of them. You will rape one of them – Gold then Night Star – as the other watches and wears the agony belt. Any resistance, or not putting on the show that I want, and I will torture the other. Get it?”

You were still gasping as you uttered “Y … yes.”

She made you rape both Gold and Night Star that night of your captivity. One would wear the pain belt and watch, be forced to watch, as you nestled between the thighs of the other and slid the strap-on into her. It was massive, and each captive woman screamed as you entered her. She made a porno of you doing it. Her were helpless that night. Again, here and now, you feel the heat rise in your face. You got through your captivity to her then. That was one.

You were captured by Elizabeth Chain just a week ago. She took you by surprise. You thought you were dealing with a rare and used book dealer – an average middle-aged woman in a frumpy sweater. You knew that a trans-dimensional portal had opened, a member of The Congregation has slipped through, and you were looking for the being. It was too late when you realized that her relationship with that portal was something very different.

The woman was small, and slender-fit. Demure. Her eyes glowing with a deep azure. Her red hair was in a tidy old-lady bob.

Standing here, preparing yourself for tonight with a new costume, you remember how she took a handful of your blond hair, reared you back and smashed your head into the wall of the bookstore basement. You remember the pain and the whiplash confusion in your mind as she snapped your head back and forth and back and forth. Tonight, as you prepared to go out, standing there in the quiet and peace of your apartment, you remember the pain and violence of that moment a week ago. Your head was spinning and your body growing weak as she slammed you over and over again.

You remember how she let you go, took a step back, and snapped a backfist across your face. She was a much smaller woman, and had to strike up, but her blow was still devastating. It sent you twirling across the room and into the bookshelf on the far side of the basement room. You sank to your knees. Your head sagged forward and, even now, you remember how weak and overwhelmed you felt.

Right here and now, during your quiet time of preparation, you recall her two-fisted blows and the pain in your back. As they slammed home between your shoulder blades, your back arched and your whole body buckled.

You remember struggling to your feet, only to have the older woman grab both of your breasts. Her face became a mask of joyful rage as she clutched them. Your breasts were … are … large. 38 D’s, she could envelop them in her small hands. So, she grabbed handfuls of your breasts, crushed them as though she were kneading modeling clay, and yanked back. She spun, planted her foot, and twisted her body. Again, a week later, you recall the weak helplessness as you were yanked off of your feet and crashed into yet another wall.

You were dazed, your head spinning, you remember, as she grabbed your breasts again, pulled your forward again, and slammed you back against the concrete of the wall. You screamed as she crushed your nipples and the sensitive mounds. You remember how your body stiffened with pain, and how your head reared back. The pain was so great that you had no control over your body.

“Whore!” she laughed as she whipped you back and forth around the room, slamming you against walls and bookshelves and tables. She dragged you and pulled you and flung you around by your big breasts. It was when she used you to shatter a small wooden table, that she let you go and let you drop. You lay on your side, semiconscious.

“Cunt!” she screamed.

You remember the frail older woman in the plaid skirt reaching down to grab you under one arm and between your thick thighs. She lifted you above her head that night. She kept you up there, enjoying the moment of holding you aloft like an object. A trophy. While you were up there, you looked down and realized there was a rectangular hole. The floor of the bookstore, this basement room, was dirt, and she had dug a grave in it. Thinking about it tonight, it amazes you that you hadn’t seen the whole picture to begin with.

You remember her snarling “Filthy super-powered cunt! The Congregation welcomes you!”

Right now, tonight, you remember the effortless way she lifted you over her head and tossed you from one side of the room to the other. You remember being upside down in the air, your legs spread, your arms hanging wide in the air, as your body crashed into one of the ancient book shelves.

The pain comes back to you even now.

“A normal woman would have had her back broken,” you whisper in the darkness of your apartment, feeling a sort of pain and empathy for the unnamed “normal woman.” Your powers weren’t enough to overwhelm her on that night, but they did keep you alive.

You remember how she finally mounted your prone body, pinning your arms with her legs, and wrapping both hands around your throat. Now, in your apartment a whole week later, you swallow and touch your throat gingerly as you recall her crushing and squeezing your windpipe. With two small hands wrapped around your throat, she squeezed until she was satisfied. With her face contorted into a mask if exertion and anger, she strangled you, all the while looking into your eyes. The burning in your lungs comes back to you now as you recall fading into blackness that night. What looked like a little old lady beat and choked you into defeat.

Preparing for tonight, you remember how she beat you that night. Preparing for tonight, you remember how she strangled you that night. Preparing for tonight, you remember how you woke up chained. You ended up wrapped in chains and packed in crate. Chains were coiled around your wrists, pinning them together, and chains pinning your arms to your sides. Chains zigzagged across your torso, and wrapped around your narrow waist in layers. I remember how she had formed a sort of chastity belt, running the lengths of steel links between your thighs and pulling them tightly up into your vulva. Your sex was still covered in the material of your costume, but she had taken the time to yank and wedge and pull the chain up until your thick lips formed a grip around it. You have a big, pouty outer lips that protrude, even in your skin-tight costume.

Through the black material, the chain was wedged tightly between your cunt lips.

She had tightly wrapped your thighs and calves in a separate set of chains that bit at you through the catsuit material and were held in place by several (you still don’t know how many) pad locks. The old woman looked at you, her face contorted by a snarl. As you remember that look from only a week ago, you look at yourself. Right now, here, in your apartment, your arms and legs are free. You are unbound, and empowered. You made it through.

You remember how, as you lay there, chained in a box that night, she reached up under her plaid skirt, rummaged a bit, and produced her panties. They were silk, and the same pattern plaid as her skirt. She held them up so that you could see the juicy gobs of fluid coating the inner crotch. They were soaked in her sex juices. She had been getting off on beating you.

“See that?” she said. You remember being helpless to stop her as she mashed the panties onto your face, making sure to cover your nose and mouth. Now, a week later, the deep, redolent scent of her cunt fills your senses again. You remember lying there, chained, with soaking wet panties covering your face.

“I’m going to bury you alive, bitch, right in that hole that I made in the floor. There. And when they, someday, excavate this place and find your remains buried in what was the basement floor of this bookstore, they will know that you died smelling my cunt,” she snarled. She stood, moved the lid into place and nailed it shut. I recall seeing the dim light suddenly blocked out. Your whole world was nothing but heat, cunt, helplessness and constriction.

You remember how you started to regulate your breathing and slow down your heart rate. You remember the sound of dirt being tossed on to the lid of your coffin. You were helpless then, and you made it through. You were beaten, chained, boxed, and buried alive, but you escaped. You defeated her. Eventually, you defeated her.

And there was The Horseman. The Horseman really had you, also. You remember being bound hand and foot, and draped over the haunches his steed. Your wrists were bound behind your back, your ankles crossed and bound, and joined to your neck with a length of rope. It was a simple hogtie, tight enough to hold you and loose enough to allow him to arch you as he did. You were draped across the rear of his horse.

“Your strength is gone, cat baby,” he laughed over his shoulder. “Gone, baby, gone,” you remember him singing over his shoulder to you. “And as we trot on in here,” he laughed, “you gonna’ see some other super bitches dun lost their powers, too. We’ve been picking off you bitches all day long.”

The was a hum and sizzling sound as the horse plodded its way into the ranch. Even though you couldn’t see it, that day, you knew what was happening. He brought you on to The Ranch, and when he did, he raised the force field of The Frequency. The whole ranch was covered in a dome of The Frequency. It was another of your sister’s inventions – a sonic hum and energy blast that seeks out the neurology of a superheroine’s powers, then deadens it.

Recalling all of this tonight, you realize just how helpless you were that day. You were hogtied on the back of The Horseman’s horse, with all of your powers out of your reach. You were being taken into a place in which no heroine super power would ever function. You look at yourself in the mirror, knowing that right now, you have super speed, strength, and agility. You have night vision and super hearing. On that day, though, you were just a blonde woman in a black catsuit, bound in ropes and awaiting her fate.

You remember him pulling horse to a stop at a hitching post. He got down, walked to the back of horse, and scooped you up. He flung you over his shoulder effortlessly, then gave you a bit of a tour. He would turn his body so that you could see all around you.

You had heard the calls and jeers and bro salutations when you first came into The Ranch. You could hear what you could only call the sound of men all around you. Now, you could see them. Dozens. Maybe more. They were all dressed up in work shirts, boots, and jeans. They wore t-shirts that were stretched across broad chests and thick arms. They chided and jostled each other.

“See these guys? These are The Men. These are the results of your sister’s genetic work. All of us. We were supposed to be genetically perfect soldiers, or some shit. That didn’t quite work out, but we’re still here. Theses guy aren’t what they were originally meant to be, but they are The Men. Just walking sex machines, all of us. Here, lemme’ show you one of your friends.”

Standing here, preparing to go out tonight, you remember every one of his words from that hot day. You remember the helplessness of your hogtied body as he walked you into a crowd of men. Some wore no pants. Some simply had their jeans open. All had their erect cocks out. Some were inhumanly massive. They all stood in a thick, multi-layered circle. They parted ways and cheered as The Horseman brought you through.

“’Cuse me, boys. I just want Ms. kitty cat here to see what’s in store for her.”

You remember the lump in your throat as he spun you around so that you could see around for you to see the center of attention. One of the men even assisted, grabbing the hair on top of your head and roughly yanking up so that you could get a better look.

“You know Dark Moon, right?”

You did. You do. You know the lush, curvaceous Latina heroine. She had powers not unlike yours – speed, strength, instinct, and durability. She also had an ability to read minds and anticipate actions. All of that was shut down now. She was

They had her laid out spread-eagle on a crude wooden table, her wrists and ankles bound. You could see the landscape of her body on the table that day, and, now preparing yourself, you remember how helpless she was and how helpless you were.

The first thing you noticed was what they had done to her breasts. She had … has … large, lush size 38 breasts, just like you. The two of you laughed about it once. You could see them on that hot day, covered in a thick coat of white. Grey-white. The curves of her breasts, the apexes, the peaks – where her nipples were, just below the skin-tight material - reminded you of over-frosted pastries. Like, the They reminded you of overly-frosted cinnamon buns. White ran down in streaks and gooey rivulets, but the very tops were dense with white paste. Thick, gunky, white frosting.

You remember how you moved your eyes down her body. A heightened ability to smell is one of your powers, and you could smell the salty musk coming from the coating that clung to her. Standing here now, in your apartment, your brain conjures up the smell again. You feel your stomach tremor and flop with a disgust for a moment. Man musk, brine, and whatever individual ones had been eating that day.

“The Horseman,” you whisper aloud in your apartment. You actually shake your head a bit.

Dark Moon wore a black catsuit as you do, but instead of having the feel and look of neoprene, like yours, hers was … is … more like pantyhose nylon. Her boots were liquid leather, black, and knee-high. The black of her costume was barely visible, now. A thick puddle of white clung to her midsection, to the cut definition of her abs. It ran down her sides and pooled around her. The thick muscles of her thighs, her calves, her boots – those places hadn’t garnered as much attention, but still had enough of a film that their blackness was muted to a dull grey.

Her face had been the prize. As you think of it, you looked at your own face, right now. You are fresh out of shower, your skin glowing from the scrubbing. Your mask is smoothly fit against the peachy color and classic contours of your face. High cheek bones. A slightly turned-up nose that an artist once called “celestial.” You, all of you heroines start off these missions clean and in-tact. You ponder how rarely you end up like Dark Moon did that day.

Her large chocolate eyes were closed in semi-consciousness behind her mask. They were smeared and caked with the salty white syrup. It pooled in the natural almond shapes of her eyes and clung to the raised space between them. Her nose had, evidently, been of less interest, but her mouth, her chin, and the space above her upper lip were caked. It ran like drool down her cheek and over her neck. It covered her mouth like overdone gloss. A string of it formed a bridge between her partially parted lips and rattled with each gentle breath that she took.

I remember The Horseman laughing “We love our bukkake around here. There’s something about being one of the brothers that your sister Vixen created. Everyone loves putting his bukkake contribution when we catch one of you supersluts.”

He turned a bit so that you could see around the ranch’s open space a bit more.

Just as there was a gathering of men around Dark Moon, there was one around a large A frame construction. Rope hung down from its zenith. Sets of rope. They hung down with tension and tightness. A woman hung on their ends. Each of her breasts was severely secured in tight loops of the rope. Large like yours, her breasts were squeezed, pulled upward, and were turning purple in the death grip of the rope. She hung in midair, suspended by her breasts.

Like you, she had thick, curvy, muscular legs. You remember how the muscles of her thighs and calves flared out in all of their density. With the ankles secured together with rope and what appeared to be an oversized bowling ball secured to that rope, her legs couldn’t help but present themselves with their thick muscles flexed. Painfully flexed.

Her wrists were bound behind her back.

Her boots were jet black. The left leg, the left side of her catsuit all the way up to her collar, was black. The right side of the woman’s catsuit was magenta. Not pink. It was deep magenta. This was Pulsar Queen. Even with her catsuit torn open and undone so that they could bind her breasts, you could see that it was Amy, Pulsar Queen.

Her ability to emit energy blasts and all of her other powers were subdued by The Frequency. She was woman with thick reddish-chestnut brown hair, suspended by her breasts and painfully awaiting her fate. She moaned through clenched teeth and gave the occasional guttural groan.

The men that surrounded her were doing more that enjoying the sight. There was a vat just to the side of her suspension site. It was literally a black cauldron. It was the sort of thing witches use in children’s cartoons. The Horseman spoke again, that day. He was still just as happy and casual as he could be.

“So, the way your sister designed us, we – The Men – just produce gallons of semen. More than normal human men produce in a lifetime. We produce inhuman levels of testosterone. We expire very quickly. Notice, none of these bros look particularly older or mature. The heart can only take so much. Anyway, between what we have to let off, what she used in experiments, and the simulated semen she made in over experiments … well … we got a surplus.”

You remember how he jostled you on his shoulder, enjoying the heft of your curves and the bounce of your long blond hair.

“You see we got Pulsar Queen strung up by her big titties, and we’re fixin’ to … well you see.”

The cauldron was full of cum that was starting to boil over the open flame.

“And look over here.”

Just as there was the gathering of men around Dark Moon, there was one around what was clearly a spit. A rotating spit. It was the sort of thing you would use to roast a whole side of beef – a whole chuck of an animal. Gold was tied to the spit. Her long, strong body - lean and large-breasted - her thick blond hair -coiled and tied to the spit as though it were rope – Gold was tightly pinned to the rotating metal of the cooking contraption. There was even a broad glowing heat source below her.

One by one, The Men would take turns dipping a ladle into a vat that was fill of their pungent, white spunk. Each would lift it, raise it above Gold’s body as it rotated her up to face them, and pour out a thick stream on to her. Some would coat her face. Some would run between her breasts, or across her tight midsection, or over her thighs.

Gold’s costume was a liquid magical sheath that coated her like body paint. When it was at full power, she was invulnerable. When the power was down, she was nothing more than a six-foot-tall naked woman painted gold. She gasped for air and screamed occasionally as the heat grew hotter and the cum was distributed all over her.

“Well,” said The Horseman that day, as he carried you over to a group of men who stood around a wooden platform. “It’s your turn, Alley Kat.”

Standing here now, you can remember every sight, and smell, and taste, and touch of your moments of defeat.

You were able to escape your sister, Vixen.

You were able to escape, Elizabeth Chain burying you alive.

You were able to escape The Horseman.

You got through last night’s defeat at the hands of your sister.

You are ready to go out now.

Tonight, it will be different.

Last night, you started out as Alley Kat just like now, didn’t you? Everything was in-tact. You drove your cycle close to the place that your sister had set up as a lab. You appeared out of the shadows, and saw the looks on their faces. Your sister. Her minions. Her creations. They had looks of shock, even fear, as you confronted them – all of them except your sister.

“Oh, look, guys,” Vixen said with her usual smooth tone. “It’s my little sister. Let’s greet her.”

They – the people in your sister’s club -beat you resoundingly. The battle left a swath of material torn across the right sleeve and shoulder of your black body suit. After the battle, your mask was torn and there were slashes in the jet-black material of the legs. After the battle, when you pulled yourself from the river, you had your right breast exposed and jutting free. You were beaten and soaked, the icy air assaulting every sodden inch of you.

That was then. Then, you were her beaten little sister. Now, you are Alley Kat again. You have pulled out another costume, this one with the glossy resin, and you have prepared yourself. Again.

With this new costume on and in-tact, you are Alley Kat again. Last night’s costume ended up like last night’s mission – in tatters. You have your sister and her friends to thank for that. You give yourself a moment to recall finally making it home, crawling through your bedroom window, and allowing yourself to collapse on the floor.

You look back, from your bathroom to your bedroom, and look at the place beside your bookshelf where you lay for you don’t know how long last night. You could still feel the places where the energy blasts shot through you. You remember feeling the places on your throat where they choked you, strangled you to the point of unconsciousness. You remember the pain in your jaw, your back, your belly from the blur of kicks and punches that one of them – the big man that your sister genetically engineered - landed on you. He was a massive man, but moved like water.

“You like my new friend?” you heard your sister laugh as you tumbled into a wall and sprawled to the floor. You remember the unyielding stone and how it drove a groan out of you.

“You sound like you’re cumming!” she laughed. “You cumming, little sister?”

You remember how your mind, your body, could barely keep up with his spinning kicks and spinning backfists. As you put yourself together tonight, you remember hitting the wall, last night, with such force that the stone cracked behind the impact. Your super physiology saved you from any sort of real injury, but you reeled from the pain. You reeled more and more as one kick after another punch, after another kick landed on you.

You remember how your head snapped back, then to the right.

You remember how you doubled over, the wind rushing out of you.

You remember how your legs buckled, finally, a blow crashing down on your back.

As you recall last night, you remember hearing yourself exalt in pain and double over, again, as he drove a kick into your midsection. As you fell you heard him calling to your sister.

“Vix! Your sister didn’t seem quite ready for us!”

“Yeah,” you remember your sister laughing. “She’s tough, but we’ve got her.”

You were on the floor, face-down. Every inch of you throbbed and your body begged you not to stand again. There was anger and shame burning along with the pain in your muscles and bones as you tried to push up from the floor last night.

“There you go, sis. Try.”

You were painfully coming up to all fours, last night, as she knelt by you. You remember how she spoke through the curtain of blond that was draped around your face.

“We aren’t done with you yet, little sister. That was Mace who was beating you. I worked on his nervous system to increase speed, power … all of that.”

She looked up and yelled out.

“Magick! Show her what I engineered you to do!”

She leaned down again and whispered into your ear again. “I’ve done some funky stuff with her brain just like I’ve done some funky stuff with Mace’s body.” She moved away, and the lean young woman in the sky-blue catsuit stepped in front of her.

“She’s so sexy,” the woman quipped in her British accent. “She’s a sexy wexy, isn’t she?”

“She’s 38-26-41, my sister is. Oh! 5’7”

As you stand in the darkness of your apartment tonight, you remember trying to crawl last night – trying to crawl during your beating, trying to crawl as the woman called Magick taunted you. Standing was out of the question. “Look at the kitty crawling,” Magick, the woman in the blue body glove laughed. “Bad kitty!”

Magick spoke again, this time raising her hands. She clapped her palms together.

“Hocus pocus!”

You remember a tidal wave of force. Suddenly, you felt fragile, weak, and light as kitten as a giant hand gripped you and pulled you upright. Suddenly, you were on your feet, swaying. Whatever the force was, it had you up and it had you rigid. Your arms were rigid at your sides. Your legs were rigidly snapped tightly together. You remember how you let out a groan. You were a doll.

“Frost bite!” said Magick.

There was a howling sound in your ears, and your skin was suddenly tingling, then stinging. Your body became crusted with ice. A film of frost formed on your costume, then through it, and then below it. Your thick, blond hair was suddenly crusted and heavy with ice. This was more than just frozen water, you realized; it was able to paralyze your muscles completely. Every muscle. Every fiber of every muscle tightened into stiff, spastic stone. You were frozen. You were a statue, frigid, and locked in place. You were frozen.

“Look at you, sis!” Vixen laughed.

You remember how they all laughed, and how Magick used her next power.

“Heat wave!”

Instantly, the ice was gone and your body was engulfed in searing heat. Your muscles were free, but threaded with agony as you suddenly knew what is was like to be set aflame. There was no fire at all, but Magick convinced every nerve in your body that you there was. You screamed, flinging your head back. As far as you knew, you were engulfed in flames.

“Dirty girl!” she snapped.

The fire pain left you instantly, and you came. The fire suddenly disappeared and was replaced by a massive surging between your thighs. It was the muscles of your vulva, your clit, your passage, contracting and thrusting, tremoring and convulsing. It was your clit suddenly thick and swollen, standing erect and vibrating. Your nipples were suddenly hard as well. Again, every muscle in your body went stiff and, again, you screamed. Your whole body quaked, and you screamed.

The force let up just enough for you to clamp both hands over your mound. You felt the molten juice squirt and shoot through your costume and between your fingers. Your cunt gushed down your thighs and into a puddle on the floor. You screamed.

Preparing to go back out as Alley Kat tonight, you remember the way your sex was flooded. You remember how it felt – powerless and red-faced-shameful – as your skin-tight costumed legs and stocking boots were suddenly soaked with your own warm juices. Soaked.

Soon, the surging tremored between your ass cheeks - in your anus. You even felt it in your mouth. You recall what a shock it was when you spurted even more violently, when you gushed anew. Ripples ran up your body as sex poured down your thick legs. You could feel a hot puddle forming around your feet.

Next, you screamed even louder and clutched your breasts, digging your fingers into the firm mounds. You could feel how hard your own nipples were. Even now, a day later, your clit throbbed and you felt weakness in your legs.

That was only part of your defeat last night.

Now, tonight, you open the window, letting in the cold. Your muscles are back now, supple and firm now. They are superhumanly strong and flexible again - but your body still remembers being under the control of our sister’s little crew last night.

You remember the next one stepping up. It was a frail -looking young man with a pony tail. His body swam in a concert t-shirt. He looked like a kid who waited on you once at the electronics store.

“This is Pulse,” laughed your sister. “I’ve engineered him to harness some special powers. I used one of dad’s old formulas. Pulse.”

“My name’s Eugene.”

“I renamed you with the new powers! You’re Pulse! Now, do it! Zap her!”

He shuddered physically at the sound of her voice, and some sort of red flash leapt from his hands. The orgasm was replaced by a pain so complete that you still have a hard time comprehending what actually happened. All you remember now, standing here in your apartment on the next night, is feeling your stocking feet leave the floor. A power went straight through you, and every nerve reacted with overwhelming pain. The world was a blur, the world was pain, there was the sudden sounds of shattering glass.

You don’t remember actually crashing through the window, not the feeling of it. You just remember the sudden sound, the icy air, and freezing embrace of the river accepting you. You had been blasted through the window and had fallen into the muddy, polluted river of the city. Semi-conscious, you sank into the water.

You remember the current pulling you along, flipping you end over end underwater.

Somehow, you made your way to shore – to a muddy drop-off behind a junk yard. You were able to figure out where you were, and navigate on foot, sticking to the shadows, back to where you had stashed your motorcycle. Tattered, beaten and soaked, you sped back to your apartment. Now, it was time to go looking for your sister.

You had survived, and it was time for round two.

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