SNARE
by Mr. K
1.
The man would normally have been smoking. The fact that he wasn’t showed how focused and serious he was. She took a deep breath and tried to hang on his every word. This was the part that scared her most, and he knew that.
“As our mission progresses, as we move from success to success, we may encounter the superheroines that inhabit this city. We have to be familiar with them, their powers, and their weaknesses.”
“Yessir.”
“I’m saying this because the last time that I undertook this project I was thwarted by superheroines. In other projects, I’ve been thwarted by superheroines. I’ll admit that they’re given me a hard way to go.We can’t let that happen to us. Remember that what we do if for the good of all mankind. We can’t let these women thwart us.”
“Yessir.”
He looked at the woman, shifting her weight girlishly in front of him.
The first photo that he slid across the desk was of a woman who seemed to glow. Just from that first glance she could see that the woman was around six-feet tall. She was lean and muscular, large-breasted and fit. Radiant blond hair swept all the way down to the firm, round shelf of her backside. She was an Amazon, a Valkerie, or both.
“She’s perfect. She’s … Oh, God! She’s it,” the young woman cooed.
It looked as though her powerful Olympian body had been painstakingly painted gold. That costume that gleamed at her from the photo seemed more like a tattoo than a piece of material. Even the mask and the high-heeled boots seemed to meld with the golden skin that covered her. The sinewy lines of her muscles and the pert outline of her areola were visible.
She was a beautiful, golden force of nature.
“This one is called Gold. Her real name is Tracy Hannah. She uses some sort of old Nordic magic, you see, to empower herself. She has ESP, flight, super strength, and can generate a sort of massive energy burst. She is one of the most powerful heroines you find.”
He showed her a photo of the two costumed brothers that she recognized as The Rooks in captivity, beaten and bound in a ring of golden light. Their massive muscles were no use against whatever force she used to hold them.
“ She’s the one who captured the Rooks. See that light ring surrounding them? It might as well be steel. They were never breaking free of that. No way. She’s a powerful heroine, but not an active threat right now. You know why? Because a sister of the cause, a superpowered woman called Awe has her as a slave.”
“Really?”
“She has her in a trance. She’s been that way for about two days now. About two days, I think. She’s a sex slave for Awe’s brother, Shock. We need not worry about her. Here, I wanted you so see this.”
Whenever he discussed the people that society called “villains,” he always called them something like “brothers” or “sisters.” He always talked about “the cause.”
There was a photo of the tall, golden woman on her knees. A heavy shackle was around her right ankle, a heavy chain running from it to mounting on the wall.
There was another photo of the tall blond. This time, she was standing stock-still in the corner of a posh room somewhere. Surrounded by spines of leather-bound books, and the glossy wood of classic furniture, she stood at a stiff, unnatural, military attention. It was as though that tall, lean body had been tightened up into stone. Her muscles were flexed, and her large breasts were thrust forward.
“She’s under control, see? She’s a statue. Couldn’t move if she wanted to.”
A smile crept across the young tutee’s face as she watched the next series of photos slide by. He had collected these, and brought them here to show her, because he really wanted her to see that this superheroine could be defeated. Two women, obviously some sort of party-goers in their stylish dresses and with their drinks in-hand, were posing beside the mind-controlled heroine called Gold. One was sucking her big right nipple, and one her left, through the sheer golden costume. Their eyes were turned so that they could smile at the camera as best they could with a superheroine’s nipples in their mouths. When he first showed her the photo of Gold, her eyes had been drawn right to those large, round nipples. She got a tingle in her legs when she saw two women with their mouths fixed to them.
The party must have been going on the next two photos, because there she was, on all fours, surrounding by the legs of women in heels and men in formal shoes. Her back was straight, her muscles flexed and taut, and about five to six drinks, along with some ashtrays, were set on her back as though she were a table.
“See? You can use her as a table or whatnot.”
She laughed along with her mentor at the sight of the once powerful heroine used as an object.
In the next photo the same woman was on her back, her knees pulled up to her breasts, her legs spread, those high heels in the air. Her costume was still in-tact, but the bulk of a massive man in a dark costume was leaning down on top of her. His huge dick seemed to go straight through her costume and directly into her pussy.
“I explained that the one knew as Shock, who is the brother of Awe, now currently enjoys her as a sex toy.”
The big blond’s face was expressionless in the photo.
The next was a crowded shot. The same woman was on her knees, her face smeared with streams and gobs of semen, her hair clotted with the white gunk. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth opened wide to accept the cocks of two men at once. One hand was up in the shot, seemingly guiding one of the cocks past her lips.
“As I said, the woman is a captive of Awe, and under control. You can possess, and own them, these superheroines. You don’t have to lose to them.”
He covered Gold’s photo with another. This was a different sort all
together. The first thing she noticed was a dramatic mane of jet-black hair.
The woman’s skin was a light caramel, with bright red lips practically
glowing and a black cat suit embracing her sinewy body. She thought that
the woman must be
“You like the boots, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yessir.”
He knew that she had a thing for the skin-tight liquid leather and high heels that the dusky heroine wore in the shot.
“This is Dark Moon. She’s another magic-user. Like Gold, she’s got control of some serious magical abilities. She is also a very dangerous martial artist. I’ve watched her, and dealt with her, for some time now, and I can tell you that she has caused havoc among those like us, and not just in this city. She has her own version of ESP, and she can meld in and out shadows. I mean, from what I can tell, she can literally become in substantial for a limited amount of time. She can conjure some powerful magic. She has super strength, speed, durability, and agility.”
He looked at the woman who was listening so intensely. She had a trickle of fear creeping into her face. There was a photo of Dark Moon taking down a much larger man with a clenched fist. His body seemed to rocket sideways as she delivered a boxing-style blow.
“Her two primary martial arts are Western boxing, and ju –jitsu, but she has a pretty extensive arsenal. I’ve even seen her do capoeria.”
There was another shot of her choking yet another large man, her legs twined around his thick neck.
“She can be defeated, though. I’ve met her more than once, and defeated her each time. Look at this. One of the freedom fighters who was working with me took this.”
He slid a black-and-white photo across the table so that she could see just what he meant. There he was, wearing a gas mask and holding up a double-fingered victory sign with his left hand. His right hand held the twisted mass of Dark Moon’s hair. She was beside him, crumpled and on her knees, obviously dazed and helpless from whatever sort of gas he had used.
Dark Moon’s arms were slack at her sides, her body limp. Thick, conditioned muscle flexed in those folded legs. Looking at the photo of the beaten heroine, the woman could not help but focus on the heroine’s large, round breasts. Somehow, like Gold’s, the shape, the size … everything about them was simply perfect.
“I know,” he said. “She has gorgeous breasts. She has gorgeous, muscular dancer’s legs.”
The woman nodded. He pointed to the gas mask that he held in the picture.
“She’s a heroine, but still a woman who has to breathe oxygen. A room full of gas ended the threat. Always ask yourself whether you can use drugs to put these bitches away. Just remember that you don’t necessarily need them unconscious for the gas or the poison to be effective, either.”
In the next photo he had released Dark Moon, and she was on her side on the floor of wherever this had taken place. She was curled at his feet.
In the next photo he had pulled the
In the next photo, he had scooped her up like an object and was carrying the once-powerful woman side ways. One arm was firmly threaded between her muscular thighs, one scooping around her neck, her head sagged to one side, the long, black hair sweeping down, the long legs with their glossy boots were bent and limp. Again, she looked at the sway and shift of the captive’s big breasts.
“This was fun!”
He explained how he slammed her down on a table. He explained how he adjusted her body, laying her out straight, and then how he changed his mind.
“I decided to make artwork out of her.”
He took hold of her right arm and pulled it across her ample bust. He then did the same with her left. There was a spool of heavy, white cord in the room. She listened as he explained how he carefully made a loop, wrapped it around that right wrist, and pulled it tight. Dark Moon lay there, vulnerable and lost in a stygian darkness as both of her wrists were tied, pinned, and her arms secured across her breasts.
He told her how he wove a crisscross of ropes across and around her body, how he wrapped her knees together with that cord, and her ankles , and pulled them up to her chest.
“I did some fancy work to secure her that way.”
He explained how he choked her, even though she was unconscious, how he slid his stiff organ into her mouth and fucked her that way, his hands in her hair. He explained that when the choking sound came out her, it was most gratifying.
“She was unconscious, and gagging.”
She assumed that the second defeat of Dark Moon was on the next bunch of photos. It was confusing, for a moment, and he smiled to see the way she raised an eyebrow at the image on the photo. She could discern what appeared to be five or six women in skin-tight unitards. Their costumes were much like hers - loud and lurid blazes of purple, pink, red, and maroon. Evidently, he had saved the deep forest green for her.
They were crowded together in a mass on the floor – a sort of human pile.
As the man began to explain what she was looking at, her eyes fell on the bent feminine leg in a black stocking and leather boot that seemed to peep from beneath one of the women.
“Those are some more like you,” he said. “ And they were taking care of Dark Moon on that particular day. These are the ones who predated you.”
“So, they’re out there somewhere?”
He smiled and nodded.
“You’ll meet them.”
In the photo of what must have taken place right after the dog pile; the girls had stepped back, and the heroine was laid out on her back, evidently unconscious. Her brown, right breast was exposed through the torn material of her costume. The big, black nipple was hard and swollen. They had torn out the crotch of her costume, and a patch of material at the waist of the skin suit, as well.
“That costume isn’t normal nylon. They had to have some special knowledge to know how to breach it.”
There was a close-up of one of them sucking her nipple. The girl didn’t look at the camera; she was engrossed in devouring the hard nipple of the superheroine.
In the next series of photos, they scooped Dark Moon up from the floor, carrying her on their shoulders, on her back, with her head sagging down. She could see how they laid her out on a bed in what appeared to be a typical suburban bedroom. Soon, thick bands of white material cut across the beaten woman’s ankles, thighs, wrists and upper body. She was bound, again, and a massive, black dildo was spreading her pussy lips wide, prying her cunt open.
“Next,” he said, smiling and laying out a new series of photos.
“Here’s another one … or two, really.”
There were two photos, side by side, of two dark-haired women.
“Sisters?”
“Mother and daughter.” He pointed at the first one, which was labeled BORA. High cheek bones, vivid blue eyes, a little turned-up nose and a full, sensuous mouth said Slavic … Eastern European to her. This Bora’s jet-black hair was done in a short swept cut that banked over one eye and gave the impression that she was in constant motion.
Her costume was a sheer, spandex second-skin body glove of deep, neon, ice-blue. It was sleeveless with a high collar and a racing back. White leather, skin-tight, high-heeled boots came up to her thighs. Matching skin-tight, opera-length gloves went to her elbows.
Her body was long, lean, cut and defined. She reminded the girl in green of a champion swimmer.
“That’s the mother.”
The next photo was of a equally gorgeous woman. Her hair was wilder, thick and down to her waist. She was shorter, and voluptuous, with a more rounded, hour-glass body. She was more like a gymnast. Her costume was a stark-white body suit, also high collared, that was cut high on her bare, muscular thighs. Her neon-blue high-heeled boots came up to her knees and a matching belt cut across the narrow curve of her waist.
Both women wore blue masks that framed their blue eyes.
“That’s the daughter.”
COLD FRONT.
“These two are Serbian witches. They can control the wind and they generate intense cold. The daughter is in her twenties, and the mother her forties. They got me once.”
He looked up and smiled.
“They actually froze me once, the bitches. They had me, I have to admit.”
In the next photo, both women were on a bare-wood floor. Bora was conscious, but her daughter’s eyes were closed. Both had their wrists crossed, tied with rope, and laid on their busts. More lengths of rope wrapped around and around their upper bodies, lashing the bound wrists to their torsos, tightly.
This time he pressed the soles of their booted feet together, and lashed them that way.
“If you can control their hands, they can’t conjure their fucking magic. Notice, I ball-gagged them and frog-tied them. I was able to get that elaborate because I was able to control their fucking witch hands.”
She looked at the photo of the spandex-clad mother and daughter tied with their knees wide open and their ankles bound. Each had the soles of her feet pressed together, and her legs lashed tightly in that position. The one that was still conscious was looking directly at the camera. The knocked-out daughter’s crotch was bare, the costume’s fabric torn open.
“I raped the mother and the daughter that day. I got free, I defeated them, and I got some mom - daughter heroine sex.”
She recognized his cock in the next photo. Cold Front’s crotch was exposed, and the heroine’s shaven cunt was accepting the huge girth of her mentor’s piece. The curvy girl was completely unconscious as his erect tool plunged in and out of her.
“It’s fun to do fun things to heroines when they’re knocked the fuck out.”
She could only assume that the mother was watching.
The next photo was of the mother, her costume torn open, taking the big cock in her ass, his hands spreading the cheeks wide. Rolled on her front, her arms bound, and her mouth ball gagged, the pain showed in her vivid blue eyes.
“Mama was still awake. Her asshole was tight, yes. And she did pay for defying my plans, yes.”
In the next shot his huge prick had disappeared completely into her ass, and she was screaming, and drooling, around the ball gag. Bound and crossed at the wrists, her hands tensed and her fingers curled.
“Then I made art out of them.”
Next photo.
Now, they were on all fours, facing each other. A web of rope was pulled tightly up into the crotches of each woman, and stretched across her back to the body of the other woman. The rope dug up between the thick juicy lips of each woman’s cunt. Each time the mother squirmed, the daughter would shudder from a rough length of cord moving against the soft, pink velvet of her twat. Each time the daughter would shift her hips or tremor, her lean, sleek mother would buckle and writhe from the harsh rhythm in her own sex.
Their wrists were shackled in cuffs and chains that wrapped back and forth, securing their ankles, thighs, and waists.
“You like leaving them with dildos, also, don’t you?” she asked.
The mother and daughter were sharing the ends of a double-headed dildo in their mouths. They slobbered and gagged as they attempted to adjust their mouths to the massive length and girth of the sex toy.
“I do,” he said.
Next, he produced a photo of the young Cold Front on her hands and knees. Her wrists were still bound, her body still crisscrossed with a rope that ended up pulled tight and digging into her twat. Now, she was tethered to a post with a dog collar and leash. Her mother, Bora, was mounted on her back. The man had arranged them so that Bora was placed on her daughter’s back, as if the young woman was little more than a platform. With her legs spread wide, and her wrists bound, she rested on her daughter, her blank face aimed at the ceiling.
The man was between her legs, deep inside her.
“I loved them as art,” he added, bringing up the next photo. “I fucked them as art. That was their punishment.”
The last shot.
They were hung up on a stone wall, side-by-side, in the next photo, their bodies practically mummified in chains. It took her a moment to process the scene, but she realized that he had hung them up their hair. With their wrists and ankles still bound, they were dangling by their hair.
The mother’s was shorter, the daughter’s longer, but every coal-black, Serbian strand of hair that each woman had was coiled, and pulled taut into tight ropes that suspended on the wall like ornaments. Their eyes were open, but empty.
“They can to be defeated,” he said.
The next photos were of an amazing, long-legged creature in fishnet stockings. She wore a glossy, black body suit, and black, leather boots with gold zippers up the sides. She was in motion in the photo; it looked like she had just turned her head suddenly to engage target that appeared unexpectedly behind her. Even in the blur of red hair, she could see that the woman was lip-sticked, and stylish.
In the photo after that, she was leaping over the head of an Asian woman in a formal business suit. Both of her leaping heroine’s athletic legs were striking out to her sides, and her thick, red hair was filling the air behind her.
“That’s another of your predecessor being bested in a fight right there. She underwent the same process as you. And she’s got a similar background; her mother was a killer for the Japanese Yakusa, and her father was an Iraqi Republican Guard torturer. ”
“Who is the heroine?”
“Another witch. Cutlass. Tina is her real name. I hate this one. I hate this cunt. Look at these photos. Look at the DVD. She invaded my mansion out on the island. Take a close look; all of the stuff in on the deck at my mansion. Here, let me show you something.”
He finally flipped open the lap-top that had sat on the table. Evidently, the DVD of this event was already inside and ready to go.
“Your predecessor redeemed herself in spades. Watch this.”
The DVD’s vivid color and sound suddenly leapt out at her, and the rest of the room just went away. There was that wild, red-headed blur of a woman aflame as Cutlass unleashed a spinning inside to outside kick. She caught the exotic, black-haired woman squarely across the face, sending her tumbling to one side. Settling back into her stance, Cutlass watched, and saw exactly how dangerous this small, muscular woman was.
The kick nailed her alright, and it sent her off to her right. The uncontrolled, helter-skelter collapse of a woman who had just been struck morphed into a smooth, precise cartwheel. Like a Brazilian capoera fighter, like an Olympic gymnast, she executed a slick cartwheel and came up standing, and ready to fight.
Cutlass was caught off-guard just long enough for the woman with the sleek, black hair to drop into a knee-down spin kick. Cutlass, Tina, had sturdy, shapely legs that were clad in fishnet stocking and knee-high, high-heeled leather boots. They were lean and muscular, like a dancer’s melded with a kick boxer’s. They failed her as the smaller, coffee-colored woman swept them away.
The heroine sprawled hard on the floor, as the other woman grabbed the fabric of the mannish business suit that she wore , and tore it away revealing a skin-tight costume. It was only then that Tina realized that the woman with the thick, midnight- black pony tail and the almond eyes was barefoot. As Tina rose, she got a full view of her opponent. The woman was in a red, skin-sheer latex body glove.
It was easy to see how startled Cutlass was.
The latex second-skin was a brilliant red. A black dragon was blazoned up the left side of the costume. Its tail snaked and coiled its way from her ankle to her thigh. Claws clung to her firm, round buttocks, her back, and her tight, defined torso. It rested it’s head on her shoulder.
As if to mock the redhead in the black body suit, as if to say that she was going to show the heroine how this thing was done, the taut, little assassin exploded with the same kick that Cutlass had dealt her. She let out a sharp little kia, her body becoming a blur of red.
When the force moved through her, when her head snapped to one side, and her red current of hair exploded around the fashion-plate face, Cutlass barely had time to yelp in pain. There was a gasp, and now it was Tina in her black costume who was sent sprawling sideways.
“That was an 18th Century table,” the man said shaking his head as the image of Cutlass crashing down on a table and shattering it to splinters played across the screen. The superheroine lay on her side, her left arm stretched out, her right arm draped across her slim waist. She rocked slightly, and slowly tried to pick herself up from the floor.
Time seemed to drift in a slow trickle as Cutlass pushed off the marble floor of the criminal’s mansion. That was the time, with her head tilted to the side, that she saw the bare feet of the woman pad their way across the white stone.
The camera zoomed in on her strong, elegant hands gripping a bo staff, taking it from the wall rack. Her voice had a sweet, almost child-like tone to it.
“Let’s start with the brachial plexus,” she said.
Again, the small woman was twirling, only now with the blur of a long wooden staff in her hands. Tina’s eyes could barely keep track of the woman and her weapon; there was just a blizzard of motion, then devastating impacts on shoulders. Left, then right.
“Uhhhhh….”
She felt her arms go numb as pain shot across her shoulders, and up her neck. You could tell just from looking. Again, her knees met the floor.
The blur was moving again, and this time the end of the stick met the base of her skull. Barely a gasp escaped the designer pout of her lush mouth as her body stiffened, and she tumbled over. Now, she was face-first on the marble. You could hear her panting against the stone.
The vicious Asian beauty continued to effortlessly twirl her stick, an almost musical sound filling the air as the narrow ends of the weapon whistled in circles around her head. She padded around the fishnet-clad beauty for a moment or two, watching her struggle and groan on the floor.
“Arms are useless, huh? You have nice legs,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Let’s take out a leg or two. Bicepts femoris.”
Graceful, falling as if no urgent force was put behind it, first one end, then the other dropped on the back of the redhead’s legs. Her head reared back, red hair falling across her face, and she screamed. Sharp force penetrated the thick muscle of her shapely legs, biting into the nerves, and she howled.
“Look at how she lets Cutlass struggle to her side, curled up like fetus, then try to push off the floor.”
The was a brief moment of the long-legged redhead in fishnets trying to rise, then a sharp, close-up sweep of the end of the stick caught her on the point of her chin. A little tremble ran through the young student as she watched the heroine’s head snap back, then snap back, then snap back again as the other end of the stick met it.
A shuddering breath exited Cutlass.
Her whole body convulsed when the other end of the slammed home in the center of her strong, defined back.
“I love this part,” her teacher said. The woman in the red cat suit swept the beaten woman’s red hair to one side with the end of the stick. She flicked it and twisted it so that the woman’s hair ended up twisted and knotted around the end the stick. She planted a foot, and pivoted, yanking the woman in fishnets up and against the wall, guiding her by her long, captured hair.
There was a flashing shot of Cutlass’ hour-glass torso stumbling about on tiptoe, then the woman twirled and twisted, dancing the captive around on the end of her fighting stick. Like a pain-wracked puppet, Cutlass was snapped this way and that, until she was finally slammed to the floor. The sound of woman meeting stone echoed in the room.
Smooth, slow movements, and she had the leggy heroine up, and stumbling backwards, lead by the knot of red hair, coiled around her fighting stick. Cutlass’s head was yanked backwards, and her hands grasped helplessly at the knot, as the smaller, Asian woman used that stick as a lever, and pulled her backwards.
She hit a wall.
Then another.
Then the floor again, where she lay motionless.
With well-practiced ease, Sister Dragon uncoiled the voluptuous woman’s hair, and freed her stick.
With the same slow and meticulous movements that she’d used before, she put the stick aside. A few steps, and she was back at Cutlass’ side. She raised a foot, and buried it between the heroine’s tits. She looked for a moment, seeming to consider her small foot between the two large globes of the woman in black leather, and fishnets. You could see on the film how she shifted her weight, and pressed her foot down on the big right breast. She moved her foot in a circle.
There was that same concentration as she shifted her foot to the left breast, also mashing, and pressing. Out of the camera’s eye, Cutlass could be heard moaning. When the lens finally sifted down, you got a perfect shot of the diminutive assassin trampling the fashion plate’s face.
Then it was back to her breasts.
Biting her lower lip, she shifted her weight on to that foot, and stood up
bringing the other foot to rest on the other tit. Eyes open, Cutlass lay
there, helpless, as the red-clad woman mashed her breasts with her bare feet.
“She said that she liked the feeling of the mass of her big tits under her feet.”
He could see that she was fascinated by the woman in the dragon skin.
“You’ll get to meet her; don’t worry.”
She blushed a bit and smiled. When she looked back to the film, the sinewy Asian woman had pulled the taller woman to her feet. You could see how wobbly and numb Cutlass was as Sister Dragon gripped her hair, gripped her face, and guided the red, succulent mouth of the captive crime-fighter to her own. The kiss was long, and demanding , with the Dragon’s tongue forcing itself into Cutlass’ mouth.
She pulled back, took a breath, and hissed a word close to Cutlass’s face.
“Tina,” she whispered. She slid the heroine’s secret identity name into her ear.
“Tina.”
There was a pause, then she raped Cutlass’s mouth with her own, once again. There was a long, wet pulsing as she sucked Cutlass’ lips, then she drove in her tongue. Her fingers snaked through the woman’s hair, and she clutched her head as if it was a dear possession. You could hear the redhead’s stifled moans.
She seemed to melt in this kiss, and was little more than a rag doll when Sister Dragon finally pulled away. Cutlass swayed for a moment, her eyes sleepy. It looked as though she was trying to say something as Sister Dragon clutched the back of her neck, and simply thrust her to the floor.
Just one thrusting swipe, and Cutlass dropped out of the camera’s view. Dragon got a little twinkle in her eye, a little smile, when she watched Cutlass fall, and heard the sound of the lush-bodied woman striking the floor.
Now, the heroine was gone, lost below the view of the camera, and the sleek Asian beauty paced around her, looking down at he unseen form at her feet. You could tell when she prodded at the fallen heroine, when she stepped on her , stood on her.
Finally, she planted a foot on the woman, took a step, and walked out of camera shot. When she came back, a few long seconds later, she was sporting a cock. Black straps crisscrossed her waist and hips. It held in place a long, thick, white ivory penis with a bulbous head, and a long, shaft. What looked like an alphabet of raised, black characters adorned the thing.
“That’s a favorite toy of hers,” the man said.
They looked back to the screen to see Sister Dragon spit on the dildo, and lower herself to the beaten woman.
“They can be defeated.”
“Ok, here’s another one on video. This is from the last time that I tried to undertake the same project that we are setting out to accomplish now.”
Again, he flipped open the laptop that had sat on the table. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of a DVD labeled SCORPIO.
“I didn’t know that you were into astrology, sir,” she quipped.
He smiled, nodding will a mild self approval. “ I was that night.”
When the picture came to life, the image spoke to her immediately. She recognized the computers.
“That’s our lab,” she said.
“Close. Once, we gain the components that we need it will be. Once, we move things along, our lab will look this good. It will be our lab. This was my first attempt, and this was the bitch that foiled it.”
In the film, he was carrying an Asian woman. His right arm was threaded below her legs, curled up under her bent knees. Her upper body was draped back across his left arm, her head flung back, her arms swaying loosely. The woman had a strikingly beautiful face, her features delicate, but sensuously fierce and classically Japanese.
A red swim suit-type body suit looked as though it had been spray-painted to the lean, defined torso of the unconscious, dark-haired woman. Her athletic legs also looked as though they had then been spray-painted with the slick, black tights and high-heeled boots that finished off the costume.
A black scorpion silhouette adorned her bust. She couldn’t help but consider how similar it was to Sister Dragon’s appearance.
He walked around the lab a bit, seeming to enjoy the feeling of a limp and helpless superheroine in his arms. His voice rippled with anger.
“All that I planned is destroyed, thanks to you Scorpio. But you didn’t expect that energy blast, did you?”
He shook her body as if to emphasize the point. She moaned lightly.
“Did you, whore?”
She let her head sag as another moan escaped her.
That same woman in the dragon skin suit was there. She was the one to whom he passed the beaten heroine. All of his anger seemed to transfer to the woman, as she handled the knocked-out captive.
“Japanese,” she hissed, considering the broken heroine’s face.
Sister Dragon slammed Scorpio down on one of the lab tables with a force that seemed to betray her small frame. She arranged the sinewy body of her victim, spreading the long, muscular legs, and making sure the crotch was exposed. Eager fingers pinched up and stretched a good portion of the material that covered Scorpio’s pussy, and, with one smooth motion, she tore it out.
The smooth, dusky hue of the Japanese heroine’s shaven pussy was exposed. For a moment, the henchwoman paused, cocked her head to one side, then used the fingers of her left hand to spread Scorpio’s pussy wide open. The pink gash glistened in the harsh laboratory light as the little assassin in the red dragon suit moistened her own fingers, one by one.
Her movement was slow and deliberate after that. One finger slipped deep into the Asian girl’s exposed pussy, then another, then its neighbor. Soon the helpless Scorpio’s pussy was open wide and consuming all four fingers. She moaned as her captor slowly curled a fist up inside her soaking cunt.
Scorpio moaned, and rocked her head from side to side.
“You see,” the man said to his pupil. “You can defeat them.”
“Yessir.”
“Let’s go gather our materials, and get to work.”
She raised a finger as he rose to take them both off to collect their new toys.
“Will she be joining us?”
She pointed at a picture of the Dragon woman. He smiled.
“She will.”
2.
Night Star watched her friend with a mixture of amusement and slight confusion. She’d decided long ago that the dirty-blond beauty that she knew only as “Jeanie” when her mask was off, was probably one of those unfocused genius kids that she had the pleasure to know when she taught high school science. It was probably martial arts and gymnastics that finally got her to the point at which she could focus on anything at all. The brilliance, the fighting skills, and the tumbling and springing probably all came together when she discovered her superpowers, however those came to her.
She wore a slick, wet-look, dark-purple body suit. It was dark, deep purple snake-skin pattern that she had designed herself long before she came to realize she had a calling as a superheroine. The material appeared to be shiny spandex, and it had a glassy metallic quality that seemed to flow and glimmer in the light. The front was open in a dramatic V that plunged from her shoulders down to her belt line, revealing her ripe, cleavage and the tanned skin of her toned midsection. She wore purple, calf-height, spike-heeled boots, and gloves that matched the material of her suit.
A purple mask covered her face from her hairline, past her eyes, forming an arch across her high cheek bones, and her pert little nose.
Night Star stood 5’7” , so she figured the robust blond in purple stood around 5’6” tall. She made the other woman’s measurements out to be about 36C -24 – 36. Voluptuous.
It was the utility belt that was really her trademark, though. Empowered with supernatural speed and strength, she still chose to bring weapons to the fight. There was a rope coiled through a loop on her left hip, and two fighting sticks were nestled in a sort of holster on her right. Night Star had seen belts and ropes used as entrapping weapons by experienced martial artists, but never as effectively as the blond in the purple snake skin.
She had adopted belt techniques from hapkido, rope techniques from ninjitsu, and every coiling and entrapping whip chain method she could form wushu and other forms. She hadn’t just learned them, she had mastered them and brought them together in to her own rope-based martial art.
This was why she chose the name Snare.
She had also been studying the arts of kali and escrima from those early childhood days of hyperactivity, and now fighting close-in with those two short sticks. As she waited on roof that night with Night Star, she would pull them out and go through striking drills in the icy darkness.
She would put the sticks away and do a hand stand or use some piece of rooftop equipment as if it was a pommel horse.
“So, tell me, again, why we’re here,” said Night Star. She was squatting low on a rooftop, her long, red hair dancing from time to time in the chilly autumn wind. Her muscular, athletic legs were flexed, their definition and muscular density standing out in her night-black, skin-tight costume. She watched Snare prowling around the steel tower that festooned the roof on which they waited.
“They’ll be back here. I’ve watched them for nights. They always come back here.”
She leaned down over the skylight as if she was going to do a push-up. She looked down into the darkness of the vacant apartment.
“’They’ who? Who … what are you talking about?”
“Ok,” Snare came to rest, squatting on curvaceous legs like her redheaded friend.
“You know the labs over at … Well, of course you do. You know the
Clayton Labs over by
Night Star was actually Dr. Connie Gnau. She was a former astronaut, and an astrophysicist.
“Yes,” she said. “They made components for the missions … for deep-space missions.”
“Like the last one you went on. Like the one on which you encountered the force that gave you your powers, what ever it was.”
She knew exactly how Night Star had gained her powers, which was more than
Connie Gnau could about
Snare.
“Ok, the guy I’ve been watching works there. He leaves there every night with plans, little pieces of larger projects, machinery, whatever. Then he meets the girl and brings her here. I’m trying to figure out what they’re up to. I mean, you can see down in there they’re constructing something.”
Night Star stared at her in the darkness.
“So … Why did you ever even think to follow….?”
Snare shot a quick glance at Night Star.
“Take a look.”
The lights in the apartment were off, and there was barely a moon that night to cast a glow down into the room, but Night Star could see in the dark. The place was an oasis of technology in this decrepit part of town.
It was a lab.
Both heroines were scanning the room when a man entered, followed by two
lithe feminine shadows. Snare and Night Star slipped out of view when the
lights came on.
“Think maybe we should pay a visit down there?” Snare
whispered.
WIZARD'S LAIR
MAIN PAGE
Mr.
K'S STORY PAGE
NEXT
CHAPTER