Humiliatrix - Cutlass and Snare

by Mr. K 

“Jeannie! Hey!”

 

The lean, buxom blond broke her stride and petered to a halt when she heard her name. The shopping mall’s Saturday crown continued to flow around her as she stopped. A quick look around, and she determined who it was that had called her.

 

The woman was Latina, and maybe an inch or so taller than Jean. She was dressed a lot like her, also wearing tight jeans that fit the sleek contours of her long legs. Instead of tucking them into high leather boots as Jeanie had that day, she let them drape down over high heels. Her t-shirt was black, versus Jeanie’s tight, white top, and had some elaborate designer insignia scrawled across it. A logo that looked like an old-time sailor’s tattoo rode the contours of her wide bust.

 

Her full-lipped smile was a wet, glistening red; the lips seemed to actually glow. She called Jeannie by name.

 

“Yeah. Hello, uh….” The blond fished in her memory to try to recover where she had met with woman. No bells were going off for her.

 

“Marta,” she woman said with a nod, acknowledging that her blond counterpart had no clue who she was.  “My name is Marta.”

 

She extended a manicured hand, the nails of which gleamed with the same red as her lips. Jeanie took it and greeted her, still pondering whether she actually knew this woman.

 

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Jeanie. You have a quite a reputation in our little corner of the world.”

 

Jeanie cocked her head quizzically to one side.

 

“You’ve made quite a name for yourself, Snare,” she smiled using Jeannie’s nom de guerre.  “You’ve put some major criminal organizations out of business. You destroyed some big-deal bad guys. Good job.”

 

She clapped those manicured hands together in a slow, deliberate singular applause. All the while, her head was tilted to one side, her face still glowing with that wide sardonic smile. Jeannie felt naked as a rush of impulses surrounded her. She wanted to do everything from run, to belt this woman right in the mouth. This trip to the mall was going south quickly.

 

“Listen, Jeanie, I’m a costumed sort, also. You’ll like it when you see it, all-black, skin-tight, very sexy.”

 

She rode her hands down her figure, her large breasts, her tiny waist, and her wide hips.

 

“So, I’ll get to see it, huh?” She was finally able to muster some words.

 

“Yes, when I come for you. We could probably have a great fight; we both use usual weapons. Sadly, I will get the drop on you. You won’t get much of a chance.”

 

There were a few “excuse me” moments as people walked around the two, but, for the most part, they were in their own world.

 

“You sound pretty confident,” Jeannie quipped.

 

“I am,” said Marta. She had long-since stopped clapping and was standing with her hands on her wide, curvy hips.

 

“You see…” said the caramel woman with the long, thick, black hair. There was a sudden blur, and she was suddenly nose-to-nose with Jeannie. The blond was barely able to perceive the other woman’s movements. “I’m very fast.”

 

There was no time for Jeannie to turn her face to clamp her mouth shut. The woman’s lips seemed to simply pry the heroine’s open, and her tongue invaded. The darker woman’s eyes slid shut as she tasted the inside of Jeannie’s mouth and embraced her. Jeannie’s blue eyes were wide with shock, and her body stiffened, but she was in no way prepared to resist.

 

And then Marta was gone. Not a trace.

 

Dazed, the blond stood there, her mouth moist, half hearing the comments of this person and that. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and slowly paced away to finish her shopping.

 

Though she was still mulling the gorgeous woman over in her mind six hours later, she was doing it in the back of her head.  With the villain called Snakehead facing her from across a room of frightened, scattering banquet guests she had greater worries. With this massive, super-powered mercenary attempting to abduct the scientist who was the guest of honor at this banquet, she had greater worries.

 

The ocean of tuxedos and evening gowns parted, upsetting tables, and Jeannie, now Snare, faced down her foe. It was a classic super powers show-down; the people in regular street clothes faded away, leaving the two costumed sorts to face each other.

 

He was a powerfully-built Asian man in a skin-tight costume of what appeared to be reptile scales. He smiled behind a half-faced-hooded mask like a gloating predator. She wore a radiant, purple skin-tight body glove with a V of bare skin that plunged from her shoulders to her waist. It clung to the contours of her large breasts and her sharply-defined sinew as if had been pained over her. She was tanned, and her skin stood out against the lucid purple of her body glove.

 

Around the thick, lean muscle of her left thigh was fastened a flexible purple band. It was barely perceptible against the purple of her skin-tight costume, but it held her kali sticks to her right leg. An identical band held a coiled length of silk-like, super durable purple rope.

 

She moved in high-heeled boots as if she was a fighter in bare feet on the smoothest of dojo floors.

 

“I guess you aren’t going to come quietly,” she called out to Snakehead.

 

“Neither will you when I fuck you in front of all of these people,” he laughed back.

 

“That’s … That was clever. I have to give you that. Very nice.”

 

“Look, just let me take the old science dude. I was hired to take him; let me take him and we will be done. These nice people can even get back to their nice party.”

 

Snare tilted her head to one side, making a mock quizzical look. She touched an index finger to her chin, made a thoughtful pout, and frowned behind the purple band that arced across her forehead, her eyes, and her cheek bones.

 

“Hmmmm. Let me check. Nope. That won’t be happening.”

 

Snakehead could fly. He had clocked himself as moving as fast as a F16 when need be. Snakehead flew in the banquet hall that night. He grabbed a wayward glass of champagne, gulped it, and soared towards the tall, busty blond with his fists thrust out in front. The scientists and guests in their formal attire would only remember him as a green blur.

 

Snare wasn’t a flier. She was endowed with super strength, speed, and agility, but she was not a flying super heroine. Be that as it may, she went airborne, shooting straight up in a leap and shooting her legs out to either side. The big Asian soared fulls speed ahead, zipping under the wide-spread legs of the heroine. 

 

She touched down lightly as the big man crashed into the wall, bringing down plaster, glass and steel. Snare was already in motion, spinning and lashing out a vicious kick. Snakehead was on the attack, dodging back towards her, and caught the blow in the side of the head. His skull snapped sideways, and he fell, face-first, into a table.

 

He rose and she struck him in the ribs, the throat, the face, the skull with her two kali sticks.  The on-lookers would remember only a purple blur and a blizzard of blond hair.

They would remember the big man sprawling out on the floor.

 

“Ok,” he groaned, touching the back of his hand to his mouth.

 

“Ok, guess I’m going to have to take you out of the picture, bitch.”

 

There was another blur as he came to all fours and shot forward like a jet again. He had a clear shot at the lean lines and definition of her narrow waist, and then he collided with her. He wrapped his arms around the midsection of the woman in purple, and heard her give a pained exhalation as he soared upwards.

 

Snare felt him pull her into his shoulder, and she clutched her fighting sticks as they both crashed through the ceiling and into the night air.

 

“Gonna’ hafta’ take you out of the picture.”

 

Snare gritted her teeth and gave herself up to the fact that she was helpless in his arms. It was like she was carried aloft by a rocket, and she could only wait for him to let her go. Just as she expected, he decided that high above the city’s convention center was the best place to simply let her go.

 

“So long sweety!”

 

The large-breasted blond found herself upside down, the icy air of the autumn night whistling past her ears as she went into a dead drop, straight down. She didn’t cry out, or tense her body. She didn’t lose her composure. She didn’t drop the kali sticks. Things like bounding off walls and dropping from on-high were common for her.

 

A wash of calm came over Snare as her body rushed to meet the rooftop. Snakehead was hovering just above, gloating with a wide grin, until he saw Snare tuck her body into a tumbling ball, and grabbed hold of a flag pole, letting her weight bend and flex it. It snapped back, she tumbled again, her knees pulled up to her chest, and she came down in a three-point landing on the roof’s surface.

 

Blond hair whipped like a banner.

 

She stood as the villain landed on the roof not far from her.

 

“Nice,” he laughed.

 

She didn’t quip back. There was a rushing and a huff as Snare darted towards him, moving in a zigzag, running at top speed.  His eyes were tracking, and her hers were following him when she felt her legs giving up on her. She felt a sudden tension and tightening as something coiled itself around her ankles. In those split seconds, she looked down and saw the blur of a rope and two weighted balls spinning and wrapping around her ankles.

 

Someone had trapped her with bolos.

 

The momentum of her run , and the sudden paralysis of her ankles sent the blond heroine toppling forward. Now, she did lose her grip on the weapons, and she felt her wind being knocked out as she hit the concrete. Snakehead watched in joyful disbelief as another set of bolos, and another came out of nowhere. They were fast, whipping through the air with a sharp zipping noise and coiling themselves around the blonde’s lush body.

 

Snare was struggling to sit up-right and undo the rope that held her ankles, when the second and third came twirling in from nowhere. The woman released a pained groan as her arms were pinned to her sides and, and her knees were trapped together. Snakehead took a moment to notice how large and firm her breasts were as another weighted rope coiled beneath them, and then the last bolo attached itself to her.

 

This one found her neck. It twirled and coiled around her throat, wrapping a long tense cord in layers against her costumed skin. Just as the others had, this bolo’s balls wrapped around each other and as the rope tightened, only this one was different. The balls exploded, and Snare was treated to a face full of paralyzing green gas.

 

“Uhhhhh,” escaped her lips.

 

She inhaled, gasping and shaking as a toxin from deep in the jungles of Brazil flooded her system. There was moment of angry resistance as she felt her muscles going slack. Something in her still had to struggle, even if the situation was hopeless. It was that way when Ironsites shot her with poison darts, and when Boa smothered her with her crotch. She struggled again, but the numbness in her limbs, in her face, in her let her know that the fight was over.

 

Her eyes slid shut, fluttering, her red mouth hanging open, and Snare slowly tilted over backwards. When the struggle was over, she lay on her back, tied at the ankles, tied at the knees, tied around the midsection, where her arms were pinned. Her face was dusted in a mask of green powder, and she was unconscious.

 

Snakehead watched the bolo mistress emerge from the shadows, striding with those long legs on those high heels.

 

“Matadorrrrra!” he laughed. He rolled his r as she took a bow. Marta was in costume now, the costume he always called her “oil slick outfit.” Wet-looking, and clinging to her statuesque body like a gleaming, black, liquid flow, the costume was more like glossy, black skin than fabric. Horizontal green, red, and yellow stripes cut across her bust.

 

“How you been, baby?”

 

The man in reptile skin embraced the woman in black. Snare lay on her back, sleeping in her bonds as the two villains did some catching up. They hugged and kissed over her beaten body. He pulled Matadora’s massive bust up against his powerful frame.

 

“So, what’s going on, baby? You out collecting?”

 

She nodded a “yes” and glanced down at the unconscious blond.

 

“Humiliatrix wants her, and I guess you are collecting some crusty old scientist for …. Whom?”

 

Snakehead smiled.

 

“For certain interested parties.”

 

They both laughed, and then looked down at the bound woman in purple.

 

“You did a great job, Marta. Lemme’ fuck her before you take her, ok?”

 

Matadora swept her hair to one side and rolled her eyes.

 

“Always the same. You want to do her like we did … What was that bitch’s name?”

 

“Night Star. The redheaded bitch thought she could fight both of us.”

 

“She did pretty ok for awhile, and then we took care of business. Do you remember how she spurted?”

 

Marta knelt to tend to her newest captive while Snakehead recounted how a pair of bolos that let out a burst of UV light was enough to bring Night Star down. Snakehead recounted how much he liked her footed, black cat suit with its dusting of star-like sparkles. He went on about how he dragged her by her ankles, then slammed the redheaded heroine down on a tanning bed, and flung her muscular, gymnastics legs apart.

 

Matadora very meticulously undid the bolos that bound Snare. She took Snare’s rope from the thigh holder in which she kept it, and carefully used it to bind the fit, tall blond. Her fingers rubbed the rope material as she went. It was smooth.

 

As she gripped the woman tightly and pulled hard with the rope against her body, Snakehead mused about how the juices shot of Night Star’s pussy as he used his cock as weapon on her gushing pussy.

 

This was a favorite tie-up position of Matadora’s; she pulled Jeannie’s knees together and up to her chest, running one of the kali sticks behind them. She pulled the captive into a tight ball, and used the woman’s own rope to bind wrists to ankles and ankles together. She made it a point to wrap the length around and below the high heels of her prisoner’s boots. She wrapped the rope around behind her neck and tied yet another down below her knees.

 

Snare was tied in a tight coil.

 

“I love the fact that this bitch comes with her own rope for taking her prisoner.”

 

Snakehead was still going on about how Marta ate Night Star’s pussy until the squirting started again.

 

“Snake,” she broke in as he continued to muse. “Don’t you have an old science guy to capture? Oh, did I say you could do that?”

 

Snakehead had freed his massive cock and was kneeling over Jeannie. His girth was huge, and a pearly drop of precum was already forming at the thick head. It was a joy for him to let that monster out; it was written all over his face. Snakehead had fucked one super heroine after another, even if he’d been defeated by them later. Now, he wanted to put it in Snare.

 

His fingers fumbled with her wide, sensuous lips, pulling them apart and pulling her mouth open slightly. He repositioned himself and lowered the stiffness into her open mouth.

 

Snare’s lips were a gleaming, wet red, and they formed a moist circle around the meat. She would have no recollection of the big, hard erection going all the way to the back of her throat. She would gag in her sleep, but she would recall nothing.

 

She wouldn’t know that Matadora scooped her up and put her over one shoulder. The villainess lifted her as if she was an infant, and pulled her hair to one side. Jeannie was hung over her shoulder, sleeping and helpless. It was time for her to go.

 

First, she kissed Snakehead on the lips. Then, she simply leapt away with Snare over her shoulder. Matadora couldn’t fly either, so she leapt with superhuman speed and agility from one rooftop to another.

 

She had more work to do.

 

The three sisters came to a church. It was an old church that had been built in the early 19^th century, and was now under refurbishing to become a night club. It was full of scaffolds and ropes, building material and tools. The sisters came there at night, when the workmen were gone and the place was a mute tableau.

 

Brooke’s costume was a deep maroon. It started with ankle length, stiletto-heeled boots. The long, muscular runner’s legs were next, the right one clothed in skin-tight maroon that nearly glowed, while the other was bare, its tanned, sinewy definition uncovered. The skin-tight material covered her torso, encasing her left arm, but not her right. It came up her neck, and ran across her eyes with a strip of maroon that masked her.

 

 A magic force flowed in her body. She called herself Foil.

 

Her sister Tina called herself Cutlass. She wore high-heeled black liquid leather boots that came up to her knees. They conformed to her thick, muscular athletic calves, and yielded to black fishnets from her knees up the thick, curvy muscles of her long legs. She wore a body suit of the same liquid leather material. It was something more, of course. It could stave off bullets and knives, but for all intents and purposes, she was wrapped in a sheer, black leather body suit. Her arms were bare, and a stark, white chess knight was in the center of the large-breasted woman’s torso.

 

Her hair was deep reddish brown that swept down to an ample bust.

 

Tiff was a vibrant, natural, shocking blond. She was as busty and curvy as her sisters, just shorter. Her body was robust and feminine-strong. Her tight, washboard abs were exposed by a two-piece costume. Cut high on the waist, a silver bikini bottom covered her from waist to crotch. Her big, high breasts were embraced by a neon-blue bikini top that matched her vivid mask.

 

She was Saber, and she was as confused as her sisters right now. All three of them were standing in the middle of church that was under renovation. The hollow chamber of the old, echoing place was full of scaffolds, paint cans, stone and brick. Workman’s tools lay all around, silent testimony to the busy construction that went on there during the day. It was night now, and the sisters stood alone, back-to-back, in the cold darkness.

 

Their breath formed clouds in the autumn air.

 

“So, why are we here?” asked Tina. Her eyes were scanning the darkness.

 

“I felt something summon us,” replied Brooke. That was one of her powers, and one that Tina often found a bit annoying.

 

They all sensed movement from above, and looked up to see that they had fallen into a trap. From the shadows descended a net on a rope. There was clearly a human being inside that net, coiled in a ball. When ever glimmers of light fell on it, the sisters could see purple, or flashes of blond.

 

“It’s Jeannie,” said Cutlass.

 

“It’s Snare. Someone’s trapped her.”

 

The three women weren’t so fixated on the heroine curled up in the net that they didn’t notice a tall, leggy woman in wet-look black walking along one of the overhead beams like the most skilled of gymnasts.

 

“The Sword Sisters are here,” she said. Her voice echoed in the open space of the church.

 

“Foil, Saber, and Cutlass are here as my audience. Hmmm. I only need one of you,” said the woman in black. Now, she was crouching on one of the beams that ran across the upper spaces of the church. As she moved she faded in and out of the shadows.

 

“There are three, but I only need one.”

 

Saber was already moving. She ran at the wall nearest to her, planted a booted foot against it, and pushed off with one shapely leg. A split second later, she was in midair, and grabbing one of the horizontal bars that ran through the scaffolding of the church. Like the gymnast that she was, she kicked her legs up and together, bending at the middle, spinning her body. She was winding up to launch herself at the mystery woman.

 

Cutlass was also in midair, leaping from the floor, to one of the platforms, then to the next highest, when she saw her sister’s body stiffen and arch in midair. There was a moment frozen in time: Trish’s body formed a crescent in midair, her muscular dancer’s legs pinned together, toes pointed down, muscles flexed. Her back was bent in an extreme arch that spoke of the severe spasm that had seized her body. Her big breasts were thrust up and forward, her face a mask of pain, each muscle in her body flexed.

 

A choked cry escaped her as she reached at her throat, and Cutlass could see the weapon that had stopped her sister in midair. In the twinkling of an eye, a bolo had sliced through the air and wrapped itself around her throat. It was electrified, and now currents of power were surging through the voluptuous blonde’s body.

 

She plummeted and crashed to the stone floor below. The woman’s body gave a heaving spasm and shook to a rest, stretched out in a spread-eagle.

 

Cutlass let out a cry of anger and outrage, pointing an open palm at the perfectly sculpted Latina woman in the black second skin. Her enhanced magical power came forth like a blinding beam of light, slicing through the semi-darkness.

 

At the same time, Brooke was leaping at the woman from her flank. Her arms were straight ahead of her. Just as her nom de guerre implied, she could concentrate a beam of massive force in a very narrow, some would say tiny space. She unleashed a beam now, aiming between the breasts of the woman in slick, glossy black.

 

Both Cutlass and Foil would recount how the woman did such and effortless tumble salt, smiling as she avoided the power waves that came from both women. She perched for a moment, for split second, on one of the platforms, and then she sprung again. She coiled her body into a ball, as she avoided another of Cutlass’ beams, and then flexed her lean, muscular body out.

 

Brooke was springing towards her, bringing her hands up in front of her again, when the woman in black executed a half-gainer over her head. Two black-gloved hands grabbed her hair, and Brooke let out a throaty cry of shock and pain.

 

Again, Cutlass had a clear, sharp image etched into her head. Brooke was curved over backwards, her face showing shock as the woman took hold of her hair and, twisting and dropping, pulled Foil backwards in midair. Cutlass would remember, again, the sharply-defined muscle, and the clearly-defined abs of her sister standing out in the maroon of her body glove.

 

Cutlass fired another burst at the brown woman. Again, the curvy, jocular huntress dodged it. She grabbed the horizontal bar of one of the platforms, swinging herself and Brooke towards a pile of building materials, ropes and debris. With physics on her side,

she swung and released the hair of her captive.

 

A helpless missile, Brooke released a guttural cry as her body crashed into bricks, steel, and everything else that the workers had left behind. The woman in black only laughed as she spun on that horizontal bar and came to rest, crouching, on another platform. Cutlass had landed on a scaffold not far away from her enemy, and now she was able to see how well set-up the plan was.

 

She reached around in a skilled and focused flurry. She found a set of small, silver needles and extracted one from the pack. Again, she did everything in spilt seconds. The lifting of the hair, the needle into Brooke’s neck, and the light in her eyes as she pushed it home in Brooke’s muscle was done in blinding flash.

 

Matadora wrapped a pre-prepared noose around Brooke’s right ankle, tightened it, and then shoved a bound-up load of bricks and masonry over the side. The load of stone pulled down, the heroine was yanked into the air, and Brooke dangled from one leg like a mobile. Her arms hung down, her hair hung down, and her left leg arched behind her as she slowly twisted and dangled in the darkness above the church floor.

 

Again, everything happened so fast that Cutlass could barely perceive it. She now leapt and released a burst of energy at a woman who was already gone. Cutlass landed on a lower platform, as did the laughing Matadora. In that blur of a second two flat-handed shuto chops landed on Cutlass’s shoulders. This woman in black was skilled in addition to being enhanced.

 

The woman in fishnet stockings and black boots flung her head back and released a deep groan of pain as her arms went numb. She was helpless as a knee shot up into her firm midsection, delivering a shock to her diaphragm. Cutlass’s eyes grew wide behind her mask, and she sank to her knees on the platform.

 

The slap across the face, and the next, and the next came in a rapid shower of violence. They were not enough to knock her out; they were bitch slaps.

 

“Because you are a little bitch, sweetie.”

 

She took a solid hold of the hair on top of Tina’s head and shook her for all she was worth. She twisted her around so that she could see her sisters and Jeannie beaten and bound.  She pressed her mouth to the kneeling woman’s. Her kiss was manic and hungry as she clutched Tina’s face and devoured her mouth.

 

“You ready to come with me now?”

 

She tossed her from the platform.

 

As Tina struck the concrete, Matadora was already coming to rest beside. Sprawled on her back, the pain-wracked heroine looked to one side, and saw the high-heeled boots of her tormentor pacing around her. She wasn’t able to see the woman grabbing  another of her silver needles, but Tina’s eyes widened when Marta knelt at her head, and a sharp little pin prick spoke in the side of her neck.

 

“There you go, baby,” she whispered. Now, from above, with Tina’s face between her knees, Marta leaned down, and kissed her prey. Tina had thick, lush lips, and Marta attached her mouth to one and then the other, sucking each in turn. Soon they were moist with the villainess’ spit.

 

As she was kissing her, Tina was losing her body. She could actually feel the toxic weakness flowing through her limbs as her blood stream carried the poison through her. There was a surge of anger in her, but her body could not turn it into any sort of action. More kissing suffocated her until the dark-haired beauty felt satiated.

 

“It’s time to beat you, baby.”

 

Marta stood took a deep breath, and then placed a boot on Tina’s face. She pressed down, and then moved again, pressing her foot down on the heroine’s big, right breast. The thickness and strength of Tina’s thighs in their fishnets caught her eye, and she stepped on them. A little smile played across her face as she pressed down and shifted her weight on the prone woman’s muscular legs.

 

Tina moaned as Marta walked back up her body, again pressing the soles of her shiny boots on the perfect, fashion-plate face. She stepped off and sighed, then reached down and pulled Cutlass up like a rag doll. With her hands nestled up under Tina’s arms, she lifted her up to her feet. They were wobbling, and there was no way the woman could stand.

 

“Let’s see if I can keep you standing.”

 

An upper-cut blow snapped her head back, and sent her staggering backwards. Before she could fall, Marta was behind her, delivering a knee to the back, and sending her forward. Marta was to her right side, delivering a punch to her jaw. As she started to topple to the left, Marta was already there and driving a knee into her ribs.

 

Cutlass never had a chance to fall. She was snapped this way and that by the kicks and blows of the blindingly fast woman. It was the attacks that kept her standing as the attacks pushed her drugged body from one side to another.

 

It ended with Marta standing in front of her, her palms viciously affixed to the heroine’s big breasts.

 

“It’s time for me to take you.”

 

She let Tina drop.

 

At some point during her drugged captivity in the empty church, Tina remembered a groggy semiconscious awakening. Her voluptuous body was still broken and useless, so she could not look around. She knew though, that Snare was now beside her. She could hear the blond woman’s labored breathing. Both of them were drugged.

 

Helpless on the floor, she could only watch as this sleek woman in black made a sculpture out of her sisters. She had taken Snare down from her net bag, laid her out beside Tina, and now she was dealing with Saber and Foil.

 

“Spread you legs, little whore.”

 

The blond, busty Saber lay on her back and spread her legs wide. She still wore her costume, the camel toe crease of her pussy showing its outline in the tight material. There was no doubt that some of Matadora’s poison was flowing in her. It wasn’t made to paralyze her; it opened her to suggestion. It made her a whore at her captor’s bidding.

 

She spread her legs, fingering herself through the skin-tight material, moaning as Brooke spread her legs above her little sister. She slowly settled down, gyrating her hips and muttering a response to her keeper.

 

“Yes, ma’am,” she slurred in a drugged haze.

 

“So, you’ll trib her for hours and hours, yes?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

She fit her mound against her sister’s crotch and flung her head back as she started her ride. Tiffany, the captured heroine called Saber, came almost instantly. She bit her lower lip and released a wild, pained whine. Both costumes were now sodden and damp in the places where they touched each other. The large-breasted blond was pouring out juice as Brooke pumped her defined thighs and worked to wring another orgasm out of her sister.

 

“They will do that to the point of exhaustion.”

 

Matatdora turned her attention to the two women who were laid out on the church floor.

 

“I’m going to give you a test drive, and then turn you over to Humiliatrix.”

 

Jeannie felt her body being jostled; her long legs crossed over one another and bound together by a cord. She heard her captor doing the same to Tina, and she watched the church ceiling slide by as both of them were dragged off by their ankles.

 

 

The chair was made of metal. It was a cold, grey, simple and harsh in its design. To see it, you would think that the designer wanted to offend the sensibilities of anyone who meant to sit in comfort. It wasn’t by any means meant to be comfortable, but it certainly meant to keep a captive in place.

 

The seat was a bit too narrow to allow slouching or shifting. It was too high for the average person, the average woman, to rest their feet comfortably on the floor. It had cruel edges, and harsh, straight lines.

 

Snare was bound to it.

 

Her legs were up, spread, and hooked over both arms. Thick black cord was wrapped around her thighs, pinning them to the arm as if her body was a part of the chair. They were tight, and cut cruelly into the muscle of her legs. They twinned down and held her ankles to the posts of the chair. Black rope gripped like death against the purple gloss of her boots.

 

Jeannie had a small waist, and her captor had enjoyed taking the time to wind the rope around her midsection, in and out of the posts of the chair. Some cut just below her exposed breasts, some just above. A rope was tight around her neck. Not tight enough to choke, but perfect to hold her in place.

 

Her arms were pulled tightly behind the chair; elbows pulled together, wrists pulled together, both lean arms joined to the narrow frame of the chair by rope that seemed eternally thick, rough, and unbreakable.

 

With drugs in her system, her costume pulled away from her breasts, and a split cut in the crotch, she sat, and she waited.

 

Matadora had pulled her mask away from her face, but she still wore her skinsuit and high heels. She smiled with that broad red mouth as she strode into the room. She was dark against the stark, white walls of the empty room.

 

“You’re at my place. You’re mine right now.”

 

Snare said nothing. She only looked at the gorgeous creature in fishnets and a black body suit that was crawling on the floor. She was on the end of a leash, and her head was bowed as she crawled like a dog across the floor. Tina was drugged, and followed instructions as her sisters had.

 

“ See beautiful tied to the chair over there? Why don’t you eat her out for me?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

She moved slowly, opening her mouth as she pulled herself forward. She rested her hands on the blonde’s legs, jerked her head to one side, flipping hair out of her face, and snaked her tongue out. The same drug that was probably still flowing in her sister’s veins was pumping through the bound woman. Her nipples were hard, and juices seemed to already be pooled on her puffy, swollen lips. It was literally running with juice as Cutlass leaned in and took her first taste.

 

Her tongue traced the outline of the bound woman’s lips first, tracing up one side then down the other, coming to rest and nestle in the deep well of her cunt. Snare’s pussy seemed to tremble and shudder on it own; it was as if it was responding to the kneeling woman.

 

With her tongue pushing into the salty-sweet pungent folds of Snare’s pussy, Cutlass took a deep, lapping stroke upwards. She parted the pink, fleshy drapes, and closed her eyes as she licked her way up to the big, engorged bud.

 

Matadora would later laugh that she was sure that Jeannie, the captive called Snare, had peed. She was positive for a moment, that the geyser of juices that shot from between Snare’s thighs nothing but a rush of pee. As the heroine closed her eyes and howled, her head flung back and her muscles tensing, she knew for sure that these were the captive woman’s juices, and that her little pet in the leather boots and the fishnets had hit pay dirt.

 

Tina, for the tiniest of split seconds, thought that the bound blond had peed in her face. The liquid shot out in such a rush, and with such volume, that the idea that this was simply Snare’s pussy juice didn’t register, at first. It hit her directly in the eyes, and sprayed into her mouth with the power of a stream of urine.

 

It wasn’t the acidy smell of pee that filled her head, though. Almost instantly, she realized that with was the briny sex spray that a woman produces when her pussy is taking her away.

 

She swallowed and mouthful and listened to Snare scream.

 

Snare, bound to the chair, drugged, and broken by her own orgasm, let her head sink back over the edge of the chair. Her moist breasts were heaving, and he muscles had long since forgotten to fight against the bonds. Tremors from the massive orgasm still rocked her, but her body was already rallying itself for round tow as Tina pressed her thick, red lips to the clit.

 

“Suck it like a little cock.”

 

Another hoarse, panting scream was welling up in Snare. She licked her lips, taking deep drags of the chamber’s cool air as Cutlass kissed her clit, then started sucking the thick, swollen pink jewel.

 

Snare bit her lower lip.

 

Matadora squatted down in the corner resting an elbow on her thigh, and her chin in her hand. She shifted her weight slightly from side to side, rubbing her labia through the skin-tight, black sheen of her costume. She watched, her nipples growing hard and her pussy’s damp seeping through the costume. The women belonged to Humiliatrix, but for the next few hours they were hers.

 

She wished, for a moment, that she had worn her cape with the costume that night. She could have used it to trap Cutlass when she was in mid-leap, wrapping her up, blinding her and entangling her. She rubbed her sex harder, picturing the hour glass of Cutlass’ body wrapped up in her black, red-lined cape.

 

Her fingers pressed hard against her clit as Snare moaned.

 

She wouldn’t touch them, but she would take in every sense of their captivity for the time that she had them. It had been three nights since she had Lonestar and Maxim as her guests, and she realized, now, that she had been going through a kind of withdraw.

 

It had been a joyful thing, her fight with Maxim and Lonestar. She maneuvered just right, dodging a powerful, blinding, high roundhouse, and came up close, jamming her fist into Lonestar’s ribs. She remembered that piece of the story, and relished it.

 

As she stroked her cunt, she remembered striking Maxim in the throat, and watching the heroine arch backwards.  It was a perfect moment, the large-breasted heroine in her skin-tight red-and-white, and her black leather spike-heeled boots stretching out backwards. She grabbed at her throat and cringed as she tumbled down a stairwell.

 

Her pussy trembled in her palm as she recalled the long, lean body of Lonestar, in her blue body stocking, being trapping in her whirling bolos.

 

Lonestar barely perceived the sound of the spinning bolo cutting the air. She saw the blur of the weapon, and the next thing she knew her legs were being pinned together by twirling cords. Rope that felt more like wire captured her ankles, pulling them together and wrapping them mercilessly.

 

The Latina woman let fly with another bolo in the split second that Lonestar was occupied with the first one, because how her muscular thighs were being coiled and wrapped in lengths of spinning cord. The blond released a shuddering gasp of shock as the bolos linked around themselves and a third one now made love to her upper body.

 

It really did feel as though tight metal wire was cutting into muscle as the weapon from the pampas wrapped itself around her body, just below her breasts. Her arms were captives against her body. She gasped again, and found herself down on the concrete, tied at the ankles, thighs, and upper body.

 

For a flashing second, she tried to rally her strength to break through the cords, but then realized what as happening in her body. Some sort of strange vibration was coming from the bolos. Not only had the things linked perfectly around one another, but now a weird vibration was pouring into her muscles. She was barely able to curl her fingers in frustration.

 

The blond was trapped in a useless body.

 

The gorgeous Latina was walking towards her now, her long legs taking long strides and gliding her along like a runway model.

 

“Too late, Lonestar.”

 

She put needles in both women, and watched as their eyes went cloudy and dull.

 

She didn’t have them eat pussy for her. That night, she sat in her corner and played with her pussy while the women went on all fours. A thick double-headed dildo joined them as they press their asses back against each other.

 

“Call each other baby,” she said, squeezing her clit.

 

Now, she gave instructions to Tina. As the woman in fishnets knelt and ministered to the slick vagina of the bound, blond Snare.

 

“Suck it like a little cock.”

 

Tina made a deep grunting noise as she swallowed more juice.

 

“You have gorgeous camel toe. Play with your pussy while you eat her. You should both cum before you make you big trip to meet Humiliatrix.”

 

Tina’s red fingernails moved as though they were flipping through the pages of a book, or opening a delicate package. They found the crease of her sex, the thick, profound swell of her camel-toe pout, and started to knead it. There was a strange, exciting energy in something that she had done thousands of times.

 

Her strong, muscular thighs shook.

 

Snare’s juices were running down her face.

 

She sucked harder, now, on the clit of the woman in purple and frantically pumped and rubbed her fingers into the hot, damp crease between her thighs. Her hips bucked with a rhythm, and her nipples seemed to want to cut their way through the slick, black material of her body suit.

 

Tina’s mental link with her sisters was unbroken. As she sucked the hard little clit, and drove her fingers against her own pussy, she could hear Tiff and Brooke making love to each other. Tiff was on her back, hip-booted legs up in the air and spread. Her long-legged sister Brooke had her crotch snuggled against the prone woman’s soaked snatch, her legs fitted around Tiff’s like puzzle pieces.

 

The only messages that she could read from their minds were both of them begging for more. The drugs were in charge of her sisters.

 

When her powerful orgasm leapt up and took hold of her, she clenched her lips, and arched her back. She screamed, her body tense, and she crumbled to the floor in a heap. She was still conscious, but helpless and shuddering as Matadora loomed over her.

 

The woman in black was panting from her own orgasm as she stood over the two women. The one in slick purple, the one in fishnets, both were broken and ready to make their trip.

 

In The Barn

 

*The cord around her throat was well-placed and secured. It pinned her neck to the post, holding her across the throat and wrapping twice against the wooden post. It wasn’t tight enough to choke her, but it was tight enough to secure her head and neck to the pillar. It was made of leather.

 

Another had been done the same way, just below her breasts. It held her to the post with her breasts jutting out just above. Another was at her small waist.

 

Snare’s legs were not just spread, but were flung wide open. She felt thankful for the hip flexibility that she had, because, otherwise, her body would be screaming. Her thighs were open and lashed to a low cross bar that behind ran behind her, sleek muscle in deep purple held them wide and tied them hard.

 

Her ankles had then been pulled towards to post instead of just being allowed to dangle. The thick muscles in her legs flexed and bulged; her ankles were tied to the vertical post, not the crossbar.

 

Another cross bar ran horizontally across the pillar to which she was bound, behind her at mid-back level. Her arms had been looped backwards over the bar and tightly lashed that way. Her wrists were secured to the post itself.

 

A ball gag, which was slightly too large for her mouth, was secured between her teeth.

 

People moved about in the barn as if the bound and tortured woman wasn’t there at all. A tall blond mucked out a stall, singing to herself. Two guys mended a stall a few paces away, chatting about the sporting event that was on just the night before. A college-aged girl pushed a wheel barrow down the middle of the barn.

 

They had been working when the van brought her to the ranch. They crowded around as a tall Latina with long, dark hair pulled in and parked in a dirty white van in front of the barn. She wore soft, brown leather boots, jeans, and a tight, black t-shirt. She carried her slick, black costume in a canvas bag, and blew kisses to the ranch hands as she got out.

 

She indicated the rear doors of the van, and the young workers leapt to it, opening the doors to find a purple-clad woman curled in a ball. Her knees were pulled up to her breasts and tied to her body that way, a cord running behind her knees and wrapping around her body. Her ankles were crossed and her wrists tied to them.

 

Tape covered her mouth and her eyes.

 

She remembered being stripped naked and washed in a fragrant sudsy tub before being placed in the van. “You will be perfect for her,” Matadora whispered to the naked woman in the bathtub. She was running a fragrant sponge between her breasts. Snare could see, though her hazy vision, her costume and boots carefully laid out on the bathroom floor.

 

Clean, and massaged, dried and rubbed with fragrant lotion, she was little more than a rag doll as Matadora slipped her back into her costume. She wanted to fight, to find out where Cutlass was, to escape, but all she was able to do was stare blankly as the dark woman slung her over her shoulder.

 

Snare remembered being blindfolded, bound, and scooped up again.

 

She remembered Matadora stopping the van and drugging her over and over, all the while singing to her in Spanish.

 

“We’re going out to the ranch. We’re going to Humiliatrix’s ranch. She has something special planned for you, and your little friend in the fishnets.”

 

Now, the tanned and fit ranch hands grabbed the hogtied woman. Some took hold of her hair while strong arms scooped up the tied and battered body. The people were rough, and seemed to battle for a chance to handle her. She felt herself lifted, turned, cradled and held aloft.

 

She could hear the people.

 

“Throw her right down that fucking well! Just throw her ass down!”

 

“She’s the reason half of us went to prison.”

 

“Hang on. Gimme’ that knife.” Somewhere, in the darkness of the mob, one of her captors held a knife. Lost in the blindness of her eye bindings, she could only imagine a man wielding a bowie knife with a huge, wide and thick blade.

 

For a moment, the steel touched her throat. A second later, there was a rubbing at the ropes and a loosening of tension. Someone had cut her free. Still blind-folded and drugged, she could only listen to the cheers and be slung around as the rough arms wrapped around her narrow waist, dragged her a bit. She felt herself lifted and then dropped, a bar of some sort meeting her at the waist, and doubling her over. The wind rushed out of her.

 

There was rope, again, and frantic hands, as her wrists were bound, again, to her ankles. Her body formed an arch, the muscles in her legs and ass flexing taut. There was a current of chatter, and a set of female hands reached into her moist, tangled blond mess and undid the blindfold.

 

Snare squinted against the sunlight. With her head down where it was, and the people crowding around her, the beams were broken, but still punished her eyes. She saw a man’s legs behind her, started to raise her face, and grunted as the woman who had taken away her blindfold forced her head back down.

 

She could only wait.

 

Somewhere along the way, Matadora had strategically slit her captive’s costume. Essentially, Snare was crotchless. She felt male hands move the fabric away from her pussy, and she felt them grip her hips. He spoke, and she could not see him.

 

“I’m the Horseman. You captured me years ago. I’ve been on a prison satellite for super villains. I’ve escaped. This is my cock.”

 

They let her raise her head this time. When the cock, with the thickness of a fist and the seeming length of a forearm plunged into her, she reared her head back and screamed. On his first plunging stroke, she screamed. She screamed again as he stroked again, and again. He continued to delve into the pink, tightness of her sex.

 

Snare’s pussy resisted with a deep, clenching spasm at first, and then finally surrendered. It relaxed and opened for the massive organ. Cunt drool ran out of her as the vagina responded to every inch of invasion. It no longer clenched, but seemed to almost pulse around his penis. It was as if the muscles in her deep, pink recesses were trying to massage his long, thick member. He moaned, and Snare remembered him.

 

This is exactly how he was when I last met him. He was part of that group that called itself Andros, a whole bunch of supervillain assholes who said that they had to overwhelm superheroines to return the “true rule of men” to the world.

 

We were battling in a mansion then. It was a beaten-up old mansion on the posh side of town. We’d found their little boy’s club hide-out, gone after them, and now Gold, Cutlass, Graviton, Maxim, Lonestar, and I were learning our lessons at their hands.

 

Horseman had a lasso around my neck, I remember, and he was dragging me across the slick, marble floor. I had been leaping to assist Gold in her fight with Sjambok, when the noose dropped over my head and cinched tightly around my throat. I lost my hold on my own rope, which I was about to fling out to entrap Sjambok, and felt myself being yanked off my feet.

 

My mind took in and processed the fight going on around me at the same time that it absorbed what The Horseman was doing to me. There was a strange tingle coming from the lasso. It buzzed in my neck, and ran down the nerves in my shoulders, stiffening each muscle and locking each joint. My arms went rigid and snapped down tightly to my sides at the same time that my legs started to twitch and tingle.

 

I groaned and whimpered as the muscles in my quads and calves seemed to turn to stone. Somehow, I was suddenly aware of the thickness and density of my muscles as each one of them stretched itself taut. With my booted feet pointed like a ballerina’s, I was defeated by the Horseman’s rope.

 

As I felt my body giving up on me, I saw Sjambok striking out with his signature weapon at Gold. Dressed in a tight orange and green costume, Sjambok took his name and his weapon from an old South African tradition. It was a whip that was used to drive cattle in South African, and issued to the South African police at one point. The cops used a plastic version, but the old, traditional version as made of the skin from a big animal like a hippo or rhino.

 

He wielded the whip made from the traditional animal skin and carrying a charm from a Zulu witch doctor. As the curving tip of the whip cracked through the air and snapped hard against Gold’s body, I could see its power. He caught her in mid-stride, lashing her just below her large breasts with the whistling tip of the thing. It snapped loudly against the golden sheen of her body stocking, and her whole body was lifted off the floor. Her head was flung back, and she screamed as a green glow surrounded her.

 

I could see this from the floor, but was able to do nothing. The Horseman had undone his pants and was kneeling down to my face. He gripped his tool with both hands, and touched it to my lips. He slowly glossed my mouth with precum as he smiled down at me.

 

When she was tied to the hitching post, and The Horseman pulled out of her sex, it was slow and methodic. He enjoyed the wet sucking, the natural pressure that the walls of her cunt provided as his girth slowly made its way out of her.

 

The backs of her legs shook, and she moaned deeply as she felt the veins, ridges, and finally the big thick head extract itself from her. Her head sagged forward.

 

“Dunk her for a while, then take her to the barn.”

 

Her cunt was still quivering and leaking as they untied her from the hitching post. There was a moment of relief as ropes and blindfolds were taken away, then she was awash in a sea of hands. As she squinted against the sunlight, taking in the youthful faces of her captors, she felt herself being controlled and lifted. They were rough, and they did their best to pinch and grope as they took her.

 

She didn’t struggle at all as they pulled her, twisted her, and lifted her.

 

A female finger found her swollen, sopping pussy and scooped out a glop of pussy juice as if it was the batter of a cake left in a bowl. She took it into her mouth with a loud, sucking sound and a pop of her lips. Another tasted her with a quick lick as she was lifted and crowd surfed, a whirlwind of hands in her back.

 

Helpless, she could only listen and feel and they carried her to the well.

 

There was a spinning and a dropping as they worked together to turn her upside down, her body never touching the ground. Her arms dropped down, her firm breasts bobbed, and she bit her lower lip as her legs were forced together. The roping was tight and merciless as those hands worked together to constrict her. They crisscrossed and wrapped, forming a spider web net that hugged so close to her muscular legs that there was the dull throbbing of on-coming numbness.

 

Next, they created a harness for Snare, roping her wrists to one another and binding her upper body in a super-tight shi-bari wrap. With three loops wrapped around her waist, secured to her bound wrists, rope running between her large breasts, and a loop around her neck, she felt herself settle into the feeling of total helplessness.

 

“Choke her! With that rope around her neck, choke her!”

 

“Naw … we don’ wanna’ choke her, but … Here, hold her mouth open.”

 

Suddenly, there was a man, not the Horseman, but just as imposing, in front of her. Upside down, Snare could only see his dirty jeans and the open maul of his fly.  She barely resisted as hands manipulated her lips and squeezed her face. The man pressed closer, blurred images of his massive tool and hairy balls filled her line of vision, and her mouth as full of cock.

 

The people cheered as she gagged and gave a muffled mmmffffmm. He fucked her mouth for only a few strokes, and then released the deep, salty spasm in her mouth. She coughed and spat as he withdrew, streaming cum on the bound woman.

 

“Now, let’s take her to the well.”

 

They crowd carried her across the ranch.

 

He held me upside down the last time we met. It was by one ankle, and I slowly rotated like an ornament. My right leg bent at the leg, sagging behind me, my arms hung down, and I turned in slow circles getting a clear view of our defeat. I was paralyzed, still, and unable to do a damn thing as they put the final touches on our defeat.

 

As I drifted by, I saw Lonestar and Maxim on their knees. Priapis and Saytr were standing in front of them, their cod pieces open and their cocks hovering in front of the captive women’s faces. I had seen Priapis jack off in his own right hand, and then fling it into the faces of the women. I watched as they became mesmerized, and now I could see them furiously sucking the cocks of the two pumped-up villains.

 

Maxim was taking the whole prick, all the way to the back of her throat, while her lover was making circles around the huge head of the other erect penis. They would go at it, then lean in and kiss each other long and hard. They would trade cocks, and they would suck some more.

 

My painfully slow circle showed me Gold being held up by Dambe, the massive African boxer with the enchanted fists and the superpowers. She was a sexy, blond rag doll. Sjambok was fitting her with a chastity belt. By the end of the evening, all of the heroines there would wear chastity belts and control collars.

 

 

Held upside, then on her back, her head tilted back with blond hair cascading down, she could see them approaching the gaping opening of an old, stone well. There was a winch, and the rope that must have held a bucket. Still tasting cum and defeat, she felt them shift her, turn her, and move her tightly-bound body so that her ankles could be tied to the winch.

 

They let her hang upside down above the open mouth of the well, and then they lowered her, head-first, into the dark, murky water.

 

The Horseman smiled, his arms crossed across his chest, as he watched the shapely blond disappearing into the darkness.

 

I had this bitch before. I had her face-down.

 

I had her little bitch friend Cutlass, and those other heroine bitches too.

 

I took her into the bunkhouse, I remember, holding the back of her neck and guiding her. I liked the sound of her heels on the hard, wood bunkhouse floor. I walked just next to her, and she felt small and womanly next to me. I gripped the back of captured neck hard, and I stopped, letting her see the cuffs and cords that were attached to the bed posts.

 

“You see that? Those are for you.”

 

I walked her closer to the bed, and then shoved her down on it. I spread her out, and I secured her.

 

I had her face-down, spread eagle on a bed. Her arms were stretched wide and cuffed to the bed posts. Her legs were spread wide … that was nice. She was in tight, hard bondage. Her ankles were tied tightly to the bedposts. I remember that because I enjoyed touching her purple boots while I lashed them to the metal.

 

“Snare, can you hear me?”

 

She didn’t answer, but I could hear her panting against the mattress. Her round ass was in the air, and the skin-tight purple of her costume gleamed against the tone of those phenomenally sexy muscles.

 

I looked over my shoulder and smiled. Tina, Cutlass, was robotically shuffling into the room. She still wore her striking high-heeled leather boots and fishnets. Her second-skin, black body suit was pealed down from her breasts. I remembered how large and firm they looked, with those big hard nipples.

 

Her eyes looked dazed.

 

Her mouth hung open.

 

She wore a huge black strap-on. I spoke to the women.

 

“Ok, ladies, listen. I’m gonna’ want Cutlass to get up on the bed and fuck Snare in the ass. Got it? I and when I say ‘fuck her in the ass,’ I mean really fuck her. Don’t ease it in, fuck her hard in the ass. Shove it in, and fuck her. Do you understand?”

 

“Yessir,” said Cutlass. Cutlass talked to Snare. She was under mind control; she would do as told.

 

“I have to fuck you in the ass, Jeannie. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I can’t control this. He has me under control.”

 

Snare spoke into the mattress.

 

“I know.”

 

She raised her hips a bit, pushed forward a bit, and then took hold of Snare’s supple thighs. She opened the slit that had been cut in the purple costume, and the skin of Snare’s ass was simply there, waiting. Cutlass gripped the hips hard, and moved the big, black dick between Snare’s ass cheeks. My slave’s hands moved back, and she used her thumbs to spread the blonde’s ass cheeks wider.

 

Snare moaned.

 

Tina repositioned herself, pressing the head of the fake cock up against the pucker of the other woman’s asshole. Slowly, her head tilted back and her red lips parted as she pushed her hips forward. Slowly, the strap-on disappeared into Snare’s ass.

 

Snare screamed into the mattress.

 

 

They pulled Snare up from the well. She heaved and gasped, taking in great gulps of air as water streamed from her hair, her body, her costume. She enjoyed the air for a moment, then disappeared into the well again.

 

Somewhere, deep in the well, cold water closed over her head. Normally, she could separate her mind from her body, slowing everything down and keeping herself alive. This was not normal. Her body had been through so much that she was a rag doll.

 

Her lungs were on fire. Her mind played out the situation for her, though there was nothing that she could actually do. She knew that this wasn’t meant to end her, but it was torture, none the less.

 

This is different. This time, they don’t want me to drown. The last time I was forced underwater like this, it was Cutlass, under mind control, doing it. The plan was to drown me then, and it almost worked. I was still sore from her taking me in the ass while I was tied down, and totally weak as she dunked in a trough of water, squeezing my throat and holding me down.

 

They hauled the bound blonde back up, her head sagging, water streaming from her.

 

“You’ve been punished enough. It’s time to get on with your Humiliatrix experience.”

 

They took her down.

 

They took her to the barn.

 

 

Now, Snare hung on her post, and the people didn’t say a word.

 

They also never said a word as The Horseman entered the barn. Snare could tell that this was a man who worked hard at making a grand entrance. He paused in the open doorway so that he could be surrounded by a sea of light, and would look like nothing but a silhouette to the bound blond.

 

The pause was brief, but it made his statement; he was tall and big. He then moved for the vulnerable woman with a business-like stride. Once he was in the shadows, and here eyes had adjusted, she could see that he was still in full 19^th century cowboy regalia, his jeans open.

 

His cock was huge. A drop of precum glistened at its tip.

 

The man barely made eye contact as he swept in and invaded her with the length of his penis. Powerful hands suddenly had hold of her waist, and an overpowering musk suddenly filled her senses. One moment he was in her line of vision, feet away, the next he was in her body, up to the hilt of his organ.

 

The ball gag did nothing to abate the scream that welled out of her. Even with her mouth jacked wide-open by the sex toy, an animalistic howl still came from the back of her throat. It was as though every nerve ending was awake and standing at attention for this villain’s cock. A big cock taken slowly would have been one thing, but this seemed to set her on fire as it mercilessly opened her.

 

Her body wanted to kick, and thrash her arm about, but she wasn’t able to move a single limb, the ropes were so tight. All she could do was stay lost in the scream as he pulled her shiny, purple costume aside and started to suck her hard, brown left nipple. He bit and he sucked with abandon as he continued to thrust with the length of the monster in her.

 

The woman’s grunting now took up the pace of his sex, a sharp exhalation and a guttural cry coming with each harsh movement of his dick. His mouth moved from one hard nipple to the other, sometimes sucking, sometimes biting.  He would open his mouth as widely as he could as if he wanted to swallow the mass of her tits.

 

The sensitive, trembling walls of her sex shuddered and lurched as what felt like the blast of a garden hose lashed out inside her. His smell, his strength … everything in her senses yielded to the gushing spume of his cum. The Horseman came in her.

 

He took his time stepping back, slowly pulling his cock out of the soaked, throbbing delta between the captive woman’s thighs. As he did, her head sagged down. He had seen her eyes growing vacant and dim as he fucked her, and now she finally lost. Snare was unconscious.

 

Semen was running out of her punished cunt, but the woman was out.

 

“Stupid cunt,” he grunted. A streamer of jism clung to the head of his cock, and he panted as he drew a massive bowie knife from his belt.

 

“Time to come down and get the rest of your punishment.”

 

First, he grabbed the hair on top of her head and tilted her face up to meet his. Masked and beautiful, her closed eyes and her slack, open mouth met him with a quiet indifference.

 

Next, he pulled the blade of his knife against the rope that held her arms against the t bar. He then did the same to which ever lengths of rope he could touch with the blade until her body slumped, untangled from the post, and slid to the dirt floor.

 

Snare lay at the feet of The Horseman, crumpled on her side in the dirt.

 

“I’ve got more stuff in store for you, ya’….”

 

She was up and moving.

 

The big villain found himself rolling on the ground, his body convulsing with pain as the woman in purple ran with long, gazelle strides past him and out into the sunlight. He pounded the dirt and cursed; she had duped him, pretending to be unconscious after the marathon fucking and now she was escaping.

 

“Bitch!”

 

She had tricked him, and now she was on the move. The barn workers stopped, and looked at the long-legged blond striding for freedom, and the man who that they had come to fear and respect scrambling from the floor.

 

There was no way she could stand and fight here. Not like this. She had to draw him out and fight on her own terms.

 

Snare ignored the pain in her crotch as she darted and weaved into the open. She already had mental picture of what she was going to do. There was rope nearby. She would find it, arm herself, and turn the tables on Humiliatrix. That was the thought going through her head when the lasso whipped through the air and snapped around her neck.

 

Tina was naked. That was the first thing that she realized. She could feel the cold of a marble floor against every inch of her skin. Her breasts were mashed out beneath her, her legs spread, one are under her face, the other straight out above her head.

 

Slowly, groaning, she pressed herself up from the floor and looked around. The walls around her were incomplete, partial, stop-and-start. Wall. Passage. Wall. It was a maze.

 

“That’s right, Cutlass, it’s a maze. My little worker bee, Matadora, captured you, used you, and delivered you to me. Now, I’m going to take care of you.”

 

Humiliatrix’s voice came from overhead, pouring out of a hidden speaker. The maze walls and floor were cold and unforgiving against her bare skin, but her captor’s voice was warming, almost soothing. Tina could see herself vaguely reflected in the dark marble, her large, dark nipples contrasted to her fair skin, and the curves of her figure.

 

She could smell her own skin, and she knew that they had bathed her and oiled her down with something fragrant and exotic.

 

“I had you stripped naked while you were out cold. Let me say, you have a beautiful body. You have a gorgeous vagina, you know? I’d like to have your sisters here someday, as well. From what I’ve seen, their bodies are some amazing things also. Now, start making your way through my maze. It’s a fun little game, you’ll like it.”

 

Tina did not move, only looking from side to side, still trying to assess where she was. That was when the sultry voice of the Humiliatrix was replaced by a hissing sound, as then the screams of the naked woman. Gas jets were spraying from overhead, scalding her skin with a chemical that penetrated her flesh and burned like an eternity of pain.

 

Screams echoed off of the stone walls, and her hands came up to her face.

 

When they stopped, she was on her knees.

 

“Do the maze, Cutlass. You’ll have fun.”

 

Sucking air through her teeth, she rose again, and took the right turn that was clearly the only way to go. A completely bare woman, a captive at the mercy of an unseen captor, she began negotiating a maze.

Cold running up through the soles of her feet and through her feminine curves, she reached out ahead of her and walked. She ran up against a wall, found a passage, another wall, then turned the corner and came to a stop.

 

Hanging on a wall in front of her was a pair of black, thong panties. They were hers, she knew right away, and had been stripped from her body while she was out like a light. They seemed magically affixed to the wall, and had been hung up like a trophy, spread out in a sparse, black V.

 

Below it, a silver ball sat on a short ledge.

 

“These are your panties. I see you favor thongs. Very nice. Here’s what happens now. You tell me about your little interlude with Piston Thorn. Tell me about what he put on you. You know what I’m talking about. Then take the silver vibe ball and put in up your cunt. I want to see that shaved nether mouth of yours swallow it. Next, I want you to put on your panties like a good girl.”

 

She stared straight ahead and simply started talking. She remembered the snug pain , and the unyielding weight around her waist.

 

“I was in his mansion, I was fighting him and his henchmen, I was winning … I remember I was tossing them around … and there was this sudden burst of energy that surrounded me. I blacked out.”

 

“He had a trap set for you. It was an energy shower that short-circuited your nervous system. You were paralyzed by pain, you fell to your knees, your eyes were wide, and you fell sprawled out on your side. You know, your legs looked so good flexed in those fishnets. It was great watching those guys gather around you, laughing and joking. So, anyway, tell me about how you woke up, baby.”

 

“I wasn’t naked. I was still in my costume, but it had been slit, and I was wearing this … this thick, heavy chastity belt. It was like a medieval chastity belt made of metal. It was tight around my middle and my crotch, and I could feel a plug in my ass. I could feel a probe in my cunt, too.”

 

“You woke up on his living room floor, with him and his buddies watching t.v. and drinking beer. I mean, there you were in those fishnets and boots, and that body suit of yours looking all hot and waking up on the floor. And a chastity belt….”

 

“They laughed and greeted me when I woke up on the floor. ‘Sleeping Beauty…’ They told me that I was going to be his pet. He told me to crawl over to him and kiss his motorcycle boot. I wasn’t going to do it. He had a controller, he flipped switch…”

 

She remembered the power.

 

“And you came. Tell me about the coming. Tell me about the juice.”

 

Tina paused and remembered how she went hazy and blind for a moment as her body heaved and shuddered. She could feel it as the juice squirted and welled out around the belt and soaked her fishnets. Gloved fingertips dug at the carpet.

 

Next, came the memory of pain.

 

“He could give you pleasure or pain at a whim, couldn’t he?”

 

“Yes … ma’am.”

 

She knew it was time to call her captor “ma’am.”

 

“Very good, naked one. Now, put that vibe ball up your pussy, and put on your underwear.”

 

There was no hesitation. If she was going to have a chance to resist later, she had to swallow her pride now. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

Tina’s red-nailed fingers curled around the gleaming, silver orb. For a moment, she could see her distorted reflection stretched across the curved surface of the ball. Her red mouth was stretched wide, and her sleepy bedroom eyes were warped. She seemed almost mesmerized by the cartoon image of herself for a moment, and then the silver ball dropped out of site.

 

The helpless woman spread her firm, muscular legs, and her left hand dropped down to her bare crotch. She dropped her head over, salon hair pouring down, and she looked at her own shaven crotch. Her cunt lips were thick, and pouted down as if they were prepared to be parted and opened by the searching fingers. They smoothly yawned as she pushed her deep, pink sex open, and the other hand pushed the vibe ball against the waiting gash. There was a sudden energy in the ball, and it seemed to move of its own accord.

 

As if her vagina could pull, and the ball could rise and move on its own, the metal device sought her sex canal and simply popped up into her. Tina shuddered and shook briefly, then slowly brought her legs back together. The thing rode in her now. She could feel it.

 

“As you put on those panties, make sure to pull the material up into your cunt. Give yourself a wedgie. I want your cunt lips hanging down.”

 

Tina was already taking the panties from the wall and stepping into them. She looked down at the dark material against her skin, and used both hands to yank and pull the thin strip of black material up into her camel toe. Again, she used her fingers and spread the labia, and she let the lips close around the panties. The material disappeared up into the woman’s pussy.

 

Thick lips hung down.

 

“Keep walking,” said Humiliatrix.

 

In only her thong, the captive wandered in the maze. Again, she met this dead end and that, dragging her fingertips along the black marble until she turned a corner. Just like her panties, her fishnet stocking were hung on the wall in front of her.

 

A small, diamond-shaped butt plug was on the ledge below the captured nylons.

 

“So, tell me about the last time you were in a real fishnet, young lady.”

 

She envisioned the thick webbing of a net, and imaged the feeling of rope against her costumed body. In her recollection, she wasn’t on the floor; she was suspended in midair. Her wrists were tangled in the crisscross cords of a tight net that held her snuggly above a woman-sized tank of water. She remembered how her breasts hung neatly through two of the gaps in the net. She remembered how tight it was against her curves and her muscle. She wriggled just a bit.

 

Her sisters were defeated and passed out on the floor. Their hair was in twisted haphazard messes, their legs intertwined, their eyes closed. They would be useless to her as their captor delivered Cutlass to the tank.

 

She remembered the squeaking of the winch as she was lowered into the tank. She remembered water folding over her head and accepting her body. She remembered the assault of the cold, and the pressure as she surrendered to the water in the tank.

 

“It was cold, that water,” Humiliatrix soothed. “You were helpless in that net, and you were drowning.”

 

“I was underwater … I don’t know how long …I was tangled in that net.”

 

“And you could see your sisters stretched out on the floor in their cute little costumes.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“And they kept you underwater until your lungs were bursting.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“And then you were pulled up, gasping.”

 

Tina remembered water streaming from her hair, her body, her slick, black costume. Her nipples and clit were hard. She spat out water.

 

“ I got some air … then they dunked me again.”

 

“You felt yourself dying in that net. You were sure that you would black out, but would you drown, then?”

 

It was as if this woman was in Cutlass’ head back when it all happened.

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Good girl. Put the butt plug up your ass. Put on your fishnets.”

 

She did as told, taking the toy and again leaning forward. Tina had a firm, sculpted ass, and she pushed her fingers between the cheeks spreading them. She opened her ass, and pressed the black diamond up against her own anus. Her legs trembled a bit as the projectile nudged, and then sank quickly into her asshole. Her anus was one that opened easily, and the delicate pucker seemed to embrace the sex toy, swallowing it. The butt plug nestled in her.

She took the stockings from the wall and slipped her long legs into them.

 

“Good whore. Move on.”

 

Bare from the waist up, her lean sinews moving in fishnets, she continued to maneuver the maze. The butt plug had been made, it seemed, to be worn with her stockings, her costume. It didn’t protrude or hang out of her. It simply sank into her and seemed to live in her ass.

 

She walked as best she could, moving this way and that through the maze until she came to two high-heeled leather boots suspended on the wall. They were “liquid leather” – looking as though they had been poured on to her curvaceous legs when she wore them. They had high, sharp spike heels that thrust out her calves when she wore them.

 

Below the boots there was a black ball with two black, leather straps that waited for her.

 

In the circle of the straps, there was a silver lipstick.

 

“Tell me about boots. Tell me about kissing some boots. After you do that, paint your lips up like a proper whore and gag yourself.”

 

Tina paused. There was no denying this mistress.

 

“I was on all fours … I was … I was crawling. This was when Foxglove had me. She had my sisters up on the wall like they were crucified. They were … she had them crucified. It was like … she had them on crosses high above her crowd, her guests. She had them hanging, and she had me on my knees at one end of the room. Her guests formed a gauntlet.”

 

“All of those people in their leather and with their bare, sweaty skin. You could smell sweat and cum.”

 

“I could. I crawled from one end of the room to the other, a collar around my neck, like a dog.”

 

“And they were chanting ‘whore.’”

 

“They never touched me, but they were chanting ‘whore.’ I had a butt plug in my ass then too, and it had a tail.”

 

“Like a horse’s tail, right?”

 

“Yeah. So, I had a tail, and I was crawling, and I looked up at my sisters …”

 

“Still in costume, right?”

 

“Right. They were held on to the cross by these metal bands that sapped their powers. I got up to Foxglove’s chair, and I started to lick the toe of her left boot. I kissed it, and kissed my way up the laces, one by one.”

 

“Her boots that day were a lot like yours, only with thick, black laces. I like that. Did you suck the heels?”

 

She knew very well that Tina had, but heroine played along.

 

“Yes, ma’am.” She recalled moving her head back and forth, going down on the heel like a thin, narrow cock as the audience chanted.

 

“You spent a whole hour taking care of her boots with your mouth. Go ahead and paint those whore lips, then ball gag yourself.”

 

Again, there was no hesitation on the slave’s part as she took up the lip stick, and used the reflection in the leather of her boots to watch herself. She painted the upper, then the lower with smooth, clean strokes, a red gloss appearing on them. She knew to make it thick and whorish.

 

When that was done, she put the make-up down and picked up the ball gag. Both hands working in tandem, she secured the ball in her mouth and fastened it against the back of her head. Thick lips formed a bright red circle. Now, her red mouth was stretched wide around a rubber ball that was slightly too large. She was mute.

 

“Walk, slave.”

 

In boots, stockings, panties, and a collection of domination tools, Cutlass walked through more twists and turns until she came upon the hourglass, glossy black of her body suit. Fixed to the wall, and baring the counters of her torso, the costume was made to her exact proportions. It looked like a slick, glossy body painting more than it did a costume when she wore it. Even stripped from her body, you could see how form-fitting and sleek it was.

 

The magic that imbued Cutlass flowed through the suit when she wore it. A true second skin, it bore the white silhouette of a chess knight just below the low-scooped bust line. She had chosen this as her symbol as it seemed to portray both virtue and cunning. She was in captivity now, and it seemed to mock her in a way.

 

There was an ornate dog collar and leash just below it. Still, the motif was black leather and shiny, silver studs. The leash itself was hand-crafted, you could tell. It was lovingly twined together from several strands of soft leather, weaving in and out, joined into one gleaming length.

 

The gagged heroine listened to the voice of her mistress, her owner.

 

“There’s your costume. Your bodysuit. I think it looks like a real trophy up there, don’t you? Oh, forgot, you can’t talk. I know that there was a time that it became a true trophy.”

 

Humiliatrix began to recount Cutlass’ captivity at the hands of Sjambok.

 

“He started off by looking at your costume, didn’t he? You were by yourself, no sisters around to fight beside you, and you were facing off with him on a dark lonely dock at the edge of our city. It was just the two of you in the moonlight.  His costume was an interesting match with yours  - also dark, tight. Only he has that bright band of color across his big chest.”

 

Cutlass remembered the tall muscular South African man. He stood there with his hands on his hips, his chest thrown out, and mocked her. She could see the massive erection in his tights.

 

“Try your best for the next few seconds,” he laughed.

 

Humiliatrix seemed to know what she was thinking, and she picked up the story.

 

“You leapt, and you avoided that first slash of his whip, but the second … The second stroke caught you across the breasts. You felt every muscle tighten, your back went into spasm, arching you back, and you were paralyzed. Even your hands were curled into claws, almost. Even your jaw tightened. Amazing wasn’t it … ever muscle in power spasm. It must have been exhausting. You were a statue in fishnets, and he dragged you off by your hair.”

 

Cutlass was paralyzed and lost in darkness back when it all happened. She finally blacked out on that night. She only now learned that he carried her like a stiff piece of cordwood into the dock-side warehouse. He would have thrown her over his shoulder, but the woman in black was far too stiff to bend like that.

 

Humiliatrix told her about how the heroine’s toned and sculpted body was nothing but an object.

 

“I don’t get what that whip of his really does … whether it’s electricity or what, but the touch of it makes your body simply cease to function. So, he took you to his loft apartment, and he stripped you of your body suit, and he put you on a lovely indoor grille. He said that it was time to ‘have a brai.’”

 

That was about the size of it. It was a huge, human-sized grille. It was a smokeless thing that would allow you to cook meat indoors without your posh home filling with smoke.  Now, a curvaceous woman in fishnets and boots was chained to it. Still rigid and stiff, she was wrapped in chains and anchored to the metal crisscross of the big cooker.

 

He set off into the night to confront the two remaining sisters.

 

“Both of them were raising their hands to use their magic on him, when the Sjambok raised a hand and held up your body suit. He didn’t speak a word, but they understood that he had you. He had captured you, he had stripped you of your costume, and you were at his mercy. They waited and watched as he produced a little, flat hand-held video screen and showed them a video of you on the cooker, big tits thrust up and waiting for him to turn on the heat by remote. In the next few moments, at his command, both heroines were removing their costumes.”

 

Tina listened, measuring her breath through her nose, feeling the completeness of her captivity.

 

“He had all three of you.”

 

Mute, her ass and sex held captive, Cutlass listened, and then followed her final instructions.

 

“Put your costume back on. Put on your collar. Turn the corner, and knock on the door.”

 

Tina did as she had so many times, taking hold of her tight, shiny body suit with red-nailed fingers. She pulled the body suit on, feeling it cup her hard nipples and tingling skin. She ran a hand over the material, feeling how it rode her contours and conformed to her curves. This was her costume, and now it was her enslavement.

 

She snapped her collar on, and adjusted it a bit. She turned the corner.

 

There was a large, well-carved wooden door in front of her, suddenly. It was very deliberately out-of-place, a wooden door, covered with intricate carving, sporting a huge brass knocker in the middle of it. Her eyes adjusted, and she saw that the carved pictures were highly-detailed renderings of women in bondage gear and bowed in submission. She swore that one was a dead-ringer for her.

 

She took hold of the knocker and let it fall twice against the plate.

 

The door opened.

 

A man appeared, took hold of the leash, and pulled the woman called Cutlass into the next room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The men carried Snare.

 

Her ankles were pressed together and lashed to the pole that ran between them. Her wrists were lashed together and tied tightly to the pole that ran between them. Each man walked with one end of the pole on his shoulder, and Snare’s body hung down in the middle, swaying and bobbing with each step. Her head was flung back, and long, blond hair hung down. She swayed a bit, but her body was secure, bound to that pole. She was the catch.

 

She remembered seeing films and documentaries on hunts and endangered animals. This was how the native bearers carried big cats after the hunters shot them. That was pretty much the size of it; she had been as elusive as she could be, but she was nothing but prey now.

 

She worked her fingers around, but knew that there was no breaking the ropes.

 

Matadora and Horseman walked beside the low-slung, swaying captive, chiding each other.

 

“So how many times has she escaped from your barn, there, Mr. Horseman?”

 

“She never escaped. I brought her back every time.”

 

“Three times now. Ok, so the second time you were stringing her up … what was it now?”

 

“I hung her up like a calf ready for slaughter. I had her upside down in the smoke house, tied by the ankles … I thought she as out.”

 

“Awww, but she wasn’t unconscious … again. Didn’t she trick you with that before? And the second time she escaped you had tied her to a chair and left her there. Just left her there. You get back, she’s gone. Lucky for us, I saw her running across the rooftop. She was about to make a leap with those long legs, she was about to get away, fight us, turn the tables on us … something. She was about to turn the tables on us, but a bolo to the legs tripped her up.”

 

Matadora smiled at the recollection of Snare’s sudden shuddering gasp, and shock in her body as her legs suddenly betrayed her. Her ankles trapped in the spiraling length of cord, she felt herself fall forward and tumble with the momentum of her run. Her feminine legs in their heroine purple were suddenly bound together in mid-stride.

Though a spark of impulse told her what was happen, she still tried to throw her hands forward to prepare for a handspring as she dropped to the lower rooftops below her.

 

Another bolo was already in flight, wrapping her arms together at the elbows. There was actually a short, sharp slapping noise as they were locked together by the twirling length of a flying bolo.

 

“Uhhhh!”

 

She hit the roof of a shed hard, and slid to the soft sod below. The blond athlete in purple looked up to see the long, black-clad legs of Matadora striding towards her.

 

“One kick and she was out,” Matadora laughed to Horseman. She knew that Snare would remember the image of her text-book roundhouse kick snapping off into her face. There was a certain joy that rose in the Latin woman when she saw the blue eyes flutter closed and watched the blonde’s head drop down in a dead, unconscious faint.

 

Now, she and Horseman both looked down at Snare.

 

“Aren’t you glad that we didn’t let you run away? Now you get to go to the party,” she laughed.

 

Snare had no idea what “the party” would entail, so she could nothing but breathe and wait. He body swayed and bounced with each step of her captors.

 

This is all about trophies, she thought. This is all about trophies. I’m a trophy. I’m a trophy just like when Sjambok had me. One hit from that whip, and I was as stiff as a statue. He tossed away my weapons, but he kept me and placed me on his mantel like an enemy weapon brought home from battle.  

There was a party then, also, I recall. He placed me up there, along with costumes and bits and pieces that he had collected from other heroines for his guests to see.

I was a conversation piece.

 

 

The people were drinking beer. They were sampling this one and that, comparing this one and that. They were talking about sports. They were chatting about women.

 

Every now and then they would go to the woman in the corner. She was tall and athletic. She wore sleek, shiny leather boots with high heels. She wore fishnet stockings that hugged the contours of her thighs. The woman wore a black body suit that was as tight and slick as her boots, shiny in the same way, and displaying a white chess knight. She was busty, and her cleavage seemed to explode from the dark material.

 

She was ball-gagged.

 

She was on a collar and leash that joined her to a ring on the wall.

 

The people had tied her hands behind her back.

 

She recognized the people. She knew each of them.

 

 

There was a party going on, and she was little more than an ornament. The people would acknowledge her from time to time, with their hands and their mouths. On their way to get a drink or refresh a plate of snacks, they would pay her some attention. When they went to her, they would touch her, feel her breasts, squeeze the contours of ass, and run her hands up and down the long, defined relief of her legs.

 

Some took more time, massaging her breasts, pressing them together and kneading them almost lovingly. They would ride the curves and pinch the nipples through the material. Some enjoyed slapping her thighs and licking her through the fishnets and the body suit.

 

They had promised to do nothing more until the rest of the package showed up. The people talked about her, about the object in the corner.

 

“See; remember I was saying I like big girls. See, this is what I meant. Not all out-of-shape, but, like, thick and muscular. See those thighs? She got muscle. She could probably kick the shit outta’ somebody.”

 

“I like the big tits. Give me big, firm tits any day”

 

Tina stared at the far wall, listening, waiting for the device in her pussy to erupt again. She could smell the alcohol and the food, she could hear the game on the TV, but she never ventured to turn her head. She didn’t even turn her head when the door finally opened.

 

“TA-DA!”

 

There was a collective cheer, a rising wave of exuberance, as two tall, strong women from the barn entered the room. They carried the musky smell of hay and horses, and they carried a pole across their shoulders. Snare dangled from the long stick, her wrists and ankles bound to it.

 

Snare tilted her head, looking around as best she could. She saw that some of these assholes were in costume, some looked like normal civilians, and all were looking at her. This was the party, just as they’d said. She was somehow a bit surprised.

 

She fully expected them to lower her into … something. For some reason she expected some sort if fluid. She thought that they would lower her into water again, or a vat of something.

 

There was that vat of goo that the Congregation prepared for me. Before they lured me, before the gas choked me and left me paralyzed on the floor, they had prepared a clear, thick vat of something from their planet. It was still and it stank, and I would have no idea what its purpose was until they were done with me.

 

 As they carried me, one with his arms scooped under mine, holding up my upper body, another holding my legs under her arms, they talked to each other. I could hear them, and I could see and feel them, but my mouth hung slack and my body was limp and unresponsive.

 

“It’s ready, yes?”

 

“It’s ready. We will use Snare for the process.”

 

I saw the vat, and I felt them lift me, but could do nothing as they sank me into the thick fluid. As it closed around my flesh, filled my nose and tingled in my skin, I somehow realized what it was all about. My body knew that it was being copied.

 

At the party, at the ranch house, the carriers simply laid her down on the floor. They worked quickly, undoing the ropes and taking the pole from their portaged object. They turned and started their walk back to the barn as Matadora stalked across the room to the prone superheroine. There was no fight in Snare as the long-legged Latina straddled her slender hips.

 

“Welcome to the party, bitch. You see who’s here, right?”

 

She grabbed Snare’s face, her black-gloved hand forming a V to clutch the blonde’s chin. She forced her to scan the room, looking at this one, then that one, then the next.

 

“You know all of them. Snakehead. Mr. Phelps. The Rooks. The Mason Family. You know them, yes?”

 

She could see a glint of defiance in Snare’s eye. Someone in the room pressed a button, and Cutlass shook on her leash. Snare turned her eyes to the bound woman in fishnets who now screamed against her gag. A huge wet patch began growing between her thighs.

 

“Do you understand how she will suffer if you do not answer me? If you do not do as I tell you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do you know these people, whore?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why are they significant to you?”

 

“I fought them. Cutlass fought them.”

 

The surging power in Cutlass’ pussy ceased, and the panting woman dropped to her knees. Snare could see that the juice was pouring down Cutlass’ leg, soaking her fishnets. Something that was a muted artifact of a scream and a sigh of relief came heaving up from her chest. Her whole body shook.  Whatever they had put in her was working.

 

“You want this, Snare. You and Cutlass are whores, and this is something that you want. This is your humiliation.”

 

II.

 

The pattern of the rain changed, slanting in against the windows of the car. Tina turned up her collar. She looked to the blond woman in the seat beside her.

 

“So … you’re sure it’s in here?”

 

Jeannie was nodding ‘yes’ as she looked out into the pounding rain.

 

“They said that …Yeah, I understand that this is it. They make videos to show videos, and the videos are here. You go in and ask for ‘the costumes.’”

 

She wore a rain coat also, and took a breath as Tina turned off the engine. Two superwomen in their secret identities stepped out into the rain and walked across the parking lot to the door of a porn hut.

 

“Tracey said she’s been here before,” added the blond.

 

The place was cluttered just right for the men who went there, shambling in and out of stuttering florescent light as they picked through shelves and stacks of tapes and DVDs. The man behind the desk stiffened as the two women walked into his shop.

 

The only women who should have been in that place were recorded and saved on laser disks.

 

“Can I help you, ladies?”

 

Tina was wrapped tightly in a damp trench coat, but the thick-necked man in the ragged beard could see the hourglass figure of the woman. His eyes fell on the high, wide expanse of her bust. He traveled down, noting where the coat stopped, and the black, leather boots started. He hovered on the fishnet stockings in between.

 

Jeanie dressed the same way, only with jeans where her friend had stockings, blurting out “Costumes.”

 

The guy didn’t hesitate. He came from behind the counter, showing them the full girth of his corpulent middle. He pushed aside a musty curtain, and walked ahead of the women, leading them to a small basement room. The two women felt their shoulders brush, and the walls brush, as they crammed themselves down the hallway.

 

He took them into a red-lit room, and he left them. Once they had picked out what they wanted, he would put it in the clip sampler. “It’ll give you previews of the film, that way you can decide whether you want it.”

 

And he left them in the room.

 

“Look at these titles. Gold. Scorpio. Mystic….”

 

Tina was nodding her head.

 

“These are heroines in captivity. This is us, so many heroines, in captivity. Whenever they have a heroine they … These are pornos of….”

 

“Tina, there.”

 

She was pointing at what looked liked a new DVD set up for display.

 

“That’s us. Have … have the freak come back and put this I for us.”

 

SCENE #1

There was the living room. This was the scene in the living room of Humiliatrix’s ranch.  

 

Tina was there in her Cutlass costume, boots, fishnets, body suit. Tina was on a leash.

 

“This was when they gagged me.”

 

A wide, thick leather strap was wrapped across her mouth. From the stress in her jaw, you could see that a huge gag was forced between her lips and back into her mouth. A huge, black, straight rubber cock sprouted from her captive mouth.

 

It matched the strap-on that had been festooned to her crotch.

 

“They strapped me up well.”

 

The camera’s eye widened and both of them could see Jeannie on the floor. They had tied her in an intricate web weave, ropes crisscrossing her body from her booted ankles to her shoulders. Her arms were pinned to her sides, her legs were crossed, and her purple-clad body was squeezed viciously by the harsh ropes. A black cock gag was jammed into her mouth.

 

Men and women were using her as a footrest. A heavy black boot was against her head, and loafers rested on her large breasts. High heels dug into her thighs. The party goers were engrossed in the game, drinking and cheering, their feet nonchalantly resting on the athletic body of the heroine in purple.

 

SCENE #2

 

“This is when they had me fuck you. This was the first time.”

 

Snare was bent over the table now. Thrown over the table. The party guests were laughing and holding her wrists, keeping her long, lean body pinned and arched. Her blond hair was pulled and twisted to one side, held by a female guest as Cutlass knelt behind her.

 

“I could feel you back there, spreading my lips.”

 

The camera changed angles, and the viewers could see Cutlass’s long fingers with their bright red nails slipping into Snare’s peach. She opened the thick, puffy outer lips like drapes. With a thrust of her neck, Cutlass plunged the dildo that had been fixed to her mouth into Snare’s drooling pussy.

 

There was a close-up of Snare’s face as she screamed, then a split screen as a huge male hand grabbed the hair on the back of Cutlass’s head and began driving her back and forth

 

“Fuck her hard! Hard!”

 

Red hair fell in sloppy layers across Cutlass’s face as a powerful hand drove her head back and forth. The camera caught the juices pouring out of the other woman’s sex.

 

SCENE#3

 

Snare was on her knees, her hands behind her head. Her costume was pulled away from her tits, dark hard nipples presented. Her mouth was held open by a wide ring gag. With the camera at waist level, you could the legs of captors moving around the captive. Some were in costumes, some not. Some were shapely female legs, while others were male and sturdy.

 

A man stopped just beside her, there was a muttered command, and the lens widened to show a massive, erect cock sticking from his pants. It hovered just beside her face. The man maneuvered, grasping the top of her head, the camera moved, and the screen was filled with a shot of long meat being fed through the ring and into the heroine’s mouth.

His tool disappeared into her face.

 

His hips were pumping, and again there was a split screen. With her mouth now freed, Cutlass was also on her knees. Matadora clutched her face with black-gloved hands, her lips slanted against Cutlass’, and she raped the heroine’s mouth with her tongue. Her eyes were closed and she panted.

 

SCENE#4

 

The sound on the machine in that cramped little room was bad, but Tina and Jeanie could still make out the cheering of the party guests. Snare’s groans were masked, but Cutlass’ screams seemed to fill the room. They shuddered in time with her thrusting, and the thrusting of the woman behind her.

 

Snare was on all fours, with Cutlass’ hands on her hips. She snarled and clawed at the floor as Cutlass sought a rhythm, driving the big, black strap-on in and out of her soaked sex. Matadora was behind Cutlass, her fingers woven into the red hair. She wore a long, curved red strap-on, and she sucked air through her teeth as she buried its girth in her asshole.

 

 

The women walked back to the car, both of them scanning to see whether some other super heroine was coming to catch a glimpse of her captivity.

 

“She could have kept us,” said Tina. “She could have killed us.”

 

“Why bother? She’ll always own us.”

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