Wonder Woman: Slave of Gorilla City, Part 4: Chains of Command
WARNING!!! The following story contains bondage, domination, and extremely adult sexual situations. If this isn't the kind of thing you're interested in, for heavens sake DON'T READ IT!!! You should be OVER 21 YEARS OF AGE to read this, as it is intended for adults only.
This story is written as satirical fiction for entertainment purposes only, and is not intended to gather monetary recompense in ANY WAY, SHAPE, or FORM...it is freely offered for interested readers only.
The original creations of Wonder Woman, the Justice League, J'onn, Grodd, Steve Trevor, and Gorilla City are copyrighted by DC Comics.
Diana's vision divided as he telepathically forced a sequence of images into her mind.
One moment, she was staring up at Grodd's looming form, his furred chest heaving with each breath—the next, her mind flooded with a grotesque vision so visceral it stole her breath.
In the vision, Diana lay prostrate on the cushions before Grodd, his giant cock pulsing above her form. Suddenly, a jew of cum erupted from him—a thick rope that splashed across her face, neck and collarbones. It dripped from her chin, matted her eyelashes, speckled her cheeks...making her a grotesque masterpiece of submission.
But worse than the violation was the expression on her own face in the vision. Lips parted. Eyes half-lidded. Not revulsion, but rapture, as if being splattered in his release was the most profound satisfaction she'd ever known.
Grodd's reached to her, claws tightening in her hair before she could shake the image from her mind, and turning her head to face him again. "Time to make recompense, consort. The means will be yours to choose, but know this: You have 10 minutes to release my seed," he growled against her temple, his breath sour with rotting fruit. The golden harness pulsed—not painfully, but with a slow, rhythmic throb that matched the twitching of his cock above her. "Make it happen within that span. Or I will order my guards in dungeons below to rut dear sweet Nurse Sonia senseless."
Diana's pulse jackhammered against the gag straps. The nurse was a prisoner and a fellow woman; despite what had transpired between them, the last thing she wanted was for her to be raped. Though getting Grodd off was certainly not appealing, she knew it wouldn't be as grotesque as it had been in that vision, surely. But she was inexperienced, bound, and barely knew where to begin. How to seduce a creature like Grodd without giving up her own virginity in the process? What did he like?
She catalogued her options with frantic precision: She was smart, a tactician. What had she learned about Grodd's arousal since her capture?
Her hosiery, certainly. He'd compelled her to dress in it, after all. The humiliating "girliness" of it. That's what excited him—not just her body, but the fact that he adorned it as he chose, made it soft for himself.
What else?
Power.
From that day when he'd first leashed her, it had always about power—the slow, methodical theft of it. Diana knew this as surely as she knew the weight of her own sword. Grodd fetishized his dominance over her, refined into an art form, each humiliation layered upon another as a means of reducing her status.
Several seconds had already ticked by, and she could feel Grodd's impatience. Was there anything else?
Yes, the blunted feminism. The gag he'd made her wear as she'd tried to make him empathize. Her very womanhood leaked at his urgings now, but this was not to be about her...not that she could stomach the thought of it being so, but it couldn't even take on that appearance.
Her wrists flexed against the golden harness, fingers curling into fists—then deliberately relaxing. Diana inhaled sharply through her nose, the sizable ball gag making her jaws ache. The scent of banana oil flooded her sinuses, cloying and infantilizing. Grodd’s breath huffed against into the chamber, hot and damp with anticipation. His claws twitched, not quite violent yet, but the threat vibrated through her scalp like plucked bowstrings. What did he want?
Suddenly, it hit her.
There had been a uniform.
Several, really, but this one had caught her eye as conspicuous. It had been tucked beneath a tangle of silk camisoles in the mahogany chest, half-hidden but unmistakable: navy wool skirt, officer's jacket with insignia, starched white blouse with epaulets...it recalled the kind of outfit she’d worn as Yeoman Prince—back when men snapped to attention at her crisp orders during her time with IADC.
Diana’s heart raced. It would be so humiliating, but...it would work. She knew it for certain; nothing would bring Grodd off faster than Officer Diana Prince, kneeling in polished heels, her thighs sheathed in pink nylon, the gag stretching her lips around military protocol she could no longer articulate.
The harness’s magic flared gold against her ribs, affirming the truth of her epiphany. Grodd’s chuckle rumbled through her bones, his cock twitching against her cheek where she knelt. “Clever girl,” he murmured—not telepathically now, but aloud, his voice thick with something perilously close to admiration.
Diana squeezed her eyes shut. The lasso’s magic pulsed hotter between her legs, its golden strands vibrating in time with Grodd’s accelerating breath. She could feel his interest building, a telepathic pressure thickening the air. It was villainous, oppressive. But time was ticking. And if she didn’t act now—
With a shuddering exhale, Diana skittered to her feet, shuffling back to the mahogany chest. Her harnessed wrist bindings left about a foot of movement, and she used it to shuffle through clothes with reckless abandon: merrywidows, ruffled panties, floral blouses, bodysuits, tights...until her fingers landed on the uniform’s folded fabric. Wonder Woman didn't recognize it's nationality (she hadn't taken note of the many militaries in the Man's World today), and she wondered briefly if Sonia herself had served, but there was no time to ponder the nurse's past; she must save her present.
Grodd’s voice sound from behind her, ripe with triumph: “Dress and report for duty, Diana.”
Diana’s body moved before her mind could protest, the officer’s uniform tumbling into her lap in a heap of navy and white. Her fingers found the skirt’s zipper first—practiced, familiar—and she fell onto her back, legs in the air, using gravity to draw it on due to her bound hands. Behind her, Grodd’s breathing heaved. She didn’t need to look up to know he was palming his cock, his amber eyes locked on the way her bound wrists struggled to wriggle into the skirt’s tight waistband. The nylon hissed against her thighs as she shimmied it to her waist, the pink hose extending beyond the hem like ridiculous ballet tights.
The blouse came next. Diana’s fingers trembled on the buttons, each one slipping through its hole with agonizing slowness. Sonia was clearly smaller than Diana (most women were), and the garment was too small; it wouldn't button all the way up over her harness, her rope-wrapped breasts. The fabric gaped, exposing the golden harness crisscrossing her chest—another mockery of rank and order.
She cast about. Heels?
There.
Diana winced as she slid her feet into the too-tight patent leather of a pair of brown sling-backs. The arches were higher than she’d worn in years, the toes pinching. But it was the angle that undid her: the way they tilted her hips forward, forcing her ass to jut obscenely as she stood up, the skirt riding up until the lace-trimmed panty of her hose peeked beneath. Grodd’s groan vibrated through the chamber.
His patience gone, she felt his claws clamp around her biceps, as he spun her and drew her up before him, wobbling in the new shoes—a drunken salute to her own degradation.
For a breath, she merely stood before him as he regarded her, palming his cock. She was a wreck—and still beautiful.
But nothing was happening. Grodd had expected her to kneel, to drop and nuzzle him with her nose, or to palm his sloshing testicles.
But Wonder Woman merely stood there. She did not bow. She did not buckle. She did not kneel. Because -and this was her masterstroke- she knew what Grodd really wanted...was to defeat her.
Diana stood before him in that wretched uniform—the blouse gaping at her breasts, the skirt clinging high on her thighs, the heels tilting her hips into an obscene arch—and she breathed. Slow. Deliberate. The way she might before an executioner’s blade. Her fingers curled against the golden harness, not clawing at it, not begging, but resting there as if she’d chosen the bindings herself. Her breathing was ragged, her chest rising and falling too fast—but her eyes...bless Athena...her eyes still burned defiance behind the glaze of humiliation.
Grodd’s claws flexed around his cock, stroking in lazy, taunting pulls. “Kneel,” he commanded—not telepathically now, but aloud, his voice thick with anticipation.
Diana inhaled sharply through her nose, the gag’s straps biting into her cheeks. She did not kneel. Instead, she shifted her weight—slow, deliberate—sliding one patent leather heel forward in a perfect combat stance. The movement was slight, barely more than a whisper of nylon against leather, but the effect was immediate. Grodd’s breath hitched. "So it is to be this way, is it?" She met his yellow eyes, unflinching despite her position.
"So be it."
He lunged.
Diana saw it coming—the ripple of muscle beneath fur, the twitch of his knuckles before they clenched—but bound as she was, she couldn’t pivot. So she did the next best thing: she snapped her leg up in a vicious arc, the patent leather heel slicing the air like a blade. The pointed tip grazed Grodd’s chin, drawing a bead of dark blood. His roar shook the chamber, but Diana was already twisting, her nylon-clad thighs hissing together as she spun on the ball of her other foot. The skirt rode up, exposing her ridiculous hose, but she didn’t care. Momentum was her weapon now.
The golden harness burned between her legs, its enchanted strands sawing against her slit with every movement—rubbing her, slick with sweat and something far more humiliating. The sensation should have staggered her, but Diana endured it. "Hrrrnnn!" she grunted in effort around the silicone, spit sprayed from the corners of her stretched lips.
Grodd lunged again, his claws outstretched, but Diana dropped low—her heels skidding on the stone—and drove her shoulder into his ribs. She swore she heard a bone crack beneath the impact. The sound was obscenely satisfying, like splitting firewood in winter. Grodd staggered back, his massive frame slamming against the chamber wall hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling. Diana didn’t wait—she pivoted on one heel, the patent leather screeching against stone, and lashed out with the other foot. Her nylon-clad toes curled instinctively—soft, her mind yelled: you are still soft—but the pointed heel speared forward like a dagger. It found purchase just above Grodd’s navel, sinking into the thick fur of his belly with a sickening thunk.
The ape king roaredd. His claws scrabbled at her ankle, but Diana wrenched free, the sheer pink hose running at the knee as she twisted away. A cut—dark and glistening—welled where her heel had pierced him. Grodd’s cock, still swollen and furious, twitched against his thigh in agitation. A perfect final target.
Now. The opening was now. Diana’s muscles coiled, her thighs bunching as she prepared to drive her heel straight into that pulsing, veined monstrosity. And with that, her kick shot forward.
...But her foot froze midair.
The patent leather heel hovered inches from Grodd's throbbing cock—close enough that the heat radiating from its flushed tip kissed the sole of her shoe. Diana's thigh trembled, the sheer nylon stretched taut over quivering muscle. She could end this. One brutal stomp. One satisfying crunch of cartilage. One less monster in the world.
Her heel wavered. Grodd's cock loomed before her, as it had in so many nightime visions of late. The sight sent a bizarre pang through her chest. She'd... wanted that, hadn't she? Wanted to suck him? Wanted to wrap her fingers around the thick base? Wanted to pump and pull him to marvelous ejaculation? Diana's breath hitched. The harness thrummed between her thighs, its golden strands vibrating in time with her traitorous pulse.
"You cannot harm your heart's desire, concubine." Grodd's telepathic croon curled through her synapses like smoke. *"You have fantasized about it. It has wet your virgin pussy nightly just to think of it as you've sat in your cell."
Diana's heel trembled midair. The golden harness pulsed hotter between her thighs, its enchanted strands pressing firm against her clitoris in slow, deliberate circles. Her breath came in ragged bursts around the gag, spit dripping from the gag's edges onto her uniform blouse.
The hesitation was all Grodd needed.
Suddenly, he was upon her—his massive frame crashing into Diana with the force of a landslide, his claws raking down her spine hard enough to shred the blouse’s fabric. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, her dress heels skidding uselessly on the stone as he drove her backward. Her calves hit the cushions first, then her shoulders slammed into the piled silks, the golden harness biting into her ribs as Grodd’s weight pinned her. His cock—oh Hera, the heat of it—slapped against her stomach, pushing against the starched white cotton of her uniform. Diana bucked instinctively, her nylon-clad thighs straining to clamp around his hips, to catch him in an Amazonian scissor hold, but his bulk held her legs splayed wide, the ruined pantyhose stretched taut over trembling muscle.
Grodd’s hips pistoned forward with a wet thwap, his cockhead grinding against the gusset of her pink hose—not piercing, not yet, but pressing with obscene insistence. The sheer fabric puckered around his flared tip, the lace panty portion straining dangerously as he rutted against it. Each thrust dragged the swollen head upward, smearing precum in glistening arcs that turned the nylon translucent where it clung to her folds. Diana’s skirt bunched around her waist, the navy wool crumpling beneath Grodd’s claws as he gripped her hips, his furred thumbs digging into the hollows of her pelvis. The heels—ridiculous, humiliating—dangled off her feet now, the straps digging into her ankles as her toes curled against the cushions.
"Nnngh—hhhmmph—!" The gag muffled her snarl into something pitiful, the silicone pressing deep enough to make her throat convulse. Spit pooled beneath her tongue, leaking down her chin in thick strands that matted the blouse’s collar. Her wrists strained against the golden harness, the loops biting into her flesh as she tried uselessly to shove him away. But Grodd merely chuckled, his breath hot and rancid against her temple, and rolled his hips harder. The friction was unbearable: his cock’s underside rasping against her womanhood through the damp nylon, the harness’s enchanted strands pulsing in time with his thrusts until her vision blurred gold at the edges.
Diana’s thighs twitched—to kick, to fight, and possibly to meet mounting pressure. The realization curdled in her gut. She could’ve crushed his windpipe. Could’ve speared his femoral artery with her heel. Could’ve—but she hadn’t. And now? Now she was reduced to this: a panting doll pinned beneath her Ape King’s rutting hips.
Grodd’s claws raked through her sweat-damp curls as he humped against her thigh and crotch. The stench of musk and precum filled her nostrils—banana oil gone rancid, fur matted with exertion—but beneath it, something hotter, darker, primal. His voice slithered into her skull, thick with telepathic command: "Tell me. Tell me you're sorry, pretty girl. Tell me."
Diana’s jaw flexed around her gag, her tongue moving uselessly within the hollow of her mouth. Grodd’s hips pushed forward, the swollen head of his cock bumping her clit repeatedly with a barely contained need. "Mmmph—!" The sound was muffled, garbled—half protest, half something wetter, needier. Her own noises shocked her.
"Pretty pink princess," Grodd mocked, pulling back to leer at her as humped. "Have you forgotten our arrangement? Nine minutes down. One to go."
Diana’s nostrils flared as the panicked reminder of her mission set in. The clock was real—she could hear it ticking somewhere in the chamber, its metronome rhythm screaming urgency. Her fate may be sealed, but Sonia? Perhaps the nurse might have a chance.
Wonder Woman's jaw tightened around the gag. It wouldn't take much; the ape's intensity thickened the air, his precum smearing her nylon-clad stomach in sticky arcs. Fine. If she couldn’t escape, she’d control the terms. The ape king would cum...but he would not breach her womanhood this day.
With a sharp twist of her ankles, Diana kicked off the slingbacks—the patent leather clattering against stone—and hooked her legs around Grodd’s waist. The sheer pink hose strained over her quads as she pulled him flush against her, her stockinged soles rasping up his furry flanks. Every muscle screamed—not in pain, but in furious purpose—as she arched into his thrusts, meeting each grind with a roll of her hips that made an obscene rasping sound.
Grodd’s breath hitched. His claws dug into her thighs hard enough to ladder the hose, the sound of tearing silk lost beneath his guttural growl. Diana ignored the sting, focusing instead on the rhythm: the way his cock twitched against her gusseted mound, the way his hips stuttered when she flexed her calves to drag him deeper. The harness’s magic flared gold between her legs, its pulsing heat syncing with their frenzied tempo until she couldn’t tell where his need ended and hers began. Her thighs trembled—not from exhaustion, but from the sheer effort of surrender—as she worked him toward the edge with nothing but impassioned friction and Amazonian stamina.
A sound escaped her—half moan, half grunt—strangled around the gag’s silicone sphere. Was it real? A performance? Diana didn’t know anymore. The line had blurred somewhere between Grodd’s claws in her hair and the way her virginal puss clenched around nothing, arching for the invasion she was denying it. She pounded harder, her uniform blouse tearing at the seams as she ground her hips upward. The smell of the chamber filled her nostrils, thick enough to taste. Suddenly, Grodd’s telepathic snarl vibrated through her skull: Now.
And then he erupted.
Diana’s vision whited out as the first hot spurt hit her chin—thick as cream, viscous as syrup—splattering across her gagged lips in a grotesque parody of a kiss. The sheer volume was obscene, more than any human male could produce and far more than the vision had shown, flooding over her collarbones in glistening rivulets that pooled in the hollow of her throat. Grodd’s roar shook the chamber as he painted her, his cock pulsing in her face like a live thing, each twitch ejecting another rope of cum that striped her cheeks, her forehead, the bridge of her nose. The stench was overwhelming—musk and salt and something feral, like wet earth after a storm—clinging to her eyelashes, matting her hair into sticky clumps.
She tried to turn her head—uselessly—as Grodd’s clawed fist tightened around the base of his cock, angling the flared tip downward to drench her uniform blouse. The starched cotton darkened instantly, the white fabric turning translucent as semen seeped through to glue the fabric to her harness. Another spurt hit her sternum, the force of it making her gasp around the gag—which only gave Grodd an opening to smear his cockhead over her lips, smearing precum and spit across her chin in a slick, glistening mask. Diana’s stomach heaved, but the harness held her spine arched too tightly to retch, leaving her helpless as he pumped another thick load directly onto her nylon-clad thighs. The pink silk -already soaked- wicked it up greedily, the fabric turning sheerer where it clung to her quivering muscles, the lace panty portion already soaked to the point of near invisibility.
Grodd’s telepathic chuckle vibrated through her skull as he admired his work: the Amazonian warrior reduced to a panting, cum-streaked mess, her officer’s uniform ruined, her pantyhose sagging where his claws had torn them, her cheeks streaked with sticky evidence of his release.
Diana pullled her knees up to her still-harnessed chests, in utter shock. She'd had no idea there could be so much.
Grodd's claws flexed in her hair, tilting her face upward. His cock—still semi-hard, glistening with leftover spend—bobbed inches from her nose. The tone was unbearable: ripe with conquest, with her defeat. He stroked himself lazily, smearing a fresh bead of precum across her other cheekbone, before reaching around behind her head to unbuckle her ball gag.
The moment the silicone sphere popped free, Diana gasped—not in relief, but in need, her lungs starved for air after the assault. She should've spat. Should've snarled. Instead, her tongue darted out instinctively, licking the salty residue from her upper lip before she could stop herself. The taste flooded her mouth—briny, thick, —and her stomach siezed.
Using the slack in her bonds produced by their earlier struggle, she was able to quickly recover her wits, using her hands to wipe the rest of his seed from her face. What had come over her? She spat onto the floor, wiping her tongue off with the sleeve of her tattered uniform blouse.
Grodd regarded her with sudden indifference. His eyes dulled, his breathing slowed. His cock hung slack against his thigh, still glistening with the remnants of his orgasm. Without ceremony, he hauled Diana upright by her golden harness straps, the sudden motion making her gasp as the lasso’s magic cinched tighter around her ribs. The shredded pantyhose clung to her legs in uneven patches.
He absently reached for her discarded slingback heels, scuffed but still pristine compared to her ruined uniform. Diana’s toes curled instinctively as Grodd lifted her right foot, his grip impersonal, like a cobbler fitting a shoe. The heel slid back onto her with quiet swish, and she flinched—not from pain, but from the absurdity of it all. The ape’s furred fingers moved methodically, slipping on the second shoe while her torn hose fluttered around her calves like battle flags.
"You smell of me," Grodd mused, his telepathy thick with satisfaction. His nostrils flared as he inhaled the musk clinging to her damp collar. "But not enough. Not yet." He straightened, towering over her as she knelt in a puddle of navy wool and semen-starched cotton. His knuckles grazed her cheek—not a caress, but a collector inspecting porcelain for cracks. "Tomorrow," he said aloud, the word curling like smoke in the humid air, "we will pursue this further. The next day, further. And one day soon, you will request my spend between your legs...not as a negotiation, not as a means of saving a 'sister'...but as a gift."
His fingers cracked like a whip—three sharp snaps that sent echoes skittering across the chamber walls.
Diana didn’t need to turn her head to know who entered. The shuffle of knuckles dragging on stone, the wet chuffing of simian laughter— Grodd’s favored enforcers returned. Their shadows loomed across her, but she could not regard them, such was her sudden shame; it was one thing to have fought off Grodd and capitulated to save another...but all these guards would see would be the signs of her surrender. She kept her gaze locked on the floor, but her skin prickled under their scrutiny.
“What Grodd want us to do?" one of the ape guards grunted, his claws scraping up her bicep as he hauled her upright. She got her feet under her, but barely. Hera, help me. I am so weak all of a sudden.
The other ape seized her other arm, his grip deliberately tight. His nostrils flared as he leaned in, sniffing loudly at the cum matted in her hair. “Little girl no match for King Grodd.”
She struggled a bit at that, futile, but visible. She refused to shiver. Refused to give them the satisfaction.
But her assailant barely noticed. “Take her,” Grodd rumbled, already turning away, his silhouette framed by torchlight as he lumbered toward his throne. “Let her marinate.”
Diana’s nostrils flared. The command hung thick in the air, spoken aloud for the ape guards' ears, but for her "benefit." Marinate. As if she were meat. As if the semen crusting her chin, gluing her blouse to her ribs, wasn’t humiliation enough. She flexed her fingers against the golden harness, her nails scraping the enchanted strands, but the lasso’s magic had settled into a low, taunting thrum against her pulse points. No release. No relief.
One of the ape guard's claws dug into her elbow as he yanked her forward, her patent heels skidding through the puddle of Grodd’s spend. Diana swallowed hard, her throat too sore to even protest.
The last she saw of Grodd as they exited the chamber, the Ape King descended to his cushions, likely to sleep and heedless of the small wounds she had inflicted.
The apes saw her roughly to her cell door. A small blessing: it was evening, so the halls were not as crowded with City onlookers as she'd expected.
As the larger ape shoved her toward the cell’s entrance, his laughter a wet rasp against her nape. “Sweet dream, princess.” The iron door screeched open, its hinges weeping rust. Diana stumbled, her knees hitting the stone floor hard enough to hurt. The impact jolted up her spine, rattling her teeth, but she welcomed the pain. Anything to distract from the cold stickiness hardening between her breasts, the ruined pantyhose sagging around her ankles like a grotesque parody of shackles.
The door clanged shut. Diana noticed that though they had not bothered to leash or shackle her, her wash basin was empty. True to Grodd's words, she would be unable to scrub his essence from her skin tonight.
Diana curled onto her side, her knees drawn tight against her chest, her cum-stiffened blouse crackling with every breath. The harness’s golden strands pulsed faintly against her skin, their warmth a mockery of comfort. She pressed her forehead to the damp stone, inhaling the scent of mildew and her own humiliation.
The only place from which Wonder Woman could draw solace was revenge. I will peel the fur from his bones, she vowed silently, her nails scraping the floor. I will feed him his own manhood.
The harness flared suddenly, its magic searing through her like a brand. Diana gasped, her back arching involuntarily as the golden loops rejected her oath, their heat spiking until her vision whited out. A sound escaped her—half sob, half groan—strangled in the thick air. The afterimage lingered behind her eyelids: Grodd’s smirk, his claws combing through her hair, his voice slithering through her synapses—"Liar."
Exhaustion dragged her under before she could protest. The last thing she felt was the harness’s glow, made once of her most trusted weapon, constricting her. It hummed—a lullaby in the dark—as sleep claimed her.