Dark Moon 1

Photomanips by Piston Thorn. Caption by Mr. K.

The strap of the ball gag was unforgiving. It was a made of rough, coarse leather, and it was harsh against the skin of her cheeks. The ball itself was equally cruel. Thick and indifferent with its dense rubber circumference, it pried her lips open in a lush, red circle. Instinctively, she shifted her jaw about trying to alleviate the cutting pressure of the straps, but that only made it worse, showing her how tightly the leather was pulled against her face, how harshly the ball had been jammed into her mouth. Besides, the ball was just a bit too large, just a bit too thick. It wasn't massive, but it stretched her mouth out wide. Her jaw ached.

She’s got me. This time she really has me. That’s a given. She won and she took me. She could have killed me after she knocked me out, or just left me there. She chose to take me. Just figure out what’s going on. Where am I? She brought me somewhere, but where the hell am I?

Drool was only starting to pool on her lower lip, so she imagined that the ball gag hadn’t been in her mouth for very long. That meant that she hadn’t been unconscious for very long. Maybe.

She looked down over the relief of her body. She had been stripped at some point during her sleep. She could tell. She could feel it in her skin. Her captor could have killed her, but instead she took the time to unzip and pull away her liquid leather boots and her nylon second skin catsuit. She took the time to bath her unconscious body. At some point, the other woman must have drugged her, because soap, lather, water and rough towels were not enough to wake her.

She took the time to carry me out of there, bring me to where ever we are, and wash me. She actually gave me a bath.

She could smell the soap and feel the tingle of a harsh brush still lingering in her skin. A tenderness, a tingling between her thighs, drew her attention.

She really spent some time on my pussy. I wonder if she played with me. Fist fucked me or something. She must have really drugged me; it takes more than a knockout blow to keep someone asleep through all that.

She shifted a bit, feeling the tingle of newly-shorn skin.

She shaved me.

The image of her thick, dark muff played through her head. She trimmed it, yes, but she always kept a crop of black muff. She could tell that it was gone.

She shaved my pussy.

She could feel no gaps in the costume’s material. She could feel no place in which it had been torn. A few weeks before, she had battled Apex. She had won, but her costume had been left in tatters. His energy claws had done their work, ripping through the super-nylon as though it were regular pantyhose. Her healing powers had closed her wounds, but the rips in her skin suit remained.

Standing on the rooftop, watching Apex sink into the stillness of the river’s muck, she couldn’t help but feel exposed. Her black nipples were showing, after that fight, and hard in the cold wind. There was nothing between her thick muff and the air. One sleeve was gone and, she assumed, that half of her Puerto Rican flag back tattoo must have been visible. She could feel the cold air across part of her back.

She remembered the warmth of Apex’s cum oozing down her inner-thighs.

Before that, when she was defeated and enslaved by Scylla and Charybdis, she awoke to find the crotch torn out of her catsuit. She could feel the cool air of their penthouse apartment wafting over her swollen pussy lips. She could feel the chain around her neck. She slowly pushed herself up from the floor as Scylla, the leather-clad wife tugged on her leash. Thinking back to it, she remembered how excited the woman’s voice sounded.

“Get up, little bitch. You have a long night ahead of you.”

With the link of the chain leash clinking, she slowly, painfully, stood. The energy weapon that she had used to defeat her still resonated in her muscles and bones. She looked down.

“Had to alter your costume a bit,” the wife said. “Had to make your goodies more accessible.”

Making her cunt more accessible, that as why the older woman called Domina cut the crotch out of Dark Moon’s costume when she captured her. That whole mission had gone all wrong. She had snuck into an SM dungeon, thinking that she was rescuing a woman, a captive aged woman, from some patron’s sick GILF fantasy.

She still remembered turning her back on the woman to confront Domina’s henchmen, and feeling what could only have been the cane of the old woman coming down on her skull. She remembered slowly losing consciousness as the frail grey-haired woman beat her and beat her and beat with superhuman strength and a cane that was clearly more than wood, she heard Domina clapping her hands and goading her on.

“There! See! The serum works. You’ve passed my final test. You get the rest of the treatment and Dark Moon becomes a slave in my dungeon. You wont just be young again, you will be a super being.”

Dark Moon would wake up weak and roped, arched over a giant industrial spool. She would wake up with the crotch carved out of her costume and a thick dildo in her mouth.

“She going to be a good one!”

The only other time, of which, she could think, was when she was when she was captured by the group that called themselves, simply, The Men. They surrounded her in the parking lot of a strip club, recalled, gloating over the fact that they had come there to “collect” a woman. She remembered how they reeked of cologne, smoke, and alcohol. She remembered their slicked-back hair and hairy-chested open collars. The initial fight could only be called one-sided, with her predicting each of their moves and responding with animal-like reflexes, strength, and speed. She swept this one, kicked that one in the solar plexus, avoided a grab and jammed her fist up into his balls.

She remembered body after body hitting the concrete.

Seeing they were no physical match for her, even with their numbers, they stood, and formed a circle around her. She watched as each touched a medallion that he wore. They said a word that she did not recognize, in unison, and defeated her. They spoke a word, in unison, and a red surge of energy poured out of all of them at once. She remembered a power surge of some sort rushing though her. Her nipples were instantly hard - painfully hard. Every muscle tensed and her cunt shuddered, gushed. Whatever energy they used had penetrated her. She remembered screaming, and she remembered blacking out.

She remembered waking up in chains.

From the heavy smell of oil, and grime, she immediately knew that they had brought her to an automotive shop. For a moment, though, she thought of the ocean. Her mind registered salt and she thought of waves. It was only a second or two. That dark heavy musk, that thickness … this wasn’t the ocean crashing against Puerto Rico.

This salt, it was in her mouth. It was under her nose. There was a musty combination of sweet and brine, of sweat and flesh lingering on her tongue and permeated her senses. It ran in a lazy stream from the corner of her mouth and it coated her lips. She remembered working her jaw, as she awoke. It was overflowing her mouth.

Chained to her rack, now, she remembered the salty captivity, then.

It coated her. She remembered looked down to see gobs of thick, white spume clinging to the black nylon of her bust. It hung in her hair like liquid ornaments. Now, as she hung on this cross, she remembered looking down her body, seeing the streaks and splatters of white on her muscular thighs, on her calves and on her boots. Some of it crept across the leather of her boots with a lazy ooze. Some clung like jewels to the nylon, to the contours of her body. Some of it clung together in a gelatinous pile, a sort of oozing pyramid, on her crotch. She could feel it running across her forehead and dribbling down the relief of her face.

Her arms were pinned to her sides by heavy chains that were wrapped round and round and round her midsection. Padlocked. Her legs were spread wide and anchored in place with chains wrapped and padlocked at the ankles. They had secured her to some sort of table.

She could feel that they had torn out the crotch of her costume. The supra-nylon could defeat bullets and blade, but they had somehow cut a neat oval out of it. Her pussy was fully exposed. She had very thick, very dark lips. With no covering, they were protruding - jutting forward as if they were daring her captors to claim them. She remembered trying to figure out what force might have been used to cut a hole in her costume.

Mounted on her cross, now, captive to the gray-haired villainess, years after The Men had her, she could look around and see that she was in a room made for captivity. For collecting and for captivity. That was her night on the cross, here and now.

That night, when she was a captive of The Men, she found herself looking up at the tubes, chains, tools and hardware of an automotive garage. Men loomed over her as her eyes darted around that night; The Men had actually carried her to a car repair shop. Now, they were having their way with her body. They were still dressed for a night out, but their clothes, and their faces showed the wear and tear of having lost to her in hand-to-hand combat. Be that as it may, they had won and were using her.

They were lined up.

“We fuckin’ her?”

“No , man. Remember what we said? Not yet, bro. Just give her some spunk. You can cum on that pussy, though. You can do that.”

The closest man, the one who seemed to be giving the orders, stood at the edge of the table, his pants open, his cock massively jutting out from him as if it were going to reach into her on its own. Another man waited behind him, and another behind him, and another lingered in the doorway, his cock in his hand.

Chained to her rack, all of that time later, she still remembered how that alpha guy took a deep stroke and shook all over. He reared his head back and cried out. His spume shot in a stream that laid itself across her lips. Her mouth was already coated and dripping, but she could still feel that his load was thick and heavy, almost like clotted cream. It was almost as if she had been slapped across the mouth. His stroking continued, and another stream exploded from him. This one was laid between her breasts.

Those were three defeats in which her costume was torn and her body used.

She didn’t count the time when The Horseman took her to his barn and strung her upside down. Upside down. She was naked then, except for her boots. He stripped her that day and took her to the loft of the barn. Again, back then, she tried to assess her situation - moving her head so that she could see over the extent of her body. Her bare, brown skin glistened from the oil he had slathered over her, and course, white rope was wrapped around her booted ankles. While she was unconscious, he had taken her costume, and oiled her down, and strung her up. Just like this grey-haired woman who had captured her and put her on a rack, the Horseman had stripped her naked once she was helpless. The woman who had her this time had redressed her, while The Horseman had only put her boots and mask back on her captive body.

Now, on her X cross, her wrists were in thick, leather cuffs. Then, in the barn, her wrists were joined to each other by handcuffs and hung down below her head, reaching toward the barn floor, lost in the thick rain of her black hair. Now, she was stretched out spread-eagle. Then, she was hanging like a side of meat, upside down.

“I’m going to sell your ass,” she heard her captor say form across the barn loft that day. She could hear him scratching out information on a pad. The Horseman had been talkative from the very beginning. The woman who had beaten her this time and chained her to this giant X barely spoke a word. He had taken the time to let her know his plans.

“Let’s see: 5’7”, 42-30-39. Black hair and brown eyes. I better get this up on the web page before it gets late. I want to get some bidders.”

She heard him pacing around her naked form.

“I want some people to bid on that costume of yours, also.”

From where she hung, back in that barn, she had upside down view of his designer jeans and boots coming to a stop in front of her.

“You crossed a lot of people, and lot of people are going to be bidding to have you all to themselves.”

He flicked his finger, striking her mound with a loud slapping sound.

Those were past defeats. This was a new defeat.

This time, chained to the rack, the costume was still whole. A second skin of black, opaque nylon, it looked none the worse for wear after what had been a long night. Its glossy, black slickness still covered her as it had when she first encountered her captor. It still blended with the shiny, black, liquid leather her high-heeled boots. It still swept up into her half-face mask.

Still bore the white crescent moon on her bust.

Yeah, I can smell the soap. I can feel … She must have even cleaned the costume, also; there’s no dirt from the fight. I smell soap and cleanser. She took her time with me.

Still looking down, she could see how her long, muscular legs were held tightly in place. Two thick leather cuffs held her ankles. Two held her thighs. She could feel them squeezing her.

Looking down, she could see herself the shifting shadows of the room.

A wide, black belt of leather and studs was clasped tightly around her narrow waist, pinning her torso to the rack’s frame. It had shiny silver clasps, and it clung to itself with a viciousness that seemed as though she could never break it.

The instinct to brush back her hair ran through her, but it dissipated in the bonds that held her wrists fast. Cuffs. You know that you’re cuffed. Looking up at best she could, she saw how thick and wide the cuffs were. They were also made of a black leather that wove straps through gleaming clasps and fixed her muscular arms in place.

This is the same leather that makes up her costume. She’s covered from head to toe in black leather.

Instinctively, she wiggled her fingers and flexed the muscles in her out-spread arms. She tried to arch her back. She tried to simply strain against the bonds. It was like a series of physical rhetorical questions; she already knew that it was hopeless. She had seen that the material was as durable, as impossible to defeat, as the super nylon that made up her own costume.

Save your strength.

Plus, there was that humming sound again – the vibrations that caused a tingle in the soles of her feet and up her spine. This was the sound that sapped her strength and confused her mind when the fight was on.

It was that frequency, not a drug. It was that tone. The Frequency.

She was helpless.

Slowly, she turned her head, the tangle of black waves falling across her face. Damp and twisted, her hair shrouded her vision, giving her a fractured view of the room. Through the tendrils and the crisscross chaos, there were marble walls and there was art. Statues. Paintings. Vases. There was no particular time period or theme. It was a sort of elegant junk box.

And there were the chains. Chains dangled from the ceiling. Chains were linked to chairs. Chains, cuffs, racks, all manner of captivity gear was seeded throughout the expanse of the room.

I wonder what that’s about. What is this about?

There was a gibbet, and a collection of bride’s scolds were collected on a table nearby.

She could make out candles that hung on ornate holders that spouted from the walls. They gave the room it’s only light, and shadows shifted and waved around the stone floor.

She didn't kill me, she thought. She captured me instead, and brought me to where ever this is. She's going to play this out to the end. What’s the game, though?

As she replayed the battle in her groggy mind, she realized that should have expected something like this. It had been a game from the very beginning, with her finding the match book on top of her gym bag. Her heart rate had slowed and calmed after her workout, but leapt and trembled a bit when she saw the matchbook. There was a tiny, beige match book sitting on her gym bag and neatly-folded clothes.

ROWLEY FUNERAL HOME

Someone had followed her to the dojo, opened her locked locker, and left the match book. The match book. This was the matchbook of the place that handled her mother’s funeral so many years ago. She plucked it up, handling it with the very tips of her fingers as though it were toxic. There were tremors running through her as she flipped it open. Something told her to open it and look for a message in that matchbook.

L12

Her mother’s plot. Someone knew who she was. Someone knew her history. Someone who knew her movements, and her secret identity, and had watched her closely enough to come to her practice hall and leave this little lure in her locker. Someone knew her story.

A cold wave ran up her spine and settled in her mouth as a metallic taste; it burned to the back of her throat. She was so enwrapped that she missed it first time Angela asked her if she wanted to grab a drink now that practice was done.

“Wha’?”

Angela, her training partner, was undoing her black belt and letting her hair down at the same time. It was red hair and it was coming free and pouring down one shoulder.

“I asked if you wanted to get a drink. Hispanic, lesbian Shaolin Monks do still drink, right?”

She allowed herself to laugh along with Angela, but it was forced. She was picturing a grave.

“Raincheck, baby. I’ve got somewhere to be.”

Angela grew a broad, red smile.

“Ooooo. Who is it? Huh? You got yourself a boo?”

She forced another laugh, but she was still running through the question of who this matchbox person could be.

“Why do you always think I have a ‘boo?’ Maybe, I’m volunteering with a bunch of orphans.”

“Does she shoot whiskey, this new boo? I know you like those whiskey-shooting gringas.”

Angela laughed, as her fellow black belt blew her a kiss and vanished.

I decided to do this in my own time. As much as I wanted to rush right out and confront this person, I took my time.

She went to her home and she changed into Dark Moon. The details of the matchbook, the grave, the fastest route to the grave, and the puzzle of who was watching her played through her mind as she slid on the black skinsuit. Her impulse to simply gear up and get going ran through her, but she showered lavishly. She even preened her hair. She would so this in her own time.

She spoke aloud, as she dressed in the emptiness of her apartment.

“Why is someone inviting me to mami’s grave?”

She was putting on her mask, sliding on her liquid leather boots and talking aloud to herself.”

“Who knows so much about me?”

She slipped down the garage and she woke up Juanita. She pulled back the cover, and she woke Juanita. There she was, surrounded by the smell of oil and steel. There was Juanita, waiting. It was always a slight pain, pulling the blanket up to her chin when work was done, and always such a joy to rouse her from sleep when the time came. Moments like these. There was the shush of the covering coming off of her, and then the way Juanita smiled.

Mechanical curves.

CBR1100XX Super Blackbird.

She used to say the word out loud. “Blaaaackbird …” Sometimes she would whisper “Juanita” briefly as she spread her nylon legs to straddle the bike. That was what was doing when her sister piped up from her worktable in the corner.

“You’re talking to your motorcycle, big sister.”

She would feel her face flush as Maria came out from behind her table. She usually had her goggles with the built-in light on. She was usually taking off her gloves.

“No I’m not.”

“You’re crazy and you’re talking to a machine. You find a machine sexy. It’s ok.”

“I …”

“Shhhhh. I don’t judge.”

On the night of the matchbook, the night on which she ended up chained to the X rack, she thought back to Dr. Maria’s taunting her. The little sister, with her MIT degree, had called it.

“Someday, a villain is going to figure out who you are, and they’ll do it because you’re the one who pushes too far.”

On the night of the matchbook and the X rack, she slid on to the bike and kicked it to life. It growled in the darkness of the garage workshop. She assumed, at that moment, that whoever this was knew her bike and probably had watched her come and go on it.

She knew someone would figure me out and lay a trap.

She pondered how every vehicle said something about the heroine or the villain that owned it. Would a name pop up in her head as to who might know her well enough to lead her on this chase? Whoever this was could get around as quickly as she could and disappear in the same way. Was this a flyer? A super being who could levitate or fly?

How do they get around?

When Piston Thorn captured her – paralyzed her with a sound bomb and bound her, tying her tightly in a fetal ball and a cleave gag her – he put her in the trunk of his classic muscle car. He carried her effortlessly to the open trunk, she remembered, talking the whole way. With her knees drawn up to her breasts, and her wrists lashed to her ankles, she was a neat bondage package. He was careful as he lowered the lid and locked it.

“You’re gonna’ be a sex slave; I can’t have you damaged.”

Nikko had a motorcycle also. After she beat Dark Moon, after she strangled her, she hauled her limp body on to the rear of it and pulled her arms around her waist. She handcuffed her like that, her arms wrapped around her captor. Nylon against leather. With her head sagged against Nikko’s broad, tattooed back, she absorbed the vibrations of the bike and waited listlessly for her fate. Nikko carried her off on a motorcycle.

The Horseman carried her off the old-fashioned way. She remembered the musty smell of the horse as she lay on her back, on the sod of his ranch, wrapped tightly in ropes. She remembered waiting, with her wrists wrapped tightly together, her thighs pinned tightly together with layers of rope, her breasts bound tightly in circles of rope. She remembered waiting, on her back in the dirt, as he tied her ankles together, joining them to each other with one end of a rough rope and dragging the other end out to his saddle. He lashed that end to his horse.

A few of the ranch hands - the few that she hadn’t beaten and broken during their fight in the bunkhouse - watched him, laughing, taunting her, and stroking themselves. They shot their long streams of white into her hair, on her breasts, into her eyes and on the tight relief of her abs. One crouched low and groaned as he released a torrent across her lips. He pumped and groaned and went from her upper lip to her lower and back and forth and back until her mouth was coated. She remembered the rich smell of manure, mixed with soil, leather, hemp, and semen filling her head.

She remembered the deep exhalations of the horse, his feet stamping the ground now and then.

The ranch hands cheered as The Horseman mounted his steed, clicked and kicked. The horse whinnied, shook its head, and started into a trot. She remembered feeling the tug of the rope on her legs and the harsh friction of the ground against her body as he began dragging her.

Maybe, as she pondered, this villain was a flyer. She remembered Succubus landing on a rooftop behind her years before this night. There was only a split second of recognition, then two hands clasped her big breasts from behind. The energy surged through her, stiffening her into a statue, and Succubus clutched her tightly against her. Succubus took off on her massive bat wings and flew them both away.

And this was her ride.

CBR1100XX with the modifications that her little sister put together.

This was the jet-black motorcycle that would carry her to her mother’s grave. She pushed a button and kicked one leg out and over the seat of her bike. Slowly, metal gears grinding against each other, the garage door slide itself open. Nighttime poured in, stars winking at her through the treetops that surrounded the house, and she revved the

She drove off into the darkness.

Who knows me this well?

Hanging on the X rack hours later, she would remember how she pondered which of her enemies knew her this well. How? Who? Who knew so much about her background and that leaving this clue would draw her in.

Hanging on the X rack hours later, she would remember the merciless way the wind scalded her skin and ran through her hair. Her mask lenses were in-place, so her eyes were clear and taking in the data feedback that they picked up as they scanned. She could have seen perfectly in the dark, but who can see with a torrent of wind and debris in your face? She wore no helmet.

“Loca,” Sister MIT said to her soothingly that night, long before she hung on the rack. “If you promise to wear a helmet, I promise to fill it with all sorts of nifty gadgets. It will have infrared and a computer and everything.”

“I can already see in the dark. I’ve got thus animal vison thing, right? I like going with no helmet.”

“But see, if you crash and knock in your cabeza, I’ll have to build you a breath-operated wheelchair. You can’t fight crime that way, baby. You’d look ridiculous.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Nobody wants to see a hot chick in a skintight nylon cat suit in a wheelchair.”

“I’ll be fine. You know I have those reflexes, right? Like, one of the powers, you know? That whole superhuman reflex thing.”

“I’ll make you a helmet.”

Sister MIT made the helmet. It generally went unworn. As the motorcycle weaved its way into the city that night, her hair flew free.

Chained to the X in the candle-lit room, she walked her mind back through the arrival at the graveyard. She recalled how she parked the bike in the shadows and vaulted to the top of the twenty-foot-high brick wall that surrounded the cemetery. She landed at the top, crouched on it, jet-black cat suit dark against the night, and scanned the grave yard. She had already removed the lenses, and was using her own eyes to read the world around her. She instantly saw the body heat of someone who was barely hidden behind a crypt. Someone who was waiting. Someone who wanted to be found.

I walked right into this, she thought while she was chained to the X rack.

Dark Moon recalled how, she leapt from the top of the wall, stretched out against the night, and landed silently right where she knew this person would see her. The heat signature, she could tell now, was a woman. This woman, she moved, darting around the other side of the crypt, and Dark Moon moved, leaping to the roof of the crypt. The woman’s movements were silent, but Dark Moon could follow the heat.

She ended up flowing in the darkness around just like her adversary. They were both blended with the shadows of the grave yard. Of course, the cat-and-mouse game ended at the foot of her madre’s grave.

The woman was grey. Her hair was grey, that is. It wasn’t white or the glowing some women took on when then gained superpowers. It was a natural grey. It was the hair of a mature woman. It was thick, flowing grey hair that reached down past her shoulders. Her skin, her face, her body had the sleek firmness of a woman who would not have earned years of grey hair. It wasn’t the face or body of a girl, though - it was mature and seasoned. She was full-bodied, but still chiseled and lean. A wildly-fit mature woman.

She prowled a few steps towards Dark Moon. The woman’s heartbeat was calm and even, slowly pulsing.

“Who are you?” Dark Moon remembered asking. This woman wore a dark red body glove. It was an all-encompassing catsuit that embraced her like liquid poured over her body. She wore high-heeled boots that matched Dark Moon’s – black and skin-tight.

The woman smiled.

“How do you know me?”

The woman moved towards Dark Moon, her hands up in a boxer’s stance. Dark Moon moved first, lunging forward with a flurry of straight punches and kicks. Her body flexed in the skin-tight black of her nylon, each blow so fast that it made that sharply-gentle snapping sound in the air. Air. Air was all that she struck, as the lean, grey-haired woman simply dodged, ducked, and melted away.

“She’s faster than I am,” she remembered thinking as she hung on her cross. “She’s like me. She’s some sort of super human, but she’s something beyond me.”

She could feel that the woman’s heart rate was still cool, relaxed, and even. It was as though she were taking a stroll in the park. Dark Moon became almost a whirling dervish, coming in close with one elbow after another. She would feel the gentle exhalation as the woman playfully bounced and dodged. She would let Dark Moon get just so close, then melt away. Dark Moon would strike only air.

The woman would fill the gaps with her fists. Her blows flowed like water until the second they contacted Dark Moon’s body. Then, they would turn to stone. Her ribs, her breasts, her breasts, up and down her spine. The woman struck across her face, snapping her head from one side to the other. The woman struck across her face, again, snapping her head to the other side. Long, black hair flew in the autumn darkness.

Hanging on her X rack during her captivity, Dark Moon remembered how the older woman dug a chestnut fist into her thigh. Thickly muscled in its black nylon, Dark Moon’s left leg gave up and collapsed. The woman’s heart rate was raised a bit now; blood was flowing to her clit, to her vulva. The older woman’s nipples were hard now, and her breathing was finally starting to labor.

As she hung on her rack and walked her mind back through the beating, she remembered thinking This bitch isn’t getting tired, she’s getting turned on.

A flat handed chop landed on a nerve bundle in her left shoulder, and she moaned, and then gasped a stifled gasp as a stiff set of fingers rammed in and up under her rib cage. The woman gave Dark Moon’s diaphragm just the right blow. Her breathing stopped. Hanging on her rack hours later, she could still feel the excruciating pain in her abdomen.

Being beaten in the cemetery, she felt her brain staring to fade. Her muscles gave to up paralysis. She felt herself in a big empty zone of blackness, then a knee crashed into her chin. There was a moment of pain, of blindness. She felt herself tumbling backwards as a hammer fist crashed into her face. It came in a downward arc, crashing into the side of her face – her jaw line. She felt her bones shake as she dropped to her knees. Her head sagged forward and her eyes closed.

The fist came crashing downwards, again and again, as the grey lady dropped one blow after another on the back of the dark heroine’s skull.

Hanging on her cross, later, she could feel it all. She could feel the speed and the violence of this unknown mature woman beating her in the darkness of a city graveyard. Dark Moon could feel, again, the futility of her struggle as she tried to push herself up, her palm pressing into the sod, and the woman drove another fist into the side of her head.

She heard herself give a painful exaltation.

Uhhhhh ….

There was one more solid punch that drove her head down to the damp soil. Dark hair tumbled around her face as the woman’s punch laid her face out on the autumn grass.

I was conscious, but I was helpless.

Chained and strapped to the St. Andrew’s cross, she could still feel the punches ringing in her head. She remembered how the woman with the long, grey hair grabbed her shoulder and rolled her on to her back. Dark Moon ended up lying splayed out, arms flung open, legs spread. Her eyes had a sleepy half-shuddered looks as she watched the woman.

Helpless. It wasn’t just the beating, it was that vibration, that energy coming off of her.

Smiling broadly, the victor took hold of her throat with one hand and her hair with the other. Dark Moon’s body was a rag doll, limp and helpless, as the woman lifted her from the ground. Dark Moon looked up as she was pealed from the earth. The woman was silhouetted in the light of the full moon. High breasts. Sinewy defined muscle. Long, lean limbs.

She was beautiful.

Dark Moon offered no resistance as the woman pulled her upright, tightening the grip on her throat with one hand, and reaching down with the other.

She grabbed my mound. I was already barely breathing, but she still choked me, as she grabbed my mound.

The choking grip on her throat trapped a scream that tried to escape from Dark Moon. It closed her throat, and there was the pounding pain of stopped breath and a dying brain. Fingers curled and stiffened against the folds of the Latina’s lips. Her thumb dug at the place where her captive’s clit would have been under the nylon of her costume. The long, manicured fingers reached back and up, digging deep between the heroine’s thighs. That thumb dug at the bud as she made a fist that captured Dark Moon’s lips.

Hanging on her rack, she still felt the throbbing.

Dark Moon felt the woman just barely exert, just barely, as she lifted the dark heroine above her head. She held that clamp on her throat, held the grip on her sex, did a squat, and lifted.

As Dark Moon recalled it, as drool gathered on her lower lip, as she hung on her cross in the darkness of defeat hours later, she remembered how the woman stood so very tall and still. She remembered the way she stood with a wide stance, a broad triumphant stance, and held Dark Moon in a press up over her head.

I looked down at the ground. She held me up like a trophy.

She slammed Dark Moon down on a headstone. She tilted her head back and made a sound as though she were cumming as she brought the dark-haired heroine’s spine down on the top of the tombstone. There was not enough air in her lungs, or time in the world for Dark Moon to actually scream out in pain. Her eyes widened, and her body shuddered, but she made not a sound. The rock crumbled, and the raven-haired woman lay in a pile of rubble and dust.

Panting, glowing, smiling behind her mask, the woman stood and took a step back.

I wasn’t out yet. I could feel her moving around and gloating over me.

Dark Moon lay on her side in the wreckage of the stone. One leg was crossed over the other. One arm was draped across her waist and the other folded under her head. Her eyes were half-closed behind a torrent of hair,

She was breaking me. Every bone was intact, but she was breaking me. My body’s super durability was keeping me alive, but she was enjoying breaking me as best she could.

She kicked Dark Moon, flipping her on to her back. Again, she watched and gloated as the sinewy arms flopped open, spread wide, and the big bust was thrust up and laid out in the moonlight. Dark Moon’s head rocked from side to side. Hours later, while the black-clad heroine hung stretched on her cross, she remembered the sound of the older woman moving around her, and the toe of her boot nestling between her thighs.

She pressed in with the toe of her boot, stepping on the mound of Dark Moon’s pussy. With a smiled spreading across her face, she mashed her foot on Dark Moon’s mound, pressing through the nylon, and grinding it in a circle.

Hanging on her cross hours later, she could feel it again. Her body was still wracked with pain, and her cunt still belonged to this mysterious woman. Hanging on that cross, after so much else had happened to her body, she could still feel the slow grinding of the other woman’s boot against her pussy. She remembered her thighs trembling. As she lay on the dirt in the darkness, her muscles shuddered and she moaned as the woman had her way with her.

She found my clit and mashed it in a circle. She mashed my clit with her foot. I heard myself groan for her.

“Uhhhhnnn….”

The woman whistled a little tune as she lifted her foot, then brought it down again on the punished mound.

She stomped on my pussy. She started digging her boot into me again. I could hear myself screaming.

And then she was gone. The throbbing and the pain still rippled through her, but the dominatrix had vanished into the darkness.

She was still playing with me. I tried to move, to get up off the ground, but felt my legs betray me. I was cumming. I realized it wasn’t just from her stomping on my pussy; something was radiating from her. Some sort of vibration was flowing out of her into me. That was when I felt her real power.

It took agonizing minutes, but Dark Moon finally found her feet and stood that night in the grave yard. She looked around.

I couldn’t see her.

The woman was a blur as she came back out of the shadows, dropping into a capoeira sweep and taking the Latina’s legs out from under her. Dark Moon heard herself hit the ground, then heard herself give a guttural cry as a boot crashed in between her thighs. Her hands snapped down impulsively, clutching her mound. Her knees came up meet her breasts as her back arched inward and her head snapped forward. The kick to her cunt was powerful and direct. The toe of the woman’s boot had plowed itself into her sex, and Dark Moon screamed out in the darkness.

She was helpless as the older woman took two handfuls of Dark Moon’s hair, wrapped and twisted them into tight coils, and used superhuman strength to yank her from the ground. The woman’s heart rate was still up, her pupils dilating. As she lifted Dark Moon into the air, the captive heroine could see the hard nipples.

She held me up by my hair, then held me up by my face.

She took hold of Dark Moon’s face, cupping it like a harsh and demanding lover. She clutched her jaw with one hand and pinched her nose closed with the other.

She kissed me. She filled my mouth and closed my nose and she finally suffocated me into unconsciousness.

As darkness crowded out consciousness, Dark Moon felt the slick softness of two full lips against hers. The grip tightened and her mouth surrendered to the darting pinkness of the other woman’s tongue. She finally blacked out.

And I ended up on the rack.

When the woman entered the room. Dark Moon felt herself brace. Still in her costume, still silent, each step was smooth and deliberate. She walked up to Dark Moon. She spoke.

“I beat you. No shame. My engineering surpasses yours. Welcome, though.”

She took a moment. She paused. She smiled and ran a hand, slowly, up Night Star’s left leg. It slowed to a stop when it reached the heat between her thighs.

“So, you can see that I know all about you. I know about your powers, and your routine, and your sisters. You have the two sisters, the techno girl and the warrior twin. I know it all.”

Her fingers were swirling in circles now, pressing through the fabric of the costume. She would pinch the thick contours of the captive’s lips and nudge her knuckles against the bound woman’s clit.

She spoke to Dark Moon, her voice smooth and clear with a slight American midwestern accent.

“Yeah. We do our research. The whole story of your family, particularly the women of your family, is quite compelling. Scientist mommy and … Oh! In fact, here’s the sister now. Great!”

Dark Moon, strapped to her St Andrew’s cross, watched herself walk into the room. She watched a woman, built exactly like her, who moved exactly like her, stride into the room. The costume that the woman wore was white, not black, and something more like PVC than Dark Moon’s nylon. There were no boots, but, instead, the stocking feet of an all-in-one body glove. A black sunburst was displayed across the ample bust where Dark Moon had her crescent moon symbol.

The costume was different, but the woman was identical. She had the same thick, black hair, the same jaw line, the same eyes. Her figure made it seem as if both of them were poured from the same mold. They were muscular and rounded in same places.

She walked in stocking-footed silence. She walked robotically, her eyes distant and vacant. She walked at the behest of another. A muscular man in leather pants walked behind her. He sipped whiskey from a square glass and chuckled as he watched her.

“You got the twin sister!” the gray-haired woman exclaimed. She clapped her hands, then clutched them together as though praying or giving thanks.

“This is turning out even better than we planned,” she laughed. “This is Revenant, right? The twin sister? She’s the superheroine called Revenant. Dark Moon and Revenant.”

Her fingers were still pressing into Dark Moon. Juice was running between her knuckles and into her palm.

“That’s right. We’re going to get into how she got that name later. For now, just know that we have her where we want her.”

“And she’s ours?” the woman asked.

“Totally ours. Yes.”