Partners: How Batgirl Met Supergirl  

By Basilisc


© Basilisc 2006. Comments welcome: bhc917(a)hotmail-dot-com.


Squatting on the third-story building ledge, Batgirl watched a windowless white van drive to the entrance of the alley below and stop there, blockading it from the main street. The night was clear and

moonless, with a light breeze heralding the coming autumn. A nearby streetlamp cast long shadows on the ground. The back doors of the van opened and two men jumped out. Someone inside the van handed them the bound, struggling body of a young woman, whose attempts to scream were muffled by a black leather ball gag. After a moment she stopped resisting the large, muscular men and let them carry her, limp, into the alley, where they laid her on her back on the pavement. One of them tied her wrists to a chain-link fence

that fronted the building opposite the one where Batgirl waited, while the other untied the cord that had bound her ankles. The men returned to the van, where they received another bound, gagged young woman. They lay her on the ground next to the first, tied her wrists to the fence and untied her ankles. The women looked at the

men, then at each other, with wide, terrified eyes. The two girls looked to be about 19. They were dressed for a party, both in bright halter tops, one with a red miniskirt and the other with white, skin-tight pants. They had been walking on a dark pathway on the Gotham University campus when these same men grabbed them and hustled them into the van. Batgirl, on her nightly patrol over Gotham’s rooftops, had seen the whole thing and followed the van to this

dark alley not far from campus. Now she leaned forward on the balls of her feet, snapping photos with a miniature camera in one gloved hand, using the other to steady herself on the narrow ledge. More men came out of the van – Batgirl counted four. They worked swiftly and efficiently. One of them, shorter than the others but powerfully built, was giving orders. He motioned towards the college girls, and two men tore open their tops. Their pale breasts quivered under the light from the streetlamp. The man attending the first girl bunched her miniskirt up around her waist and ripped off her pink thong panties. The other unzipped his victim’s pants and pulled them down her slim legs, then tore off her thong as well. Meanwhile the leader had removed his trousers, and stood over the women, displaying

his massive erection.

“Showtime, ladies”, he said with a chuckle. Not bad, thought Batgirl, replacing the camera in her utility belt, but the show’s about to end. Batgirl rapidly planned her moves, then jumped. She landed with both boots on the leader, knocking him to the ground. An elbow to the neck of one thug, then a swift kick to the balls of a second. Another

approached her, then backed away slightly. She grabbed his shoulders and kneed him in the chest, leaving him on the ground gasping for breath.

“Hey, Batgirl”, she heard the leader say from the ground behind her. She whirled around and saw three men coming towards her with assault rifles. They had been waiting in the van, or in the shadows. Early in her crimefighting career, Batgirl had learned how to disarm a man with a sharp chop or kick to his wrist. She could even deal with two armed men, disarming one while moving quickly enough to deny

the other a clear shot at her. But she could do nothing against three men pointing high-powered weapons directly at her. Trembling, she raised her hands. The leader stood and dusted himself off. “Gentlemen, looks like we have a hat trick,” he said, with a vaguely Slavic accent. He was about 40 years old, with jet-black hair, pale skin, and a firm jaw,

clean-shaven and ruggedly handsome. At 5’7” he was three inches taller than Batgirl. Even in repose, his dick was large, threatening. In three years of crimefighting, Batgirl had been threatened with rape countless times. She had come close to it twice. It was something that was always in the back of her mind, but she always assumed she could get out of any difficult situation with her speed, fighting skills and intelligence. She took the fact that she had avoided it so far as evidence of her well-honed skills, though sometimes she

worried that it was really just luck.

Now her luck had run out. A thug pushed Batgirl against the fence. He lifted her arms and tied one wrist to the chain links, then the other. He removed her utility belt and tossed it to one side. Then he took a knife and ran it

down her chest, between her breasts, trying to cut her costume, but the dark purple fabric wouldn’t give way. Amidst her humiliation and terror, Batgirl felt a certain pride. Her costume had been specially designed by a friend who was an expert in ultra-lightweight materials. It was skin-tight and breathable, but

could also stop knives and all but the most direct gunshots. “Won’t open,” the man said to the leader in a calm, almost bored tone. The leader came over and tried the knife at various points of her costume, feeling every part of Batgirl’s body in the process. Then

he put the knife against her cheek. “I know you have to take this thing off sometimes, Batgirl,” he said. “If only to pee and fuck your boyfriends.” He pressed it harder, staring deep into her with his dark, intense eyes. She felt a sting,

then a trickle of liquid as the blood began to flow down her cheek and onto her neck. “We’re going to open your costume, Batgirl, then we’re going to rape you,” he continued. “The only question is whether you’ll tell us how to open it right now, or whether we’ll figure it out on our own,

after turning your pretty face into a mass of bloody cartilage. What’s it going to be?”

“On – on my left hip – there’s a button,” she said in a small voice. “Under the seam. You press it for three seconds.”

The leader carefully moved his finger along her hip. “No, lower”, she whispered, barely able to speak. She was instructing her rapist on how to remove her clothing. He pushed at the new point, and the seam silently opened. With a grin he pulled the fabric apart, opening a gap in her costume that ran diagonally up her torso to her neck, revealing her snowy white


“Excellent,” he smiled. He took her left breast in one hand, playing his thumb casually over the pink nipple, and ran his other hand through her lustrous red hair. His cock was again hard. But now he was pushed to the ground again, amid shouting. A blonde woman in a swirl of red, blue and yellow kicked him hard in the ribs, then turned and knocked out two approaching thugs cold, one with

each of her fists. She moved incredibly fast, tossing another man to the ground and then one more.

The last two came at her with their machine guns blazing – but the gunfire somehow missed her completely as she advanced on them. After two high kicks they too were on the ground unconscious. The woman took the shirts off two of the knocked-out men, then rapidly and efficiently hogtied each of them in turn. She untied the two college students, removed their gags, and gave them the two men’s shirts. “They’re a little sweaty, but they’ll do until you get home,” she said. The college girls sat silently, without moving, numbed by their ordeal. Then the woman untied Batgirl, then looked away

politely as Batgirl closed up her costume. “Who – who are you?” Batgirl asked. The mystery woman wore a blue dress that reached her mid-thighs, red knee-high boots, and a red cape. Her dress had a red and yellow “S” design on the front, and hugged

every curve in her small, shapely body. She was about 5’2”, about two inches shorter than Batgirl. Like Batgirl she was in her early 20s. “Big fan of yours,” the woman answered with a wink and a warm smile. She was a real beauty, with small, delicate features and bright, intelligent eyes. Batgirl thought she looked familiar, but couldn’t

quite place her.

“Guess we should call 911 and leave these guys for the cops to deal with, huh?” the woman asked. Batgirl nodded. “I have some photos. Just a sec.” She recovered her utility belt, attached a miniature printer to her camera and printed photos of the abduction and attempted rape. She put the photos in an envelope embossed with a small bat emblem, taping it to the ropes binding the still unconscious gang leader. “When they see the bat, they’ll know it was me. They’ll call me on the hotline and I’ll explain

what happened.”

The mystery woman listened with interest and admiration. She seemed new to the crimefighting game, and eager to learn.

“Well, gotta go,” she said. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“Wait -”, Batgirl said. “Your name?”

“Well, someone called me ‘Supergirl’ once. I’m pretty happy with that.” With a sparkling, melodic laugh, she turned and soared into the night.


Barbara Gordon loved the carpeted hush of the Gotham University Library. Settling into her cubicle on mornings after her crimefighting escapades, the library felt warm and safe, compared with the cold menace that lay beneath the silence of Gotham City’s nighttime streets. Her work as a research librarian took no more than three hours of her day, though she was paid for eight. She spent the rest of her

time thinking, planning, and canvassing online databases for information about the city’s tangled underworld. Today, thankfully, the demands of her job were unusually light. Her near-rape in the alleyway had left her exhausted and in need of some time to think. She had a heavy bandage on her left cheek, but luckily the wound had not gone very deep. When asked about it, she would laugh and answer, “You should see the other guys!” And, she thought, you should. We left them knocked out cold, hogtied, and

half-naked. After chatting with colleagues and checking her e-mail, Barbara logged into the police department’s internal network. She used a password that she had cajoled from her father, the police commissioner. There was nothing about seven men found in an alleyway with incriminating photos. No reports from the sheriff’s department or private security services. She called two friends in the police department – nothing.

She waited for the police to call the special Batgirl hotline, which was directed to her cellphone. It never rang.

Barbara next checked the DMV database for the license plate number of the white van. Nothing. Nor any variant of it.

Her final search was for the word “supergirl”. Most of the hits were silly superheroine websites. But she found one mention at the end of a long news article about a flood, dated a year earlier. “The waters were rising, and neither Cletus nor I can swim,” Mrs Beauregard said, huddling under a blanket at the shelter. “We was just about to drown. All of a sudden we sees this girl fly by. She picked

us up and left us on safe ground. Don’t know how she did it. Must’ve been some kind of supergirl.” Her husband confirmed the account: “Yep. A supergirl. We yelled up at her, ‘Thanks, supergirl!’ ” Experts say that hallucinations of this type are common among survivors of natural disasters. “They can’t explain their survival. So they make up a supernatural story, of course with no basis in reality,”

explained Dr Laura Mintz, Professor of Psychology at …

“OK, Supergirl,” Barbara thought, “you can fly, you can kick-box, you used to save flood victims, and now you want to stop rapists. Welcome to the team. But how can I find you?” On her way home, Barbara stopped her motorcycle by the alley from the previous night. In daylight it was isolated and dirty, but not at all threatening. She found no trace of the night’s happenings – the

van was gone, as was the students’ clothing, and the rope used by the men. There were one or two dark spots on the ground that might have been bloodstains. She saw a crumpled envelope under the chain link fence. It was the envelope she had left behind, embossed with the bat emblem. The photos she had taken were missing. Instead she found a photo of herself,

tied to the fence with her costume undone and the gangleader fondling her breasts. On the back was a scrawled message: “Next time we fuck you. And Supergirl too.”


Three weeks later, Barbara and her father attended a formal dress ball at the elegant van Elsen residence. Barbara had visited this house many times as a girl, to play with Annaliese, the owners’ only daughter. The tomboyish, redheaded daughter of the police commissioner and the gawky, straw-haired daughter of

the president of Gotham National Bank would race each other through the rose gardens and make paper dolls on the floor of the huge ballroom. They had not spoken since they were twelve. That was when Barbara’s mother was abducted, raped and murdered by mob bosses seeking revenge against her father. A videotape of Mary Gordon’s last hours had been delivered to their house, and Barbara had watched it in its entirety, twice, before her father came home, discovered it and locked it away. The trauma left Barbara angry and withdrawn. She went

through her teenage years friendless and sullen, entirely focused on preparing her body and mind for a career as a solitary crimefighter. Meanwhile, Annaliese had blossomed into a tall, blonde beauty with an endless stream of boyfriends. She planned to be a fashion model, but her parents had lost all contact with her while she was traveling

through Europe after her college graduation. The van Elsens were overjoyed when their missing daughter returned to Gotham City two years later. She was accompanied by a handsome, sophisticated aristocrat, Prince Anton von Unheil, whom she had married in a civil ceremony in Europe. A lavish church wedding was planned for Gotham Cathedral. But tragedy again struck the van Elsen household when both parents died of a mysterious illness within a few weeks

of her return. Annaliese, their only daughter, and Anton jointly inherited their vast wealth and their estate. Now, six months later, Annaliese was hosting a party to introduce her new husband to Gotham society. There was whispering in some circles that it was inappropriate for the daughter to celebrate so soon

after her parents’ passing, but everyone was eager to see the beautiful local girl who’d been missing for so long, not to mention her mysterious, noble partner.

“Come, Barbara, let’s say hello to our hosts,” the commissioner said, offering Barbara his arm and steering her towards the ballroom. Attractive men and women in evening dress, the wealthy and powerful of Gotham society, stood chatting and laughing around the edge of the dance floor. A few couples twirled to graceful waltzes played by a string quartet, its members drawn from the Gotham Philharmonic Orchestra. Servants, the men in tuxedoes, the women in short black dresses with white collars, black stockings and high heels, circulated the

room with drinks and hors d’oeuvres. As she glided through the white, gilded ballroom doors on her father’s arm, Barbara noticed that her cleavage, as revealed by her daring low-cut black silk gown, was attracting the hungry stares of all of

the men present, and the envy of many of the women. “Good”, she thought, “it will distract their attention from the scar on my cheek.” Annaliese was wearing a bright red strapless gown. A cloud of blonde hair framed her glowing face and cascaded onto her bare shoulders in tiny ringlets. “My God, Barbara, it’s been so long!” she squealed,

taking both of Barbara’s hands excitedly. Barbara could smell her fashionable perfume as they air-kissed. “Barbara, Commissioner, this is Prince Anton”, she said, turning to her husband.

“Delighted to meet you both”, he said, smiling warmly. He was about forty, Barbara guessed, shorter than Annaliese and taller than Barbara. Prince Anton shook the Commissioner’s hand and then brought Barbara’s to his lips. She blushed, flattered by his old-world charm, but as he lowered her hand and she got a good look at his face, a lump

formed in her throat and her heart started beating rapidly.

The dark hair, the razor-sharp eyes. This was the man from the alley. He was looking at her cheek with a satisfied grin. He knew who she was. “Annaliese, darling, would you release me from your sweet bonds long enough to let me dance with the lovely Miss Gordon?” Anton nodded towards Barbara’s father and added, “Commissioner, I assure you we

shall both be on our best behavior.”

“Oh, I can trust Barbara”, Annaliese answered with a giggle. “She’s one of my oldest and dearest friends.”

The Prince took Barbara in his arms and twirled her onto the dance floor, as the orchestra played a slow waltz.

“Snake”, she hissed, forcing the words out of her still constricted throat. “You should be in prison now, getting fucked in the ass.”

“There will be time later to hear your fantasies, Barbara,” Anton replied, clearly enjoying the moment.

“I should kick you in the balls right now. Then I’ll tell Annaliese about what you like to do at night.” She could feel the anger welling up within her, pulsing.

He moved his hand from her hip to her back, and pressed her body closer to his. He lowered his voice. “Annaliese enjoys many of the same things I do. Especially at night.”

She was speechless for a moment. She had to stay on the attack. “Oh really? Does she like to fuck chained-up girls, or boys?”

“That depends,” Anton said, with a broad smile. “What’s your preference?”

Barbara felt off-balance. He was getting the better of her, mentally and physically. “You’re going to pay for this, Anton.”

“I don’t pay for pussy, Barbara, I take it,” he answered, now deadly serious, his eyes burning into hers. “Especially from little superheroines who are in way over their heads.”

The music stopped. Barbara disengaged herself and fled the dance floor, ignoring Anton’s chuckling request for another dance. She needed time to think, to plan.


She decided to go to the ladies’ room to clear her head. It was on a lower level, down a carpeted staircase. At the foot of the stairs she met a small blonde woman, who smiled and said “Hi, Barbara!” touching her arm lightly. It took a moment for Barbara to recognize Linda Danvers, a postdoctoral fellow in

physics at Gotham University. They knew one another from Linda’s occasional visits to the library, but had never exchanged more than pleasantries. “Oh – hi, Linda,” Barbara replied, her mind elsewhere. She looked again at Linda, and was impressed, and more than a little jealous. Linda wore a sleeveless form-hugging white mini-dress that barely reached the middle of her thighs, below which white, patterned silk stockings showed off her shapely legs. No wonder Barbara didn’t recognize her. Normally Linda shuffled into the library in a loose

sweatshirt, jeans, and thick horn-rimmed glasses.

“Hey, what happened?” Linda asked, running a small, delicate finger down Barbara’s cheek. Something about Linda looked familiar. “You should see the other guy,” Barbara said, distractedly. The joke was getting really old, she thought. And everyone can still see the mark. Yet another reason the party was turning into a disaster. When

I get back I’ll tell Daddy I’m ready to go, she decided. On her way back from the ladies’ room, Barbara fell into a trap door in the landing of the staircase and slid down a long, spiral chute. As she flailed her arms and legs, trying to stop her descent, her high-heeled shoes came off and clattered down the chute below her. She slid on her back, then on her stomach. At the bottom, she was caught by a burly man, who held her tightly while another man snapped cuffs on her wrists and ankles and stuffed a ball-gag in her mouth. Both wore tuxedoes – they had been serving drinks in the ballroom just a few minutes earlier. Barbara struggled, and managed to score a

hit with her stockinged feet on the second man’s chin. He stepped back as the first man, holding her with a grip of iron, smashed her body against the wall. “Mmmmpf!” she shouted in pain. The men now held her, horizontal and immobile, one with his arms locked under her armpits and the other holding her calves in his huge, powerful hands. They carried her down

a dark corridor, to a large, dim room with chains hanging from the ceiling and from brackets in the stone walls. They set her on her feet, lifted her arms and attached her handcuffs to a hanging chain. Two of the serving women approached her. One produced a knife and cut the shoulder-straps of her dress, which fell noiselessly to her feet. The other cut off Barbara’s black lace bra and panties. Finally the men lifted her legs, still clad in black silk stockings, until she was bent double, and attached her ankle-cuff chain to the same chain that held her handcuffs. The servants then left the room

silently, with barely a glance at their handiwork. Barbara swung slowly from the ceiling, her thighs rubbing against her breasts, her calves next to her ears. Her sex was split, exposed. Despite the flexibility she had developed from years of yoga and

stretching, the position was extremely painful. She looked around the room. Perhaps a half dozen other women were hanging in the same position, all bound, gagged and naked except for their stockings or garter belts. Every few minutes another woman was brought in, bound, stripped, and hung like the others. As the women tried, vainly, to make themselves more comfortable, the room filled with the sound of their rattling chains and occasional stifled groans. There were two tables, topped with black padded leather, in the centre of the room, and various hooks, chains and wooden frames attached to the walls. In one corner was a pile of discarded dresses,

lingerie and crinolines. Soon she counted twenty women hanging around her. All were in their late teens or twenties. She saw Dinah Lance, whose husband was a detective in the Gotham police. Linda Danvers swung not far away from Barbara, her white-stockinged legs framing her pretty face. She saw some of her former classmates from the elite Gotham School for Girls, like Marina Schreck, daughter of the department store magnate, and

Helena Wayne, heiress to the Wayne family fortune.

Prince Anton walked in, still wearing his dinner jacket, his undone bowtie hanging from his neck. He smiled, surveying the cream of Gotham’s womanhood as they swayed slowly in his basement.

“Hello, ladies,” he said, with the same horny self-confidence he had displayed three weeks earlier in the alleyway. “At this moment,” he continued, “fifty feet above us, your parents, your husbands, your boyfriends are being knocked out with gas. They’ll wake up thirty-six hours from now, snug in their own beds. That’s

when they’ll start wondering where their daughters, wives and girlfriends are. But by that point, you’ll be long gone.”

Sharp intakes of breath around the room – if the women hadn’t been gagged, they would have gasped, then screamed. Instead Barbara was surrounded with muffled cries and sobs, and the rattling of chains. “My private jet is sitting fueled and ready on the airstrip of this estate. The cabin has plush leather seats, which will hold those of you who’ve been selected for – let’s call it my in-flight

entertainment. The rest of you will have a somewhat cozier journey, chained side-by-side in the cargo hold.” More groans and rattling chains.

“Struggle all you want, girls. By the time we’re through with you, you’ll be as mild and obedient as kittens. Just as the client ordered.” Anton wandered through the room, surveying his prey casually, teasingly, like a child slowly perusing a long awaited toy. He pulled on Marina Schreck’s nipples, then ran his finger slowly up Barbara’s

slit, staring into her eyes as he placed his finger in his mouth and tasted her juices. “No Supergirl to save you now, is there, Barbara,” he remarked, then moved on to fondle another captive body.

He felt his way into Linda Danvers’ cunt, then stopped. “Hmm, that’s interesting,” he said. “You know, I always knew male physicists didn’t get any. But I never thought I’d find a hot blonde female physicist who’s still a virgin. Or any hot blonde, for that


Barbara felt embarrassed and humiliated, for Linda. But Linda was looking calmly at Anton, with a steady gaze. Anton signaled to the servants, who were standing against the walls with their arms crossed. Two of the men came forth and detached Linda from her ceiling chain. They laid her on her back on the padded table in the middle of the room, perhaps three feet from where Barbara hung. Two of the serving women bound Linda to the table with leather straps that ran above and below her breasts and across her waist,

and attached her handcuffs to a ring on the edge of the table, behind and below her head. Then they released her ankle cuffs. Meanwhile Anton was undressing. His body was compact and muscular. “A virgin physicist – can’t have that, can we?” he asked, dropping his briefs to release his erection. Eight inches, Barbara thought, or maybe ten. And thick. He mounted the table and lifted Linda’s legs up over his shoulders, then began probing her soft sex with his prodigious member. Linda looked to one side as she lay on the table, not

offering resistance to his intrusions, as if she could. “Mmmm, you have a tight one”, he grunted, as he forced himself into Linda’s cunt. He was moving faster now, increasingly desperate, finding the gates to paradise closed to his entreaties. He took her

calves and separated her legs, trying to adjust his angle of attack. Now he let her legs fall and grabbed her upper arms, seeking purchase in his unceasing assault on her body. Linda lifted her legs and wrapped them around Anton’s waist, and pivoted her hips, throwing Anton to one side and onto the floor. Her arms were suddenly free, her handcuffs broken. The straps binding her

to the table snapped like cellophane. She grabbed her gag and pulled it out of her mouth with one hand.

How could she be so strong, Barbara wondered, then gasped. Of course – how could I have missed it – Linda is Supergirl … “Game over, assholes!” Linda shouted, as Anton’s henchmen rushed towards her. She felled them in a whirl of arms and legs. Now two more charged into the room, submachine guns at the ready. Annaliese van

Elsen, still in her red formal gown, accompanied them wielding a machine pistol. Barbara closed her eyes – brave Linda’s rebellion was about to end, horribly. Staccato gunfire echoed around the room, and was followed by gasps and shouts. Barbara opened her eyes to see Linda grabbing her attackers’ guns, twisting the barrels and tossing them aside. An elbow and a

swift kick felled two men. Finally, she grabbed Annaliese’s shoulders, and slammed the elegantly dressed woman to the floor. The room fell silent. Anton, Annaliese, and perhaps eight servants, men and women, were sprawled on the floor and against the wall, unconscious. Linda lost no time kneeling and securing the arms and legs

of the various henchmen with strips of metal that she tore off the nearby table. Then she chained Anton and Annaliese to the wall. Linda removed Barbara’s gag, released her from her bonds and lowered her gently to the floor. She had lost all feeling in her legs, and could barely stand. “Linda, how – how did you –“ Barbara started to

ask, rubbing her aching leg muscles. She noticed red marks covering Linda’s upper chest and breasts. “The bullets – they – “

“Bounced off me. At close range it sometimes stings a little”, Linda answered, as she set about freeing the other women.


“… Super strength, resistance to attacks, super speed, flying. And x-ray vision. That about wraps it up. Oh, and heat vision. I think that’s it.” Linda Danvers and Barbara Gordon were at a corner table in a café just off the Gotham University campus. Barbara was glad to finally be able to sit down and talk with Supergirl. They had defeated Anton and

his henchmen, but there were many more criminals in Gotham City. There was no telling how much they could do once they joined forces.

Barbara had one more question. It was awkward, especially in a public place, but she was burning with curiosity. “So when Anton couldn’t, uh, penetrate you, that was because of –“

“My ‘maidenhead of steel’, of course. Bullets ricochet off my skin – do you think some guy’s rubbery dick can pop my cherry?” They both laughed. Linda was a bright, friendly companion. Barbara had had no close friends since her mother’s death. There had been a few brief, unsatisfying romantic encounters with men – little more than one-night stands,

really. After only ten minutes drinking coffee together, Linda’s engaging personality was drawing Barbara out of her shell, making life fun again. At the same time, Barbara felt intimidated by Supergirl’s many abilities. All the work she had invested in developing her strength, agility, reflexes, now seemed pointless. Who needs a Batgirl when there’s

a Supergirl in town? Barbara also couldn’t help envying Linda’s small, exquisitely shaped body. Even now, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, with her blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, Linda was attracting the attention of

every man in the small café. Barbara, who usually drew her own share of turned heads with her flaming red hair and curvaceous figure, guessed Linda wasn’t wearing a bra under her t-shirt.

“My one weakness,” Linda continued, “is to …”

Barbara’s cellphone rang. It was Larry Lance, a contact of hers in the police department. “Wait a sec, I have to take this.”

“Hey Barb, I got some news”, Larry said. “The DA’s dropping the case.”

“Wha –“ Barbara was stunned. “Well, first, your story about the dungeon didn’t check out. When Bobby went over there Sunday morning, this Anthony guy opens the door, lets him in, nice as anything. He and his girlfriend aren’t tied up

or nothing – they’re eating breakfast, chirping around like little lovebirds. So Bobby asks to see his basement, and he says sure, and shows him his rec room. Ping pong, pool, whatever. No dungeon.”

“Yes, but –” The monstrous prince was back on the streets. “Plus none of the witnesses you gave us wanted to testify. No one returned messages. Some slammed down the phone. You gotta realize, this is a pretty powerful guy, and these girls are students,

professionals, society women. Cream of the crop. Just imagine what his lawyers might do to them on the stand.”

Barbara waited a moment, then asked quietly, “How about your wife, Larry?”

Larry’s friendly tone became strained, abrupt. “Leave my wife out of this.”

“OK. Never mind. Thanks Larry.” Barbara hung up.

“Looks like we’re going to have to fight Anton alone,” Barbara said.

“Good, let’s do it,” said Linda, no longer vivacious, but serious. Focused.

“It won’t be easy. He knows our secret identities. So we’ll have to be careful, and keep track of each other. Good thing I brought these.” Barbara pulled some small objects out of her purse. “This one is a homing beacon. When you apply pressure, it sends out an emergency signal, which the other one of us can track.” Next she pointed to an object that looked like a small locket on a necklace

chain. “This is a nano-camera. It sends an encrypted video feed that is only accessible to you or me.”

Linda looked over the gadgets, impressed. Maybe I’ve got something to contribute too, muscle girl, Barbara thought.

“Let’s meet tonight at 11, outside the Van Elsen place,” Barbara continued. “We’ve got to do some surveillance. Meanwhile I’ll search some databases to learn more about who this guy is, where he came from.”

“Good plan. See you then”, said Linda, picking up her handbag.


As she settled back into her desk chair at the library, Barbara heard a short, insistent beep. Linda must have pressed her homing beacon by mistake while installing it, she thought. The video feed from

Linda’s camera-necklace flickered into place on Barbara’s computer screen.

The screen showed two men walking into Linda’s office at the physics department. Barbara recognized them from the alleyway, and the party, and the basement. Her blood froze in her veins.

“What do you want?” Linda’s voice said, from somewhere off the edge of the screen. The angle of the picture rose as she stood up. “You’re coming with us, Supergirl,” said one of the men. The other put a large, heavy briefcase on Linda’s desk. He opened it and took out a device with a small metal reservoir and a tube, capped with a

nozzle, which he pointed at Linda.

“What’s that? Get out of my office,” Linda said with annoyance. The man pressed a button on his device, releasing a cloud of greenish mist. The picture on Barbara’s computer screen shook, then pivoted around wildly, showing the wall and the floor. Linda must have

fallen to her hands and knees. Barbara heard her coughing, wheezing.

“It’s atomized kryptonite gas, Supergirl. Get up. Like I said, you’re coming with us.”

“And like you said the other night, game over,” said the other man. He didn’t laugh. Their voices were totally calm, and menacing. The men came back into view, still surrounded by green mist, as Linda struggled to her feet. One of them pointed a gun at her. The other put his kryptonite sprayer back in the briefcase, took out a green,

metallic donut-shaped object, and brought it past the lens of the camera. There was a snap as he shut the ring around Linda’s neck. Again the picture wavered. Linda’s breath became labored, hoarse.

“You … bastards …” Linda whispered. Barbara remembered she hadn’t finished describing her weaknesses at the café. “Hey, what’s this?” the man asked after he’d finished securing the collar. The picture from the video feed blurred, showing the man’s face in close-up, then his hand. There was a snap, as he broke the

necklace chain, then a view of the floor as he turned the locket over and examined it.

“Camera,” said the second man, off-screen.

The first man’s face filled the screen again. “Batgirl, if you’re watching this, we’re coming for you next. You understand me? We’re – coming – for – you – next.”

The other man laughed. The picture bounced around crazily again as they threw the miniature camera to the floor. Then it went black and silent.


Barbara rushed to the window of her office, which overlooked the front entrance of the physics department. After a moment she saw two large, dark-haired men and a small blonde woman leave the building. One of the men carried a heavy briefcase, while the other held his hand in his leather jacket, pressing something against Linda’s back. The three walked very quickly. Barbara ran down the stairs, not sure what

she would do if she caught them, but only arrived in time to see the back door of a white van slam shut. The van roared out of the parking lot and onto the open road. Five minutes later, Batgirl sped out of a side street near campus on her motorcycle, making plans as she went. A GPS device mounted on the handlebars kept track of Linda’s location. The van appeared to be headed towards the highway that led to the van Elsen estate – no surprise there. Taking back roads, Batgirl made her way to a point on the highway well ahead of the van. She parked her cycle on the median,

crouched on the seat, and waited. “Jump, kick, kick”, she thought to herself, her heart beating in her throat. “Jump, kick kick.” As the van passed she leapt, grabbing onto the top of the driver’s-side door. In the same motion she curled her body up, then struck her boot-heels hard at the window, shattering the glass. With another

kick she propelled herself through the glass, her boots striking the head of the driver and sending him sprawling, unconscious, onto the passenger seat. She immediately pivoted towards the back of the van, bracing herself with her left hand on a seat-back, taking the wheel with her right and swerving the van violently off the road and onto the shoulder. Two men in the back of the van, Linda gagged, the green collar around her neck, with her hands tied behind her back to the side of the van and her legs, bound at the ankles, curled beneath her. Batgirl

flicked the gear into “park”, and the van juddered to a stop. The men were knocked off balance, and fumbled for their guns. Batgirl jumped into the back of the van and attacked the closer one, pressing her thumb into his wrist, causing him to drop the gun. She slammed the heel of her other hand into his face, jerking his head backwards. Then a right hook and down he went. The other gave up on his gun and grabbed Batgirl by the upper arms, wrestling her to the floor of the van. She tried to get counter-play but he was extremely strong, and relentless; pinning her shoulders to the floor, he rammed her abdomen repeatedly with his knee. He held her right shoulder

with his left hand, pressed on her stomach with his right knee, and slapped her face back and forth with his right hand, then formed a fist for further blows. Batgirl brought her legs up and wrapped them around the man’s right leg, then rolled him over and onto his back and landed a few punches of her own. They rolled back and forth on the floor of the van for a

few minutes before Batgirl managed a sharp hand-chop to his throat, knocking him out. Batgirl pushed the man off of her body and lay on her back, exhausted and panting heavily, on the floor of the now silent van. Are the criminals getting stronger or is she, at the age of 24, getting

weaker? Batgirl wondered.

She remembered that Linda was watching, and she forced herself to sit up – she didn’t want Linda to see her in a moment of weakness.

“That should do them for now!” Batgirl said brightly, and she set about freeing Linda from her bonds. Thankfully, Linda was still dressed, and looked unharmed, though she also looked fatigued, haggard.

As Batgirl removed Linda’s gag, Linda said, hoarsely, “Nice fighting, champ! Wish I knew how to fell three men like that!” “Not that you’d need to learn”, Batgirl thought, trying to hide her bitterness. Batgirl carefully removed the kryptonite collar, put it in the lead briefcase and closed it. Linda breathed deeply several

times, then freed herself from her bonds. Her face brightened, and her skin regained its healthy glow.

She’s terrified of this kryptonite, thought Batgirl, and understandably so. At least that’s one thing I have on her. “So this stuff –“

“Neutralizes my powers. Painful in small doses, fatal in large,” Linda said.

“But how many people know what it does to you?”

“Until a half hour ago, I would have said just my cousin and me,” Linda snapped. She obviously didn’t want to talk about it. Wait, thought Barbara – she has a cousin?

They dragged the three men out of the van and tied them to trees in the woods next to the road. “Hey, let’s pull down their pants!” Batgirl said, giggling, and Linda happily joined in. Grabbing the belt of one of the unconscious thugs and yanking his pants downwards, Batgirl joked, “Hey, mine’s got a

tiny little dick!”

“Not as small as mine!” Linda said, and they both laughed. But then Linda stopped laughing, and looked closer at the man’s member. It seemed unnatural, made of plastic rather than flesh – a hanging dildo.

“Robots.” Linda said. X-ray vision doesn’t lie. Barbara took a knife from her utility belt. With trepidation, because it still seemed like mutilating a human being, she cut open one of the men’s arms. Out fell a tangle of

wires, embedded in a kind of putty.

“Interesting”, Linda said. “From farther away, their insides looked lifelike enough.”

“Why such attention to detail?” Batgirl asked. “Did whoever built them know about your powers?” Neither one knew the answer. Batgirl thought back over their previous encounters with the robots. No wonder they were so strong, Batgirl thought, and no wonder they kept breaking their ropes and chains after we left. And no wonder they were so disciplined, and didn’t put a hand on Linda just now. Well, this should finally put you guys out of commission, she thought, as she carefully severed the head of each one from his body with

her knife. They walked back to the road, deep in thought. Until now Batgirl had thought of Anton as a brutal white slaver, like many she had battled in the past – albeit one with more money, more disciplined troops

and higher-class tastes than most. Now she found herself up against a foe with access to an advanced technology, one she did not know how to defeat. As they climbed the slight embankment next to the road, they were engulfed in green mist. Batgirl’s eyes and throat stung, and she instinctively covered her face with her yellow cape. Next to her, Linda

fell to her hands and knees, coughing loudly, then gasping for breath.

Lowering her cape, Batgirl saw Prince Anton, holding a kryptonite atomizer, flanked by four of his robot-thugs armed with machine guns.

“Nicely done, ladies,” he said. “You two really are a handful. Maybe next time you’ll bring backup.”


Barbara and Linda were bound naked to a metal frame in the large, elegant ballroom of the Van Elsen residence. Barbara still wore her purple cowl, Linda wore a kryptonite collar, and both wore black

leather ball-gags. They were next to each other, in a standing position, with their arms outstretched and their wrists chained to the horizontal cross-beam atop the metal frame. The height of the beam was such that Barbara could just barely rest the balls of her feet on the ground, but doing so sent pain shooting through her shoulders and arms. Sometimes she could stand on her toes, relieving the pressure on her upper body, but doing so for more than a few minutes was painful for her feet and calves. Linda, who was shorter than Barbara, could not rest on her feet at all, but

instead hung from the beam stoically with her toes scraping the floor. Her breathing was fast and shallow, constrained by the kryptonite collar on her neck. Standing against a side wall were six male robots and nine female ones. Under Annaliese’s supervision, the females had spent the last two hours washing, oiling and perfuming the two superheroines’ bodies. They had trimmed each one’s pubic hair into a small, neat triangle and pierced their nipples, inserting small platinum studs in Barbara’s and kryptonite alloy studs in Linda’s. Now Annaliese stood before

them proudly, wearing a black leather corset that barely contained her ample bosom, as well as black thong panties and thigh-length high heeled black leather boots. Prince Anton walked into the room, wearing a well-tailored grey business suit with a matching light blue tie and handkerchief, a coiled bullwhip in one hand. Annaliese immediately fell kneeling onto the

floor next to him. Keeping her eyes demurely cast downwards, she rested her hands lightly on her thighs. Now I understand that relationship, Barbara thought.

Anton surveyed the two captives. “Excellent work, my friends, thank you,” he said, running his finger over Barbara’s right breast, then down her side to her waist. “The master will be most pleased.”

He took Barbara’s chin in his hand and spoke to her, his face a few inches from hers. She could smell his expensive cologne. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Batgirl,” he said. “I really should thank you for all the work you’ve done. You’ve broken up some of the biggest crime syndicates in this town. Now there’s no one to

stop my taking total control of prostitution, drugs, gambling and loan-sharking in Gotham City. And after that, banking, real estate, the media, and of course politics. I should give you a bonus.”

He laughed, and roughly pushed her chin to one side. “But right now I’m not feeling that generous to meddlesome cunts. Instead I’ll just let you keep your pretty little mask on. It amuses me.” He went over to Linda and caressed the bottoms of her small, firm breasts. “As for you, Professor, that delicate hymen of yours is due for some rough breakage, very, very soon. I guess your career in

crimefighting is over before it started. The streets of Gotham are no place for pretty girls like you.” Again, a satisfied chuckle.

“And now, girls, it is time to meet your master.” Anton signaled with his hand towards the wall facing the two captives. A medieval Flemish tapestry rose to the ceiling, revealing behind it a large LCD screen. Above the screen was a small, dark window, apparently holding a camera. Anton moved to Barbara’s right. Annaliese

knelt to Linda’s left, facing the screen, completing the tableau. A picture flickered onto the screen. It resolved itself to reveal a man wearing an iron mask and a green hood. Barbara felt a knot form in the pit of her stomach as she beheld an enemy she had often heard

dark rumors about, but never seen in person. She struggled to fight back tears of sheer terror.

“Speak, Anton,” said Dr Doom, in a voice that sounded like gravel falling into a deep bucket.

“As you requested, Master, I present Batgirl and Supergirl, naked and in chains. I shall now inaugurate their submission to Doom.”

“Proceed,” Doom said. Anton removed his suit jacket and moved behind Barbara. His whip whistled through the air and fell on her right shoulder blade with a sickening crack.

“Mmmmmf!!” Barbara tried to scream, jerking sharply away from the blow and rattling the metal frame. Another blow hit her left shoulder blade, causing her to jerk to the right. He administered eight more lashes, each producing a throbbing, stinging ribbon of pain across her upper back. When he finished, Barbara hung weakly from her chains, panting and covered in sweat. She felt

streams of blood making their way down her back and onto her thighs.

Hardly pausing for breath, Anton started to whip Linda. Each blow produced a loud crack and a strangled “Gmf!” from Linda, who because of her collar could not breathe deeply. Barbara watched as Linda jerked in her chains, her face red and her back criss-crossed with bright red stripes. Looking down, Barbara saw Annaliese watching Anton with bright-eyed admiration, shifting in

her kneeling position slightly. Don’t stain the floor with your flowing cunt-juices, dear, Barbara thought.

Doom watched the whole scene through the video-hook-up, seemingly calm and stoic, though of course it was impossible to tell if he was laughing, grimacing or yawning behind his iron mask.

Anton finished his tenth lash of Linda, and the room fell silent for a minute.

Finally, Doom spoke. “You have done as I asked, Anton and slave Annaliese. Prepare the captives for my pleasure. I shall receive them in three weeks’ time.” The screen flickered and went blank. Anton, still holding the whip, approached Annaliese and held out his hand to her, helping her rise to her feet. They embraced and kissed passionately, celebrating the praise they had received from their

cruel and unforgiving master.


With crisp efficiency the robots removed Barbara and Linda from the whipping frame. Barbara’s arms and shoulders were stiff with pain, while the stripes left by Anton’s whip throbbed with fire across her back. The robots affixed a steel band around her waist. Her hands were cuffed in front of her, and a chain ran from them to the waist-band. Her feet were strapped into shoes with three-inch stiletto heels, which made it hard for her to run and, not by coincidence, displayed her body attractively. At the top of the shoes were steel ankle-cuffs, which were connected to each other by a short chain. Another

chain connected this one to the band at her waist. The cold links of this chain ran through her bright red pubic hair. Next to Barbara, Linda was being attired in the same fashion, except that her waist-band was made of kryptonite alloy. The radiation made Linda shudder and pant rapidly, but after a few minutes she seemed to regain control of herself. Barbara marveled at Linda’s stoicism, then realized with a start that the day’s ordeal, starting with the kryptonite gas attack in her office that afternoon, may have been the

first time in Linda’s life that she experienced physical pain of any kind. As the robots set about their work, Annaliese knelt before Anton, removed his belt, and lowered his pants, freeing his rampant cock. Purring, she rubbed it against her cheeks and forehead, then opened her lips and started sucking on it vigorously, massaging his balls and the lower part of his shaft with her long, slender fingers. Anton moaned and forced his cock deeper in her mouth, resting his hands on her bare shoulders. He removed the rest of his clothes and looked around the elegant ballroom in triumph, surveying the two defeated superheroines in chains, the team of high-tech robots silently doing his

bidding, the beautiful blonde heiress skillfully pleasuring his dick. Suddenly Anton grabbed Annaliese’s bobbing head and disengaged her from him. At his signal, a robot disconnected Linda’s handcuff chain from her waist belt and re-attached it to the metal cross-bar. “The

gag too,” Anton said, and the robot removed her gag.

“Good. I want to hear her scream.,” said Anton, moving behind Linda, his erection slick and glistening.

“Time to make you a woman, Superbitch,” he snarled, and grabbing Linda’s hips plunged his cock deep inside her. “Aiiii – eee –– eee!” Linda’s screams came out strangled and hoarse, her breathing still constricted by the kryptonite collar. “NN – no!” She twisted and squirmed, rattling her chains. Anton pumped away at

her remorselessly, finally granted access to her innermost sanctum. A trickle of blood came down the inside of her left thigh. After three more powerful thrusts Anton went rigid, letting loose a strangled cry of his own. Then the room fell silent. Anton withdrew, his deflating cock streaked red with the blood of Linda’s

deflowering. The red drops on Linda’s thighs were joined by the white of Anton’s semen.


During their training, Barbara and Linda were kept in cells beneath the van Elsen residence. Besides Linda, Barbara counted sixteen other prisoners. Many of them – including Dinah Lance and Helena Wayne –

had been at the ball a few days earlier. They must have been recaptured soon after she and Linda had freed them. Each cell was small and very clean,, perhaps six feet on a side, with a mattress on the concrete floor and a stainless steel toilet. The only light came through a small barred window at the top of the

thick steel door. They wore their chains at all times, except when their arms or legs had to be repositioned for punishment or training. Barbara continued to wear her Batgirl cowl. Each day had a standard routine. Some food – a piece of bread, some fruit, a cup of water – would be pushed through a slot at the bottom of the cell door at dawn. Fifteen minutes later the prisoners would

be gagged and taken to the central showers by their female robot attendants. Under Annaliese’s supervision, the women would be washed and their skin treated with lotions and perfumes. The morning was spent in abuse, and the afternoon in training. The abuse was intended to break them from any thought of resistance. It was administered by the male and female robots, though Anton and Annaliese sometimes participated out of pure sadistic joy. They used whips, canes, electric shocks, scalding with hot wax. The different techniques were carefully chosen not to leave permanent marks on the victim’s body, with balms and salves immediately applied to any welts or burn marks. Nevertheless, by the end of the first week, every part of Barbara’s body felt raw, irritated, sensitive, as if even the

slightest touch would bring almost unimaginable levels of pain.

Punishments involved a repetition and intensification of the morning’s abuse, while rewards might include a piece of chocolate, an extra ration of food, or being ordered to abuse another slave. The afternoon’s training was designed to mold the women into willing and capable sex slaves. Barbara became intimately acquainted with Anton’s dick, which she spent hours caressing, licking, sucking, and massaging, learning the many different ways to coax it towards orgasm. She also practiced on the robots’ unresponsive plastic cocks. She was taught to control her vaginal and anal muscles, to expand and

contract them in rhythmic patterns so as to maximize male pleasure. She was taught the proper way to walk, to kneel, to bat her eyelashes sensuously.

Barbara had learned quickly, and by the end of the week she could see burning hatred in the eyes of the prisoners she had, as a consequence, been obliged to discipline. She had even whipped Linda twice. In the evenings, they were washed again and returned to their cells, where those who had shown the proper level of obedience were granted another small ration of food. Barbara spent the day feeling hungry,

weak, and light-headed, desperate for food and for even a moment’s respite from the pain, the beating, the rape. Some nights they would be allowed to sleep, exhausted, until the next morning brought a new round of torments. At other times Anton would have a handful of the prisoners brought to his quarters for the evening. He would sit at the large oak dining table, eating his specially prepared dinner by candlelight off the van Elsen family’s centuries-old china and silver, while Annaliese knelt beside him eating scraps of food from his hand. A few prisoners would be chained in various positions around the dining room walls or above the table. Between courses, one of them would be attached to a hook next to the

dining table and whipped. After dinner, a few prisoners would be brought to the library and hung by their wrists from the ceiling. Their legs would be bent at the knees, their knees slightly splayed, and their ankles bound behind their backs. With the bound, naked women swaying slowly around them, Anton and Annaliese would monitor Anton’s business empire by phone, fax and e-mail. Every half hour or so, Anton would push his chair

back from his desk and use a remote control to lower a prisoner’s pussy onto his erect cock, or lower her further so she could pleasure him with her mouth. During these sessions, Barbara tried to learn as much as possible about Anton’s global operations. His activities ranged from white slavery to drugs, extortion, arms dealing and terrorist finance. He had branches in major cities throughout Europe and North America, and seemed to be aggressively expanding in Asia and the Middle East. She heard him dealing with, and threatening, presidents, prime ministers

and CEOs around the world, and she heard him carrying through on his threats.

After worktime came playtime. Anton and Annaliese were continuously devising new ways to use the prisoners for their cruel and perverse entertainment. The games and tortures would continue until dawn. In one of their favorite games, which they called “survivor”, three or four prisoners would stand facing each other, with their wrists chained behind them and their ankles chained closely together, on a large block of ice. The block of ice would be surrounded by candles, which slowly melted the ice from the outside in. As the area on which the prisoners could safely stand became smaller, the prisoners would have to crowd together ever more tightly – and would be tempted to shove each other off the block. The winner would get coveted privileges, such as a reduced whipping regimen the following day, or a

piece of chocolate. In another game, called “bicycle”, two prisoners would each be tied spread-eagle to a large wheel. The wheels were attached to a common electric motor. Each wheel had a brake that the prisoner could

control with her right foot. Applying the brake would slow or stop her wheel’s spin, but would make her companion’s wheel spin more quickly. Anton and Annaliese enjoyed subjecting Barbara and Linda to the bicycle. Barbara found it almost impossible to find equilibrium. If she were spinning faster than Linda, Barbara would apply her brake, but would inevitably overdo it and send Linda flying around at a sickening pace. Then Linda would apply her own brake, causing Barbara to spin uncontrollably. Anton and Annaliese enjoyed watching this

spectacle tremendously. Sometimes Anton would stop one of the wheels completely, and fuck its occupant, while her companion spun rapidly inches away from them.


One evening, Barbara was being returned to her cell as Annaliese walked past, making her nightly inspection.

“Leesy?” Barbara asked, using the name she had last called her fifteen years ago. Talking without being asked a direct question was a punishable offense. But it was time for a gamble.

Annaliese stopped and turned around, wide-eyed. “Leesy, can we talk?” Barbara asked. That’s who they were – Leesy and Barb, Best Friends Forever. Annaliese held up her hand to the robot escorting Barbara, and entered the cell. The robot stood silently next to the open cell door, her programming not permitting her to leave until the door was closed

and locked with the prisoner inside.

“What happened to you in Europe?”

Annaliese was silent for a while. “I was … different, then. A girl, really.”

And now you’re a sex slave, thought Barbara. Funny how our career chooses us. But she’d pierced the veil – she had to exploit the opening. “What about Heather and Sandra?” Heather, Sandra and Annaliese were the unchallenged social royalty of the Gotham School for Girls, and then of their class at Gotham University. Barbara had hated them,

while they barely acknowledged her existence. After graduation, the trio had gone backpacking in Europe. Only Annaliese had returned.

Another long silence. Then Annaliese sighed and spoke.

“The three of us had a lot of fun that summer. Everyone was friendly, and boys kept falling all over us. We felt invincible. “Toward the end of the summer we were in Romania, and we had this idea of going to a mountainous region in the west of the country, close to Latveria. All of the guidebooks warned tourists to avoid the

place, but they didn’t say why. When we boarded the bus people gave us these astonished stares, like we were totally insane. We thought it was all very strange and exciting. “The bus wound its way into the mountains. The villages became fewer and poorer, and the landscape grew wild. As the bus crossed a desolate mountain pass, it suddenly jerked to a stop. A squad of armed men

stood in the middle of the road. One of them boarded the bus and waved his rifle, speaking a harsh language that we didn’t recognize. “They lined the passengers up next to the bus. One of the bandits pointed at Heather, Sandra and me with his rifle, motioning us to come with them. As we were led away, the driver and passengers wordlessly

filed back into the bus, and it drove off. None of them protested or lifted a finger to help us. “The bandits tied us with cords and gagged us with greasy rags, and put us in the back of a battered, windowless van. After the van crossed the border into Latverian territory, they took us into a clearing

and spent the rest of the day gang-raping us, one after the other, with the other two forced to watch. “As night fell, they loaded us back into the van and drove to Castle Doom. At the castle gate, the guards paid the bandits their reward for capturing us. Our ropes were replaced with chains, and we were

placed in cells in the castle.

“We were – trained. It was much harsher than anything you’ve experienced here. After six months we were allowed to declare our submission to Doom.” Barbara felt a stab of fear at the pit of her stomach. But there was also something comforting about sitting and chatting with her old friend, late into the quiet night. The two women sat on the mattress,

Barbara with her legs curled underneath her, Annaliese leaning against the wall with her long leather-clad legs crossed at the ankles.

“How many women does Doom have?” Barbara asked. “Oh, they’re always coming and going,” Annaliese replied. “Probably three or four hundred are in the castle at any one time. Some are sold to customers right away, others are on the market for a while. And

he keeps about two hundred for himself.”

“Two hundred!”

“Yes. He has, um, well let’s just say he has very strong needs.” Annaliese shifted on the mattress a little.

“So you, and Heather and Sandra –“ “Heather was sold after about six months, Sandra two months after that. Actually she was given to a client, to cement a strategic alliance. I entertained his guests sometimes, and they sometimes made

handsome offers for me, but Doom refused to sell me,” Annaliese said, with a note of pride.

“Who is Anton?” Their conversation was free and easy now. Barbara wanted to get as much information as possible. “Dr Doom’s empire is really about a dozen separate operations, each headed by a gang leader. Most of the gangs are based around Latveria’s ancient clans. Anton is descended from the old Latverian royal

house. Doom deposed the king and slaughtered most of his family, but he kept Anton alive since he needed his local connections. “Right now, Anton is one of Doom’s favorites,” Annaliese said, again brimming with pride. “The others are scrambling to compete. They have to – there are hardly any young women left in Latveria and the

neighboring border regions, and the few that there are kept by their families under lock and key.”

Barbara tried to contemplate a society stripped of its women. “But doesn’t that – won’t their populations disappear eventually?”

“Latveria’s population has been declining for years. Now it’s in free fall. But Dr Doom doesn’t care, now that he’s perfected his robots.” Barbara started to grasp the enormity of Dr Doom’s evil, and what it was heading towards. A global orgy of drug dealing, arms dealing, white slavery, and organized rape, all under the direction of, and to the benefit of, a handful of powerful men at the controls of an army of hyper-realistic robots. The commanders of the world’s armies and police forces impotent, bribed and blackmailed. And she and

Supergirl were in Dr Doom’s prison in chains. She felt very small, helpless.

Balance, Barbara reminded herself. Keep balance. Keep her talking. “And what about – us ­– ?” “Doom has been following your careers from the beginning. He correctly deduced Supergirl’s vulnerability to kryptonite. When Anton learned I was from Gotham City, he drew up plans to use me to capture the

two of you. Doom approved the plans and loaned me to Anton, along with some of his most advanced robots.” A series of sharp beeps sounded from the front of Annaliese’s corset. “Oops – that’s Anton. Gotta go,” said Annaliese, jumping up from the mattress and pressing a button in her cleavage. She strode out, as

the robot guard closed the door behind her. Barbara sat on the mattress, her head swimming with unanswered questions.


They were again in the grand ballroom. The eighteen prisoners were lined up, naked and in chains. Their gags had been removed. Anton, in his tuxedo, stood at one end of the line holding a riding crop, while Annaliese stood at the other holding a bullwhip, wearing a burgundy satin corset, thong and leather boots. The viewscreen showed Dr Doom sitting on his throne in his green cape and terrifying iron


“Well?” Doom growled. “Master, I present the daughters of the finest families in Gotham City. In a few moments they will board my jet, and in the morning they will be in your presence. But first they wish to state their

submission to your will.”

“Proceed,” said Doom, who looked bored and distracted.

Anton tapped Marina Schreck’s bare shoulder with his crop. Marina stepped forward, her chains rattling. She recited the statement that she and the other prisoners had been trained to make. “I, the slave Marina, submit my body and my soul to Doom,” she said. With another clatter of chains she knelt, then bent

forward and lowered her face to the floor, presenting her white, sinuous back to the camera. Her long black hair splayed outward on the polished wood floor. Anton moved to the next girl in line and tapped her shoulder. She stepped forward. “I, the slave Laura, submit my body and my soul to Doom,” she said in a quavering voice. Then Laura too bowed low to the

floor, her blonde hair flipping forward. So it went along the line, until sixteen young women knelt with their bottoms in the air, their faces on the floor and their bare backs offered to Doom. At last he came to Barbara, who was still wearing her cowl. He tapped her shoulder and she stepped forward. She could barely speak. The weeks of abuse and helplessness had finally overwhelmed her. Her life

had collapsed to a single point.

“I, the slave Batgirl …” she began, in a whisper.

“Louder, slave!” shouted Annaliese, from the other side, and Barbara felt her whip strike a ribbon of searing pain across her shoulder blades.

“Aaah!” Barbara gasped. Then she contained herself, her eyes filling with tears.

“I, the slave Batgirl, submit my body and my soul to Doom,” she said, and knelt.

But Barbara’s ceremony had an extra element. Anton stepped forward and removed her cowl with both hands. Her shining red hair flowed freely over her shoulders.

“What is your name, slave?” asked Anton, his voice calm, cruel and triumphant.

In a small but steady voice, Barbara repeated the extra line they had trained her to recite. “Once I was Barbara Gordon. Now I, the slave Barbara, submit my body and my soul to Doom.”

She lowered her head to the floor, and her red locks fell around her face. At least they can’t see me cry, she thought. She trembled at the totality of her defeat.

“And now, majesty, the most powerful woman on Earth,” Anton announced. Barbara heard Linda’s chains rattle as she stepped forward.

“I, Supergirl, will defeat you, Doom, and spit on your pathetic cock!”

Shocked silence, then a rush of feet. No, Linda, don’t do it, thought Barbara. Don’t get us in trouble! Barbara heard the blows fall on Linda’s body with a series of sickening cracks.

“Unnh! Oooh!” Linda grunted. “Say the words, bitch!” shouted Annaliese. Barbara carefully glanced sideways, keeping her head low, hoping her defiance of the rules would not be noticed in the confusion. Linda was on the ground on all

fours, with Anton, Annaliese, and three or four robots all assaulting her with their whips, canes and feet.

“CEASE!” shouted Doom through the viewscreen, and the room was silent.

“M - Master –“ stuttered Anton. “I abase myself at the effrontery of this one, who shall surely submit to your will in short order, after we …”

Linda was again standing. “Hey, Doom, do you like virgins?” Barbara wanted to grab Linda, to stop her. Don’t ruin it for all of us …

“Speak, slave”, said Doom, rising from his throne, his face concealed but his body a tense coil of rage.

“Well, so does Anton – he broke me like a hammer through glass!”

Again, total silence. Then Doom erupted. “CHILDREN, ARE THE SLAVE’S WORDS TRUE?!!? WAS THE TAKING OF A VIRGIN DENIED TO ME??!!??!!”

Now the robots spoke, in eerie unison. “Yes, she speaks the truth.”

“BRING THE SLAVES ANTON AND ANNALIESE TO ME!!!!” shouted Doom, his mask filling the screen. He raised a bracered arm before the lens, then with a clatter the screen went black. Anton and Annaliese dropped their whips and stood still, knowing resistance was useless. Calmly, efficiently, wordlessly, the male and female robots converged on the two of them, chained their hands and

feet, and carried them out of the house. All the robots left together – Doom’s order had not distinguished among them.

A few minutes later an airplane could be heard roaring into the sky. Then all was silent again. Then Barbara, Linda and the other ex-slaves screamed and sobbed for joy.


A week later, Barbara Gordon and Linda Danvers sat laughing at a back table in the campus coffeehouse, two relaxed, attractive young women in their twenties.

“So how did you know your little performance would work on the Doomster, anyway?” Barbara asked.

“A calculated risk, I guess. I figured him for a control freak. And I knew those types have a virginity fixation.”

“Good work. But we still have a lot of work to do in this town. Partner.” Barbara looked at Linda and smiled.

“OK, count me in, partner,” said Linda, smiling back. “But try and find a criminal who knows something about foreplay next time, OK?” They both laughed. Their coffee was getting cold, and Barbara was about to suggest getting more. Then she noticed Linda staring intently at her own cup. After a few seconds the lukewarm liquid started to bubble and let off steam.