OUROBOROS
by Mr. K
1.
Cutlass
Cutlass had been kicked in face before, but never by a dead man. As she fell
over the rooftop railing, flipping, her long latex-clad legs and high heels
going over her head as she tumbled to the concrete below. She gave a pained
exhalation when she struck the stone.
“You killed me!”
His reflexes were better than the last time she faced him; he’d kicked
her in the face three times in a split second back then. Now it was five.
Her head was spinning, and her leggy, curvy form was uselessly laid out in
front of the man who was determined to pay her back for his last defeat.
He kicked her again.
He kicked her again.
He kicked Cutlass hard, driving her body against the wall. With the next
kick, the poor old bricks that had been laid there by a worker during the
Great Depression gave way. Cutlass, in her black latex body suit and white
latex stocking boots, crashed through in a rain of brick dust and mortar.
She gasped in pain and shock, taking in a lungful of the shattered wall’s
dust.
Helpless, her mind spinning, the woman tumbled head-first down the stairwell.
Her back slammed down across a railing, bending her in a painful arch. She
released a gurgling cry, then flipped and continued tumbling. When she hit
the stone of the lowest landing, finally, he was already on her. She felt
a foot come down on her tits, mashing the thick, round mass of her breasts
of bust below a massive boot. Another foot pressed down to her right, and
the big villain was standing on her body.
Gasping for air, Tina, the woman who called herself Cutlass when she slid
into the second-skin latex of her costume, could only lay there helplessly
as he changed his footing, and pressed a foot down on her pelvis while the
other went to her face. The filth and stink, the grime and grave soil of
his boot were pressed into her eyes, nose, and mouth, filling her
senses.
She let out a muffled grunt as he trampled her over and over.
When the foot moved away she could see, and took a good long look at the
man. He still had the dreadlocks that she remembered, but they were no longer
hair. What must have been tens of millions of long, thin, hair-sized chains
sprouted from his scalp and moved as if animated of their own free will.
They squirmed and wiggled without direction, some seeming to explore the
night sky around their owner’s head, while others seemed to caress his
skin. She lost sight of the scene as a monstrous foot again eclipsed her
vision.
He trampled her model’s face.
The foot moved, two massive hands grabbed hold of her hair and yanked her
up from the place where she lay. Those hands had a zeal and a power to them
that seemed to pour through the dry, rough fingers and into her body. There
was anger in the strength that he used to twist her hair into knots and lift
her off the ground. Her hands came up to grip his wrists with her own superhuman
strength, but the villain only laughed and shook her.
“Uhhhhh….”
She closed her eyes and moaned.
He seemed to toy with her for a moment, hitting her against the wall only
hard enough to make her gasp and shudder. It was just enough force to make
her breasts shake and quiver.
“What a neat toy I have here.”
He liked the way the thumping of her body against the wall made her reddish
brown hair fall across her face. It clung to her moist pink lips.
“You and your sisters killed me. I got sloppy, and you, Foil and Saber
killed me up on that satellite. I had the chance to kill all three of you
out in space that day, but I got sloppy, I got too excited about fucking
all three of you, and you killed me. Fine. I’m back.”
Again, he assaulted the bricks, making a missile out of the woman. As bricks
rained down on her sleek, latex-clad body, she found herself dizzy, lost,
and confused. The attack was over-powering, but even more overwhelming was
the presence of the man doing it.
This was Onslaught. All of this time later, all of the time after she left
him drifting in space, obviously dead, this was the man-monster called Onslaught.
She had defeated him once, with the help of her sisters, but now she was
on her own and he was back.
He came close to winning during their first encounter in the satellite. In
fact, there was a point at which she though he had won. Her sister, Saber,
was stretched out unconscious on the deck, the metallic pink and black of
her two-piece costume and skin tight hip boots standing out against the grey
metal of the deck. Her blond hair was a wild swirl framing her
face. Foil, the dark-haired sister
in her deep maroon body glove and jet-black, high-heeled boots, was laid
out beside her, also knocked out and broken. Cutlass thought that he had
won. When his cock was in her asshole and she was screaming, when he rained
cum on the sisters’ faces, and chained all of them together, preparing
to toss them into the incinerator, she thought that they had
lost.
They won that day on the satellite, but now he was back.
“I … killed … you …” she muttered, consciousness
slowly fading as she sprawled in the bricks.
“I’m baaaaaack!”
His eyes fell on the latex of her spread thighs, and the crease of her big,
thick vulva. When his kick crashed into her sex, she cringed, clenched her
fists, and arched her neck. She was silent and twisted with
pain. Cutlass curled into a ball,
pulling her knees up to her breasts, balling her fists and squeezing her
eyes shut.
He now clutched both ankles in his fists, stretching her body out, and drawing
the legs together. Onslaught dragged her a bit. He held her upside down again,
admiring the tight peach of her ass and the musculature of her legs and back.
“You have a perfect body, Cutlass. I’m going to fucking destroy
it.”
“How….How are you….?”
Suddenly, her legs were released and his face was next to hers. His once-brown,
human eyes were now milky-white globes set deep in his face. His skin was
a pale, jaundiced version of what it had been those years
ago. He hissed at her through
yellow, twisted teeth. Their faces were only inches apart.
“I’m going to make this slow.”
Her eyes came to focus on the scar on his forehead. This was something else
that was new. It was raised,
circular, and not an accidental scar at all. In that split second he punched
her in the throat and laughed as she shuddered backwards and keeled over.
He closed his hands around her throat and began to crush the woman’s
airway. The chains reached out now, slithering across her face and exploring
her red, cherry mouth. She couldn’t count how many of the dreadlock
coils wrapped around her tongue and squeezed it, but soon she was gagging
and rolling her eyes back in her head.
She could hear herself gagging as the bundle of chains wrapped and squeezed
tightly around her tongue, twisting it and tugging it around in her mouth.
The reaching tendrils explored her mouth, reaching down into the throat.
Her eyes were wide.
Chains joined his hands in squeezing her throat, while others found her wrists
and wrapped them together, pinning them to each other and down against her
breasts. They snaked this way and that, wrapping her arms against her shapely
upper body, squeezing the large, firm mass of her tits.
They coiled around one thigh, then another. They wrapped tightly into the
thick muscle of her long legs, and pulled them apart.
“I like the new costume; you’ll look good buried in
it.”
Again, her eyes fell on that circular scar on his forehead.
Chains reached out from his misshapen head to twine and grab at the heat
and moisture between her legs. They made short work of her costume, peeling
open the latex ,and then taking hold of her pussy lips. The chain locks slowly
pulled her dark labia apart, holding her pussy wide open, pink and
gaping.
Red Arrow
Red Arrow could still see the wound in his throat. It was no longer raw or
bloody, and the arrow that she’d used to make it was safely sleeping
in her quiver, but that was certainly the wound. It wasn’t truly healed,
but wasn’t fresh either. It was a round, ugly puncture wound in the
throat of the rubbery skinned man. That was the wound that killed him.
It had been months since she had pulled the arrow out of the man’s throat
and left his dead body in a deserted motel parking lot. Now, she was his
prisoner.
He carried Red Arrow as he had done everything that night – effortlessly,
emotionlessly. One arm was scooped below her shapely legs, the other was
behind her back, arms hanging down limply behind her. He had walked for what
seemed like and hour now, the helpless heroine in his arms, and two new arrows
still in his chest.
Slowly, sluggishly, Red Arrow raised her head to look at the expressionless
man who still had two of her arrows sprouting out of his body. There was
the old hole, there were the two arrows, there was that expressionless face
staring off into the night.
“I would be dead like the other eight people that you killed tonight
if you hadn’t killed me once already.” He spoke in a nearly-robotic
tone.
The image was in her mind again. Perhaps an hour ago, she was a part of the
rooftop shadows in a deserted and desolate part of town. She waited, not
as long as she thought she would have to, for the heads of three of the major
crime families in the city to arrive for a scheduled meeting with a mysterious
someone, a Mr. Big who would give them some incredible boon.
She recognized all of them, except for the man in black who had brought them
to this meeting place. She recognized their body guards and aides de camps.
She knew their names and their criminal deeds, and she killed them.
Working with her bow and arrow, with the deft skills of a ninja, she released
arrow after arrow.
Hands in red latex moved in a silent blur as she would lock eyes on a target,
take an arrow, wed it to the bow and set it into flight. While it was still
on its journey to the heart of its target, the next one would already be
starting on its trip. Within seconds, there was a concert of thumps and last
exhalations as bodies hit the pavement.
But then there was the man.
Once all was said and done, he stood among the dead bodies, one of her arrows
sticking from him chest, and blank stare on his face. He looked up, directly
at Red Arrow, directly into her eyes. The art of concealment meant nothing
to him. He smiled, she recognized him, and he began walking up to her hidden
perch.
“Lethario.”
She fired another arrow, which buried itself in his chest as
well.
He walked up to take her.
She turned, moving to confront him on her own terms, and found that he was
already framed in the doorway of the vacant room.
There was a blur of motion, she felt pain, and she was his
prisoner.
“How?” she was able to say.
“What difference does it make?”
“Killed … you
….”
“Yes, you did. My plan was to have you as a lover, but you killed me.
Now we have another chance at being as one.”
She had no idea of where they were, but only abandoned buildings surrounded
them, and the sounds of the city seemed muted and distant.
“Not your…”
Weakness and pain overtook her again, drawing her words down and silencing
her. As she inhaled, the smell of garbage and refuse filled her senses. Her
body accepted its fate as he laid her out on a moldy mattress and a rusted,
creaky bed frame. Turning her head to the right just a bit she saw that it
had all come full circle.
“Remember this place?”
She did. She did remember that this was where she killed him a year before.
Their fight had landed the two of them there, and she battled the tall, handsome
man among the dunes of trash. Her red, latex body glove was torn, her large
breasts with their huge dark nipples exposed. The crotch of her costume had
been cut away, her thick vulva pouting out. On her wrists and ankles were
the shackles and broken chains of her recent captivity.
Lethario wore a designer suit that night, and laughed in the darkness.
This was the place where, half-naked and still throbbing from his drugs and
his searching fingers, she emerged from the shadows and shot an arrow through
his throat.
Now, he laid her out on the discarded, twisted remained of a bed. Her limbs
were limp, and he had no resistance as he spread her long legs in their red
latex and short, tight, high-heeled boots. He laid her arms out, placing
her in a spread-eagle.
He didn’t bind her right away, but, instead knelt beside her, one knee
on the mattress. She could see him looking her up and down in the
moonlight.
She groaned as he used some sort of harsh wire or cord to lash her left wrist
to the rusted frame. She barely wiggled the gloved fingers of her hand. As
he bound one limb after the other, he rejoiced.
“Finally, we can be together.”
She remembered him controlling her mind with his drugs when they first battled.
He filled the room with a gas, then paced around her laughing as she choked
and staggered. He could see that she was amazed by the fact that he wore
no gas mask.
“When you take a dose of this on a daily basis, you can simply absorb
it. Feeling weak and horny?”
The woman in red remembered moaning and trying to ignore the throbbing between
her thighs.
“Hold yourself, Asian woman. Hold yourself and let me see
you.”
She remembered feeling like a whore on that first night that they battled,
cupping her latex-covered breasts with one hand and palming her crotch with
the other.
“Very erotic,” Lethario smiled back then. He pulled the hapless,
self-pleasuring heroine close to him.
“Pleasure me.”
As he carried Red Arrow on the night that he returned from the dead, he recounted
how beaten she was on their first encounter. He recounted the woman from
“I still … beat you ….”
“ I destroyed your costume, I had you, and you killed me in the end.
Now, things will be different.”
Again, Lethario tore away patches of her costume. The last time he did this,
he used a knife and struggled to get through the fibers of the specially-made
latex. Now, he was able to use his bare hands to expose her
breasts.
Again, he kissed and sucked her nipples.
Again, he ripped through the latex that covered her mound, only this time
it was with his cock alone.
Dark Moon
Dark Moon’s eyes were wide. There was no pain running through her body,
but there was shock. There was sheer
confusion. She could speak, and
she could comprehend, but her body was locked and under control. She could
speak, and she did, keeping herself composed and cool.
“Foxglove, how are you? I don’t understand how you aren’t
dead. Didn’t
I … ? Yes, I’m
sure I killed you.”
“Funny thing that, isn’t it?”
“It is … funny. So, you have me paralyzed. I can’t move. I
don’t remember you having this power before. You put me in a trance
the last time we met….”
“But I couldn’t turn you into a living statue as I have. I
couldn’t do this.”
“So, you can torture me by letting me have my mind, but compelling my
body to do what you want. The last time, my brain was on-board with your
plan ….”
“But this time, you have to watch under protest as I drive you.
Helpless.”
“And how are you not dead, again?”
Dark Moon felt her body move forward, one long-legged step after the other,
then stop. The other woman had played puppeteer, moving her along as show
of power.
“I’m your toy,” she said.
“You are.”
Dark Moon darted her eyes around, but all she could see was the four-poster
bed, the mirrors, the ornate wallpaper that reminded her of her abuela’s
manor. The woman called Foxglove paced around behind her, staying just out
of eye shot. Paralyzed, Dark Moon could only stand like a statue and catch
glimpses of the victor in the mirrors.
Foxglove looked, more or less as Dark Moon remembered her. She was a lean
and defined, well-conditioned, middle-aged woman. She was a red head with
sharp, striking features and the stature of a dancer – thick, shapely
muscle and firm well-rounded breasts.
The only thing new was the strange circular scar in the middle of the
woman’s forehead. It peeped out from behind her stylish
bangs.
Finally, the woman who held Dark Moon captive came striding back into full
view.
“How do you feel about tribbing? We’re going to trib
tonight.”
“That’s how you’re going to rape me this time? You’re
going to trib me?”
The athletic woman in the lingerie smiled and nodded a ‘yes.’ It
was almost as if she was telling a close friend or a family member about
a fun little trip she had planned.
“You ran out of strap-ons? The last time you had me, you used a strap-on.
You’re into bumping doughnuts now?”
“Uh huh. I just want to build up to it, talk about it, have you ponder
what I’ve done to you and what I’m going to do, then do it.
You’re very off-kilter in this conflict, and I want to keep it that
way. I want to have fun with you.”
“And then you’ll kill me.”
“No. We have much bigger plans for all of you.”
“Who’s we?”
Tall, lush Foxglove only answered by slipping one hand between the
Dark Moon could feel the other woman breathing against her neck and in haling
her hair. It was this way before. It was this way all of the time with Foxglove.
Everything was about sensuality.
“I would consume you if I could.”
She whispered it when she fist battled Dark Moon, and she said it again when
she held the nylon heroine in her puppet grip. With the fragrant, brown-skinned
“I came back to consume.”
She picked up the paralyzed superheroine, enjoying the feeling of a curvy,
solid woman in her hands. She effortlessly carried the woman around a bit,
bending at the knees, swinging and swaying the captive around.
“ What are you? About five-foot-ten, one-hundred-thirty pounds?”
Foxglove asked.
“I am, right on the nose. You should work the carnival
circuit.”
“ Yeah, I’m good. I love tall women.”
She finally slammed the dark-haired woman down on the firm, plush landscape
of her bed, and just took in the sight.
Dark Moon wore a catsuit, a second skin of what looked like semi-opaque,
black pantyhose material, and she wore glossy, soft “liquid leather”
boots, and matching opera-length gloves. She was large-breasted and her eyes,
now stripped of her their black mask, were shaded maroon.
“Perfect caramel skin. And I always loved those full lips.”
“I don’t know what power brought you back, or what you used on
me, but you’ve got me for now.”
Foxglove climbed on to the bed and pressed her body down on the woman in
nylon. She had Dark Moon stretched out, spread-eagle, below her on the bed.
She had her again.
It had been almost a year since Foxglove had her this way – on her back
and helpless. It was in her fetish-club lair back then, and a crowd of
leather-clad, panting hench people was gathered around. She was in a trance
then, brought on by Foxglove having blown some sort of powder in her face.
They all cheered when they saw the heroine’s eyes go sleepy, and when
she stopped in her tracks, all of the fight gone out of her. That bled into
a hushed collective smile when Foxglove then told her “Climb up on the
table and lay yourself out spread eagle. Let your head hang over the edge.
Open your mouth.”
Dark Moon did as told that night; she had no free will and she was robotically
doing as told. Her head sagged over the edge, jet black hair pouring
down.
“Open your mouth,” she said again. “Gentlemen, why don’t
you begin?”
As the first man stuffed his cock into her mouth, she realized just how helpless
she was. Now, it was different; her mind was rebelling, but her body was
a toy. She had given up on figuring out how the evil bitch was back in the
world of the living; her own powers came from magical intervention in the
known world, why not Foxglove’s presence in it?
“Do you remember how well you served me that night?” she asked
as she.
“You seemed to enjoy
yourself,” said the prisoner.
“You called yourself ‘sharing’ me with your
minions.”
Foxglove maneuvered Dark Moon into place, roughly, as she recounted their
previous visit together. She had a time of focused, vigorous anger in her
as she took hold of the
“If I recall…”
She was climbing around on the bed, raising herself up to a dominant position,
and spreading her legs between Dark Moon’s so that their crotches matched
up. One long, nylon-covered leg was in the air, high heel pointed at the
ceiling, with Foxglove holding the ankle.
“You have a big clit, and a veeery sensitive one at that. I’ll
bet that I can get my girl down on yours just like…”
Dark Moon sucked air through her teeth as the heat and wetness of her
mistress’s cunt dealt a suffocating kiss to her own. The villainess’
sex was bare and already dripping. Dark Moon’s was covered in the pantyhose
costume, but she could feel the other woman’s steamy cunt as if both
of them were naked.
A trembling shot through the heroine as the red-haired cougar began her ride.
There was no need for her to tear the material out of Dark Moon’s crotch;
she could feel the material dissolving.
“The last time I had you, I
took you for a walk. Do you remember that, Dark Moon?”
“I was on a leash. You …”
The fire in between her thighs took her, and she had to pull herself back
together.
“You took me out in a crowd at midnight, and walked me around on the
leash. It was all of … It was all of the clubbers. You offer …
offered me to whomever ….”
“You sucked so many cocks that night. Right in the street like a whore,
you sucked cocks and ate pussy. Then I walked you a few blocks, and took
you to The Gallery. You were the most popular piece of performance art in
the place.”
The recollection of Dark Moon in a stockade, bent over with her neck and
wrists in a translucent mock-up of an old English stock ran through the
super-powered captive’s mind. Foxglove stuck her there like that, inviting
art-lovers to come by and spank her, grope her, or do whatever they pleased.
That was the first display.
“You put me in … in that …box … my
tits hanging out…”
She moaned with the beat of the tribbing
as she remembered being sealed in a plexiglass container so tight that she
couldn’t have moved a finger had she tried. Her big, firm breasts jutted
through two holes in the translucent material.
“You were such fun that night.”
“I still escaped, and … I
still won.”
The captive
Snare
Jeannie curled her fingers into claws and flexed the muscles in her arms.
She reared her head back, breathing hard around the cloth that had been pulled
into her mouth. It was dark, she was crammed into a small space, she was
tightly hog-tied, and she could smell leather. That was all that she
knew.
She remembered being hit from behind by a shock wave, by vibrations, and
having only a brief second of presence before the lights went out totally.
While she was out, her captor took her weapons and the belt that held them
tightly against the sleek curve of her waist and the full arcs of her hips.
Then whoever it was that ambushed her in the abandoned warehouse, tied her,
dragged her, carried her … somehow deposited her in this cramped dark
place.
Jeannie flexed her arms again, and the ropes that held her
tore. First, the tiniest of sinews
gave way, then the thicker cords, until finally the thick, nylon rope surrendered
and let go of itself. The captive blond pulled her wrists apart and immediately
brought her hands up to remove the cleave gag.
Moving smoothly in her slick skin suit - a gloss of fluid purple so sheer
and sleek that she felt almost naked – Jeannie pulled her muscular legs
in, bringing her knees to her breasts, and ripped off the white nylon cord
that pinned are ankles together. It was wrapped once or twice below her high
heeled boots, so she had to yank a bit, but soon that fell away.
Light was pouring in slits through the folding doors that closed her in,
and she could feel, and smell the clothes that hung above her. When she moved
and rolled, she could feel shoes under her and crowded around her.
I’m in a woman’s closet.
She reached out and pulled the doors apart.
Some clothes-horse woman captured me and tied me up on the floor of her fucking
closet.
As the slotted doors of the closet opened, she was treated to the sight of
a semi-posh, middle-class bedroom. It was done up in white, mostly. There
was a bedspread, there were chests of drawers, there was a plush carpet,
all stark white. She could see bits of daily clutter – some clothes
left haphazardly here and there about the room.
A photo of a family hung on the wall. It was one of those semi-glossy things
that you can have done in the mall, the whole family crowded together around
a fake wooden fence or in a fake garden. In the middle was a buxom, blond
soccer mom resting her hands on the narrow shoulders of her what appeared
to be her youngest son.
“Boa?”
She spoke out loud as she paced through the bedroom and out into the hallway.
That photo was, without a doubt, the villainess called Boa. She wasn’t
in her snakeskin body glove, but it was Boa. The man in the cheesy photo
was her husband, Iron Sights. These were two villains who actually met, married,
and raised a family, taking on the roles of soccer parents and PTA members.
Snare knew them well.
Snare made her way through the brightly lit hallway, her mind replayed images
of the last time she met this woman and her husband. She remembered Iron
Sights having a tight grip on her thick, blond hair. He seemed to make almost
an art out of it, twisting it, every last dirty-blond strand of
it, around his fist in a braid-like
coil, making sure the grip was tight and the woman’s scalp practically
screamed from the tension. His huge, gleaming hunting knife hovered at her
throat.
Her own rope had been skillfully used to tie her up, binding her arms tightly
behind her back, framing her breasts, and running over each hip and down
through her crotch. It occurred to her that she was in a closet then also,
only that it she shared it with Iron Sights. The heavily-armed hunter, whose
super vision and dexterity made him the deadliest man on Earth with a firearm,
had himself pressed against the busty blond woman in purple. They both looked
out through a slot in the door.
She could feel him breathing on her neck.
The superhero woman called Cutlass had come looking for Snare that day, and
was now slowly pacing through the abandoned house in which Iron Sights and
Boa made their hideout. Snare watched, tied tightly with her own rope, a
knife at her throat, as an unsuspecting Cutlass walked into the trap that
had been set.
Now she was in the suburban home that Iron Sights shared with Boa.
As Snare
moved around the plush, posh interior of Boa’s home, after breaking
free of her bondage in the woman’s closet, it occurred to her that this
was the same place. Information fed in and out of her mind quickly, telling
her that this was, without a doubt, the dingy abandoned home in which Iron
Sights and Boa held her captive that day.
This whole area must have been redone into a gated community or
something.
“It’s
a fixer-upper,” she heard someone say.
Just as she did
when she ambushed Cutlass, Boa came swinging down from the ceiling beams
above. This time, instead of watching from a closet with a knife at her throat,
Snare was the one caught up in the sleek, muscular legs of the woman.
Suddenly, she was
on the floor.
Suddenly, she
couldn’t breathe.
Suddenly, the weight
of a woman who she had left for dead was pinning her
down.
On her back,
spread-eagle, Snare’s mind came to grips with the fact that a tall,
muscular woman in a snake-skin body stocking was straddling her chest. Her
crotch was in Snare’s face, and her weight was trapping the woman in
purple.
This must be a favorite
position for her.
Boa was a grappler with a fighting style that was all about strangling or
asphyxiating her opponent. Snare remembered long, muscular legs in a tight
pincer around her throat, and just barely being able to tilt her head to
see the woman who had clamped it on her. A glossy, green snakeskin
body stocking covered her from head toe. Now, the woman was on her,
pinning her, moving her snakeskin crotch to the blond woman’s face.
She was stronger now. Before this meeting she was strong. Snare would fight
to out position or overwhelm her, but would end up in a tight hold. Her leverage
would be gone, and her body at the whim of Boa. Now, though, she was especially
strong. It was like she was a child below the crushing power of Boa.
Snare went to move her lean, gymnast’s legs, and felt two powerful hands
clamp down on her ankles.
“Iron Sights,” she gasped. Snare was looking up into the face of
the woman who straddled her. She had a new stylish haircut, but Snare could
easily see the circular scar on her forehead.
“Do you see it?” Boa smiled. “That’s why I’m
back.”
She felt the husband binding her legs, hands moved and pressed and pulled
around her ankles as Iron Sights wove rope in and out and around her ankles.
There was a brief moment of struggle, but Snare was already weak, and hopelessly
pinned below the snake woman.
Expert at trussing up game, he worked quickly on the legs, enjoying the sight
of tight purple on perfect muscleslegs.
“She has a cute little mound,” he chuckled. His wife was moving
her hips now, grinding on the ample bust of the caught woman. As she moved
and shifted, he took control of Snare’s upper body. Again, he was using
her rope to bind her.
Around the wrists.
Around the breasts.
Around the waist, and down between the thighs.
She felt him tighten up the ropes, squeezing in tightly in either side of
her mound. She moaned in spite
of herself as the rough rope squeezed in on either side of her sex.
Boa had moved again, locking her legs around Snare’s throat as her husband
took his time cutting off the circulation of the woman who had once beaten
both of them. Snare could only make soft grunts as her body gave way to the
ropes.
“You put up a good little fight but not as good as last time. Remember
that time? Remember how my wife wrestled with you and got you in that triangle
hold?”
She recalled the grip of tight legs, and then being driven to the floor.
That was when the husband chimed in, cuffed her, and shoved the cold steel
of his gun being forced between her lips.
“I shoved a .45 into your mouth, and you sucked that piece of steel.
We had you.”
Now, she was tied tightly, and squirming against her bonds as Boa released
her grip, and Iron Sights scooped down to pick up a bound heroine.
“Show her around the house, lover,” Boa said. “I’ll go
down and work on dinner. When you’re done, call me and I’ll do
my thing with her.”
One of her hands was on Snare’s left tit. She squeezed and kneaded the
heroine’s tit, a strange vibration carrying from her body to the
prisoner’s.
“Sounds good, baby.”
She stood, and walked away, taking herself down stairs to do her domestic
duties. Now, Snare looked up at Iron Sights. Her jaw was set, and he fixed
himself on the defiance in her face.
“You killed her. In this very place, you killed my wife. The power brought
her back to me, and now we are going to punish you.”
“How? How is she back?”
There was no answer as the massive pillar of a man lifted her, shook her,
and moved her about.
“We have a new hot tub,” he said tossing her over his shoulder.
Blond hair flipped, a woman moaned, and Snare rode helplessly on the shoulder
of Iron Sights as he gave her a tour of the home. He talked nonchalantly
about the bar, the stone fireplace, and the sunken living room. They had
antique this and that, and an utterly perfect piece of art that they picked
up in
“You’ll love this, Jeannie,” he said, laying her down on the
tile beside the hot tub. She could smell the chemicals in the swirling water.
“All of this just to drown me in your hot tub?”
She flashed her vision back and forth between the water and the big hunter
in the khakis and the polo shirt. The second time her eyes shot up, she was
met by the sight of his thick girth. He had opened his pants, and a massive
storker now hovered at her face. She gave one last tug at her bonds.
Two hands gripped the sides of her head, rough
fingers weaving into the tangle of her hair. and Snare closed her eyes as
the man drove his cock to the back her throat. He yanked her , pulling
her hard by her head and drawing her up to her knees. Her body was bound,
and now her mouth was taken captive by the gamey thrust of his tool.
She gagged and he grumbled, his hips pumping.
“You killed her. Now it’s time to pay the
piper.”
He raped her mouth for only a few seconds, then abruptly pulled out, pushed
her to her back, and took hold of her legs. Again, Snare closed her eyes,
and he slid her, head-first, into the froth of the hot tub. He submerged
her as far as her big breasts, then no more. With
her head and shoulders lost in
the hot water, he waited. Soon, her lungs would be screaming for air, and
her body would rebel. Weak from the sonic blast that Boa had used to capture
her, and bound, she would be helpless.
I’m drowning. The words popped
up in her head.
He counted, waited, then dragged her out. The purple of her costume was dark
with water now, the wide circles of her nipples clear under the
skin-tight material. The blond
hair was matted against her head in at twisted mess, and she spat out water.
“I’m not going to kill you. That would be too easy, and we need
you alive. I just want to know what it feels like when death is closing around
you.”
The hunter yanked hard, pulled her to her knees, and entered her mouth again.
He pinched her nose closed, and deprived her of oxygen again. She made a
deep throaty gagging noise, convulsing in her soaking costume and tight ropes.
He counted, and then returned her to the water, clutching her legs and whistling
a happy little tune.
He would do this over and over until his wife came to spell him.
“Why don’t you just keep on drowning her, hun?” he asked.
Panting, stretched out on her back, helpless, Snare heard the happy couple
agree. Her vision was tangled up in the wet mess of her hair, but she could
hear them kissing and baby talking.
A hand, a feminine hand, took hold her hair, pulled her to her knees, and
swept her hair away from her face. The beautiful super-fit woman smiled at
her.
“Make her eat your pussy between each trip underwater,
ok?”
Once her face was level and close to Boa’s mound, she closed her eyes.
Vibrations were coming from the woman’s sex.
Gold
He was still the Gamemaster. He was bigger and he was faster, but he was
still the Gamemaster. He’d changed his game, though. When they battled
years before, and she had killed him, he was a football player. Ridden with
chemicals of all sorts, swollen and distorted like a monster Adonis, he had
beaten and fucked her over and over again while wearing football pads.
Captured and dripping from his merciless penetration, she did the only merciful
thing she could do. She left the freak dead. Without football gear, and wearing
only the shorts of his new sport of choice he beat her again.
Gamemaster was always strong, and always hit hard, but now it was as if a
planet had crashed into her.
“Superman punch!”
He launched himself, fist first, and collided with her jaw. The tall woman
buckled, tumbling backwards and catching a glimpse of herself as she fell
past the locker room mirror. A normal woman would be a mass of bruises and
contusions now. Gold was still a statuesque, six-footer in a bright golden
body gloss. The ocean of blond that had grown down longer and thicker since
the big villain had last battled her looked barely mussed.
She could feel his new superpowers, though. She could feel what ever force
had brought him back in her very bones. This beating had gone on for an hour
with his fists flying like a blur, landing blows on her tight midsection,
her face, her ribs. Gold had been battered from side to side, beaten to the
ground, and then choked while the monster athlete taunted her.
“I thought you were so fucking hot, you whore. I loved fucking you.
Confused to see me?”
There was a brief moment of relief as he stood up, then the impact of a metal
weight bar crashed into her defined muscular
back. She could see him in the
mirror using both hands to swing the empty barbell from overhead. There was
no doubt that she would have been crushed if she wasn’t a magically
endowed superheroine.
He can swing that weight bar like
it’s nothing.
She groaned, her body no longer fighting to get off the gym floor. She lay
on her front, her long legs spread, and her lean body offering no resistance
as the big freak knelt between her thighs. There was some sort of strange
vibration coming from his body that disrupted her nervous
system. Her golden body gloss
was de-powered now, and she couldn’t focus worth a damn. She could only
whine and bite her lower lip as his index finger found her asshole.
At one point, point he flung her on her back on a bench. He tied her in a
crude crisscross of jump ropes, taking moments to slap and choke her, and
entered her again. With her head flung back she could see a strange raised
scar on his forehead. It was like a brand or a raised scar tattoo. It was
a snake biting its own tail.
She closed her eyes and screamed when he entered her with a dumbbell bar.
At one point, he untied her, stood her up, and took a fighter’s stance.
She was weak and had just barely raised her hands when he hit her in the
face with a flurry of blows. Gold bounced off a wall, then another as her
shot front kicks and punches into her body and face.
At one point, her legs were flung wide, and his cock was pumping and thundering
in her cunt. It seemed to vibrate with some weird energy. He was fucking
her, and she was screaming again.
At one point, she was on her knees, and his massive cock was snaking to the
back of her throat.
“This is what your life will taste like forever.”