SILK STALKINGS 
Thomas P. B. Traven 
A Detective Comics story, starring Silk Stalkings and Savage Fury. B&D  
Update: 04/11/1997 to misc2
  
  
     I groaned.  
     I listened and didn't hear an echo, so she was still   
out.  I was flat on my back and my mouth tasted of   
cum.  I ached everywhere, especially between my legs.    
Why is it that rapists always seem to have dicks   
like salamis?  I tried to lever myself up on my elbows   
but gave up after a couple of tries.  My tits felt like   
two Himalayan mountains pinning me down.  Make   
that Himalayan volcanoes, the way they throbbed and   
burned.  At least all the bastards had done was squeeze   
and punch them.  
     I turned over onto my side and discovered the   
reason I couldn't see anything.  My mask was askew.    
Found a hand at the end of an arm wearing a big flare-  
cuffed gauntlet whose bright red matched the arm's   
leather jacket sleeve.  That cinched it-mine.  Took that   
hand and raised it and straightened the mask over   
my eyes.  At least they hadn't tied me or my tits up.    
The way they'd left me, I probably wasn't worth the   
bother.  
     The overhead light was as bright as the sun.    
Slipped an ice pick into my brain.  I closed my eyes   
again.  Nothing much to see anyway.  
     I flopped over onto my hands and knees, grunting   
as I mashed my massive aching mamms beneath me.    
Did a slow arduous push-up.  Knew I was at arms'   
length when my naked boulder-boobs finally lifted off   
the floor.  Their ponderous weight almost pulled me   
down again.  My desk was within reach, so after only   
a half dozen tries I managed to grab onto the edge.  By   
using most of my strength I was able to hoist   
myself all the way onto my thighbooted knees, and   
chin myself on the desk top.  Bit my tongue.  
     That sudden motion started cardiac tom-toms   
beating in my skull.  Knelt for awhile and listened, my   
chin on the scarred wood the only thing keeping me   
up.  An old familiar rhythm.  At least they'd only   
kicked my head a couple of times, instead of using it   
for soccer practice like some.  That was what had   
skewed my mask.  
     Huh.  I was starting to feel downright grateful to   
those creeps.  
     Except for the semen coating throat and dripping   
from chin, and oozing down legs from raw reamed   
asshole, soaking stockings and collecting in thighhigh   
boots.  Except for the finger bruises on gigantic   
jugs and inner loins where he'd spread them as he   
hard-hosed me, the teeth marks on nipples and the   
mouse swelling under one masked eye, and the ache in   
my gut where his fists had pounded me like a   
drum before I'd finally dropped to booted knees for him   
and his dick.  
     Except for the open wound on my ego and the   
swollen knot of rage, that Raven O'Rourke, the Silk   
Stalker, could be taken so easily, manhandled and   
beaten and plowed like a field in her own office.  Her   
own goddam office!  
     Anger gave me amazing strength.  Got a good grip   
on the edge of the desk and heaved my aching   
awesomely-voluptuous body up a whole nother foot or   
so, lifting my titanic throbbing naked tits onto the   
desk where they spread over the cool wood like   
shimmying pumpkins of flan.  They were so soft and   
pillowy that if they hadn't hurt so much, I might have   
gone to sleep with aching head nestled between   
their mammoth pink cushions.  Wouldn't have been the   
first time.  
     Soon I knew I'd have to stuff them back into their   
bra.  Wasn't looking forward to that ordeal.  They   
don't like being thrown into prison, especially after   
being used as overblown punching bags.  Besides, I   
wasn't sure where that particular outsized item of   
lingerie was.  And if I did go to all the trouble of   
recupping my boulderous babies (Mike came up with   
that one), someone would probably just yank them   
out again.  Tits like mine are easy targets, for caresses,   
kisses and blows.  
     Both of which had been the order of the day so far.    
Kneeling there at my desk as though offering   
monstrous jiggling mamms on an altar, I knew damned   
well that if I hadn't had so much of the first, I   
might not have been such an easy set-up for the   
second.  
     It's hard to accept that even in 6-inch boot heels like   
mine, I could be caught flat-footed.  
     Should've been suspicious right off, when I got back   
to the office and Gayle wasn't at her desk in   
reception.  (Where was she, by the way?)  It was only   
mid-afternoon and she never left early, even when I   
wanted her to.  But I'd figured she was running an   
errand or something.  Maybe seeing her new girlfriend   
for a little afternoon delight on the sly.  Smiled at that-  
she was so afraid I'd be jealous.  
     Not likely, if only because I'd just been coming back   
from a couple hours of sweaty satisfying quality   
time myself.  So I couldn't blame her.  Talk about rosy   
glows-a big dick and good sex will do that to me   
every time (so will a hot tongue and sweet pussy, for   
that matter).  Gayle never leaves her desk without   
telling me.  In person.  
     Roseately halo'd thus, I'd even hummed as I paused   
to check my mask and make-up in a mirror.    
Pulled up the tops of my thighboots and straightened   
my stocking seams and tilted my broad-brimmed hat   
to just the right cocky angle before opening the inner   
office door.  A client was due-so far just a hesitant   
yet urgent voice over the phone, but that's the way a lot   
of profitable cases begin.  We always try to look   
our best for the customers.  And if I do say so myself,   
my best is very good indeed.  
     If I hadn't been thinking about that last time as I   
walked into my office-Mike's warm tasty cum   
squirting all over my smiling stupid face and   
humongous boobs for both of us to lick off-I might   
have   
made more of the fact the inner door was already   
slightly ajar ....  
     Because three spikeheeled steps in was when the   
ceiling fell on me.  Or something close enough, that   
took me across the back of the neck and dropped me to   
my leather-sheathed knees, whole new   
constellations exploding in my domino'd eyes.  Tried to   
get up again, which was obviously a mistake,   
since it brought a knee powering into my gut from the   
side, me commenting "gloolfff!" and reassuming   
the penitent position more sincerely.  
     Reached into the flaring cuff of one of my gauntlets   
for a microbomb or gas pellet and discovered to   
my intense dismay I hadn't loaded any-no dazzlers or   
even acid pills.  The glove was empty.  Mike and I   
do some kinky things, but none of them involve gas or   
explosions.  
     Reached into my right thighboot for a knife.  But a   
hand swept my Certified Lamont Cranston Slouch   
Hat off so it could take a fistful of my hair and slam my   
beautiful masked face down onto the knee that   
had just been introduced to my gut.  Made a very   
unglamorous noise, more suitable to a pigsty than an   
office, and blood spurted from my nose.  
     For some reason, not a very bright one, I persisted   
in struggling to my feet.  This time got about half   
way up when the hand turned into a wrecking ball of a   
fist that slammed across my jaw like it was trying   
to twist my head all the way around on my shoulders.    
With a yelp, I went flying to sprawl across my desk   
on my stomach scattering papers and other stuff.  And   
just lay there for a numb moment, staring down at   
my chair and tasting the blood from smashed lips.  
     Then the hand was back, this time like a crane, took   
me by its favorite grip-my hair, be it ever so long   
and black and tangled-and hauled me back off my   
desk.  Yrs Truly groaned through gritted teeth and   
tried   
to grab the hand.  This annoyed its bro the five-  
fingered wrecking ball, which proceeded to pound my   
lower back from behind, making me squawk and bawl   
and flounder about from my fist-clutched hair like   
the crimson-leatherclad Catch of the Day.  
     Finally, when her kidneys had been battered till   
they felt like so much oatmeal and her arms dangled at   
her sides like overcooked pasta clad in flaring gauntlets   
of granite, the crane slammed the dangling   
battered Silk Stalker back against the wall.  So the   
wrecking ball could work the same pulverizing magic   
from in front.  Each separate knuckle did its damndest   
to burrow through my belly to my spine.  As that   
quart of bone buried itself in my gut again and again,   
stomach tried to get out of the way by squeezing up   
esophagus.  But whenever it rose as far as throat, a   
second stone fist would blast mouth, spraying blood   
over the new wallpaper and loosening pearly teeth.  
     Finally, when the fist had knocked mask around   
head at least twice and the only thing holding me up   
on 6-inch spikes was that gut-busting fist smashing me   
against the wall again and again, crane and   
wrecking ball agreed I was beaten.  
     Leaning there doubled over, gasping hoarsely and   
tasting blood and every meal for the past week, I   
was in no shape to argue.  But I tried anyway-what the   
hell, right?-and launched myself away from the   
wall in what was supposed to be a fullback-style tackle   
that would carry us both into the outer office.  We   
got about half that distance before I ran out of steam.  
     So I knelt there while two hands like shovels played   
ping-pong with my masked face for awhile,   
slapped me back and forth till wasn't sure which side   
was which, then a piledriver I hadn't met yet clubbed   
me back to my gloved hands and thighbooted knees   
with a grunt.  Would have continued the collapse but   
the crane jerked me up again by my hair (of course).    
Heard a zipper, then something like a banana made   
of bone smacked across my numb visage.  Someone   
moaned thickly (was that me?) and it slapped back the   
other way.  
     Before I could even tighten my sexy swollen lips, let   
alone clench my teeth (which was impossible   
anyway after the clobbering my jaw had taken), a dick   
like a billy-club rammed into my elegant fist-  
pulped mouth.  Said something witty like "glrffhh!!"   
then gagged on that lipstretching manshaft as its fist-  
sized head (well, that's how big it felt) plugged my   
throat.  The grip on hair tightened making me bleat   
around the mouth-filling cock, and I was showed the   
wrecking ball of a fist as a warning.  I wanted to   
bite, was aching to chew that thing up and spit it out   
again, and to hell with wrecking balls (or any other   
kind).  But see previous parenthetical note, dammit.  
     So there wasn't a fucking thing I could do to keep   
him from sawing his fat mofo schlong in and out of   
bloodied puffy mouth, his balls bouncing against my   
chin, except gag on it and get ready to drink cum.    
It's better if you don't actually try to swallow, just open   
your gullet and let the gooey stuff squirt right   
down your throat.  Doesn't taste as bad that way and   
you don't make a mess if the guy ejaculates like a   
firehose.  Take it from a past master.  
     But that wasn't what he wanted.  Suddenly he   
pulled out of my mouth, leaving me choking and   
rubbing a great-gauntleted forearm over my raw abused   
lips.  I started to say (with feeling) "You   
motherfu-" but the wrecking ball came down again and   
laid me out on my beautiful masked face.    
Elephantine endowments cushioned my fall as usual.    
Can't say that's what they're mainly good for-Mike   
and my secretary's lips and hands would surely   
disagree-but frequently (too frequently) it's one of their   
principal functions.  
     Lay there like I had a choice, one awesomely   
voluptuous throbbing ache from hatless ebon-maned   
head   
to spikeheeled toes.  Waited for the rope around my   
gloved wrists and booted ankles, then a rag or wad of   
toilet paper-or ballgag if he was a Boy Scout and came   
prepared-crammed into mouth.  
     I should've been so lucky.  
     Suddenly I was kicked contemptuously over onto   
my back.  Squinted up through mask at my attacker,   
but could only make out a towering black figure whose   
head seemed to brush the ceiling light.  There were   
all these stars and comets and things dancing around   
him.  Pretty, I thought.  You can see why I hadn't   
gotten around to wondering what this was all about.  
     The giant bent down and took the lapels of my   
crimson leather mini-trenchcoat and yanked it open.  It   
used to have buttons, but that kind of thing happens so   
often I replaced them with snaps.  Saved a lot of   
time and money on sewing.  
     We both stared at the immense black lace bra thus   
revealed (Yrs Truly somewhat dazedly), and the   
twin heaving mountains of milkfat that surged and   
bulged out over the enormous overloaded cups.  Can I   
help it if they don't make bras anywhere near my part   
of the alphabet?  And all my custom bras were in   
the laundry.  
     I was jerked halfway up by a taut strap, was given a   
few flat-handed smashes across gorgeous puss,   
accompanied by the standard yelps and grunts and   
blood and one good neck-creak-then the strap snapped   
and I dropped back to the floor again.  Like magic the   
huge bra was gone.  
     And There They Were: my colossal cantaloupes, my   
double dirigibles, my boulderous babies.  Marilyn   
and Jayne, my two favorite sex symbols, named after   
my two favorite sex symbols.  Though judging by the   
treatment they usually get from the creeps we three run   
into, I should call them Ali and Frazier.  Like I   
said before about mountains on my chest.  Right then I   
felt every pound of their ponderous melony   
masses.  
     But the towering figure was even less interested in   
fondling gigantic jiggling jugs than he'd been in   
fucking sexy smashed lips.  He had a more intimate   
target in his sights.  Dropped to his knees between my   
limp thighbooted legs and spread them wide.  I   
couldn't lift my two-ton head enough to see over the   
Grand   
Tetons, but I felt a hand rummage around under my G-  
string, comb through my thick pubic bush.  There   
was a snap and cold air brushed over my pussy lips.    
They were still slack and wet from all the hot and   
heavy fucking just an hour or so earlier.  
     Only an hour?  Seemed like a couple of days at   
least!  
     Just as well I was ready.  At least my love canal was   
lubed and loose when, after feeling me up roughly   
and making me squirm and whimper (I hate that), he   
lifted my leather-sheathed knees in the crooks of his   
arms and  
     slammed his truncheon of a dick into me.  I'd been   
expecting it, dimly, and tried to prepare for it.  But   
I still reared up with a wide-eyed squeal more   
appropriate to a gelded pig, only to be smashed down   
again-  
the wrecking ball was on duty.  
     Hands gripped asscheeks under the flapping   
trenchcoat and my thighbooted legs jerked limply in   
his   
arms as his cock plowed me.  Accompanied by the   
meaty smack of loins, we settled into the old fuck   
rhythm, grunting a capella-his baritone, mine mezzo.    
Gauntleted arms outflung, I sprawled under him   
with all the animation of an Amazonian lox, going   
"hunh-unh-unh-unh!" with my massive naked mamms   
flopping up into my masked face going "slap slap   
slap!"  Talk about music to be ravaged by!  
     The funny thing was, he never touched my titanic   
lolling tits at all.  Maybe he just wanted to watch   
them roll like doughy bowling balls around my heaving   
ribcage (I'm told it's quite a spectacular show) as   
he pumped his huge dick into me and into me.  From   
my point of view, it's two pumpkins of jello trying to   
bury my face (believe it or not, guys: Marilyn and   
Jayne are all real!)  
     Did manage to clench a crimson-gloved fist, but it   
was like my hair some mornings: couldn't do a   
thing with it.  
     What I hated most, what I always hate most about   
being raped, was/is being dragged kicking and   
screaming (literally) to a wrenching degrading kind of   
climax.  Tried some of my usual tricks: closed my   
eyes behind their mask and bit my plump lower lip till   
I tasted fresh blood, concentrated on hating this   
brutal bastard, hating his hard-driving dick and his   
buttcheek-clutching hands and his foul breath panting   
on my face.  
     But this time nothing helped.  I couldn't even   
pretend it was Mike doing it to me, though at times   
he's   
almost as rough (I am too).  
     "No!  Don't!" The words bubbled up, thick and   
slurred, between groans and gasps of reluctant   
miserable lust. "Goddammit-"  
     Grunting and straining, I didn't catch his droll   
riposte.  But it was probably "Shut up, bitch!" because   
that's what usually comes before a back-handed smack   
across my luscious drooling chops.  I yelped, neck   
creaked, tasted more blood.  
     Too late anyway.  
     I bucked and writhed and raged inwardly, but it   
kept on building.  Squawking, bleating, it was all I   
could do not to wrap my thighbooted legs around his   
waist to pull him closer, there were nooks and   
crannies of my burning sloshing pussy that his   
plunging dick hadn't reamed out.  
     Sometimes my body has no taste or class at all.    
Any old rigid kielbasa-sized piece of meat, even   
tongues or dildos or flashlights or ....  
     That was when a horrified female voice said, "What   
the hell is going on here?"  
     At this I did manage to lift my head, because   
suddenly the rapist gave a yelp and his plunging   
powering cock was gone with a slurp.  If my cunt had   
had a tongue instead of a clit, she would've wailed   
in sorrow.  
     The slut.  
     Through the valley between my gargantuan Grand   
Tetons, I saw standing there  
     a majestic monster-busted vision in limb-sheathing   
black leather (her boots reached higher than mine,   
all the way up to her hips), sky-high heels and a cowl-  
cape combo.  
     My towering despoiler dangled from an armgloved   
fist like something better thrown back.  Reduced to   
a sallow balding medium-sized wimp in a rumpled   
suit-mostly about his ankles.  Legs were hairy and soft   
and pale, and missed the floor by inches.  The only   
thing that lived up to billing was the huge cock which   
projected like a bowsprit from under his shirt tails.  It   
was smeared with lipstick and slick with my juices.  
     I made a hazy note to check into smearproof gloss.  
     "Are you all right?" the spectacularly scantclad   
super-Amazon asked me.  I nodded.  This had to be   
Savage Fury.  What was she doing here, aside from   
saving my gorgeous ass?  Was she the mysteriously   
urgent phone voice?  
     She shook my rapist.  His great dick waggled about.    
It showed no signs of shrinking despite his   
evident fear, which I also found remarkable.  
     "I asked you a question, creep!"  
     His eyes were closed tight and his lips moved.  He   
might have been saying a final prayer.  I levered   
myself up on my elbows, titanic naked tits lolling   
humongously, thighbooted legs and plundered dripping   
pussy wide open.  
     Savage Fury wasn't in any mood to be fucked with   
(unlike others I could mention).  She lifted the   
Wimp higher like a puppy she'd caught messing on the   
rug, and reached for his groin.  Leather-gloved   
hand stroked his wondrous wang a bit as though in   
amazement (he squirmed) then reached underneath to   
give his balls a not-so-gentle squeeze.  That opened his   
eyes, very wide.  But they were turned sideways,   
towards the other office.  
     From which came a crash.  
     "All right," the Cowled Crusader gritted, "I'll find   
out from your partner."  
     Fury tossed him into a corner like so much trash.    
Gloved fists clenched, she strode on those sky-high   
heels into the next office, cape snapping at her knees.    
Closed the door behind her.  
     That room had belonged to my ex-partner, in his   
rare sober moments.  About a dozen times a day my   
ambitious secretary drops broad hints anent how she   
wouldn't mind taking Paul's place in there, the way   
she has in my bed.  And I remind her that's one of the   
reasons he's my ex partner.  So right now it's   
storage and a second bedroom for when I'm too tired to   
go home-or too horny.  I mean, it isn't as though   
Gayle doesn't spend plenty of time in there with me   
anyway.  
     I used my desk to pull myself painfully to my feet,   
and teetered against it on boot heels that seemed to   
have telescoped from their normal 6 to at least 12   
inches.  Gartered thighs felt squishy and bruised, and   
these mammoth tits kept trying to pull me over again.    
But I managed to make it look easy, for my   
audience's benefit.  You know: "oh, were you raping   
me?"  
     Crumpled in his corner, he wasn't paying attention   
to the angry masked Amazon preparing to clean his   
clock as it had ne'er been cleaned.  I quickly found out   
why.  
     From the next room came the oddest sound I'd ever   
heard in there-and those of you who knew my ex-  
partner can appreciate how odd that was.  A gushing   
whooshing kind of splash, followed by an astonished   
yelp, much like the rapist had made.  Only this was   
female.  
     Something thudded hard against the inner wall,   
shaking pictures down on this side.  A flurry of meaty   
smacks followed, like fists pounding flesh,  with   
muffled squeals and grunts.  I didn't bother to cover my   
enormous swaying endowments-let the little shit ogle   
them (awesome dick still at full mast!).  I'd finally   
found my gun and was stilting over to the door on my   
precarious spikes, reaching for the knob.  When   
there came an explosive crunching blow that could   
only be fist-on-jaw, a cry of pain  
     and the door exploded from its hinges with Savage   
Fury reeling pell-mell behind.  Both slammed into   
me like a train and knocked me hurtling over my desk   
again, the gun flying from my gauntleted grasp.    
Long thighbooted legs arced up and over as I collapsed   
on the other side bringing the computer crashing   
down on my head.  It wasn't a laptop.  
     So I just lay there stunned, my leather-sheathed legs   
draped up over my chair with their stiletto heels   
pointing at the ceiling, and watched the massacre that   
ensued.  Fury sprawled against the far wall between   
the file cabinets, her monumental scantclad body   
soaking wet, scarlet ponytail plastered to her back.    
She'd taken quite a beating already: blood dripped from   
her opulent smashed lips and her monstrous   
chest-blimps were the angry crimson of much-battered   
boobfat.  But she shook her cowled head as she   
pushed herself up, monumental milkbags joggling in   
their straps-they were obviously, awesomely all   
natural too-and lunged across the office through the   
doorway.  
     Only to meet with another flesh-splatting blow from   
within.  Almost immediately, the towering titan-  
titted superbeauty came careening back again,   
shoulder-sheathed arms outflung, and hit the wall at   
exactly the same spot as before, only much harder.  A   
few of the file drawers jumped out in salute.  Dazed,   
she slumped against one of the cabinets, a gloved hand   
to her bloodied masked face.  
     After all that I expected a human bigrig to come   
through the door after her, someone the massive size   
of one of the Hammer boys (Sledge or Jack).  I mean,   
I'd seen news footage of Savage Fury stopping a   
speeding van cold, then shot-putting it a hundred   
yards-as one of my squeals might say, this was one   
mean mountain mammed muscle-mama (though she   
could lose some weight, the way she bulged around   
that waist-cinch).  
     To my stunned surprise, what emerged from the   
other office instead was another nondescript mid-sized   
compact, maybe chin-high to Fury even without her   
heels, this one thinning blonde on top with a   
Hawaiian shirt that screamed, sockless tennies and fat-  
kid shorts.  I was still looking behind him for the   
muscle-bound buddy who could beat Savage Fury so   
badly, when he tore into the colossal-titted Cowled   
Crusader like a scrawny wolf going after a cow.  A   
gorgeous leatherclad super-cow, to be sure.  
     I'll give it to Fury, she's a fighter.  Not real bright in   
some ways, but a fighter.  Tottering gamely on her   
skyscrapers, she came out to meet him swinging an   
armgloved fist like a cannon shell  
     which he slapped aside like a fluttering moth and   
plowed his puny clenched rejoinder into her belly   
button, doubled the Masked Mammazon forward going   
"ooollggh!" with a spray of bloody spittle.  
     This, I realized numbly, did not bode well for the   
immediate future.  I was starting to feel my body   
again.  It was good to have it back but I wasn't sure   
why.  
     He moved in on her and repeated his gut-whomping   
a few more times with ever greater spit-spraying   
success, till the convulsing grunting Fury's cowled   
congested face was practically chinning itself on his   
shoulder and her tongue lolled from her slack drooling   
mouth.  Each measured pounding bellybuster   
launched her great naked ass up into her flapping cloak   
and stained the visible part of her face a deeper   
red.  A couple of them lifted the monumental masked   
milkmaid onto her toes-trust me, with 6 inch heels   
that takes one helluva punch!  
     I struggled up onto my sky-spikes again, enraged   
but helpless.  This scumbag was handling   
superstrong Savage Fury so easily that he could   
probably swat big ol' me like a fly.  But damned if I'd   
let   
this magnificent Amazon get the crap beat out of her in   
my own office, and not do something!  
     All I succeeded in doing was doubling the number   
of magnificent Amazons who got the crap beat out   
of them in my own office.  In a few minutes Hawaiian   
Shirt had reduced Fury to a massive-mammaried   
thighbooted marionette, slumped against him with her   
strings cut, to be pounded at will.  So he switched   
from battering her heaving belly to smashing her   
cowled head onto his knee.  Took her scarlet ponytail   
in   
both hands and yanked her face down to meet it with   
his rocketing patella-the sharp impact jerked her up   
again and spattered blood and screams all over.  Her   
elegant lips were a beslobbered crimson pulp.  The   
best those shoulder-gloved super-arms of hers could do   
was reach up to pry his hands loose from her   
topknot, but had to give that up to shield her battered   
masked face-which didn't work either.  Finally they   
could only dangle beneath her as bloody down-  
slamming face met upkicking kneecap again and   
again.  
     Every so often for old times' sake the Shirt would   
take the helpless leather-limbed heroine by her   
gigantic joggling tits and pull her forward to bury his   
bloodstained knee in the Savage Sensation's belly,   
spraying more groans and spit-diluted hemoglobin   
from her ragged mouth.  Before my eyes and quicker   
than it takes to tell, the fabulous Fury had been reduced   
to a gorgeous groaning ponderous-pontooned   
punching bag.  
     Et moi?  Frantically wondering how I could help   
(and how this creep could be so powerful), it took me   
a moment to realize my dance partner was missing   
from his corner.  This flash hit me as I lifted the   
computer monitor to launch both of us at the smiling   
Shirt.  Smiling because he held the grunting   
spectacularly squirming Fury by a massive doughy   
milkbag while he groped her scarlet-bushed pussy.    
Looked like he was trying to stuff all five fingers inside   
those swollen wet labia.  
     When I realized the Wimp was behind me, I was   
holding that goddam monitor overhead (a 21" NEC,   
no less).  I started to turn, but his foot smashed up into   
my snatch first.  
     I'll bet he was a field goal specialist in college.  
     There's nothing like having one's tenderest parts   
kicked up into one's womb to take the starch right out   
of one.  I dropped the monitor.  My gauntleted hands   
suddenly had to take an urgent meeting at my   
ruptured mounded crotch.  The pig-squeal was barely   
out of my sagging luscious mouth and my boot-  
sheathed legs had just begun to buckle,  
     when he did it again, this time with his knee.    
There was a squishy pudendal impact and my big ass   
flew up.  Three more points for his side.  
     The squeal went ultrasonic and my tongue made   
like a diving board.  Bulging eyes tried to burst from   
their mask slits and every circuit south of my hourglass   
equator shorted out in a flash of utter twat-agony.    
I folded like my own strings had been snapped, leather-  
sheathed knees knocking my chair away.  The   
Wimp took my head by a fistful of tangled ebon   
luxuriance and bashed it down on my desk.  I screamed   
and the wide center drawer popped open like a jackpot.    
He jerked me up and I heard a frantic voice a lot   
like mine cry, "NononooGoddUNHH!!" as he head-  
banged me again.  
     My gigantic naked jiggle whoppers avalanched   
vastly into the open drawer.  Which he then kicked   
shut on the stunned Silk Stalker's poor mammoth   
blubber-babies, crushing Marilyn and Jayne and   
wrenching another shrill squeal out of their suffering   
outrageously overblown owner.  Which rose to an   
outright shriek when he jammed the drawer shut with   
his knee and yanked me up again by my hair,   
strrrettchhing my envised elephantine udders way out   
into ponderous pink teardrops of shimmying agony.  
     As I did my best fire siren imitation to the ceiling, I   
wondered what it would be like to have tits that   
drooped to my knees.  How could I keep from kicking   
them about when I walked? Would I give   
milkshakes when I lactated?  Maybe I could carry them   
slung over my shoulders like stupendous sausages.  
     He had me standing almost straight, howling like a   
banshee, before my sweat-slick mashed and   
mangled milkmountains popped free of the drawer and   
it banged shut.  And all I could do was clutch my   
agonized chest-blimps in my gauntleted hands as he   
spun me to stare, wide-eyed and helpless, down at   
him.  Just for an instant, before he jerked me down so   
he could head-butt me, then blasted my jaw with   
what felt like a right-cross stick of dynamite, sending   
me reeling back  
     right into wailing Savage Fury, who the Shirt had   
been spinning around and around by her massive   
jugs, then released to pile into me.  We both went   
down in a tangle of leather-sheathed limbs and   
gigantic   
joggling tits.  Face buried ears-deep in one of Fury's   
pillowy mammary monuments, but couldn't do   
anything about it.  
     Because the Wimp pulled me off Fury by my hair   
(as usual) and I reacted as expected: wailing and   
flapping my gauntleted arms about.  
     "What the fuck does it take to finish you off, Tits?"   
he demanded.  
     "M-more than you've g-got, asshole."  It didn't   
come out nearly as bold and defiant as I intended.  
     My arms felt like rubber bands wearing heavy steel   
gloves, but I did what I could: wrenched about   
pulling loose a fistful of expensively-salon'd raven   
tresses and swung at him.  Missed pathetically (my   
masked eyes had been under water since the two cunt-  
kicks) and was rewarded with a bludgeoning double   
blast to my throbbing heaving double dirigibles.  Felt   
like he was trying to hammer my big hard nipples   
back through my ribs.  
     Normally, Marilyn and Jayne can take a fair   
amount of punishment (and often have to).  But not   
after   
that drawer.  Blasting a lungful of air and pink spittle   
all over him, I bounced back off my desk and   
crumpled to all fours.  Wracked with dry heaves, it   
took all my strength just to stay on big-gloved hands   
and thighbooted knees.  After kicking me in the belly   
once to drop my bloody nose to the carpet and turn   
me into a hound dog sniffing out quarry, The Wimp   
seemed content to leave me like that with my big ass   
up and titanic naked tits spreading humongously   
beneath me.  So I had a front row seat to the brutal and   
thorough stomping of the sumptuously sprawled   
Savage Fury.  
     It was like watching some murderous wind-up toy-  
every time she levered herself up on her shoulder-  
sheathed arms, the Hawaiian Shirt kicked her masked   
face down again, so hard her leathern skull banged   
the floor.  But the Cowled Crusader kept trying (like I   
said about not being too bright), only to get booted   
flat on her back again.  Up and down, up and down,   
till, petulantly, he stamped his foot ankle-deep into   
her bulging belly.  Blood and spit and a wracking   
breathy grunt geysered from her smashed lips like a   
beached and beaten whale.  And that was the game.  
     For her, anyway.  He was still getting his kicks   
(sorry, couldn't resist it) and proceeded to boot her   
cowled head about like he was trying to punt it off her   
broad bare shoulders.  
     By the time he'd finished her off to his sadistic   
satisfaction, Fury's luscious mouth was a ragged gory   
smear.  He pressed his tennis shoe onto her bruised   
face, and a tongue slipped out to meekly lap at its sole.    
Her eyes, swollen tearful slits in their mask, gazed   
numbly up at him over his shoe as he stood over her   
and she humbled her magnificent self and licked that   
filthy Nike, and licked some more.  
     What the fuck did these bastards want??  Maybe an   
obvious and self-answered question considering   
that The Shirt was now wrestling his big dick out of   
his pants, but somehow I didn't think that was it.    
Unless they just got off on beating up beautiful   
monster-titted Amazons.  
     Lord knows, there are plenty of those around.  
     Then, of course, it was Rape Time-again.  Slumped   
there masked face to the floor and big bare butt in   
the air, I couldn't do a fucking thing about it, except   
get fucked-again.  Mini-trenchcoat was flipped up   
behind me.  Hard hands gripped and spread opulent   
netherglobes apart till I yelped.  
     "Asshole, hey?" the Wimp muttered.  Me and my   
big cock-suckin' mouth.  
     "Hey, what're you-" I cried indignantly.  "No no you   
bastard, not up the ass-noooOOGGKKK-!!"  
     Like I expected him to beg my pardon and go in the   
regular way, right?  
     His salami of a dick felt twice as big slamming up   
my anus as it had filling twat.  He reamed me good,   
too-it was going to be quite awhile before I sat down   
without wincing.  I hunkered there on my booted   
knees, the tile floor cool against cheek and enormous   
spreading milkpails, and tried to clench my teeth   
tight enough to dam back a scream while he plowed   
and bored out my coal chute till we both squeaked.  
     "C'mon, bitch," he gritted, "Take it all where the   
sun don't shine!"  
     What the hell did he think I was doing??  
     Though it does shine there more than I like.  I could   
feel his balls slap against my sopping snatch.  
     Funny-beaten and butt-fucked and bawling   
miserably, what I hated most was the way my bursting   
sweaty buttocks shimmied and rippled as his hips   
smacked into them.  I keep meaning to do those   
damned   
aerobics.  
     The Shirt was boning Savage Fury the old   
fashioned way, I suppose because she'd earned it.  After   
stretching her shoulder-sheathed arms out over her   
head and tying her gloved hands to my desk's legs, the   
creep lifted her hipbooted legs into the air so they   
waved about like insect antennae.  He knelt between   
them and plunged himself into her, a cock not as big as   
the Wimp's (just my luck, I always get the hung   
ones!) but more active.  
     His fingers yanked her colossal soft tits free of their   
straps and squeezed them in rhythm with his hard   
chugging, till she groaned and yipped with each   
squishy impalement and squealed with each   
milkmountain crush.  Pumping and squeezing away,   
he seemed to be playing a near naked awesomely-  
voluptuous musical instrument.  Fury had the same   
self-control problem I have-she writhed under him   
against her wrist bonds and tossed her cowled head   
about and arched her back.  The spirit hated it, the   
flesh loved it.  
     Goddam flesh.  
     Buttfucked as I had not been in some time, I sang   
my own accompaniment to her tune: "unh-unh-  
ughh-ohh-ohff!" and wondered in a small distant part   
of my brain how long this would continue.  Didn't   
this bastard ever cum?  The way the Wimp was driving   
it between my lavish asscheeks, I half expected his   
plum-sized knob to push into my mouth.  From the   
wrong end.  
     Not even a reluctant orgasm this time for the Silk   
Stalker.  Just raw buggering pain.  Still swollen and   
juiced from the first time, I tried to get off by reaching   
back between my gartered thighs to flail at my clit.    
But as he pounded himself between my big jiggling   
buns, the Wimp took my gloved fingers and twisted   
them till I screamed, then gave my dripping bloated   
snatch a volley of stinging slaps.  I let out a hopeless   
wail and slumped wretchedly on my highbooted knees   
and let him have me.  Any way he wanted.  
     I went Floating then.  It happens occasionally when   
I've been beaten, tied up and tortured and boffed   
too oft.  I just sort of rise up from my ravaged groaning   
body and hover above it, gazing down at my self.    
The first time had been when Monk's gang blew my   
cover as a hooker.  They bound me spreadeagled   
across a filthy mattress (initially) and gang-banged me   
for a solid week.  Pumped enough of their cum into   
my mouth and pussy and asshole to float a yacht.  I   
thought I'd never fuck or suck again.  
     About the fourth or fifth day, when three of them   
were doing me at once, trying their best to bump   
cock-heads inside me, and my gauntleted hand was   
stroking off a fourth, I felt a curious light sensation, a   
vertigo-like dizziness.  And suddenly there I was,   
watching this bound bedraggled blimp-busted beauty   
get   
the stuffings screwed out of her.  Silken tatters of   
lingerie clung to her, she was bloody and bruised and   
cum-splashed (had she been bathing in the stuff?) but   
still darn good-lookin'.  It took me a moment to   
recognize myself, since I'd never seen me from that   
angle before; another moment to realize the angle was   
from up near the ceiling.  
     And there I Floated now, watching that same   
grunting sweating huge-hootered honey get royally   
cornholed on her thighbooted knees with her suffering   
domino'd face pressed to her tight-knotted gloved   
fists.  I noted with some disapproval that those hands   
weren't even tied-she obviously hadn't put up much   
of a struggle.  The copious tears streaming down her   
cheeks from under her mask couldn't fool me.  
     Yelping and bleating across the room, Savage Fury   
had her hipbooted legs wrapped around the Shirt's   
pumping butt as he power-pronged her.  Masked eyes   
tightly shut, plush mouth ragged, sweating and   
arching her back and so Into It she was pulling the   
desk inch by inch across the floor by her bound   
leathern hands.  
     Stupid useless bimbos, I decided.  The both of them.    
Ruled by their tits and twats.  Not worth-  
     Then I was yanked back into one bimbo's body, as   
the Wimp yanked his crank out of my raw sundered   
asshole without the expected (and by now prayed for)   
sperm enema.  Unable (all right, too miserable and   
ashamed) to raise my head from my fists, I only heard   
him get to his feet.  But I could feel anal blood   
trickle from plundered buttcheeks into stockings and   
boots.  
     His feet walked past me.  "Jesus fucking Christ!"  I   
managed to yell into my leatherclad fists.  "You   
could at least finish me off once, you sonuvabullggh!!"  
     The cartoon sound effect from the crouching   
masked Amazon was caused by her former ass-rapist   
grinding his foot into one of the monumental   
milkblimps ballooning out from her side, flattening it   
against the floor.  She hunkered there, face twisted   
comically, clutching the naked wounded watermelon   
with both gauntleted hands, till a hand jerked her head   
up by her hair, to stare numbly at the Hawaiian   
Shirt dropping to his knees before her.  
     "Remind me to get a crewcut next time-"  
     The words were barely out of my mouth when he   
rammed them back down my throat with his dick.  I   
gagged, tasted Savage Fury's love syrup, but by then   
that was no comfort at all.  
     A line from the Duke ran through my raddled   
brain: "How long has this been going on?"  
     As I hopelessly sucked and choked on his face-  
fucking tubesteak, I got brief glimpses of my   
spectacular   
leatherclad partner-in-pain.  The Wimp sat astraddle   
her neck with his hairy pale butt cushioned against   
her titanic sloshing tits.  One hand held Fury's cowled   
head up by her scarlet ponytail so the other could   
feed his veined powerpole between those elegant   
pulped lips.  She was smearing as much blood as   
lipstick   
on his great organ.  
     While that Monumental Mammazon mouthed his   
mighty manshaft and licked his scrotum and then,   
with a weary sour grimace, took it into her mouth to   
the balls, she watched me with masked eyes that   
brimmed tears and misery.  I couldn't tell if she was   
looking for encouragement or support or maybe just   
company (as in what "_____" loves).  On my hands   
and knees with my hair clenched in the kneeling   
Shirt's fists, drooling mouth also crammed full of   
fervidly pumping dick, I must have looked real   
inspirational.  
     Wretchedly, we both sucked and sucked those   
throat-plumbing boners.  For too long, the only sounds   
in my office were moist slurpings and cock-muffled   
moans and gasps and the occasional spirited "that's   
right, bitch!" and "oh yeah!" and the ever-popular   
"take him all the way!"  
     Finally we choked at the same time, and gulped,   
and drank.  I managed to get most of the Shirt's cum   
down.  My stomach, already full of Mike's sperm,   
turned over like an old truck engine.  
     I was so whipped he didn't even bother to tie me up.    
When he pulled his limp dick out of my mouth, I   
collapsed like it was the only thing holding me up.    
Might have been, too.  
     Fury lay still on her back as the Wimp got up off   
her.  Her outstretched leather-sheathed arms were   
limp in their bonds.  She might have been dead except   
for the slow massive rise and fall of those   
stupefying boobs of hers and the bubbles blown by her   
slack cum-drooling mouth.  He saw the Shirt wipe   
his spent weapon off with my tangled sweat-matted   
tresses, so he used Fury's flaming ponytail.  
     Classy to the end.  
     Numbly, still on my knees, I watched them pull up   
their pants and zippers and buckle their belts.    
Neither spoke.  There was much I wanted to do with   
the equipment they were putting away.  Not just   
make them sopranos-my needs went so far beyond that,   
that sopranohood would seem like a reward.  
     I guess the Wimp didn't like something he saw in   
my masked eyes-I wasn't aware of anything there but   
tears and dull hatred-because he came over and gazed   
down at me staring up at him.  Another towering   
figure against the light.  
     He sneered and cranked his foot back.  I didn't take   
my gaze from his.  But I knew how Joe Montana   
felt in the pocket, waiting for a receiver to get clear,   
with 800 pounds of beef charging straight at him.  
     The kick took me under the chin, snapped my head   
back and lit my personal sky with new stars.  I   
wouldn't have been so brave if I'd known his shoes   
were steel-toed.  I rolled over and over humpty-bumpty   
on my immense naked tits to fetch up against the wall.    
Bonging clanging head lay on outflung leather-  
sleeved arm, cum-smeared thighbooted legs akimbo   
showing them my vertical yawn.  A piece of broken   
glass dug into big bare buttcheek.  
     Blood mixed with the Shirt's semen in my mouth   
and shadows swarmed up from where they'd been   
waiting for some time.  The kick had skewed my mask,   
but I kept my blurry eyes on both creeps till they   
walked out.  The Wimp gave me a last uneasy glance   
before closing the door.  Then, and only then, I let   
the shadows take me.  
     Pass complete.  
     -2-  
     My legs felt eight feet long, cleverly constructed of   
match sticks and library paste.  But they supported   
me, as long as I held onto the desk.  I leaned back   
against it with a wince, the edge cool against the big   
reamed asscheeks under my mini-coat.  At least they   
hadn't spanked or whipped me-I hate being spanked   
and whipped.  
     Stop that.  
     It was a toss-up as to which were a worse mess-the   
office or its occupants.  Every picture had fallen   
from the wall, paper and folders were scattered   
everywhere, a chair smashed (when had that   
happened?),   
blood and cum spattered about.  There'd definitely been   
a fight here.  Well, almost a fight.  Half the   
combatants hadn't really joined in.  
     The other half of that half was bestirring herself   
now, cowled head rolling slowly from side to side as   
her eyes fluttered and focused.  I imagine they were no   
more impressed with my ceiling that I'd been.  My   
legs felt a bit less like putty and rubber poured into   
thighhigh boots, so I launched myself away from the   
desk and tottered like someone's grandmother over to   
her.  
     And she practically did a kip to her feet!  I wouldn't   
have been more surprised if a Patriot missile had   
zoomed up in my face from her pussy (which I couldn't   
help but notice was gapingly slack and pink and   
tempting).  I lost my balance and staggered back, and   
she steadied me.  With a grip which left no doubt   
that if she wanted to loft me over the building (or the   
building over me), it would be no sweat.  The sinews   
under that gleaming black leather armglove might   
have been cast in steel.  But the fingers were gentle.  
     I stared at her mask-to-cowl as I braced myself.    
Though rather larger than Yrs. Truly in some ways-  
monumental jiggling boobs and general bulging heft-  
she exactly equaled my own 5'10"-6'4" in boot heels.    
All I could think of to say was "What the fuck?"  
     Then suddenly I was laughing, God only knows at   
what.  It all hurt like hell, but I couldn't stop.  I   
have a full throaty laugh that tends to be infectious, but   
Savage Fury stared at me like I was nuts, which at   
that point was a possibility.  Her cowled eyes watched   
Marilyn & Jayne joggle about, gigantically naked,   
from my flapping trenchcoat, and she licked her lips   
(which were no longer bruised much less swollen,   
while mine felt like inner tubes).  
     I liked that, and leaned against her for support   
when I didn't really have to.  Clutching her broad bare   
shoulder was like holding onto a marble statue, except   
that she was soft and yielding.  I think it would've   
taken a falling building to bend those boot-sheathed   
knees.  So why had she been such a helpless sitting   
duck for the Shirt?  
     That was when Fury's head jerked around as though   
she'd heard something.  I managed to stifle my   
laughter, and finally heard the pounding too:  faint,   
muffled and coming through the wall from the   
reception area.  We walked to the door.  I liked the way   
those enormous freckled watermelons of hers   
swayed and shook (I've always been a sucker for   
freckles).  She hadn't bothered to restrap them, and   
there   
was no rush as far as I was concerned.  
     We found Gayle bound and gagged in the coat   
closet.  These guys knew their rope work well, which   
gave me immediate suspicions.  They'd stripped her to   
her underthings (where I lean towards silk, hence   
my nom du guerre, she goes for a studded heavy-metal   
look, with lots of snaps and buckles-our lingerie   
buying expeditions are legendary) then tied her hands   
to her knees and hung her by that knot from the   
coat rack like a gorgeous side of voluptuous blonde   
beef.  Crammed that luscious young mouth "which full   
oft I have kissed" (and sometimes gagged myself, in   
our more playful rollin's and a-tumblin's) with   
Kleenex till her cheeks bulged.  Underestimating her,   
of course, as do many to their cost.  She'd managed   
after much struggling to hitch down the rod to one end,   
then swing back and forth banging her sweet ass   
against the wall.  
     Wasn't the first time her ass had been banged in   
that closet.  
     She looked distinctly less than pleased with herself,   
though, when Fury lifted her off the rod like a   
forlorn kitten and tore the ropes from her hands and   
knees.  The verbal torrent she spat out after the wad   
of soggy Kleenex doesn't bear recording.  Then she   
burst into tears and threw herself on me for a big hug.    
Somewhat embarrassed in front of Fury, I held her and   
stroked her blonde head and made soft   
commiserating sounds.  The Cowled Crusader smiled   
but looked a bit uncomfortable.  
     The golden top of Gayle's head came about to my   
collarbone, her face cushioned in one of my   
pneumatic naked jello-pumpkins (not by accident).    
Her sobs made all that pillowy milkfat shimmy.    
Those pouty lips of hers were just at my hardening   
nipple, and I was afraid she'd start to suckle at it.    
Under other, more private, circumstances I might have   
already put it in her mouth.  Holding her was   
making me feel a bit randy even through all my aches   
and bruises-and I never had gotten off during that   
whole wretched farce of a rape (my pussy lips felt like   
they dangled to my knees).  
     But not with Fury standing there, her own   
monumental megamelons hanging out.  Unstrapped,   
they   
sagged below her navel, obviously all natural though   
without stretch marks.  There seemed to be too much   
billowing titflesh in that room, Gayle's bodacious pair   
the only ones covered-and barely that.  
     Here I suppose I should formally introduce my teen   
temptress of a secretary, lover and occasional   
coworker.  She signs her name "Gayle 4444" (get it?    
Gayle 4's?).  A freshman at UCLA and outwardly   
the epitome of the giggly jiggly beach blanket bimbo.    
An exact foot shorter than Y.T., 4'10" (5'3" in her   
heels), which makes her boobs, almost as big as mine,   
look even bigger on her diminutive hourglass   
frame.  And a real hardbody, works out like a fiend   
with weights and aerobics, which so far hasn't melted   
away any of her mammoth mammaries.  She swears if   
that starts to happen, she'll cut back.  I'm going to   
hold her to it, you can bet.  
     Holding her as she wept, feeling her warm breath   
on my enormous bare breast, the crisp clean smell   
and silken brush of her hair, made it tough to keep my   
gauntleted hand away from that tight compact ass   
of hers.  I was all too aware of the panties wedgied up   
between its lithe muscular cheeks till they almost   
disappeared.  And the way her huge quaking boobs   
spilled over her studded leather hemi-semi-demi-bra   
and spread against my elephantine endowments ....  
     As much for my benefit as hers, I took her   
shoulders and gave her a slight shake.  I should explain   
that   
her tears weren't caused by humiliation or misery or   
anything like that-she was crying from anger and   
frustration at not being able to clean those creeps'   
clocks.  And another emotion that was quite prevalent   
in the room: embarrassment at being taken so easily.  
     "Where'd you put 'em?" she demanded fiercely,   
sniffling.  "I hope you didn't kill 'em, I want a shot at   
the one in the loud shirt!"  
     Fury looked at me.  I transferred that look down to   
Gayle.  
     "Well, darling, it's like this ...."  
       
     "You let them get away??" she repeated, a bit less   
forcefully this time.  Disappointment was replacing   
outrage, disappointment in me.  I'd rather have the   
outrage.  
     I was looking for my bra and G-string, to avoid the   
disillusion in those big china-blue eyes as much as   
anything else.  The G-string could be missed in a   
handful of leaves, but the bra, black and lacy and big   
enough to hold a pair of soccer balls, was damn near   
impossible to hide.  
     "Maybe one of 'em took it with him?" Fury   
suggested.  When she wasn't addressing scumbags, her   
voice was soft, with a wisp of Southern drawl that   
sounded Georgian.  "As a souvenir?"  
     She finished snapping the straps over her own   
gigantic shimmying jugs.  Not that they hid much of   
her   
overblown monster-melons, even their big brown   
nipples, but they did wonders for lift and separation.    
She straightened the cloak on her broad bare shoulders.    
By now there wasn't a bruise or swelling left on   
her monumental leatherclad body.  I couldn't hide my   
envy.  
     "Benefits of bein' super," she said drily.  "Usually."  
     Finally I gave up the bra search, and just snapped   
the trenchcoat closed over my own naked mega-  
knockers.  As closed as it could be at least, which still   
left a lot of glossy swelling cleavage, massively a-  
quiver, to crowd up between the taut lapels.  Gave me a   
double prow like a catamaran.  For some reason   
the thought of those creeps sniffing my underwear   
made me queasy, even though their hard dicks had   
fucked my mouth, my pussy and my ass.  
     "I kinda like that better anyway," Fury said, eying   
my considerable shimmying cleavage as I moved to   
my desk.  There was a glint in her masked eyes though   
the rest of her beautiful pale face was sober.  I   
made a note to look into that gleam further.  As soon   
as some things got straightened out.  
       
     "Like what?" the Cowled Crusader said.  She sat   
across from me in a client's chair, cloak spread   
beneath her, legs in their black hip-high boots crossed   
demurely so her meaty thighs hid her half naked   
snatch.  I could just glimpse a few stray crimson pubic   
curls.  Her domino'd eyes were as wide and faux   
innocent as Gayle's.  That blonde bombshell, back in   
her office clothes, was pouring us tea.  My office was   
more or less in order again-at its best it isn't too neat-  
and we were relaxing, me leaning back in my chair   
with my long thighbooted gams up on the desk.  
     "Like you and the Shirt," I said, distracting myself   
from Fury's peekaboo pussy with my sexpot   
secretary's trim sweet ass and muscular thighs rolling   
in a tight leather mini.  "I felt his strength when he   
was making me suck his dick"-Gayle stiffened at the   
hot plate, she hates me discussing things like that-  
"and it wasn't super.  But he-"  
     "-Had no trouble handling me," Savage Fury   
finished uncomfortably.  "I know."  
     I squirmed a bit in my chair, uncomfortable as well.    
I'd applied some special anesthetic cream to my   
raw reamed-out anus and it was finally starting to   
work.  Gayle wanted to help but I knew where that   
would lead: she'd want to apply it with her tongue (it   
was cherry flavored and lo-cal).  Stark naked under   
my mini-coat except for stockings and garters, I was   
also aware of the view Fury had of my pussy up   
between my crossed thighbooted legs.  Her eyes in their   
mask would flick to it, then away again.  As   
though she liked what she saw, but didn't want to like   
it.  
     "So, what's the deal, Neal?  Did he hit you with   
some kind of supergas?  A ray?  Kryptonite?"  
     Ever so casually, I stretched and uncrossed my boot-  
sheathed legs to give her a better look.  My   
swollen abused and unsatisfied labia were still open   
and slack.  The way she sat, half-hiding what was   
obviously a magnificent muff with a thick crimson   
bush, irritated me.  If she was that prim, why wear a   
costume that let most of her pubic foliage hang out?  I   
mean, we'd been raped and forced to suck dick   
together, for God's sake!  If that didn't make us   
intimates ....  
     Fury studied me for a moment, then sighed heavily.    
Maybe "massively" would be better, from what it   
did to those immense 90%-naked knockers of hers.    
She pushed herself up and went into the other office.    
Her spike heels rapped funereally as though marching   
to an execution.  We'd given it a cursory once-over:   
except for some water on the floor and cracked plaster   
there wasn't much damage.  
     She came back a moment later with a plastic   
contraption of tanks and a hose with a gun-type nozzle.    
Looked like a pesticide sprayer for kids.  
     Gayle recognized it immediately.  "A Mega   
Squirter!"  
     "A Mega Squirter 2000," Fury corrected her.  To   
me, masked eyes downcast: "I, well, I hid it under the   
bed before you came in."  
     I sat and waited.  The tall awesomely-voluptuous   
leather limbed superbeauty went to the window,   
gazed out.  Folded her shoulder-gloved arms under   
those stupefying boobs of hers.  Their vastly   
overhanging jiggle-hulks all but buried her forearms in   
glossy billowing milkfat.  
     She sighed again.  I liked it when she did that.  
     "It isn't something I want to get around," she finally   
murmured.  "For obvious reasons."  
     "Let me contact my press agent," I said.  I'd already   
guessed, but I wanted to hear it from her.  
     She glanced at me.  "It wasn't a gas, or a ray, or   
Kryptonite he hit me with.  It was water."  
     "Whoa!"  Gayle chimed in.  "You mean you lose   
your strength when you get wet??"  
     Savage Fury nodded glumly.  "All my powers.  Fogs   
can be nasty, rain is disaster."  
     "Not to mention Mega Squirter 2000s," I said.  
     "He had it strapped to his back when I charged in.    
Gave me a good hosing, then waded in and beat the   
shit out of me.  That rotten little creep."  She sagged   
miserably.  And boy, when she sagged, she sagged.  
     I swung my spikeheeled feet off the desk and got   
up.  Put a gauntleted arm around her smooth bare   
shoulder.  The muscle under the warm flesh was firm   
and I felt her tense, just for a moment, before she   
leaned against me.  As Gayle had said, "Whoa!"  
     "Kind of a stupid weakness, huh?"  
     I tilted her masked face up to mine with a gloved   
finger under her chin.  Her opulent lips were wet and   
trembled.  I leaned over and kissed them, gently.  They   
were soft and warm and hesitant.  
     "Well, I guess you better stay away from Seattle."  
     She smiled, not tense at all.  There was a moment   
of genuine touchy-feely warmth.  I thought she was   
going to kiss me back, and then we'd have to decide   
what to do about Gayle, either send her home crying   
or invite her in, but-  
     "Omigosh!"  Fury suddenly cried.  "Justice!"  
     "It's what we aim for," I agreed.  
     "No, you don't understand," the cowled armgloved   
Amazon insisted, pulling away from me.  "She's   
why I'm here!"  
     Gayle, shuffling through some papers, gave me a   
look.  I shrugged.  
     "I think she's in trouble!"  
     I had an image of a statue wearing a blindfold and   
carrying scales, being booked and printed.  "Well,   
she gets abused a lot, I suppose.  Don't we all?"  
     Fury looked at me.  
     Gayle and I said it together: "What in hell are you   
talking about?"  
     "Justice Juggs, of course!" Fury said.  
     I should've known boobs would be involved   
somewhere.  
     --3--  
     "You're sure this is the place?"  
     "Positive.  She told me to meet her here at 3."  
     Savage Fury watched the big beautiful leatherclad   
detective look around.  The emerald eyes behind that   
mask weren't super, but they missed nothing.  And   
(unlike that outrageously overstuffed red trenchcoat of   
hers) hid everything, except skepticism.  But Justice   
had said to go to her, so ....  
     "Doesn't look like she's around."  
     "I don't need a private eye to tell me that."  Worry   
edged Fury's voice a bit.  
     Silk Stalker glanced at her but said nothing.  
     The loft was large and empty, over a closed factory.    
High windows near the ceiling sent down thick   
slanting church-like shafts of light.  One of them   
gleamed off Silk Stalker's wide-brimmed hat, another   
highlighted the deep valley of d,colletage between her   
enormous tits, bulging out pinkly between the   
straining lapels of her coat.  Fury wished she'd put on a   
bra, so those mighty mammaries didn't jiggle and   
slosh so outrageously.  At least they'd found Stalker's   
G-string-which the blonde bombshell had skinned   
up her boot-sheathed legs right in front of Fury-but   
even that allowed too much of her curly ebon bush to   
spill over the top.  A fact teasingly revealed by the   
coat's hem, which barely made it over that outsized ass   
and those sumptuous flaring hips of hers.  
     You're a fine one to talk, the way you strut around   
with your own watermelons and half your pussy   
hanging out!  
     Stalker knelt down, her thighboots creaking in the   
silence, and examined something.  Ran a gauntleted   
finger along a floorboard.  Fury used her super-eyes but   
saw nothing unusual even at micro-range.  
     Of course, her problem with the amount of the   
Amazonian detective's magnificent body on display   
wasn't a prudish one.  She wished it was.  No, her   
dilemma was that she couldn't keep her eyes off all that   
swaying heaving pulchritude.  Her hands in their   
armlength gloves had a bad case of sweaty palms and   
the wanna-grab-onto-all-thats.  It was a problem she   
also had with Justice Juggs, who was every bit as   
awesomely voluptuous and spectacularly scantclad.  
     Here we go again.  
     You shouldn't have let her kiss you.  It's always   
worse when they're attracted to you too.  
     But her lips tasted soo good.  
     Remember what happened that time with Justice,   
when you two were beat up and bound by those Exo-  
Men.  After you dried off and broke your ropes and   
hers, you thought it would be a good idea to lick the   
blood from her mouth, instead of using a tissue.  You   
couldn't even look her in the face when you finally   
put your costume back on.  
     She didn't mind.  She enjoyed it.  Heck, so did I.  
     It was the part of her Gift she was least comfortable   
with, this desire for other women as well as men.    
She'd been Straight as they came, before.  But now ....  
     Now you can't get the image of Silk Stalker's pussy   
out of your mind, the way that teasin' bitch opened   
those long thighbooted legs of hers to give you a better   
view.  The way her twatlips were parted and pink   
and wet.  It was all you could do to keep from lickin'   
your lips, much less hers.  
     But when she stopped thinking about Stalker, she   
started thinking about those two men, and their   
punishing fists, and their plunging ravaging dicks.    
Better to think about Stalker.  
     Better to think about the business at hand, because   
she could feel her pussy lips softening and   
blossoming, and with her costume that was impossible   
to hide.  
     "Something happened here, and not too long ago,"   
the raven-maned masked Amazon was saying.  
     "I don't see anything," Savage Fury said.  "And I've   
got real good eyes."  
     "That's just it.  There isn't anything to see.  Not   
even dust."  
     Then Fury got it.  "Which means the place was   
cleaned up."  
     Silk Stalker nodded.  "And recently, or there'd be   
more dust."  
     "But why would anyone bother?"  
     Nodding as though this confirmed a suspicion, Silk   
traced a faint dark smear with a gloved finger.    
The way she knelt, on one thighbooted knee, Fury   
could easily peer up under her mini-trenchcoat at the   
dark curls foaming up out of her overloaded G-string.    
She decided not to.  
     "What's this?"  The tall massively top-heavy   
detective asked.  
     Fury concentrated on it.  "A track of some kind.    
Goes this way."  
     Fury traced the faint trail to a door in a corner and   
Stalker followed her.  The Cowled Crusader felt   
masked eyes on her great naked asscheeks.  Or was it   
just her imagination?  
     Stalker tried the knob.  "Locked."  
     Fury gave the knob a twist.  It made a loud snap.    
"Unlocked."  
     She opened the door to a small supply closet, empty   
except for a TV-VCR combo on a cart.  A   
videocassette poked out of the slot.  The two masked   
Amazons looked at one another.  
     --4--  
     OVER BLACKNESS:  
     GUTTERAL MALE VOICE  
     I just glommed this video cam, Silk.  So, like, I   
thought I'd break it in with your good buddy Justice   
Juggs.  Gotta admit it, gorgeous, she reeeally lives up   
to her monicker du guerre.  
       
     FADE IN:  
     INT. LOFT - DAY.  
     Empty and filthy.  
     The door opens and JUSTICE JUGGS enters   
cautiously, a big gleaming six-shooter in each fringe-  
gauntleted hand.  
     CAMERA ZOOMS IN for a shaky CLOSE-UP of   
JUSTICE's mammoth near-naked boobs, twin   
swaying and jiggling watermelons awesomely outthrust   
over and around their straining fringed vest, the   
chain rigid between the two halves of the vest.  Her   
teats punch through the centers of white stars like   
pointing fingers.  
     CAMERA PANS DOWN JUSTICE's extravagantly   
overblown body: her hourglass waist, blue leather   
microskirt taut over sumptuous swelling hips,   
PAUSING at the gleam of blonde pubic bush visible   
just   
below the hem, a few golden curls at the juncture of   
her muscular boot-sheathed thighs.  
     As she turns warily, CAMERA HOLDS on the   
colossal-chested masked cowgirl's awesome ass jam-  
packed into the tiny skirt, lavish cheeks bulging out   
under the hem and stretching the leather sheer as   
glass.  
     MALE VOICE  
     (softly)  
     Now, what JUSTICE JUGGS doesn't dig on is that   
she's, like, really on Candid Camera!  
     Sixguns raised, JUSTICE takes a couple of steps   
into the room.  Her spike heels rap loudly.  Star-  
masked eyes roam about.  
     Suddenly the floor opens up beneath her feet, and   
the masked cowgirl-Mammazon drops out of sight   
with a startled yelp.  From below comes a shrill drawn-  
out squeal that is much more than startled.  
     MALE VOICE  
     Bulls-eye, baby!!  
     And after a moment, JUSTICE reappears, rising   
slowly and struggling, eyes bulging from their mask   
in agony.  She howls and thrashes madly about,   
monstrous vested mega-mammaries heaving and   
joggling, and appears to be dancing in mid-air as she   
ascends.  After a moment we see why:  
     She is deeply impaled up her cunt on a thick pole,   
long thighbooted legs kicking wildly on both sides   
of the blood-stained shaft as it lifts her into full view.  
     Wailing in pain, the colossal titted ultra-cowgirl   
tries to bend over to grasp the pole, but just that   
motion hurts too much, and she straightens again.  
     Then a heavy bowling ball on a chain swings down   
and smashes into her pumping belly, doubling the   
pussy-skewered superstacked bombshell over with a   
grunt.  
     Another one swings down behind her slamming   
into her lower back jerking her straight with a scream,   
and two more together swoop down from both sides to   
smash into her ears, knocking her cowgirl hat back   
on her head.  
     Stunned, JUSTICE slumps on her twat-impaling   
pole, but is too deeply spiked to fall off.  
     MALE VOICE (OVER)  
     She looked so, like, uncomfortable we thought it'd   
be a drag to leave her like that, so--  
     TWO MEN, JOE SCHMUCK THE MIDGET and   
NUTSY FAGIN, the first tall and cadaverously lean   
and far from a midget and the other no more than 4   
feet tall, appear from OFF CAMERA.  They approach   
the snatch-spiked sagging JUSTICE JUGGS with   
caution at first, then more boldly when they see she's in   
no shape to do them any damage.  
     Behind her, NUTSY FAGIN jerks her gauntleted   
arms together and ties them at elbows and wrists.    
JUSTICE moans dimly and squirms, her lavish   
buttocks clenching under the rucked-up microskirt.  
     Quickly, JOE SCHMUCK reaches up and brings   
down two large fishing hooks suspended from the   
ceiling by wire.  He tears open her outrageously-  
overloaded vest and briefly kneads the stupendous soft   
tits   
formerly enclosed therein.  
     His rough hands work the massive doughy   
dirigibles till their big nipples stiffen and the teats   
extrude.  
     He seems content to continue his monster-  
mammary ministrations but NUTSY FAGIN, jerking   
the   
knots tight behind JUSTICE JUGGS, says something.    
Then he brusquely sticks the hooks through the   
colossal-chested cowgirl's thumb-sized teats.  
     JUSTICE's masked eyes fly wide open and she   
screams as the barbs are pulled up lifting her   
humongous hooked hooters till they obscure her   
gorgeous pain-drawn face.  
     The two henchmen stand back ogling.  The pole   
descends, pulls out of the ponderous-pontooned   
paladin's pussy with a SLURP and leaves her dangling   
by her upstretched teat-skewered watermelons,   
writhing and shrieking in bulge-eyed agony.  
     With a snicker JOE SCHMUCK gives her big bare   
ass a push and she sways gently back and forth,   
howling and squirming, broad back arched, long   
thighbooted legs kicking.  
     Blood drips down her awesomely distended   
blubberbags from the transfixed teats.  
     That was as far as the show got.  Savage Fury,   
living up to her name, took two long thighbooted   
strides   
to the TV and brought and armgloved fist down on it.    
There was an explosion, and the top became one   
with the bottom, scattering parts and shards of glass   
and plastic everywhere.  The look on her face echoed   
her name, and I'm pretty sure my expression reflected   
it.  
     But now was not the time for rage.  "Okay," I said   
as calmly as I could, though my nipples throbbed   
under my leather coat.  "He's got her.  Now we have to   
figure out how to get her back.  And what he really   
wants."  
     "'He'?  You know who this guy is."  Fury stared at   
me.  
     "Oh yes.  Monk and I are old enemies.  Figuratively   
speaking of course."  
     "Monk?"  
     I stood.  "First, let's get out of here.  No telling what   
he might have left behind for us."  
     Me and my big mouth.  The video cassette popped   
out of the VCR's slot and Fury reached for it like it   
was a writhing hissing snake (don't get me started on   
snakes).  "I suppose we'll need this for evidence."  
     Which was the last thing I heard for some time.    
Because that was when a blinding light stabbed my   
masked eyes all the way to the back of my brain, and   
an enormous bang! boxed my ears with the walls and   
then took light and walls and everything away for a   
while.  Not all the way away, because Savage Fury   
had been between the explosion and Yrs. Truly and   
shielded me with that magnificent (if a bit   
overweight) body of hers.  Just far enough away to   
make what was left seem distant and unimportant.  
     To wit: flying and falling, sprawling on the floor,   
gauntleted arms and thighbooted legs stretched out   
like soggy pasta for miles.  Listened to the sea roar in   
my ears and stared up at the far dim ceiling.    
Couldn't remember its being that high.  
     Then a face in my field of vision, cowled and   
beautiful and anxious.  I could tell it was saying   
something because its lips were moving.  And there   
were these gigantic satiny breasts hanging right under   
the masked face.  If I could find my arm I could reach   
out, reach out and touch one.  
     But right then I was more interested in the lips.    
They were soft and moist and full and seemed to be   
asking something urgent. Damned if I could hear what   
it was with all the racket in my head, but I thought   
I could guess.  
     So I reached up and wrapped a floppy-gloved arm   
(there it was!) around the cowled head and pulled   
those tempting lips down.  They were every bit as   
warm and succulent as their promise.  They opened   
right up against mine and my tongue speared between   
them and darned if it didn't meet an avidly   
squirming sister coming the other way!  
     For a moment we just kissed.  My lips slid over the   
ripe juicy cushions of hers and our tongues   
wrestled eagerly.  That could've gone on for a long   
enjoyable time but as usual my appendages had to push   
their luck.  A gauntleted hand came up to cup one of   
Fury's colossal pendant pumpkins and stroke that   
overwhelming jiggle-hulk  
     and suddenly I was hoisted to my spikeheeled feet   
as the cowled bombshell stood, protesting now into   
my still working mouth.  I let her go and staggered   
back a couple of steps till she steadied me with a   
leather-sheathed arm like a steel beam.  A soft steel   
beam.  
     For a moment there was silence between us, dazed   
on my part and embarrassed on Fury's.  Her   
costume had been disarranged-a titanic tit hung free of   
its strap again-but weathered the blast well.  My   
leather trenchcoat had been blown open, giving her   
more chances to try to ignore my enormous swaying   
endowments.  The room too was somewhat the worse   
for wear: it now lacked windows and door but the   
floor had gained a new entry way the size of a   
swimming pool.  
     Sirens yammered in the distance, less so with each   
second.  
     "We should get out of here," Fury said, her voice   
echoing cavernously.  "Can you walk?"  
     I suppose I could have tricked her into carrying me,   
and copped some cheap feels in the process.  The   
way her awesomely voluptuous body overwhelmed   
what little there was of her costume, it would've been   
easy.  But I have pride too.  Well, sometimes.  
     I just nodded and strode to the door.  Where my   
thighbooted legs promptly buckled, so she ended up   
carrying me anyway.  After closing my trenchcoat and   
snapping every damned snap all the way to my   
neck.  She could've lingered at the ones over my   
gigantic jugs, she could've pretended to have the   
problems I do getting those fasteners to come together   
while Marilyn and Jayne struggle mightily to keep   
them apart.  But she didn't.  
     And a funny thing: there were those stupendous   
mostly-naked boobs of hers, shimmying and sloshing   
all over my chastely-buttoned lap like the kind of water   
balloons you'd need a catapult to throw, and I   
didn't touch them.  Was I out of it or what?  
     When we got to the van I was still flaky, so Fury   
drove.  She didn't mention the kiss, in fact she didn't   
say a word.  As much to fill the silence as anything   
else, I started telling her about me and the Monk.  
     Bedtime for Bonzo it wasn't.  
     --5--  
     Justice Juggs awakes with her tits in a wringer.  
     Literally.  
     She hangs from those humongous soft mountains,   
being slowly winched into the air as they are pulled   
and squeezed vastly between two studded rollers.  It's a   
curious thing to see her gigantic breasts bulge   
enormously right at her chin, then mash almost flat in   
the wringer-which can't be more than a couple of   
inches wide-and balloon out again on the other side,   
looking twice as colossal and the color of tomatoes.  
     She can't feel a thing at first, then gradually   
becomes aware that her gauntleted hands are tied   
behind   
her and there's something jammed up her ass.    
Something long and cold and metal.  
      More impressions begin fading in: ankles bound   
together, boot-sheathed knees spread wide apart by a   
rod or something, a fat rubbery mass crammed between   
her teeth.  All she can see is a ceiling many feet   
above her, and her titanic tits rolling inch by inch into   
the wringer and out the other side, hauling her up.  
     Her entire weight depends from those double   
dirigibles, they ought to hurt like hell.  Probably start,   
pretty soon.  So far, just a dull throbbing kind of heat.  
     So far, so bad.  
     Footsteps.  Three men.  They stop right below her.  
     "Justice Juggs," says a guttural, gloating voice,   
oddly muffled.  "How cool a cognomen.  And apt."  
     "Biggest boobs I ever seen."  Another voice, almost   
a squeak.  
     "Nah, Savage Fury's is bigger," a third puts in, flat   
and toneless.  
     "Bullshit."  
     "All reet, we'll do us a side-by-side comparison,"   
the first voice says.  Then, with a sigh:  "Soften the   
cowgirl up, cats, allegro non troppo.  Dig?"  
     They dig.  Something like a pile driver buries itself   
in Justice's heaving muscular belly and she would   
bend double if she wasn't hanging from her   
humongous mashed mountains.  The ponderous-  
pontooned   
masked paladin grunts and writhes in midair, and   
another fist smashes her gut.  Her stomach is mashed   
against her spine and her stupendous mammaries   
stretched in their wringer-vise.  She puts her whole   
heart into a ballgagged groan.  
     Justice tightens her gut muscles in anticipation of   
the next blows, but they slam into both sides of her   
wasp waist between flapping vest and microskirt and   
she can't help but scream into the mouthball.  
     Besides, she's starting to feel the agony in her   
distended vastly crushed meatblimps.  She clenches her   
teeth against a moan, bulging the rubber globe between   
them.  Tries to prepare for more.  
     The next punch rockets right up between her spread   
leather-sheathed thighs, into her vulnerable gold-  
furred pussy.  
     Justice throws her blonde-maned head back and   
shrieks.  Her masked eyes bulge wildly and she   
thrashes about like a fish on a line, heedless of the pain   
in her gigantic milkbags.  Dimly feels that she's   
pulling the long metal tube from her anus.  
     That's when the Western Woman Wonder realizes   
what it is-they've rammed one of her own six-  
shooters up her asshole, and tied her gauntleted hands   
to the trigger!  She's almost given herself a hot-lead   
suppository!  
     Justice goes limp.  Hangs there from her fabulous   
agonized whale-udders.  Big-gloved fists clench at   
the lavish buttcheeks under her rucked-up fringed   
micro, the cylinder block of her Colt protruding   
between them.  Chews on her ballgag and can't keep   
from sobbing miserably.  
     "Very well, dudes, I'm callin' time," the guttural   
voice says.  "She has twigged to our riff.  No .45   
caliber enemas for our guest today."  
     "Awwwww."  
     "Rats."  Like disappointed boys.  
     "Like, bring her down."  
     Suddenly the rollers straining her massive chest-  
pumpkins like jiggling pink tooth paste loosen, and   
Justice Juggs falls.  Only a couple of feet.  She lands on   
her thighbooted knees and stretches out flat on her   
tremendous tormented tits, wrenching a squeal from   
her plush ball-stretched lips.  
     Someone stands over her.  Wretchedly sprawled,   
the sniffling six-shootin sexbomb can't lift her head   
enough to take in more than his bare feet.  They are   
flat and hairy and way too big.  Someone pulls her   
cowboy hat off.  Brutally, a misshapen foot stomps on   
the back of her head, grinds her masked face into   
the floor till blood drips from her nose, then those huge   
extremities kick her over onto her back.  She lies   
there on her bound fists sobbing.  Her enormous   
breasts loll to her sides like monstrous waterwings,   
pulsing with fire.  Tear-filled domino'd eyes unable to   
make out more than an indistinct shape standing   
over her.  
     However, Justice can clearly see the big hairy feet   
when they lift and, one by one (almost daintily) step   
down on her immense heaving blubberbags.  Sink   
ankle-deep into those elephantine jello-hulks, press   
them into the floor at her sides, spread them out like   
stupendous souffl,s.  
     More gag-muffled screaming and writhing.  
     Especially when her masked eyes clear and the   
agonized Amazon beholds the enormous gorilla that   
towers over her, standing on her titanic soft tits.  
     The gorilla, impossibly dressed in zoot suit, shades   
and beret.  Who smiles down at her and takes a   
satisfied pull on his long cigarette holder and hums   
something jazzy.  
     "Felonious Monk your humble servant, reet all   
reet."  
     He flexes his toes in her gigantic doughy jugs and   
Justice Juggs whimpers into her beslobbered   
ballgag.  
     --6--  
     "He's what??"  Savage Fury stared at me.  
     "Watch that pedestrian," I said.  
     She swerved the van violently to the right, missed   
the startled pedestrian and almost side-swiped a   
parked car.  While Fury might have had the strength of   
a hundred and the tits of ten, a driver she wasn't.    
But I was still shaking off the effects of Monk's little   
parting gift.  If she hadn't been between me and that   
blast ....  
     "You're joking," the Cowled Crusader said, keeping   
her eyes on the road and her armgloved hands at   
10 and 2.  
     I sighed.  "I thought it was pretty funny too when I   
pulled him out of the burning lab.  Now I wish I'd   
left him there."  
     Actually, I made that wish a very few minutes after   
rescuing the burglar I'd been chasing.  How he   
could move so quickly dressed the way he was ....  
     "An ape suit?" Fury said.  
     "That's what he was wearing.  There was this party,   
see, TV nostalgia, and the musicians were all   
dressed as gorillas.  You know, the Nairobi String Trio   
from the old Ernie Kovacks show?"  
     From the blank look in her masked eyes, she didn't   
know.  Guess she didn't get cable.  
     "I was there as a guest-mostly.  I wore my usual get-  
up, mask and boots and all, and told everyone I   
was Samantha Spade."  
     Fury eyed my enormous tits, bulging half out of   
their navel-slashed V and shimmying heavily with the   
van's motion.  "You must've been the hit of the party."  
     I shrugged.  "Doesn't take much, and I've got a lot   
more than that.  Anyway, I was there because of a   
series of burglaries that had taken place during parties.    
I'd narrowed the most likely culprits down to the   
musicians because in one combination or another,   
they'd played at every party that was hit."  
     Followed the pianist when he slipped away, caught   
him rifling the host's collection of rare stamps for a   
few hundred grand worth.  Should've nabbed him right   
there but missed a nasty little taser gun he carried   
in a false finger of his gorilla suit.  He pointed at me   
and didn't miss-the wired electrode caught me square   
on a tremendous target that's damn near impossible to   
miss.  
     Leather is comfortable and functional and great for   
action, but not an insulator.  The jolt through my   
gigantic jug dropped me to my gauntleted hands and   
thighbooted knees.  But I was on my spikeheeled feet   
again-though a bit wobbly-and got to the window just   
in time to see a sports car scream away from the   
sprawled form of a parking valet.  
     "You followed him."  
     "Like a bat out of hell, darling.  I hate being caught   
by cute tricks, especially on my boobs.  There was   
this industrial park not too far away, and he made   
straight for it.  It had one of those multi-level parking   
structures, where his sports job had a serious advantage   
over the van.  By the time I caught up with him,   
he'd cracked his car up and abandoned it."  
     "So you lost him."  
     "For a few minutes.  I'd just found a door he'd   
forced and an unconscious security guard nearby when   
the whole building shook from this humongous   
explosion."  
     I followed a couple of miles of corridors as the   
explosions continued, to a pair of huge heavy sliding   
doors that had been blasted half open.  And inside, an   
unforgettable sight: a man in a gorilla suit   
transfixed amidst a hell of electrical discharges from   
six different kinds of complex devices that filled the   
room.  Every hair on that cheap suit stood out like a   
porcupine quill.  The creep was still alive, amazingly   
enough, but not enjoying things one bit.  The costume   
had started to smoke.  God only knew what was   
going on inside that suit.  
     I spotted what looked to be the main power conduit,   
about a foot in diameter, against one wall.  I   
pulled a marble-sized microbomb from a flaring   
gauntlet sleeve, and threw it.  The small charge was   
enough to blow the cable, and within seconds the   
lightnings died away, leaving only fires and the eye-  
watering smell of ozone.  A few bursting foam pellets   
cleared me a path through the flames to where the   
burglar stretched out on the floor.  He smelled well   
done.  I hoisted him over my shoulders in a fireman's   
carry-feeling it in every vertebra-and got us OUT OF   
THERE.  
     "And that was that?"  
     "The light is red."  
     "I see it."  
     "... Not by a long shot.  The other members of his   
jazz group had followed us."  
     By now the night was filled with sirens, police and   
fire, all converging on this spot.  I needed the   
reward money for this monkey and didn't feel like   
sharing credit with the boys in blue, who never   
returned   
the favor.  I hustled him to the van.  
     Where his buddies were waiting for us.  They   
jumped me as I opened the rear doors to dump the   
strangely pulsing body inside.  They weren't in their   
ape suits any more.  They had guns but I swung the   
gorilla over my shoulders around and his feet took the   
black one upside the head knocking his shot awry.    
He stumbled into the skinny honky and before they   
could rebalance, I dumped their furry friend into their   
laps.  
     All three went down.  As he rolled from under his   
former compatriot I kicked the black dude in the   
head stretching him out very nicely, but Skinny was on   
his feet already, gun out.  So, like a chorus girl, I   
just kept on kicking.  The high-arcing toe of my   
thighboot knocked gun hand and gun up for a second   
explosive miss that echoed and ricocheted around the   
parking complex, and when that foot came down   
again I spun on it.  My whirling spikeheeled follow-up   
gave Skinny a quick distracting peek up my mini-  
coat at my pantied twat before it slammed across his   
jaw and laid him out next to his pal.  
     He must've had good eyes because he was smiling.    
I made a note to always wear transparent panties.  
     But when I looked around for the corpus gorillus,   
he was nowhere to be seen.  And because it was   
impossible after what he'd been through, I was an   
instant too slow to realize what that meant and act   
upon   
it.  
     Impossible or not, a furry arm wrapped around my   
throat and yanked me off my feet with a comment   
that went something like "glurkk!"  Kicking my   
thighbooted legs in mid-air, masked eyes bulging, I   
managed to reach into a floppy boot cuff for a stiletto   
(technically for throwing but good for other things   
as well).  I yanked it out and rammed it back into   
something solid as a big hairy hand reached under my   
flapping coat, grabbed the bulging soft fruit of my   
pussy and squeezed.  
     Hard.  
     Instantly I got so busy squealing and thrashing in   
that necklock that I couldn't tell if the knife did any   
good at all.  (I felt my juices drip between those brutal   
cunt-clenched fingers like whey.)  It didn't seem to,   
because next thing I knew I was being used as an   
awesomely voluptuous human handball.  Smashed face   
first into the side of my van to rebound reeling so I   
could be slam-bounced again, and again  
     and again.  
     I still hadn't seen my attacker, just his arm.  Every   
time I tried to turn around, I was bashed against the   
van.  I couldn't believe it was the musician in the ape   
suit.  What I couldn't believe even more was this   
clown's strength, he was playing with me.  The bells in   
my carillon were ringing like Easter Sunday.  
     Finally he tired of bouncing me back and forth and   
just ground my masked face into the metal side,   
hard enough to buckle the sheet steel and smear it with   
blood from my burst lips and nose.  That gave me   
a moment-a painful gasping moment-to collect a few of   
my widely scattered wits and pull a microbomb   
from a wide-flaring gauntlet cuff.  The quarters were   
really too close for explosives, but this clown was   
going to kill his big helpless monster-titted girltoy   
when he'd finished toying with her.  
     Naturally, he chose that moment to let go of my   
head and reach around to grab onto my gigantic   
heaving jugs, wrenching a teeth-clenched grunt from   
Yrs. Truly as, with no other choice, she dropped the   
bomb at both sets of feet.  Screaming as his bestial   
fingers drilled through her leather trenchcoat into her   
massive chest pumpkins and hoping her thighboots   
were durable enough to-  
     BOOM!!  
     They were.  But I almost wasn't.  
     The blast threw me against the van one more time   
to crumple against it and sit there, too stunned to do   
anything about the burglar in the gorilla suit.  Who lay   
where he'd been rolled, against a concrete pillar,   
for a moment.  Not nearly long enough for my liking.    
He pulled himself up-with some effort but again,   
not nearly enough-and collected his buddies like so   
much trash.  He dumped them in a nearby car, which   
he accessed by tearing the doors off.  He only used one   
arm, the other dangled limply.  I hoped my bomb   
did that.  
     Then he came galumphing over to me, weaving a   
bit.  My knife still protruded from his ribs, under the   
right arm.  There wasn't any blood.  
     There were, however, sirens and yelling and brakes   
down below, cops and fire trucks pulling up.    
Wouldn't be long before they got here.  Unable to   
move, I stared numbly up at the gorilla.  I couldn't   
make   
out the face behind the mask.  
     He used his good arm to pluck the stiletto from   
under his armpit, with just the slightest grunt.    
Reached down and-this was what finally convinced me   
to change to snaps-used the point to nip the   
buttons off my crimson leather trenchcoat, one by one.  
     Pink pink pink.  More damned sewing.  
     Opened my coat to reveal Marilyn and Jayne in all   
their heaving jiggling mega-glories.  They made   
even their huge bra look like an overloaded   
afterthought.  
     Except for watching, I couldn't move.  Nothing   
south of my gullet was answering its helm.  I could   
swallow real good, so I did a lot of that.  
     He yanked the bra off and slapped it across my   
masked face a couple of times (I might have yelped, I   
don't recall) then hunkered down to steady my   
mountainous joggling mammaries (giving them each a   
painful fist-clenching squeeze in the process, of   
course).  
     When he dug the razor point of my own knife into   
the duct of Marilyn's big dark nipple, I found I   
could not only swallow but whimper.  He drilled the   
stiff thumb-sized teat till he struck blood and a scarlet   
stream was dripping thickly down the underside of my   
elephantine swaying udder.  He grunted in   
satisfaction.  
     Then he did the same with Jayne's nipple.  I sat   
there making like two of the Fountains of Rome.  
     If I could've done more than watch and snivel, I   
would've.  I'd have howled, I'd have shrieked.  I was   
terrified he might decide to sheathe the blade between   
my wide-splayed leatherclad thighs, in a very wet,   
warm and sensitive place that tends to see a lot of that   
kind of action, though not with knives.  Now I   
wasn't so glad I'd worn the transparent underwear.  As   
swollen and saturated as my cunt was from his   
groping, the goods weren't just in the display window,   
they were pressed against the glass.  
     But that hairy simian face smiled, and I didn't   
wonder till much later how he got the ape mask to   
smile.  "Dig it, O masked chick with the bodaaacious   
bazongas: I know not if I'm righteously stoned or if   
this is, like, reality."  His voice was harsh and guttural,   
and blurred as though from dope.  
     "We'll finish this gig's last eight on the flipside,   
when all systems are 'go'.  I'm going to play an   
extended improv on these mighty mountains of yours,   
and the rest of your out-fucking-rageous bod.  All   
this pulchritude deserves a solo worthy of Art Tatum   
himself."  
     I stared up at him as he stood, holding the knife.    
And suddenly whipped it down to bury an inch or so   
of blade in the concrete between my thighs.  Its edge   
just nuzzled the crack between my heavy drooling   
labia in their see-through panties.  
     Hey, my knives are the best.  I've never been able to   
stick one in concrete, but I'm working on it.  
     --7--  
     We were back at my place by the time I finished the   
story.  Savage Fury, seated across from me,   
massaged her own big nipples in their semi-concealing   
straps.  The massive soft mammaries rested on her   
shoulder-gloved arms and all but engulfed them.  I   
resisted the temptation to lick my lips.  Or try to lick   
hers.  
     "Ouch.  How long did it take for your breasts to   
heal?"  
     "A few days.  I had the luck for awhile and didn't   
take any shots to them."  
     "You've run into him since then."  
     I took a long pull of my single malt whiskey-one of   
the Glens-and nodded.  "Oh yeah.  Monk and me   
are old friends by now.  Turns out whatever whammy   
hit him in that lab fused the gorilla suit with his   
own skin and gave him some hellacious kind of   
strength."  
     "Strong as me?"  
     "Maybe.  I'd have to see you two duke it out."  
     Fury stood up.  Her beautiful cowled face was set.    
"Silk, I want you to help me arrange that."    
Suddenly that butter-soft Southern accent of hers could   
have cut steel.  
     I just had to ask it.  "So, do you and Justice, like,   
have a thing going?"  
     She stared at me.  "What d'you mean?"  
     "I mean, are you lovers?"  
     She showed me the back of her cowled head too   
quickly.  Not so quickly that I missed the sudden flush   
under her mask, the same color as her ponytail.  
     "Hey, look, you don't have to be embarrassed or   
anything.  Okay, I might be a tad jealous, but Justice is   
one helluva woman and I can't blame you."  
     Fury favored me with a hesitant, almost shy, quarter   
view.  "Jealous?  You?  Of-of me?"  
     I smiled.  "Sure.  You're one helluva lot of woman   
too."  
     "Were you and Justice ... lovers?"  
     "I had a boyfriend and so did she, and it turned out   
they were the same guy.  We had a stupid fight   
over him.  When he was murdered, we brought in his   
killer and after that we just sort of kept on   
comforting one another for awhile-a couple of months,   
maybe.  We still do, sometimes.  It's kind of   
casual, nothing to get in your way."  
     "Murdered.  Wow, that's tough."  
     Fury was silent.  Then her broad bare shoulders   
straightened and she turned back to me.  "We better   
find this Ferocious Monk.  I don't think he captured JJ   
to wine and dine her."  
     "That's 'Felonious', and my next line exactly."  
     She never did answer my question about being   
lovers.  Because just then Gayle walked in with the   
Mega-Squirter and said, "What do you want me to do   
with this thing?"  
     Savage Fury reached for it and I knew what she had   
in mind.  But I jumped up and got there first.  The   
pumpkin-busted cowled bombshell looked at me.  "You   
think there might be clues on it?"  
     Gayle frowned.  "I don't think we'd get any prints,   
wet like it is."  
     I held the contraption and looked at them.  "Doesn't   
anything about this strike you as odd?"  
     Fury looked blank.  Gayle chewed her luscious   
lower lip for a moment.  "Well, only that a couple of   
crooks would have one with them for-"  
     "Exact-a-mundo!"  I all but yelled.  
     I turned to Fury.  The excitement mounting within   
me was almost as good as an orgasm.  "Who knew   
you were coming here?"  
     Her lovely masked face looked even blanker.    
"What d'you mean?"  
     "Don't you think it's a mighty big coincidence that   
those two creeps came prepared with your specific   
weakness?  Especially when neither Gayle nor I knew   
you were coming?  If we didn't know-"  
     Her eyes lit up.  "-How did they??"  
     I nodded.  
     --8--  
     We created quite a commotion at the West Valley   
station.  On my own turf downtown they've almost   
gotten used to me- sometimes the whole place only   
comes to a dead stop for ten minutes when I show up,   
giving Lt. Carnahan a chance to blow off some steam   
and get his act together before dealing with me.    
Maybe some day he'll even talk to my face instead of   
Jayne & Marilyn.  
     But Savage Fury, now, out here in the Valley.  She's   
tougher to deal with than even I, not only because   
there's so jiggling shimmying much of her, but   
virtually none of it is decently concealed.  We strode   
into   
the day room on our six inch spikes with our   
humongous boobs swaying before us like twin   
watermelon-  
prows (mine rather less outrageously than Fury's   
because of the trenchcoat) and silence fell.  More   
accurately, it plummeted-with a crash.  And I was   
treated to the pleasantly novel experience of having   
every male eye in the place glued somewhere else for   
once, and every cock stand up and salute another   
awesomely overblown set of curves and mountains,   
even more outrageously naked than mine.  
     Thought I, watching her try like hell to ignore all   
this google-eyed attention: the Cowled Crusader   
might be a frequent sight here, but this lot were a   
looong way from getting used to her.  
     I hoped she had the sense to use that.  
       
     Savage Fury hated the eyes on her, crawling like   
flies over her gigantic tits barely contained by their   
tautly overloaded straps and up the long thighbooted   
legs to the thicket of curls at their juncture spilling   
over her bottom "V".  Well, she didn't hate them   
exactly, kind of liked really-but she hated the liking.    
The liking that made her pose for all those lewd stares   
and dirty minds with her massive mammaries   
outthrust (their natural state anyway), her wide-flaring   
womanly hips canted with one leather-sheathed leg   
bent and her weight on the other spikeheeled foot.  
     She wished she could be like Silk, and  just accept   
the silent lusting tribute, even enjoy it-the way the   
masked raven-maned goddess stood there waiting,   
perfectly natural, playing with the floppy cuff of a big   
crimson gauntlet.  The eyes not glommed onto her   
were fixed on the stretch of muscular thigh, stocking   
band and garter between the tops of Silk's thighboots   
and the hem of her tightly belted micro-coat, not to   
mention the glimpse of bulging silken panties below   
the coat, and the quivering barely-contained chest   
blimps that threatened to explode up from the coat's   
straining lapels.  
     Silk knew it, and she liked it, and liked the liking.  
     Finally Fury got sick of waiting.  They always did   
this to get their cheap thrills, she doubted that   
anyone had even gone to get Matt yet.  She turned and   
strode towards his office, spike heels rapping   
loudly in the silence.  Silk Stalker followed.  
     The desk sergeant, Olivares, who always focussed   
on her crimson-bushed cunt mound, moved to   
intercept the two masked Amazons.  "I'm sorry, ladies,   
uh, you can't just-"  
     Fury froze him in his tracks with a scowl.  In a   
mirror, she caught the small smile on Silk's full lips.  
     See?  I can be forceful, too!  Without using my fists!  
     Captain Matt LaMarr came out of his office   
grinning.  "I always know when you're here, Fury," he   
said.  "Suddenly I can hear myself think."  
     The first thing that had impressed Savage Fury   
about the tall slender laconic cop-aside from the scar   
that connected the left corner of his mouth with his left   
eye, pulling the lid down slightly and giving him a   
sleepy dangerous air-was that he looked into her   
masked eyes when he spoke to her, not at her gigantic   
ever-jiggling jugs or her half naked pussy.  It wasn't   
much, till she'd started to really notice his eyes-how   
deep they were, and, beneath a glint of good humor,   
how sad.  Since then she'd worked at getting down to   
that sadness, but she hadn't made it despite all of her   
ponderous power-pulchritude (which could pry most   
men open like a laser can opener).  
     Not yet, anyway.  
     Silk was holding out a crimson gauntleted hand.    
"Captain, I'm-"  
     "Silk Stalker, of course."  He took the hand.  "Max   
Carnahan's told me about you.  That's why I sent   
our girl here your way with her little problem,   
whatever it was."  
     "You don't know?"  Silk asked sharply.  
     Fury shook herself (inwardly only, she didn't want   
to be responsible for any sprained eyeballs).  "That's   
kind of why we're here, Matt.  Could we-"  She   
gestured to his office with an armgloved hand.  
     "Mais certainement, mamselles."  He bowed them   
ahead of him.  
     --9--  
     Justice Juggs' shrill scream is buried by one of her   
own gigantic joggling breasts.  Like a bowling ball   
of blubber, bigger than her whole head, it flies up into   
her star-masked face with a meaty impact that   
echoes in the small room.  She lets out a humiliated   
girlish squeak and her audience applauds.  The force   
of the boob-blow throws her back, then the weight of   
the titanic tit flopping down jerks her forward again,   
and the other monstrous udder jumps up to smack her   
kisser.  Each impact leaves lines of small cuts in   
her beautiful pain-taut visage.  
     Justice doesn't have to worry about whether she's   
coming or going-she's  doing both at the same time.    
Cumming convulsively, painfully, around the   
mechanical bull's saddle horn buried deep in her pussy   
as   
the heaving bucking contraption throws her wildly   
about.  And going crazy from the pain in her enormous   
joggling milkwhoppers which are webbed tightly in   
barbed wire.  
     Plunging and screaming and leaping and wailing.  
     The awesomely overblown masked Amazon's   
gauntleted hands are tied behind her but her   
thighbooted   
legs flap about loose.  She can end her twat torment by   
simply letting herself be thrown to the floor, yet   
she clamps her powerful leather-sheathed legs about   
the bull's flanks and holds on for all she's worth.    
And orgasms over and over, wretchedly, groaning and   
squealing, till her cum drips down the sides of the   
bull.  
     Making it very slippery.  
     "I don't get it," Zoot, one of Monk's men, says to   
Ice, the other member of her audience.  "Why don't   
she just let go?"  
     "Check it closer, my man,"  Ice replies with a smile.  
     Zoot does, at great length.  He studies the bawling   
bucking Justice's immense bounding chest   
pumpkins and the intimate fit of the saddle horn in her   
streaming pussy.  When he comes back he's   
smiling and his groin is tented.  "That Monk, what a   
character."  
     "One of a kind."  
     "I was hopin' she'd stay on forever, I mean, this   
bitch puts on one helluva jiggle-show, but now-"  
     Zoot gets his wish before he can express it.  The   
bull gives a great lunge forward and the bleating   
wristbound Justice catapults from its back.  But instead   
of tumbling to the floor she swings back and forth   
in midair, howling and kicking her spikeheeled legs,   
her elephantine milkbags stretched up like massive   
pink teardrops.  
     From the cords attached to the barbed wire cocoon   
bloodying each colossal pliant soccer ball.  
     Zoot and Ice amble over to the dangling double-  
dirigibled masked cowgirl and study her.    
Penduluming in a wide arc, sobbing in her own world   
of pain, she ignores them.  Zoot wipes a finger on a   
distended tightly-wrapped watermelon of blubber and it   
comes away bloody.  Ice does the same to a bare   
thigh slimed with cum above its hip-high scalloped   
boot cuff, then rucks her fringed microskirt up and   
gives a lavish clenched buttcheek a hard smack!  
     Justice Juggs squeals miserably and writhes, 6-inch   
heels kicking in space.  They smile at one another.  
     "Boss says to leave her hangin'," Zoot says.  
     "We c'n always hoist her back up again," Ice grins.  
     "True."  
     Dimly, the pendant ponderous-pontooned paladin   
feels herself lowered till her thighbooted feet touch   
the floor.  The haze of agony parts for a moment and   
she conceives a desperate plan.  She hears a zipper   
behind, then rough hands grasp her great   
nethercheeks, and a hard questing dick probes between   
their   
bursting glossy rounds.  In front, other hands take her   
flaring muscular hips.  
     "This is gonna be great!" a voice says.  
     Blindly, Justice kicks a knee up and feels a solid   
testicular impact.  There is a grunt and the hands   
forget about her hips.  
     Blindly, Justice flees.  But not far.  
     The bound star-masked Mammazon gets about 10   
feet before the cords attached to her barbed wire bra   
suddenly pull taut.  Her perforated wire-webbed   
watermelons are wrenched apart and backwards till   
their   
big swollen nipples stare behind around her upper   
arms, ballooning vastly out to her sides.  The colossal-  
chested cowqueen squeals in agony and fresh blood   
drips from those back-stretched blubberblimps.  But   
before she can reel back and relieve the horrible strain   
on her immense bloody udders, Zoot is right   
behind her, taking a fistful of her golden mane.  Such   
is her torment that she barely feels the rabbit   
punches he slams into her lower back, doesn't hear her   
own grunts of pain.  But when her thighbooted   
knees buckle, she drops her anus right onto his rigid   
upstanding dick.  That she feels, and reacts with   
wide-eyed porcine aptness.  
     Zoot avidly buttfucks the spectacular sobbing 6-  
shootin' sexbomb.  With each thrust between her great   
shimmying buttocks he pushes her hard against the   
straining lines which pull her titanic tightwired   
tormented tits back.  Feverishly, Ice snaps rings   
connected by taut chain to her stiff thumb-sized teats.    
Her big dark nipples all but stare at each other across   
the vested expanse of her back.    
     There's so much mega-mammary pain and blood   
already that the new spurt from her punctured nipples   
goes all but unnoticed, even by Justice Juggs herself.  
     In fact, it takes the agonized ass-reamed Amazon a   
few minutes to realize that Ice has taken her tear-  
streaming masked face and rammed her plush mouth   
down onto his foul rampant organ, and what she's   
choking on is his big hard mouth-pumping dick.    
Justice definitely feels it when Zoot grabs onto the   
chain   
binding her gigantic bloody jugs, stretched around   
behind her like stupendous blutwurst, and pulls on it as   
he slams himself into her, and into her, and into her.  
       
     LaMarr stared at us.  "You're shitting me," he said   
after a moment.  
     "Word up," I said.  
     "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked Fury.  
     She shrugged uncomfortably.  "I wanted to handle it   
on my own."  
     We'd given him the PG version of our   
misadventures, but it was still enough to bring the   
blood boiling   
up from his collar.  Aside from the obvious fact   
Something Significant was going on between the cop   
and   
the cowled superwoman, it also meant there was a leak   
in his department.  A bad one.  
     I could see doubt was gnawing at Fury, but she   
didn't want to mention it.  So I took a smoother tack.  
     "Who else knew you sent Fury to me?"  
     LaMarr was on his feet.  "Excuse me, ladies, I'm   
going to find that out."  
     He exited.  His office still seemed overcrowded with   
heaving barely covered boobs and legs and hair   
and leather.  Fury stood there chewing on her plump   
lower lip.  I pulled up the cuffs of my thighboots,   
then straightened the brim of my hat.  
     "How're you doing?"  I asked.  
     She shrugged.  I reached out and gave her shoulder-  
gloved arm a squeeze.  To my surprise she grasped   
my gauntleted hand, squeezed my fingers so hard I had   
to fight to keep from wincing.  But I didn't say a   
word, and she only let go when we heard LaMarr   
outside the door.  
     I resisted a sore temptation to massage my semi-  
mangled digits.  Good thing my gloves were   
reinforced.  Wondered if maybe I should think twice   
about coaxing this boulder-busted super bombshell   
into bed with me.  
     He came in like a fast-moving thundercloud.    
Angry, that scar turned his face into something I   
wouldn't want to run into at night.  "When we talked in   
Interrogation 1," he said to me, "there were 2 cops   
who could've overheard what we said.  No one else."  
     "Who?"  I asked.  
     "Sgt. Wally Sizemore and Det. Lucius Coltrane.    
Both 20-year men."  He didn't even try to hide his   
disgust.  "They're off shift now, I'm having them   
brought in."  
     "No need, Lieutenant," I replied.  "I'll bet I know   
which one it is."  
     They looked at me.  
     And the next thing I know, I'm bound and gagged   
on my knees with my masked face jammed into   
cheap vinyl upholstery that smelled of cheap vinyl   
cigars.  Head pounding like a whole orchestra of big   
dull drums.  My coat open and a big rough hand   
groping Marilyn's pliant mega-abundance as though   
trying to milk her.  
     --10--  
     "Silk?"  
     Her voice echoed in the empty parking structure.    
She listened intently, heard the foundations shift   
slightly, a gentle breeze, water dripping, the hum of   
fluorescent lights.  No rustle of hair, creak of leather   
thighboots, ridiculously high heels tapping across   
concrete.  
     Footsteps behind her.  She'd have known whose   
they were without turning even if he wasn't wearing   
Aramis as usual.  
     "Nothing?" Lamarr asked at her shoulder.  
     Savage Fury shook her cowled head, flexed her fists   
in their snug shoulder-high gloves.  "I'm going to   
look for her."  
     The cop stepped in front of her, face grim, eyes   
concerned.  "If Coltrane has her, be careful.  He's one   
tough bastard."  
     She smiled, patted his cheek.  "And I'm one tough   
bitch."  
     His answering smile was cautious.  "You've been   
hanging around Silk Stalker too much."  
     "I think she's good for me, Matt."  
     "Maybe.  But like the songs says, I love you just the   
way you are."  
     Their eyes held and Fury was thankful for the mask.    
It was a barrier between them still-if not for it,   
she'd probably let him have her right here and now.    
The desire for him moistened her pussy, made her   
labia so heavy she could almost feel them sticking out   
around her V-shaped bottom.  Matt, of course, was   
too much of a gentleman to look down.  Like her eyes   
were enough for him.  
     "Fury!"  It was so faint even her super hearing   
almost missed it.  
     Just that one word, then a scuffle and a grunt.  A   
car door opened to a blast of music cut off by the door   
closing, then an engine roared and tires squealed on   
pavement.  
     Lamarr as usual was trying his damndest not to   
stare down at those gigantic mostly-naked tits jiggling   
on Savage Fury's chest like pumpkins of pink bread   
dough, with their big brown nipples peering out   
around the straps.  Everyone did, so he wanted to be   
the one who didn't.  But it was goddam hard   
sometimes; there was such a thing as just too much   
woman.  Her lovely eyes made it easier, staring out at   
him from behind their mask like those of a frightened   
doe.  
     Then he blinked and it seemed the awesomely   
overblown Thighbooted Thunderbolt had just   
disappeared from in front of him.  
     No, there she was, at the edge of the ramp staring   
over the parapet to the street below.  He sprinted   
over to her.  
     "What's up?" he asked.  
     "I heard her, Matt!"  Fury's cowled head craned   
intently down the busy street far below.  
     Without further elaboration, the Cowled Crusader   
vaulted over the low wall and plummeted the 5   
levels to the sidewalk, cape billowing behind her.    
Landed with what he could have sworn was a squeak.  
     And then was gone like a leathern streak up the   
boulevard, too fast for his eyes to follow.  It was hard   
to believe that such a big woman could move so fast.  
       
     A funny thing about head trauma, specifically the   
kind induced by a skillfully applied blackjack and an   
overdose of chloroform-it can scramble your memories   
in very surrealistic ways and leave your brain   
feeling like a poached egg.  I didn't have the foggiest   
idea how I got in that car, which was where I was,   
kneeling on the floor with my mountainous top half (or   
top three-quarters, as Mike would say) spread over   
the front seat.  Nor did I recall being clobbered, much   
less anyone blindfolding me or tying my gauntleted   
hands behind me, or jamming this fat foul tasting   
ballgag between my teeth.  
     I did know my head ached, but that was mostly the   
choloform.  A very skilled koshing, designed to   
dim the lights without breaking the bulb.  
     The kind cops are good at.  
     That was when it came back to me.  
       
     Walking through the parking structure looking for   
Coltrane's car.  Dark, shadowy, most of the   
overheads out, the only noise the buzz of the remaining   
ones and my spikeheels tick-tocking along the   
concrete.  A scrape behind me, slight shift of shadows,   
I reach into a thighboot cuff for my gun  
     fast, real fast, but not fast enough.  Something hard   
clocks me harder on the back of the head and   
suddenly my leather-sheathed legs can't hold me any   
more.  As they bend and I bend with them, I spin   
about but it feels like I just keep on spinning, around   
and around  
     because a cloth is mashed to my mouth and I smell   
something awful that burns my nose and makes my   
eyes water.  My rpm's shoot towards the redline but I   
struggle grunting which only wraps me up in   
powerful arms and turbo-charges the smelly stuff into   
my system and I can't even feel my legs any more I   
think I have my gun out but maybe not.  
     The arms release me.  A cold slab of concrete hits   
my knees then the rest of me.  Jayne and Marilyn do   
their cushioning act.  
     My eyes roll up in their mask and I spend some   
time staring at the inside of my skull, which is real   
real dark.  
       
     Some days I feel like Chicken Little-the sky keeps   
falling, right on me.  And I never seem to wake up   
in satin sheets with soft sea breezes wafting through   
the windows and a naked stud lying next to me with a   
dick like a tent pole.  
     "Welcome back, Silk," a voice said.  A hand gave   
my monumental milkbag a brutal squeeze and I   
groaned into my mouthball.  
     Though I'd never met him I was pretty sure I knew   
that voice's owner, and it explained much.  Nothing   
that was good.  But I'd already realized this was no joy   
ride.  
     The hand let go of my massive mammary and   
pulled the blindfold off.  I blinked and looked up.  
     He was big and not all that ugly.  Except for the   
wide unpleasant leer spread across his puss, directed   
down at me.  He kept his hands at 10 and 2 on the   
wheel.  A very conscientious driver.  
     "Coltrane," I said.  Translated through the ballgag   
it came out "mpffughh!"  
     "Too bad for both of us you caught on," he said.    
"Worse for you, of course."  
     He gave a sour snicker.  "So I get early retirement   
in the sunny south, on a lot more than a cop's   
pension.  And you-"  He looked down at me.  "I dunno   
what King Kong has in mind for you.  But I'm   
pretty sure you ain't gonna enjoy it."  
     Much as I hated to agree with the creep ....  
     Kneeling by his legs, I shook my head violently and   
yelled into the ballgag.  I've always hated the   
damn things, and only partly because my mouth   
usually isn't the first they've been in.  
     He backhanded me a good one across the chops,   
knocked me against the passenger door with a yelp.    
Reached over for a fistful of ebon mane to jerk me   
back.  I wondered where my hat was.  They don't come   
cheap in red leather.  
     "God you got a body on you!" he gritted.  "Tits like   
I wouldn't believe!"  
     "Mrrpff!!"  I replied wittily, tasting blood.  It didn't   
improve the flavor of the chloroform.  
     Coltrane was waiting for something.  As he drove,   
one hand on the wheel and the other clenched   
painfully in my hair, he kept looking at me and licking   
his lips, then searching up ahead of the car.    
Finally he smiled-not pleasantly-and put on the brakes.    
I could hear other cars doing the same thing.    
Stop light.  
     I found out what the big cop had been waiting for:   
the chance to use both big rough hands.  With the   
wheel hand he yanked his zipper down and the ballgag   
out.  I barely had time to lick my raw lips before   
with the hair hand he pulled my masked face over to   
his groin and impaled my mouth on the huge oily   
dick that sprang up like a rampant catapult.  
     "Glrppfff!" I said.  
     He tightened his fist in my hair as he floored the   
gas pedal and the car leaped forward.  I know a threat   
when I get one, especially in a situation like that.  Just   
my usual luck for the day-what they really mean by   
the "luck o' the Irish"-we were in a clear stretch with   
no traffic and he was able to drive fast.  We'd   
probably end up a tree somewhere if I bit down on the   
stiff salami that filled my drooling mouth and   
stretched my swollen lips wide.  
     Shit.  
     As I slowly (and ever-so-reluctantly) began to suck   
his truncheon of a dick I knew the creep was   
smiling, even though all I could see was his open   
zipper and a curly thatch of smelly pubic hair that   
filled   
my nose and made me want to gag or sneeze.  His grip   
on my hair relaxed a bit.  
     "It's up to you and your mouth, Tits.  I can deliver   
you alive or dead."  
     Nose-breathing loudly while I lifted my head to run   
my tongue around the bloated plum-sized head of   
his huge organ, I thought it would serve Coltrane right   
if I made him kill me.  What Felonious Monk   
would do to this scumbag for denying him that   
pleasure would be almost as interesting as anything the   
gorilla would do to me himself.  But of course I   
wouldn't be around to watch.  
     I checked the knots at my gauntleted wrists.  Tight   
and strong.  No joy there.  
     He took a deep shuddery breath when I slid my   
opulent mouth the rampant length of his cock (trying   
not to vomit) and started to seesaw my lips onto the   
rigid curving fleshpole.  
     "Oh yeah," he gasped.  "Oh yeah!"  
     The same old song, with the same old   
accompaniment.  Slurp, suck, slurp, suck.  Up and   
down and up   
and down.  Choking on his rigid shaft of gristle when   
he forced my mouth all the way onto it till the   
swollen glans plugged my throat and his scrotum   
nestled my chin.  Trying not to taste.  Trying not to   
think or feel.  Not succeeding particularly well.  
     This is the way Chicken Little wakes up after the   
sky has fallen on her for the umpteenth time.  Suck   
slurp suck.  
     At least he'd bathed in the last few days.  And he'd   
been circumcised.  When you're in a position like   
this, the little things mean a lot.  
     Lights flashed over my head as I worked diligently   
at his mouth-crammed dick.  They were getting   
fewer and farther between, and dimmer.  Less traffic.    
We were heading into a darker part of town.  This   
did not bode well unless it was Beverly Hills, which I   
doubted.  
     "Oh yeah baby!" he said.  "Jesus yeah!"  
     Funny how paternal and religious maggots like   
Coltrane get when they've got my gorgeous masked   
face in their laps and my diligent ripe lips around their   
cocks.  
     Sans choice, I sucked him off vigorously.  Each   
moist slurp, each throb of the blue vein in his rampant   
dick prolonged my life another miserable minute.  My   
bound floppy-cuffed fists clenched so tightly on my   
big ass that the nails dug into my palms right through   
the gloves.  
     --11--  
     6-inch heels a machine gun tattoo beneath her,   
Savage Fury dashed down the middle of Ventura Blvd,   
shoulder-gloved arms pumping, legs flashing in their   
hipboots.  Dodging in and out of evening traffic kept   
her down to 70 miles per.  She hoped Matt hadn't   
heard that involuntary squeak of surprise when she   
landed and these damned double dirigibles of hers flew   
up into her face with a massively floppy one-two   
titpunch that almost knocked her on her naked ass.    
She was going to have to reinforce their straps-again.  
     No time to worry about that now, though.  She   
focused her super-ears ahead but could hear nothing   
over the traffic's honking horns and engines and   
radios.  Fury leaped onto the roof of a SCRTD bus and   
rode it for half a block or so, listening intently.  
     Finally caught the music she'd heard minutes ago,   
just before the car door closed.  Straight ahead,   
maybe a mile or so.  Travis Tritt, one of her favorites.  
     The Masked Mammazon leaped from the bus onto a   
pickup, did a somersault to the street and was off.    
The startled truck driver jumped at the impact on his   
cab roof, got a flash out the passenger window of the   
biggest damn set of knockers he'd ever seen with a   
cape flying behind.  Then their owner sped up, and the   
last he saw of her was an equally magnificent (and   
equally naked) pair of buttcheeks shim-shammying   
like crazy over a pair of thighhigh boots.  Which   
proceeded to pump away from him like he was parked,   
zig-zagging through the traffic till all that jiggling   
wiggling meat was gone.  
     Fury saw it was a van as she drew near.  By now   
she'd recognized the station: KTRY, the new country   
station in town.  Now the song was about cleaning   
some bully's clock.  Wind whipping about her cowled   
face, she smiled in anticipation.  Clenched her leathern   
fists.  
     But suddenly the rear doors burst open and a   
bazooka poked its gaping maw out at her.  She got a   
glimpse of Silk Stalker in her red leather outfit and   
hat, bound to a rear-facing seat and ballgagged; had   
just an instant to realize she didn't dare swerve or   
dodge because of all the traffic behind her  
     have to take this rocket or there'll be carnage on the   
boulevard  
     before the tube roared and the projectile slammed   
into her fleshy gut, just above the junction of her   
costume's V-straps  
     and exploded.  
     The Cowled Crusader was hurled back screaming   
as though from a catapult.  Leather-sheathed arms   
and legs flailing, she smashed into the windshield of   
the car behind her cracking it with her great bare   
butt then somersaulted fifty yards through the air into a   
group of trash cans, scattering them like bowling   
pins.  
     Somewhat to her own amazement (not to mention   
that of many goggle-eyed pedestrians), she got up   
again almost immediately.  Saw only bright flaring   
stars and heard only clanging bells and shrieking   
whistles, but By God She Got Up.  Though it felt like   
the bazooka rocket was still imbedded in her   
heaving belly (and after a moment's pause to pull up   
the tops of her thighboots and one armglove cuff that   
sagged to her elbow) she took right off again after the   
van.  Staggered a bit at first and huffed and puffed,   
but found her long-legged spikeheeled stride again   
quickly.  
     You are a tough bitch!  
     Fury followed at a distance this time, not only   
because she couldn't get up to full speed with the   
cramp   
in her belly, but also to wait till traffic thinned out.    
Finally the van turned off Ventura and left the traffic   
behind.  Her stomach had stopped throbbing and   
threatening to empty itself the wrong way, so she   
closed   
in.  
     And this time when the back doors burst open she   
was ready with a powerful leap.  But this time they   
had a flame thrower.  Its roaring gout of fire filled her   
masked eyes for an instant, blinding her.  Fury's   
leap still carried her onto the van's roof as she'd   
planned, but she had to pause for a few moments to let   
her streaming masked eyes clear.  
     The vehicle began to swerve and slew about wildly,   
trying to throw her off.  As it veered to the left and   
bounced up onto the sidewalk, the Cowled Crusader   
crouched down and sank gloved fingers into the sheet   
metal to hold on.  No way they could dislodge that   
grip!  
     It wasn't the first time she'd been wrong today, but   
it was the most painful.  Suddenly the roof at her   
feet erupted with .50 caliber machinegun slugs from   
below!  They blasted up between the Masked   
Mammazon's thighbooted legs to slam into her poor   
pussy and overblown ass.  It was like being raped by   
a burning torch and taking a molten lead enema at the   
same time!  
     Wailing, Savage Fury was blown off the van roof as   
though she'd been launched.  
     The van screamed around a corner and was gone.  
     Fury rolled about the gutter where she'd fallen and   
bawled her pain, armgloved hands clutching at her   
agonized snatch.  
     God damn them!  Goddam them to hell, the   
miserable sadistic aaaAAAHHHSHIT THAT HURTS!!  
     Every time the tormented super-Amazon rolled onto   
her huge butt, fresh pain shot up from her anus.    
Finally, when she was sure nothing had been ruptured   
down there and her howls had diminished to gusts   
of weeping, she ever so gingerly reached back behind   
her and probed her asshole.  
     Found a 50 caliber bullet imbedded there, just a hot   
stub sticking out of the raw throbbing chute, all but   
buried between pillowy battered netherglobes.  
     Used two leathern fingers to draw the big slug out   
slowly, with a hiss.  Crushed it in a gloved fist.  
     Got up again.  Just stood there for a few minutes,   
massaging her throbbing twat till the burning   
subsided a bit.  Enough to take a wincing spikeheeled   
step, then another.  
     --12--  
     Thank goodness that creep really likes country   
music!  
     The radio was still tuned to KTRY when Savage   
Fury caught up to the van again.  It was parked on a   
dark side street outside a brick building that had been a   
hotel before the '94 quake, but now was just a   
cracked shell of masonry awaiting the wrecking ball.    
Like most of this neighborhood.  
     The van was empty except for the driver.  Fury took   
care of him quickly and quietly.  Her super-ears   
followed the meaty sounds of blows and gasps of pain   
to the third floor room where they had Silk Stalker.    
She hunkered down on the sidewalk and took the 40   
feet in a single mighty leap, to crash through the   
cracked window in a spray of glass.  
     Surprised the hell out of the three men gathered   
around Silk beating her.  The gorgeous masked   
detective was tied to a chair, stunned, her raven-maned   
head bowed forward under the wide-brimmed hat.    
Blood dripped onto her gigantic heaving tits, which   
had been bared for the occasion.  
     The trio jumped away from their voluptuous   
leatherclad victim at the explosion from the window   
and   
the awesomely overblown armgloved and thighbooted   
vision that bounded through it into their midst.    
Two, one bald as a cueball and the other with a   
ponytail, drew revolvers and opened fire as Fury   
straightened and shook off shards of glass.  
     The bullets, .357 Magnums designed to penetrate   
stone block, bounced off her bare shoulder and   
punched a big nipple deep into its gigantic joggling   
boob.  Fury yelped and staggered back to a tattered   
sofa, one gloved hand clutching her ponderous mauled   
milkmountain.  
     Before they could get off more of the stinging loads,   
the double-dirigibled dynamo plucked the couch   
up and shied it at them, slamming both gunmen into a   
wall and pinning them beneath it.  She heard a   
snick! and saw the third one had taken up a shotgun.    
Fury had no desire to tangle with double-ought   
buck, so she stooped down and grabbed the edge of the   
rug under his feet and gave it a tug  
     and the tattered carpeting tore in her gloved grip!  
     The shotgun roared battering her with buckshot,   
stinging her everywhere on her scantclad titanically   
top-heavy ultra-body.  It blasted again and drove her   
back with an agonized howl, shoulder-sheathed arms   
up before her masked face.  
     Giving the gunman time to reload.  He was fast!  
     Fury could only think of one thing to do-she   
stamped her thighbooted foot, hard.  The room shook,   
the   
whole building shook!  The chair-bound Silk Stalker   
toppled over onto her side.  And the gunman was   
pitched onto his face, the shotgun flying from his   
fingers.  
     He scrambled for it, but Savage Fury was across the   
room in a single leap, and as he grabbed for the   
weapon, she trapped the smoking firearm between the   
shank and 6-inch spike heel of her t