Wonder Woman and the Superheroine Serial Killer - Part 11

“Miss Prince, I don’t know what to say,” Detective Sal Abato says over the phone after she lays out her concerns about Dr. Pascal to him, pleased to be able to share her doubts and suspicions about the man.

“I’m just fuckin’ shocked you didn’t try to contact me sooner about this Dr. Pascal suspect, Agent! If you ask me, it borders on the criminal that you didn’t! You’re withholding evidence in a capital crime, lady! I’m seriously thinking about bringing charges against you and recommending your termination from the IADC!”

“What!” Diana paces her apartment in circles wearing her Wonder Woman costume. All the shades are drawn so no prying eyes can see her in her alternate persona. Her irritation at Abato has turned to stunned disbelief at what she’s hearing from him.

“You heard me, Prince.”

“But...but...I thought you’d be...”

“Pleased? Happy as a clam that you finally decided to let me in on your little secret? Not by a long shot, sister. Goddammit, Prince, we’re supposed to be on the same team here. You’ve got heroines out there getting choked to death while being assfucked, in case you haven’t noticed, lady. And you, well you’re just out there freelancing like it’s all a nice skip, a hop, and a tiptoe through the fuckin’ tulips! That’s exactly why I don’t trust Wonder Woman. Won’t tell us what she’s doing, where she is, what she’s following up on. Nothing! Well, I may have to take it from that stuck up Champion of All Women but I don’t have to take it from you, Agent. So, if I find you’re sitting on leads in this case and not sharing information, I WILL have your badge, Miss Prince. You read me?”

“I didn’t...it wasn’t a sure...nothing I learned seemed to be concrete enough to...” Diana was sputtering and hesitant. This was the absolute last reaction she had expected from the man who sounded so desperate for a lead on her answering machine. She is flabbergasted and at a total loss for words.

“You seem to be having a hard time understanding my point, Agent. Let me be blunt and clear as I can be then,” Abato continues through the tiny speaker, his voice rising in pitch. “I’m the fucking lead investigator, Prince. All facts go through me. Every fucking fact you have. Every fucking tidbit of information. Every interesting little fucking nuance that strikes your razor sharp intellect. You deliver it. I receive it. I make the fucking judgement call on what’s pertinent and what isn’t. Not you. Fucking me! Now that isn’t too hard a concept for you to understand, is it, Agent Prince?”

“Look, Sal. I know you’re upset that things aren’t...”

“Fuck! Are you not hearing me? Are you exceptionally thick, Prince? Because I’m not hearing any ‘Yes sirs’ and ‘No sirs.’ I’m hearing evasions, stalls and justifications for unacceptable actions. Will you or will you not funnel every little fucking fact you have in this case through me or not?”

“Well, of course, Sal, but I think....”

“That’s Detective Abato to you, lady. I don’t know you from a rat that crawled out of a sewer. Don’t start getting all familiar with me now that you’re concerned about your own skin. And you’re fuckin’ right I’m upset. Why wouldn’t I be. More importantly, why aren’t you upset? I mean, this bastard’s out there killing super-powered heroines who give a shit about what happens in this world. Don’t you care about that, Agent? I mean, what have you done lately other than fuck up my investigation, Prince. Huh?”

“ME?! You have no idea what I’ve done to help this city,” says the raven-haired beauty standing in the middle of the room wearing the very costume that the city has honored her in dozens of times for her continuing service. This is surreal!

“Well then. Clue me in, Agent. Sounds like you think you’ve done something important? What might that be?”

Diana stops pacing in her apartment, standing rigid. She can’t tell him anything she’s done as Wonder Woman; nothing about all the crises she’s handled, the countless actions she’s taken to save the city from constant threats by villains, terrorists and disasters of all kinds. She tries desperately to think of what’s she done as an IADC agent but her mind is dulled by her outrage and she can only come up with a weak example.

“I..i...was instrumental in helping locate a sleeper cell of terrorists planning a gas attack on the L’Enfant Plaza Metro station.”

“Uh huh. Yeah I’m sure. What did you do, bring the other agents coffee? Look, lady, just put all your relevant information about this Pascal suspect in a file with your ‘professional analysis’...” This last phrase is spoken with clear sarcasm by Abato.“Then email it to me immediately. I’ll sort out what should be done with this guy and put my task force’s resources on it. As for you, well, you can spend the rest of the weekend fingering yourself for all I care. Goodbye, Agent Prince.”

Wonder Woman pulls the phone from her ear and looks at it in wide-eyed disbelief. The man was unbelievable! In both her personas now, he’s treated her with disdain bordering on actionable sexual harassment charges.

“Great Hera! I’ve seen bigger penises on the horses pulling Apollo’s chariot, but not by much!” She throws the phone onto the couch with enough force to bury it deep in the foam heart of the center cushion. That’ll be a hundred dollars to the upholsterer. The angry Amazon heads to the refrigerator for a glass of wine. She takes a hearty gulp of it then downs it completely, then sighs and puts the wine glass on the counter.

Reaching behind her back, Diana unzips her top. She stands glumly quiet in the middle of the room, thinking if she’s mishandled the Pascal information, doubting herself and her instincts. With the final pull on her zipper, her bustier releases, spreading open and letting her breasts fall free with a hefty bobble. She lets go of the red and gold top and it falls to the varnished floor with a soft plop. Grabbing the waistband of her costume briefs, Wonder Woman pushes down her blue panties and lifts one knee, her pink nether lips gleaming with a flash as she does. The white stars fold into themselves in soft creases until they disappear in a bunched clump as the panties are pushed all the way to her knees. Diana, slightly bent over, releases the briefs from her two tight fists and they fall to the floor as well. She leaves her uniform where it’s fallen and the quick rhythm of her heels sounds throughout the apartment as the long-legged Amazon strides nearly naked to the bathroom.

Once in the bathroom, she removes her bracelets, tiara and boots, setting everything but the boots on the toilet tank. The boots are set down beside the scale in the corner. Then the bare-assed Wonder Woman leans into the glass stall and twists on the two knobs. When the water’s warm enough, she finally steps under the hot streaming needles of water and begins to soap up her breasts with vigorous, angry hands, hoping to wash away her endless, dismal day in a long, hot, very necessary shower.

Destiny feels her right temple bump against something hard. It doesn’t hurt but it disturbs her daze enough to realize she’s being carried like a sack of potatoes on Battle Axe’s shoulder. Her head has knocked against the axe handle poking out of its back-mounted holder. She moans softly, not because of her head but because her body is deeply enjoying the feel of something fat, warm and lively squirming around in her vagina while another long warm object is held stationary up her ass.


“Oh, so the mighty super chick likes being finger fucked in both holes,” she hears Battle Axe chuckle from behind her head in the foggy distance of her lethargy. She couldn’t argue the matter even if she didn’t have a ball gag crammed in her mouth. She feels a wide area of dampness on her inner thighs. It’s an obvious sign of her pleasure as her juices ooze steadily from between her legs. Her panties are soaking wet. She doesn’t know if its from the pool, the melted shell of liquid nitrogen or the deeply satisfying sensations glowing in her crotch. All she knows is that it feels wonderful and she’s too out of it to fight the feelings. Another energetic wiggle of a finger in her pussy elicits an even deeper, louder moan. Her mouth, held wide open by a very wide red plastic ball, drools long strands of silvery saliva onto the back of Battle Axe’s light gray Kevlar vest, and the passing concrete floor below, and onto his butt, and pretty much everywhere. As his body strides along in a steady bounce, it flings her drool about in thick drops like Hansel and Gretel leaving a trail of breadcrumbs through the forest. Except the dazed heroine has a brief bad feeling as she sees the dark drops on the cement that she won’t be coming back this way anytime soon.

But the bad feeling is quickly subverted as the long, fat-knuckled finger twists this way and that within her loins, sending shivers through her. It twists faster and faster and the other finger in her rear starts drawing in and out, in and out. Both hands work at her in a frenzy now, building her to a fever pitch. The madhouse of ceaseless stroking, sudden twisting and rapid circling movements in both of her sensitized channels is far too much for the weakened Destiny to resist.

“UUUUNNN...HUUUNGGHH! Destiny grunts loudly and her vision blurs and she darkens her bright orange panties further with a fresh rush of cum. It flows out of her, draining her energies, crumbling the dam of her will, flooding the loose gravelly surface of her battered ego. But, sadly, the only fingers in her dike are the tall man’s on whose shoulder she is weakly draped, and they control her womanly waters with absolute authority. On the long walk through the poorly-lit hallways, Destiny is stimulated continually by the humming henchman and she cums twice more on his bouncing frame. Her golden panties, drenched with her essence, reek with the pungent scent of complete sexual conquest. Her mumbling, groaning mouth continues to drool long thin ropes of silvery spit. Her eyelids are heavy blankets for her heavily-crossed vacant blue eyes.

When they finally reach the large open warehouse area, Battle Axe lays the wilted superheroine face-up on a long table, her cuffed hands underneath her back, knees bent with her orange boots dangling loosely over the table’s edge. Her head flops to the side, her cheek against the table, eyes barely open. The heroine is in a foggy state of bliss, exhaustion and slight neural impairment. Her drool forms a tiny puddle beneath her cheek already, sure to grow larger as the ball gag prevents any control of her saliva.

For a girl who was capable of grabbing the fuselage of a plummeting passenger jet and gently guiding the crippled silver bird and its full load of passengers onto the safety of an airport runway, Destiny now looks badly miscast in the part of an all-powerful heroine. At the moment, her drenched blonde hair clings to her forehead and face in dark messy strands and lays about her head like a dirty tangled mop. Her wet top, pulled all askew after the hike on Battle Axe’s shoulder and the harsh sudden unloading onto the table, reveals a much wider expanse of cleavage than is proper for a champion of the people. The soft globes of her generous swelling breasts spill forth to near full exposure, the wet dark blue lapels of her V-neck barely holding them in with a tantalizing wink at gravity as they rise and fall with each breath. But gravity will have its say and the wet golden fabric so clearly presses down on the shape of her highly-aroused pointed nipples that it takes no imagination whatsoever to know what those beautiful breasts look like when naked. In fact, the clinging fabric enhances her degradation. Any real heroine wouldn’t let herself be caught dead looking every bit the picture of a drowned hooker. But her erotic appeal is undeniable even to the casual glance of Pascal as he busily packs up for Destiny’s transport back to his lab.

The professor stops for a moment and appraises his captive as does Battle Axe from only a few feet away. In addition to the scandalous condition of her upper torso, her lower half is equally defiled. The champion’s short skirt is lewdly hiked up around her hips in a wet clump of dark orange fabric. Her sodden panties are completely exposed, their golden highlights now dulled to nothing. Completely soaked, the tight underwear clings to her figure like a second skin. The drenched golden material shows off every smooth mound and cleft of her feminine form, outlining her puffy excited labia like the softest dunes on the softest beach on earth. Whether it’s a belated aftershock of her previous orgasm or her dulled mind trying to reassert itself, the blonde teenager lets out a long slow sigh as her slackened face reveals an expression that’s noteworthy for its shocking lack of intelligence. Her dull eyes blink with no understanding of her condition. Her beautiful toned body is gorgeous to the two of them, all the more so for its limp capitulation to the traumas they have heaped upon it.

Moved by the scene of his conquest of this amazingly-powered girl, Pascal walks up to her limp figure and takes her jaw in his hand, angling her face upward a bit. Her eyes drift lazily in and out of focus, the blue irises sliding in opposite directions, untethered by any mental discipline at the moment. Pascal brings his other hand down and gives her cheek a sharp little whack.

“Focus, you pathetic half-wit. I want to explore your thoughts and reactions so I can fully document my experiment,” Pascals says as he leans forward over the dazed girl. He then turns his head and addresses the tall warrior smirking to his right. “Mr. Detherlink, would you please put those items in the van that I have marked for transport.”

“Boss!” Battle Axe nods urgently at the sprawled heroine. “Ixnay on the amenay! You’re not supposed to say that in front of the hostage. Pretty basic rule.”

“Oh, I am sorry Gerald. How do you Americans put it? My bad. Well, it is of no consequence since she will not be able to communicate that information to the authorities.”

“She won’t? How come?”

“She will be too dead to do so.”

“Oh, right. Does she know that?” Another nod of the big head at the heroine.

Turning to look at the frowning face of the heroine who is slowly coming around, Pascal assesses her eyes and says, “I would think she does now. But again, it is of no consequence.”


“She will be unable to affect the outcome.”


“Because my dear Battle Axe,” Pascal says with a wink, “you have done a splendid job of helping me reduce her to a helpless sack of merde!”

“Merde? Oh! You mean shit! Yeah, I guess I did.” Smiling broadly at the compliment, the brutish henchman trudges off to load the van with a tan leather vaulting horse complete with dangling bondage rings, a box full of sex toys, a coil of very thin silvery chain and more. He goes back and forth from van to supplies as Pascal talks at Destiny.

“So, mon cherie, you do not feel so well, eh? My little tactics and toys, they made you so very weak, n’est pas?” He loosens the buckle slightly on the ball gag and pulls the wide plastic ball out of her mouth until it rests low on her chin. He wants to hear her express her misery at her devastating defeat, to exult in her verbal acknowledgment of his brilliant victory over her pathetic brawn.

“...uuuuuhhhh....” Destiny is too disoriented and feeble to come up with any words yet.

“Yes, I figured this would be the case. But you have more power still in this lovely vessel yet to be siphoned away, my dear. A woman of your immense fortitude one cannot eradicate so easily I think.”

As he speaks, the French scientist takes a thin steel cord from his jacket pocket and wraps it around the befuddled 18-year old’s neck, snapping the ends closed with a loud click.

“The Zhurigk Fever did its job well, I have to admit. I shall have to thank Maurice, my fellow researcher from Belgium for his spores and his advice.” A second steel cord is produced and this he clips one end to the small ring on the collar around Destiny’s neck and the other end to a ring soldered to the end of the table on which she lies.

“Cancelling your power of flight and making you sickly, weak and listless was the all-important first step. And all the rest, the flamethrower and the beating, the shotguns, the water tank and the liquid nitrogen, even my friend Battle Axe with his hands in your pants as I instructed him, they all served their purpose to force you to expend your dwindling energies and reduce you to this limp and destitute figure I see before me.”

“...not out of tricks yet...Pascal...” murmurs the blonde as her wits begin to slowly gather.

“Nor am I, cherie.” He brings out a third cord and rolls the blonde champion onto her side with one hand as the cord is linked from her handcuffs to a ring set into the middle of the table’s side edge with his other. He lets her body go and she rolls onto her back, still dazed and lethargic from all her ordeals.

“But you must tell me, my vanquished dove, how do you feel now that you realize even you, a person of boundless physical capabilities, can be so thoroughly bested and humiliated by one man. Does it sour your soul and crush your will to know you were so easily manipulated into this pathetic condition of such absolute defeat and scandalously obvious sexual arousal? Talk to the cameras, mon cherie. Does it bring you to tears, Destiny, to be reduced to a mindless, inept cunt?”

“...not one...man.....took two....of you...to do...it...” Destiny says slowly, not realizing she’s conceding her status in her mumbled protest.

“Let’s say one architect then. One who looked upon your sad house of cards and pulled on its base in just such a clever way that your famous physical magnificence came tumbling down in ruin. A collapse of such epic failure that its telling will forever bring shame and dishonor to Bylangians everywhere.”

“...hey.....motor mouth...you haven’t finished me.....yet...” Destiny’s eyes focus on Pascal and she is able to glare at him now with purpose. He sees it but dismisses it as residual anger he can easily swat away and nothing more.

“Not quite yet, perhaps, but you are out of most of your strength, my pretty ingenue, and that is all I need before the next stage of my plan.” The final steel cord he takes from his jacket pocket, double the length of the others, is quickly wrapped around her boot ankles and fixed to the final ring at the foot of the table. “There, finis for now. Trussed and helpless while I finish packing up for your ultimate destruction and final grand humiliation.”

Destiny begins to try to break her bondage, to jerk her wrists in opposite directions behind her back, seeing if she’s strong enough to pull the cuffs apart. She is not. Her boots yank and strain as well, banging against the table. Her entire body shakes and writhes and Pascal looks at his prize heroine and frowns. Still too much power, too much danger.

“Excuse me! Battle Axe? Please come here quickly,” Pascal shouts, nervous to even be so near the struggling blonde dynamo. Had he miscalculated her powers? She was a truly remarkable specimen. “Where are you, Gerald?!”

Destiny speaks more steadily now, all too clearly for his liking. “I don’t think I need all my strength to handle a pompous old gas bag like you, Pascal. I think a fraction will be more than enough. And when I’m off this table, I’ll yank that beard off your face and cram it up your ass like a steel wool pad.”

He had definitely miscalculated the dosage on the neural inhibitors. Either that or the icy water and liquid nitrogen had helped her synapses to better conduct the electrical passageways of her brain. That was all too possible, he thinks to himself. Even the chemical inhibitor did not seem to be effecting much of a difference. He is shocked at her continued use of most of her faculties.

The sound of the cord behind her back snapping apart is like a firecracker to Pascal’s ears and he hops back from the table, horrified. This could not happen. His entire experiment had been carefully constructed and carried out precisely to plan so far. Yet here she was breaking the cord linking her bound feet to the table. This second loud pop causes the Frenchman’s head to rear back as if physically struck. Her ankles were still well twisted in the coiled steel but as she swings her boots counter clockwise it was only a matter of time before her legs would be free and she could strike at him with those boot heels with a nasty vengeance.

“You are truly amazing, Destiny,” he says with awe, the scientist overwhelming the villain in him. He watches her yanking her head in short, harsh pulls against the cord, trying to break the last line restraining her head to the table. When that is done the vixen will be able to get to her feet, probably break out of her handcuffs and beat him and his man to an inch of their lives. She seems to appreciate that, smiling at him with a gleam of spirit in her eye he thought he’d beaten out of her.

“You have no idea, Frenchy,” she says with a wide grin smile. And then the cord from her neck to the table finally snaps with her last straining jerk against it and she sits up quickly, completely freed now. “But you’re about to find out just how amazing I ...”

“Taser her!” Pascal barks.