ROPE MASTER 1
THE TOOL, THE CLUB AND THE MASTERY OF THE DEVIL
by K-Man
Consider rope. Coils and strands and lines twirled around each
other. Coils in one long band holding civilization together. That’s not
hyperbole. How could ships find new realms, bridges traverse rivers, and
shelters stay strong with out it? And how could man harness animal? Rope is
everything. I live by this motto.
Rope is liberating in its ability to capture and hold. Especially
for women. A woman, I feel, learns her true feminine nature when she finds
herself made helpless by a man. When she is put in her place. I live by
this as well. I set things right when it comes to women and power. I find
the ones who are out-of-line, then I show each her weakness and bind her as a
symbol of her inability to escape true womanhood and her nature as the
servant of men.
I don’t have special powers. I do have the mind of a chess master
and the will to do what is right. I mask myself and costume myself to show
my prey that I am not just a an avenger, but a true symbol of the power of
men.
There was the female journalist who was exposing white slavery rings
in the red light district of our city. She was being a true jezebel. Men
who upheld the ancient rites of our relationship to women were being carted
off to jail. I sought her out. I showed her that a man’s sexuality was
still her weakness knot, then I left her suspended from her apartment’s
ceiling in coils and coils. She stopped her ways.
A judge, blond and loud like cheap women are, was putting what out
pusilanimous society calls “rapists” in jail. I found out about the
drinking, made her weak, and left her hog-tied in her chambers.
Women.
Now I must deal with these costumed women - superheroines. I must
stop women who claim power beyond even mortal men. With their sexuality
unbridaled in high-heeled boots and tight costumes, they threaten to destroy
us all. To tear the fabric of society. They are freaks with the power of
gods.
I joined a group of men, for this very reason. The Hunt Club. They
understand the evil and, as members of the Hunt Club, they seek to destroy
it. These are good men. It was through them that I hunted the women. I
started off by working my magic on the one called Red Devil. Something, some
freakish evil, ahd given this woman the power to move like the wind. She
would come darting out of nowhere, her costume creating a red blur, and
disrupt the best-laid plans of men. If a bomb was set to go off, or an act of
mass violence somemwhere ... anything .... she would arrive and use that
speed to shut it all down. Evil little bitch. I was told to cut my teeth by
bringing her to the Hunt Club clubhouse.
“This woman is a problem,” the huntmaster told me. “But she could
give us information on other superheroines. Bring her here.”
She had a secret identity, like all of them did, but it was easy
enought to figure out who she was and how to catch her. One microdot tracer,
waffer-thing and blending in with her costume, fired silently from a special
hunt-club weapon when she came to rescue two women tied up beside a bomb, and
I was on my way to following my prey to her lair. The women? My two
assistants. My two good women who knew their places and helped in the cause.
They always helped me close my traps, but that night, as usual, I went to
the final stage alone.
I entered through a window of an expensive penthouse and made myself
comfortable. She wasn’t home yet. I waited for Red Devil, examining her
life. Photos of high school and college track. Photos of the graduation of
police cadets. Photos and certificates from a martial arts schools. And,
interestingly enough, photos of another woman. She was Asian and ravaging.
Like Red Devil, she was a perfect picture of lean athleticism. They seemed
somehow intimate. I smiled and said aloud, “Your world ends tonight.”
It took only a short time before I heard movement. The sky light
opened and the slender silhouette of Red Devil slipped into her private
space. In the darkness I could see the perfect muscularture and athletic
physique. Her limbs were strong, her breasts high and firm. Even at regular
speed, she moved with a sensuous power that made me go hard in my Ropemaster
costume.
I heard her sigh and watched her shoulders sink. She was relaxing,
coming down. As she moved to click on a light, I put my plan into action.
>From where I croutched, I lashed out a noose - a lassoo that gracefully flew,
dropped down over her head and came to rest around her neck. Red Devil had a
moment of confusion, then complete shock and helplessness as I yanked the
noose tight around her throat and pulled her off of her feet. With all of my
might, in her very own apartment, I whipped her around like a rag doll.
Making a startled gasp, she clawed at her throat and arched her body as I
sent her body sailing into a bookshelf. The crash was delightful, and on her
next flight, she resisted even less. She was giving in. I smashed her through
a glass-topped coffee table and her merger struggle stopped.
“Super speed, but not strength, eh Red Devil?”
I took a moment to gloat over her still form, then went to work
binding her. Her art work, books, and furniture were mute witnesses as I
secured the rope around her neck, leaving just enough space for her to get
air. I wrapped the other end one, two, three, four times around her ankles,
wrapping and tightening until legs were curved and pulled back. Again I
checked to make sure she wasn’t choaking. Her muscular arms came next. I
pulled them close, towards the small of her back, and lashed her elbows close
together. Then pinned the wrists, narrow but strong, and tied them with
another five layers. It was a simple rope job, but it did the trick.
As I was finishing, she came to.
“Now what?” she rasped.
“You’ll be coming with me. Take a look at yourself. You’re unabler
to use you speed, so you are helpless. I’ve exploited your weakness and now
you have little to offer. Just a woman at my mercy.”
“So, your ... who ever you are ... your whole point is to humiliate
me?”
“And to save a society.”
“Sounds like we’re in the same business.”
“No, slut. I am a man.”
I ball gagged her and fixed another rope around her torso. Making
sure to treat her lean body like to much luggage, I dragged her off.
THE BOX OF SCREAMS
I sat back and watched as they put Red Devil in the Box of Screams.
My two female underlings, in their black, rubber bodysuits and with their
California blond sweeping across their shoulders, took her by the arms and
pressed her into the glass booth. They are both lithe, but were stronger
than the beaten Devil. She struggled abit, but ended up in the metal chair
anyway. They closed cuffs around her wrists and ankles. They closed the
belt around her waist, making sure to hurt her with it’s leather tightness.
Now her breasts seemed even larger as her body was squeezed.
The girls considered her for a moment and began to run their hands
over her legs, breasts and face.
“Later girls,” I laughed. The other hunt club member laughed as my
assistants left the booth and shut the transparent door. Almost immediately,
it started. Green light filled the booth and Red Devil’s body began to
shake. Her eyes widened as her brain was made the target of was we called
The Psychic Crowbar. I was wasn’t a device that gave you any choice. It
simply targeted the part of your brain that would keep you from giving in,
wrenched it open ... painfully ... and made you spill. It was made just for
superheroines.
Her screams were like a rich desert.
“Red Devil,” the huntmaster said. “Who can you tell me about? Which
heroines?”
Amid her screams,she produced a smooth chrystal-clear word.
“Scorpio.”