Marcia took a deep breath. She ran her fingers through the slicked-back, jet-black hair and took another deep and mindful breath. This is when it paid to be calm and collected. This is when it paid to believe in the work she had already done. It was time for the thread. Hours had passed, and it was definitely time for the thread.
She had sent Maria...Dark Moon...out for a night of daring do with her new costume, and knew that she would probably head straight home after night of drubbing bad guys. That was typical. What wasn't typical was the silence. After every outing or mission, no matter how late, she would contact Marcia to let her know how things worked out. She would tell her that the costume was as strong as she'd claimed, or the motorcycle didn't accelerate as fast as she would have liked. Then, it was back to the drawing board.
This night she was putting her focus into modifying the sleek, black bullet bike that Dark Moon sometimes used. It was a low profile, Japanese job that she'd picked out and modified especially for the heroine. Just like with the costumes and the other gear, she found herself showered with praise by the voluptuous crime fighter. As usual, she shrugged it off modestly; it was the least a sister could do.
That was not all a sister could do. Sitting up from her place on the floor, and wiping her oily hands on her tight tank top and jeans, Marcia left the bike for a moment and headed upstairs. The garage/workshop section of this converted boathouse, on the seediest part of the river, was on the first floor. That was where she worked on Maria's cycle and the gear that she carried. She had to climb a winding stairwell, up from the tools and workbenches, to the glowing screens of the second level. She crowded this level with the technology that she used to create Dark Moon. That's how she looked at it. No matter how much mystical stuff her sister was into, it was her modern technological know how that made this whole thing work.
It was things like the supranylon polymer that made up the costume. It was impervious to just about everything. In fact, she could only remember one time that it had been penetrated. She was fighting...losing to...Satyr, the villain who had defeated another heroine called Dark Moon only a year before.
"I had her, defeated her, and tagged her clit with a golden ring. She became my slave, as you will," he explained. Dark Moon would tell her sister of his confidence after their battle. He talked about how he had fucked Gold and seduced this heroine and that heroine, each time leaving them with his signature golden pussy ring.
He would have lost to her in a straight-on fight, but she fell to his pheromones, crumbling to her knees. She rolled to her back. She spread her legs, and smiled as his massive supernatural cock tore through her costume and into her pussy.
She would show up at their hideout hours later, the crotch torn out of her costume, the big, swollen, dark lips of her pussy pouting out and dripping. She would explain how he tore right through the costume, and how she came to her senses and fought him off just as he was about to give her a golden ring. Marcia would mend the costume later as her sister slept off the defeat.
It was things like the heat sensors in the weave of the costume. She put them in back before the leather boots, back when Dark Moon wore a footed cat suit. Those sensors were how she could tell that the villainous mother and daughter, Bora and Cold Front, had frozen her sister solid. They ambushed her in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, giggling and laughing as they concentrated a full-force blizzard around her. Her long, thick hair became crusted with frost, her muscles tensed, and her body became coated as she went unconscious on her feet. She was turned into an icy statue.
The two would eventually turn to good, but not before they had rendered Dark Moon helpless three more times. Now the costumes were impervious to extreme cold.
It was things like the tiny, inner-ear phone and the virtually invisible collar microphone. Even though her sister often seemed to have no interest in using it, she had developed a pretty sharp way for the two of them to communicate. The mike and earphone came were what let her hear Dark Moon choking and gasping on the gas released by the Ropemaster. She would later her sister's grunts and moans as the captor yanked a coarse rope deep up between her thighs and buttocks, wrapping and tying until she was sculpture of bondage.
Hours later, the collar mike would go out when Ropemaster put a noose around her neck and made ready to execute her.
It was also shorted out when Dark Moon snuck in to the den of the strange woman-collecting organization called 631, and stepped on an electrified floor panel. As massive amounts of electricity traveled through the cat suit and into her lean, tan body, the technology failed.
It allowed her to hear the lusty rasps and panting as Succubus seduced her sister in a graveyard and made love to her on a fresh grave.
And it was things like the tiny metallic thread that was woven into her costumes. In every costume she'd created for her sister, there was a thread that sent off a transmission. This way she could trace Dark Moon.
"Let's see," she muttered to herself, sitting down behind a computer screen. "Let's see...let's see..."
Her fingers danced across the keys of the console that was in front of her.
"Let's see where my sister gotten to. Let's see what she's into."
They waited. They waited. They waited. They waited until the egg timer went off. When it rang, a tinny alarm echoing off he porcelain walls, one of the leather-clad blonds looked at the other and smiled. They had enjoyed some wonderful perks by being back-up singers for P.T., but this was one of the best. They had sucked the nipples of a captive Gold. They had assisted in the torture and brain washing of Excaliber. That was an especially fun one. The blond that Piston called Number Two held Excaliber's arms in a painful, pin behind her, while Number One unmasked the British heroine. He had even let them strap her into the chair and attach her to The Pulse, which was Piston's favorite sound-pain machine.
Those were great moments, but this was a truly special moment.
Kneeling beside the big, old porcelain tub, they giggled and exchanged glances that said it all; this was the best.
They reached their tan sinewy arms down into the warm water that filled the tub, took hold, and pulled their little treasure up. Dark Moon. She was sodden, the nylon and leather that covered her athletic body were slick and shiny. The costume had a wet gloss that went along with the shine that came from the wet chains that had been wrapped around her torso, over and under her breasts, around her thighs, and around her ankles.
A plastic bag had been wrapped tightly around her head.
"Ok, give her some air," said Vince. The women took their time unwrapping the tape that held the bag in place and slipped it from over her head.
Dark Moon gulped air in deep pulls. They had painted her mouth with a glossy black lipstick, and her thick, black lips seemed to work to take in as much oxygen as possible.
"You're dying, Dark Moon," one of the women said. Her voice trilled with a certain joy.
"You're dying. Why don't you fight back?" she mocked.
"Yes," said the other. "Tell us why. Who will die if you use those powers of yours?" She smiled along with her friend, grabbed a handful of wet hair and shook the captive woman's head. Dark Moon, sleepy-eyed and heaving, nodded towards the console that had been set up in the bathroom. Past the cluster of applauding partiers that had gathered in the bathroom, there was a clear; color video feed of Scorpio and her machine lover.
The probes in Scorpio were moving with a rhythm now, one thrusting, the other pulling back, one thrusting, the other pulling back, one rotating left, while other moved right. The probes were slick and dripping with her juices. Every now and then she would spurt or dribble salty woman juice.
Her asshole was stretched out and accepting the machine's bigness.
The steel hand effortlessly held her ripe mouth open, while a thick plastic tube snaked down from the ceiling and entered her mouth. Again, she was ready to receive a torrent of something down her throat and into her body. Maybe it would be another chemical that would control her; maybe it would be something that would kill her outright.
Because of the way the hands held her head, she was able to see a series of screens that had been set up for her viewing enjoyment. The first gave her a crystal-clear view of CutLass. She had watched as Piston had fucked her mouth. She watched as he spanked her and walked her around like a dog. She watched as six of his women strapped on dildos and did what was called running a train on her. One after the other. From behind.
Now she watched as Cutlass screamed.
The women carried her above their heads like a trophy, and Thorne had locked her in what looked like a glass pyramid in his recording studio. He positioned and chained her so that she was her knees, wrists chained to her ankles. He kissed her. He flicked a switch and watched as the sounds pulsed and colored lights reacted to them inside the pyramid. Scorpio watched as CutLass reacted by flinging back her head, shaking her blond mane, and convulsing. Her big breasts shook and bobbed as every muscle rebelled against her.
Sounds. It was more of Piston's dark science of using musical chords as nerve-shattering weapons.
CutLass screamed and screamed as the sounds made each nerve bristle and burn.
In the next screen, she could see Dark Moon being drowned in the bathroom tub.
In the third, she could see Gold, kneeling, and honoring her master.
Bedroom
Gold knew this taste also. It was just as familiar, and just as bitter, as his cock and his semen. It was just as overwhelming as the cunts of his back-up singers when she'd been forced to eat them after a show. Gold knew the leather of Piston's favorite boots.
The first time he ordered the bound blond to her knees and told her to kiss and suck the leather of his boots, was years before. He had spent a few minutes rubbing and rooting between her thighs, getting her juices on his shoe.
"Lick it, Gold."
Now, with wrists bound, on her knees, she replayed the scene. Her pussy juices, and those of CutLass were mingled on the leather of her captor's boot, and she used her thick, pouty lips to suck and kiss the toe of his boot.
"I love seeing you like this," he smiled. "You're so beautiful."
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