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, Grodd, and Gorilla City are copyrighted by DC Comics.
Chapter 6: Serving Girl
The cavernous pathways of Gorilla City swam in Diana’s vision as she was force marched to the Grand Hall. A blur of torchlight and looming shadows, the edges of her world were narrowed due to the the stifling eye slits in the rubber helm the Ape King had placed her in.
The shoes of her serving girl "uniform" were no better suited to navigating the uneven terrain than the helm was. Every step in the stilettos sent her balance teetering; the heels were too thin, too high, designed for wobbling submission, not a warrior’s grace. She tried to compensate, to shift her weight as she’d been trained—but the vibrator nestled inside her sometimes pulsed without warning, a quick, teasing thrum that made her thighs clench. Diana staggered, wanting to catch herself, but inhibited by her bound wrists straining uselessly against the silk ropes still cinched behind her neck.
Her last stumble occurred as they reached Grand Hall’s entrance, and one of the ape door guards reacted instantly—a massive, furred hand clamping onto her shoulder to steady her. His grip was rough, fingers digging into the lace straps of her serving girl apron. Diana jerked her head toward him, the mask’s mouth slit muffling her protest into a wet, indignant "Mmmpfh!" She twisted her shoulders, trying to gesture with her chin toward her bound hands, then toward the towering double doors ahead. How in Hera’s name am I supposed to carry anything like this?
The ape seemed to get the message, but was definitely unbothered...amused even.
In response, the ape produced a gleaming silver tray from a nearby alcove, its surface polished to a mirror sheen. Diana barely had time to register its elegance before the contraption beneath it came into view: a molded leather brace, curved to cradle the wearer’s torso, with two oval cutouts positioned precisely where a woman’s breasts would press flush against the cold metal. The design was obscenely deliberate—not just functional, but exploitative, turning her body into a brace for the platter. The guard grunted, hefting the assembly with ease before maneuvering it toward her. Diana recoiled, but another ape guard seized her hips, forcing her still as the brace was nestled firmly against her aproned stomach. The chill of the metal could be felt through the frilly sheer apron, and it made her gasp, the sound warped by the mask into something pitiful.
Then came the straps—thick leather bands cinched around her waist and neck, locking the tray into place just above her collarbones. Diana’s breath hitched as the weight settled, her bound wrists straining uselessly behind her. The guard’s claws skimmed the underside of the tray, nudging it upward until her breasts lifted—forced into the cutouts, their fullness spilling slightly over the edges like ripe fruit arranged for a feast. The metal pressed her nipples flat, the sudden cold making them throb. She tried to shift, to ease the pressure, but the neck strap held firm, and a telepathic command filled her skull as Grodd finally arrived, bringing up the rear of their procession. Stay still.
Diana had never been ashamed of her bosom—not when she outpaced her sisters in footraces across Themyscira’s cliffs, her breasts bouncing freely beneath her tunic; not when she wrestled in the training pits, sweat-slicked and triumphant, her curves not at all a hindrance in battle. In fact, she was proud of her womanly breasts, the biggest and roundest on Paradise Island, a symbol of her femininity, proof of vitality, symbols of the life-givers she descended from. But this—this was reduction. Her most womanly parts were being framed like ornaments.
Nurse Sonia stepped into her narrowed field of vision, a tray of her own likewise having been nestled against her torso. Diana’s breath fogged the mask’s interior as she took in the nurse’s smaller frame—the way the metal cupped her more modest curves without spilling over, the straps barely straining. Even bound and masked, Sonia moved with more ease than Diana—her stilettos clicking evenly against the stone, her spine straight despite the weight of the tray. She’s accustomed to this, Diana realized. The heels, the posture...all a sign of an entire life lived in the Man's World.
Grodd’s claws scraped the stone beside Diana’s ear. "Listen well," his voice slithered into her skull, thick with amusement. "In a moment, those doors will open. You will serve my guests without hesitation—without spilling." His breath smelled of fermented fruit and old blood. "Fail, and the device inside you will remind you of your place."
A shudder ripped through Diana as the vibrator pulsed—not pain, not pleasure, just presence, humming against her cervix like a trapped insect. She tried to glare through the mask’s narrow slits, but Grodd was already turning toward Sonia, his massive hand depositing five crystal tumblers onto each of their trays. The bourbon inside glowed amber in the torchlight, its smoky richness curling into Diana’s nostrils. One wrong step, one tilt of her hips, and the liquid would slosh over the rims—onto her exposed cleavage, down the tray’s edge, a visible disgrace for Grodd.
But there was no time to consider how to cope. The Ape King's claws scraped the iron-banded door. "Open," he commanded—and the world exploded into sound.
The chamber yawned before Diana like a predator’s gullet—a vast, vaulted hall of black basalt veined with gold, its ceiling lost in shadow. Torches roared in sconces shaped like screaming faces, their light glinting off the polished obsidian floor where reflections writhed: the hulking silhouettes of Grodd’s gorilla elite lounged on low divans, their fur oiled to a sheen that matched the jeweled gorgets at their throats. But it was the men who seized Diana’s attention—dozens of them, their faces obscured by ornate masks of jaguar gold and feathered serpent jade, their tailored suits a grotesque parody of civilization amidst the jungle’s brutality. Syndicate heads, Grodd had said. Nobles. Oligarchs. Villains.
The air reeked of sweat and spilled liquor, of musk so thick it coated Diana’s tongue through the rubber mask’s breathing slit. She heard the whispers from outside her cell—how Gorilla City’s females had vanished in a single fevered season, their corpses piled in lime pits until the jungle swallowed even their bones. Now the males ruled unchecked, their appetites untempered by the balancing presence of their own kind.
Diana understood now why they had appeared so lustful when she was captured, the first female to wander into their jungle in many seasons. The absence of females had twisted their evolution into something perverse; such a long span without mating had rewired their instincts until every curve of a woman's form triggered something primal and ravenous in their hindbrains.
The chamber erupted in beastlike sounds as she stepped forward—a chorus of animal arousal that made her clench her thighs protectively. But then, as one, their nostrils flared. Their yellowed fangs retracted. The apes nearest her recoiled slightly, their massive shoulders hunching in instinctive deference. Diana's breath caught in the rubber mask as realization struck: they smelled him on her. Not just the musk of his fur, not just the iron tang of his sweat—but him. The memory of last night's violation rushed back—Grodd's thick release painting her thighs, her stomach, the sticky warmth pooling between her breasts as he marked her like a territory. That was why they gave her space now. She carried the scent of their king like a brand.
"Serve." Grodd's voice lashed her skull like a whipcrack. Diana's hips jerked violently—the vibrator shocking her mid-step, sending bourbon sloshing dangerously close to the tray's edge. She barely caught herself, toes curling in the stilettos as electricity spiderwebbed up her spine. The masked men nearest her chuckled, their gloved fingers stroking crystal tumblers with predatory leisure. One—his face obscured by a jade crocodile visage—reached out lazily to pluck a drink from her tray. His thumb brushed the underside of her breast as he did so, the heat of his touch searing through the lace apron.
"Careful, girl," he murmured, his accent thick with the swampy drawl of some backwater crime lord. "Wouldn't want to waste good liquor." His companions laughed—a chorus of cigar-rough baritones—as Diana clenched her teeth behind the mask. The crocodile man tilted his head, studying the way her nipples strained against the chilled metal tray. "Though I suppose you're the main course." His fingers traced the spill of her cleavage where it overflowed the cutout. "Look at these melons—ripe enough eat." He reached out, pinching her flesh just shy of pain. Diana wanted to fight, but restrained herself...and was rewarded with a question in her mind: a telepathic message from Grodd.
"Well done, Pretty." The Ape King's voice slithered through her synapses like oil, thick with approval. "Shall I reward that discipline?" Beneath the tray, the vibrator inside her pulsed—gentler this time, a coaxing rhythm that made her thighs quiver.
No. Diana refused to acknowledge the offer, refused to surrender even an inch of her will. The rejection was instinctive, a reflex honed in the training pits of Themyscira—where yielding meant defeat, and defeat meant dishonor. She clenched her jaw behind the mask, her shoulders rigid as she turned toward the next guest, her bound wrists straining against their silk bonds.
The vibrator answered her rebuke with pain.
Electricity spiderwebbed through Diana's pelvis—white-hot talons raking up her womb—and her knees buckled so violently the stilettos skidded on polished obsidian. Bourbon sloshed over the tray's edge in golden rivulets, dripping between her breasts and over her apron. The crocodile-masked man tutted, catching a stray drop on his fingertip before sucking it clean with a wet, deliberate smack. "Clumsy," he murmured, his other hand sliding beneath the tray to grip her hip—steadying her and copping a feel at the same time.
By contrast to her awkwardness, across the hall, Sonia moved like liquid grace between guests, her smaller frame allowing her to dip and weave without spilling. Diana watched through the mask's narrow slit as a gorilla in a jeweled harness pawed at the nurse's garters, his sausage-thick fingers hooking under the lace to snap it against Sonia's thigh. The nurse didn't flinch—didn't react at all—but Diana's spine locked as she realized: Sonia's thighs were glistening. Her panties were soaked through. Oh merciful Hera, she thought.
A masked man—this one wearing a snarling wolf's visage—reached for Diana's tray. His knuckles grazed her nipple through the apron's sheer fabric, and she recoiled instinctively. "Careful with the merchandise," Wolf Mask chuckled to his companion, a skeletal figure in an ivory plague doctor's mask. "King Grodd's new toy still has some fight in her."
Plague Doctor tilted his head, his black-gloved fingers tapping the crystal rim of his glass. "Mm. Freshly broken stock is always the most fun." His voice was like dry parchment, rasping against Diana's ears.
He stepped behind her—close enough that she felt the heat radiating from his body.
She hated the rubber helm she was forced to wear, as it obstructed every warrior's instinct she had. She couldn't track the man behind her, but she felt his presence—a slow, deliberate orbit around her trapped form. Suddenly, his gloved fingers whispered against the back of her right stockinged thigh, tracing the lacy pattern up her leg until it reached the lace-edged clasp of her garter. "Look at these," he mused, pressing the flat of one finger against the dimpled flesh where elastic had bitten too deep. "The Ape King is lucky indeed to have a little toy like you."
Diana jerked away, the tray knocking against her collarbone—empty now, save for a single melted ice cube rolling in its own condensation. The plague doctor let her retreat, his chuckle muffled beneath his beaklike mask as she turned stiffly toward the refreshment table. Her stilettos clicked unevenly on the polished stone. Perhaps if they saw her reloading her tray with more drinks, these men would stop pawing at her for a moment.
"You did well, Pretty. You held your feminism in check." Grodd's voice slid between her thoughts like a blade between ribs. She hadn't even seen him approach, but suddenly his presence loomed behind her, his musk thick enough to taste through the mask's rubber filters. His massive hand settled on the small of her back—proprietary, possessive—his claws pricking through the lace apron to score faint red lines into her skin. "Shall I reward that obedience?"
The vibrator inside her pulsed—not a shock, but a question, its hum vibrating against her clit in slow, deliberate strokes. Diana clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached, her thighs slick with sweat beneath the stockings. No. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction, wouldn't let him twist her body's betrayal into something earned. She thought of the training sands of Themyscira, of her mother's voice—An Amazon's virtue is hers to give, not a man's to take—and slammed her jaw shut:
No, Grodd. No pleasure from you.
The thought seared through Diana’s mind—another attempt at defiance—but the consequence was immediate. The vibrator flared to life again, not with the teasing thrum from before, but with a vicious, jagged pulse that sent electricity clawing up her clitoris. Her knees nearly collapsed, high heeled shoes scraping against the obsidian floor again as her thighs spasmed. The mask warped her yelp into something muffled but unmistakable, her hips jerking forward against the tray’s edge as if trying to escape the sensation.
But she found her footing again, and arched her back so as to thrust her tray towards the nearest server, who loaded her up with more drinks. She would not show Grodd any more weakness than she had to.
Though the night was still young, and as it wore on, Diana and Sonia were subjected to greater and greater tests.
As much as she hated her mask, she appreciated those worn by the party's attendees. As Diana served the crowd, she realized that despite her years as a superheroine, she couldn't recognize any of the men there. Which was an odd comfort, since it was humiliating enough being touched by anonymous ne'er-do-wells; knowing that her garters were being snapped by, say, Lex Luthor would have been unbearable. She also hoped that her own helm hid her identity as well as theirs did. A few times, she overheard little remarks like, "Say, do I recognize those tits?" but chocked them up to drunken banter.
Diana had served drinks to a dozen men—each more intoxicated than the last—and each time she knelt before them, they took liberties. Fingers traced the scalloped lace of her thigh-high stockings or pressed against the damp silk of her panties where Grodd's toy had made her tender. One guest—a man in a fox mask lined with gold filigree—dared to hook two fingers beneath her apron strap and tug, further exposing the swell of her breast.
Whereas mere months ago, a single stray touch would have ignited righteous fury—wrists snapped, bodies hurled through walls—now Diana's thighs clenched around a different fire entirely. The fox-masked man's fingers lingered against the flushed skin above her stocking tops, his touch nearing outright penetration, and her breath hitched. Disgusting, she thought-
—but the wetness soaking through her panties astonished her.
It happened again and again throughout the evening. Hobbled by her high heels and sensory-muffling rubber helm, Diana found herself increasingly incapable of fending off the touches of these men, nor could she righteously scold them about their misogyny. It made her helpless, a sensation utterly new to such a powerful woman. And while it bothered her, its novelty crept into her unconscious in a manner she would have explicitly rejected before her capture.
The crowd continued to take advantage as the evening wore on. Fingers would find erogenous zones on her body that even she was not aware of until she had been groped, touched, or pinched.
And each time, her womanly folds would become slicker, just as they had under Grodd's mental assaults in the weeks prior. Hera, I must get out of here.
She knew what was happening—had studied the Man's World's psychology texts during her diplomatic missions. Operant conditioning. Positive reinforcement through pleasure stimuli, negative reinforcement through pain avoidance. A Skinner box of the flesh, with Grodd as the architect and her own traitorous nerves as the wiring.
Her thighs trembled as another shock lanced through her core—the thirteenth, if she'd been counting—making the liquor tremble in its crystal prisons above her breasts. And each time, Wonder Woman had managed to choose pain over pleasure in defiance of Grodd. But her pace was slowing, her will weakening.
By the time another hour had passed, little rivulets of Diana's vaginal cream had escaped the confines of her sheer panties and were dribbling down her legs, discoloring the lace tops of her black stockings.
She was panting heavily within the rubber mask, her chest rising and falling rapidly against the cold metal tray. The vibrator inside her had been relentless—alternating between sharp shocks and maddeningly slow pulses—but Diana had held firm, refusing to give Grodd the satisfaction of hearing her request relief.
Then, suddenly—Sonia.
Diana’s breath hitched behind the rubber mask as her gaze snagged on the nurse across the Grand Hall. Sonia’s tray clattered to the obsidian floor in a cacophony of shattering crystal, the sound swallowed by the roar of drunken laughter. But Diana heard nothing but the nurse’s shuddering moan—a sound like silk tearing, raw and unrestrained—as Sonia’s knees buckled. Her stockings tore at the seams where they met her garters, her thighs splaying shamelessly wide as her back arched. The vibrator inside her must have been set to pleasure, because Sonia’s entire body convulsed like a marionette with its strings cut, her fingers clawing at the empty air as ecstasy wracked her.
Diana’s mouth went dry. The sight was obscene, hypnotic—Sonia’s apron straps slipping off her shoulders, her sweat-slicked throat bared to the torchlight as she came apart. A gorilla guard seized her by the hair, yanking her head back to expose the flutter of her pulse, but Sonia didn’t resist. Her lips parted around a silent scream, her hips grinding down against nothing as if chasing the ghost of the sensation. She chose this, Diana realized. She chose to surrender.
And in that moment of distraction, of weakness...that was when Grodd’s voice slithered into her skull—"Pain or pleasure?"—Entranced by Sonia's ecstasy, Diana’s body answered unconsciously before her mind could consider. The thought was barely formed—pleasure—before the device inside her roared to life, not with the jagged bite of punishment, but with a rolling, tidal thrum that dragged a moan from Diana’s throat. The sound was muffled by the mask, but her thighs shook violently as heat exploded behind her navel.
"Oooohhmmpppph!" Her hands opened and closed into fists from their bound position behind her head, longing for the freedom to touch herself. The vibrator pulsed in sync with her heartbeat, its rhythm deepening. Waves of sensation built with agonizing deliberation, each crest higher than the last, until Diana’s hips jerked forward against the tray’s edge, her bound hands clawing at air behind her. She was there, teetering on the precipice—her toes curling in their high heels, her nipples poking against the cold metal—when suddenly...nothing.
Silence.
Not true silence—the hall still thrummed with drunken laughter, with the wet smack of lips against glass, with the creak of leather gloves tightening around crystal tumblers—but in Diana’s skull, there was only the hollow, echoing absence where pleasure had been. The vibrator inside her had gone still, its vibrations fading like the last shuddering breath of a dying thing. Her clitoris throbbed in protest, swollen and oversensitive against the sudden emptiness, her hips twitching forward in a futile search for friction. The tray above her breasts rattled, liquor sloshing perilously close to the edge.
Diana’s breath came in ragged bursts, fogging the mask’s interior. She could smell herself—the musk of her own arousal mingling with the bourbon’s heady sweetness. Her stockings were wet, the lace tops darkened with the evidence of her humiliation, but it was the ache between her legs that made her want to scream. She’d been so close. The memory of Sonia’s enviable climax played behind her eyelids—the way the nurse’s back had arched, her body convulsing in surrender—and Diana’s puss clenched around nothing, the now-stilled dildo giving nothing back.
She felt cheated. After endless teasing...her touching and near kiss with Sonia in the tub, the irregular rhythm of Grodd's tool in her vagina, the endless strokes and caresses by the masked men at the party...and now...nothing? No relief?
Thwarted and embarrassed, she sank to her knees in the middle of the Grand Hall, the drinks sloshing to the ground, toppling off of her tray. Just a little rest, that was all she needed. Then she could rejoin the fight.
But as the evening wore on, she remained there, unable to regain her posture. Several of the guests gave her sidewards glances, and a few mocking remarks were made, but beyond that...nothing.
Their disregard was almost worse than their groping. It made her feel insignificant. Despite all of her power, all of her fame, Wonder Woman was -for tonight- just a serving girl, defeated by the brief moment of pleasure she'd failed to seize.
Diana sat there, nearly prone, for awhile. She wasn't really aware of the passage of time——when the last guest was escorted out by Grodd's gorilla guards. The room was silent now save for her own breath and the distant conversation of drunken men retiring for the evening. The vibrator remained inside her—but it felt heavier now, like a stone lodged in her pelvis, a reminder of her unfinished torment. Her breasts ached from the tray’s weight, her knees burned from kneeling, her thighs trembled with exhaustion and unsated need.
The party had ended without ceremony. The guests had filed out, some stumbling, some still leering at her prone form as they passed. Diana registered that she didn't know when or where Sonia had gone, but couldn't rise from the floor to check. The last few weeks, Diana finally had to admit, had taken their toll. While she may not be broken, she was indisputably weakened.
It was as if the cue of this realization summoned Grodd.
Diana barely registered the tremor in the stone floor before his shadow engulfed her, blotting out the torchlight. His scent hit her first—rank musk and bourbon, the iron tang of dried sweat clinging to his fur. Then came the heat, radiating from his body like a furnace as he loomed over her.
Grodd was not merely large—he was stupendous, a mountain of corded muscle barely contained by his ceremonial harness. The torchlight painted his fur in molten gold, each ripple of his pectorals casting shadows deep enough to drown in. His loincloth—a scrap of embroidered silk that barely covered his crotch—tented obscenely outward, the outline beneath it unmistakable: a shaft as thick as her wrist, straining against fabric already damp with precum. The scent of it—spiced and feral—made Diana’s nostrils flare despite herself. Her stomach twisted. She had felt that monstrous girth pushing against her womanhood just last night. She had kept him out then, but now...?
She saw the moment his nostrils flared—saw the flare of crimson in his yellowed eyes as he drank in the sight of her taut stockings, the damp lace clinging to her thighs where her own slickness told on her. His claws flexed at his sides, knuckles popping with the effort of restraint. The silence between them was alive, thick with the unsaid promise of what he could—what he would—do to her.
Diana’s breath stuttered in the mask’s confines. She’d faced gods and monsters, but never this: the visceral weight of male appraisal, the way his gaze peeled her open layer by layer until she felt flayed. His stare lingered where the apron straps had slipped, baring the upper curves of her breasts; where the vibrator pressed obscenely against the front of her panties, it's now-protruding tip visible through the soaked lace. She watched his tongue swipe across his fangs, a drop of saliva glistening at the corner of his mouth. He’s tasting the air, she realized with dawning horror. Tasting me.
Her thighs squeezed together reflexively—a futile attempt to hide the evidence of her own betrayal, and Grodd smiled. When he crouched, his knuckles brushing the floor, the sheer bulk of him dwarfed her. Diana had always been tall among women—had stood eye-to-eye with kings and warriors—but now, kneeling in fetishwear with her wrists bound behind her, she felt… petite. Fragile. The heat of his breath fogged the rubber mask as he leaned in, his nostrils flaring at the scent of her arousal.
"Little Amazon," he murmured, the words vibrating through his chest like distant thunder. His fingers—each wider than her wrist—curled around her waist, and Diana tensed. She knew what was coming. She'd seen Grodd carry his spoils this way during raids before—warriors, dignitaries, those who'd dared defy him—hauled off like sacks of grain to be broken at his leisure. But when his grip tightened, lifting her effortlessly into the air, the reality of it punched the breath from her lungs.
Her stomach lurched as the world inverted. The torchlight blurred into streaks of gold as Grodd flipped her and threw her over his shoulder, her bound wrists pressed flush against the small of her back, her breasts crushed against the sweat-slicked fur of his shoulder. The vibrator inside her shifted with the motion, its inner tip nudging a spot that made her gasp—a sound the mask warped into something wet and desperate. Grodd chuckled, the vibration of it rumbling through her ribs as he adjusted his hold, his claws pricking the lace-clad swell of her ass. "Careful, Princess," he purred, his free hand sliding up her stockings to grip the meat of her thigh. "Wouldn't want you to... slip."
The warning came too late. With each step he took—his gait rolling like a ship on rough seas—the vibrator's steady hum coaxed her hips into tiny, involuntary jerks. Her stockinged knees bumped against his chest, her thighs trembling as she fought to keep still. But the rhythm was insidious: the slow drag of silk against fur, the pulse between her legs syncing with his footsteps until—Hera forgive her—she was grinding. Just slightly. Just enough that the lace garters caught on his harness straps, the friction sending sparks up her hungry clitoris. The tray still strapped to her chest dug into her sternum with each breath, the metal warming where it pressed against his body.
The passage from the Great Hall to Grodd's bedchamber was a fog, and Diana knew the forceful, grunting noises she was making into the thick rubber hood were not a deterrence.
As he carried her into his layer, the first thing she registered was the cold. Much colder than the night before. Though littered with cushions and furs, the stone walls weeped with cold, the kind that seeped into bones.
The second thing she noticed was that the tray’s straps snapped loose, as Grodd yanked it from her body and tossed it aside with a dismissive clang. The sudden absence of weight made her breasts feel oddly buoyant, oversensitive where the metal had pressed them flat.
Then came the apron. As he held her with one muscular paw, his other hooked into the delicate lace, pulling it taut before slicing through the fabric with a single, contemptuous flick of his wrist. The torn halves fluttered to the floor like moth wings, leaving Diana’s torso bare save for the sweat-slick sheen clinging to her skin. She twisted—not enough to escape, but enough to make her defiance known—and Grodd responded by pressing a single, massive digit against the vibrator still lodged inside her.
The jolt hit like lightning. Diana’s back arched involuntarily, her thighs clamping around his hand as pleasure this time—sharp and humming—cracked through her nerves. Then, just as suddenly, it was gone. The absence left her gasping, her body thrumming with unfinished tension. Grodd used that moment of stunned vulnerability to peel her panties down her trembling legs, the lace catching on the garter straps before finally pooling around her ankles. The vibrator pulsed again—a teasing flicker—and Diana’s knees buckled. She barely registered the cool stone beneath her stockinged feet as Grodd lifted one leg, then the other, divesting her of her black pumps with unhurried ease.
He chose to leave her in only the lace stockings and the rubber mask. The latter clung to Diana’s face more tightly than it had all evening, the cold of the chamber seeming to shrink it. Its rubber edges sealed away her identity, her voice, even the heat of her breath—trapping it against her lips in damp, stifling waves. The stockings still rode high on her thighs, held up by tight garters despite the distress of the evening. If Diana could see herself in a mirror, she'd know that she was now a parody even of who she'd been earlier in the evening—naked save for these remnants of fetishwear, her body laid bare while the trappings of servitude stayed stubbornly fastened.
She tried to speak, a half-hearted protest of her treatment. The mask warped her words into unintelligible wet syllables, muffled and weak. Grodd’s answering chuckle was low, rich with amusement—he could understand her perfectly, through the telepathic link, but the mask ensured no one else would hear even a whisper of resistance. Diana’s fists clenched, nails biting into her palms as she strained against the futility of it. She wanted to demand her freedom, to spit defiance—but her throat clicked dryly instead, her voice stolen by the mask’s cruel engineering.
Then came the blindfold.
Grodd’s claws were gentle—mockingly so—as he looped the silk over her eyes, knotting it tight enough to bite into the rubber mask’s edges. The world vanished in stages: first the torchlight’s amber haze, then the shadowed contours of Grodd’s chamber, and finally, the last flicker of movement as his bulk shifted before her. Darkness pooled thick and cloying, pressing against her eyelids like a second mask. Diana’s breath hitched. She’d faced battles blindfolded before—Amazon training rituals demanded it—but never like this. Never with her wrists bound, her body stripped bare save for this fetish lingerie.
But this wasn't to be a battle, for Grodd was handling her as easily as a toy.
Blindfolded and muffled, Diana could only feel—the sudden rush of air as her body tilted backward, the yielding softness of cushions pressing into her bare back, the heat radiating from Grodd’s bulk as he loomed over her. Then, surprisingly, she felt him cut her wrist bonds. Why would he-
Blood rushed back into her fingers with a prickle of pins and needles, but before she could even flex them, Grodd’s massive paws closed around hers. His grip was firm, guiding rather than forceful, as if he were a sculptor positioning clay.
Her palms met heat first—thick, musky warmth that pulsed against her skin. Then texture: coarse fur giving way to smooth, iron-hard flesh beneath. He had placed her hands on his cock. There was an expectation there that Diana did not have the strength any longer to defy.
Her fingers splayed instinctively, trying to comprehend the sheer girth of him, the way his cock strained against her tentative touch like a living thing. It twitched in her grasp, a bead of precum slicking her thumb as she recoiled—only for Grodd to drag her hands back, forcing her to measure him properly. Her fingertips didn’t meet around his circumference. By Hera’s grace, she thought, half-hysterical, how does anything human—or even Amazon—take this?
Grodd’s chuckle vibrated through her bones as he guided her grip upward, letting her explore the obscene taper of his tip, the thick ridge that swelled midway down his shaft. Diana’s breath came in shallow bursts behind the mask, her thighs quivering where they bracketed his hips. She’d seen stallions mate on Themyscira’s shores—but nothing compared to this. His scent flooded her nostrils—spiced musk and something darker, primal—making her stomach clench in a traitorous mix of dread and… something else.
Her fingers faltered when she reached the base, the sheer girth of him making her wrists ache. More precum smeared across her palm, sticky and warm. I cannot, she thought wildly—but Grodd’s hands dug into her hips, lifting her slightly before pushing her back onto the cushions. The moment stole the air from her lungs, and she didn't know how to react to being handled as easily as she was.
And it was just as she thought to struggle back to her feet that cold metal clamped around her stockinged ankles: a pair of shackles that screeched as they suddenly wrenched her legs apart.
The unexpected chains were anchored by bolts on the floor, and the extent to which they spread her legs was obscene. Her thighs burned with the stretch, her stockings straining further at the lace tops where the garters tugged. Grodd’s breath seared the inside of her knee as he knelt between her legs, his claws tracing the silken, lacy patterns covering her trembling thighs. The vibrator still inside her pulsed once—a taunt—and Diana arched off the cushions with a muffled cry. She felt like a specimen pinned for dissection: her pussy glistening under the torchlight, her swollen clitoris twitching with every ragged breath.
Grodd’s growl vibrated through the stone floor, and his telepathic voice reached her with what she somehow knew would be her last choice this night: "Pleasure… or pain?" It was a question she'd answered defiantly perhaps 20 times since being bathed, and been punished for it. Wouldn't it be easier now, to just give in?
As she considered, everything in the chamber conspired against her. The blindfold pressed deeper into her sockets with each pant, sealing her in suffocating darkness. His claws continued to stroke her inner thigh, the cool air rushing doing nothing to stifle his searing touch. The vibrator inside her pulsed once—a taunting flicker—before Grodd’s fingers curled around its base. Then: the slow drag of silicone against her oversensitive walls tore a wet, muffled whimper from her throat as he pulled the offensive tool from her weeping pussy.
Diana clenched her teeth over that whimper so hard her jaw ached. No. Not another sound. Not even the ragged hitch of her breath would betray her now. She shut her eyes beneath the blindfold—as if she could shut out the world twice—and locked her mind away in some distant corner of her skull, where Grodd’s voice couldn’t slither in and Sonia’s moans couldn’t haunt her. Where she was still Diana of Themyscira, unbroken, unyielding—
Grodd’s chuckle was a landslide of gravel. "Stubborn little queen," he mused, his breath hot against her inner thigh. She felt his claws retract, the blunt pads of his fingers tracing idle circles on her hipbone. "But silence is its own answer." His grip tightened suddenly, yanking her hips forward until her spine bowed off the cushions. "And this is what silence buys you."
Before she could even register his speed, he was pushing at her most cherished entrance.
The stretch was obscene. Diana’s body arched like a drawn bowstring, her mouth gaping soundlessly behind the mask as Grodd’s cockhead breached her. The vibrator had been a toy compared to this—the way her cunt strained around his girth, the brutal fullness of him splitting her open. Her thighs trembled violently, her stockinged feet scrabbling against the stone floor as much as the shackles would allow, as if she could somehow push away from the intrusion. But Grodd’s grip was iron, his hips rolling forward with inexorable precision, each inch sinking deeper until Diana’s muffled scream hitched into a wet, shuddering gasp.
She had trained her body for war—had taken spears and arrows without flinching—but nothing had prepared her virgin body for the visceral shock of male penetration. The way her inner walls fluttered desperately around him, trying to accommodate what shouldn’t be possible. The vibrator had teased her, but Grodd claimed—his cock carving a path through virgin flesh with single-minded purpose. Her clit throbbed in frantic, oversensitive pulses, her body betraying her with traitorous slickness that eased his invasion even as her mind recoiled.
Then—movement. Grodd withdrew slightly, letting her feel every ridge of his shaft, every vein pulsing against her spasming walls. The friction was unbearable, her clit rubbed insistently by the coarse fur of his pelvis with each shallow thrust. Diana’s toes curled in her stockings, her thighs shaking as pleasure—thick and cloying—pooled low in her belly. She bit down on a scream as he bottomed out, her cervix protesting the intrusion even as her body clenched around him in perverse welcome.
It didn't take long; Wonder Woman came almost instantly. Not the slow, creeping pleasure of the vibrator’s pulses—this was lightning, a white-hot crack of sensation that seared up her spine and shattered her resistance in a single stroke. Her pussy convulsed around him, gushing slickness that spilled down her thighs and pooled beneath her ass, the scent of her own girlcum thick enough to taste even through the mask. Grodd growled—a sound that vibrated through her bones—as her body tried to milk him, her inner walls fluttering helplessly around his shaft. "Pathetic," his voice slithered into her skull, thick with disdain and something darker. "All your strength, your pride, your feminism... undone by a few thrusts of my cock."
But Grodd was far from satisfied. He'd barely begun.
Her climax—wild and involuntary—was nothing more than a ripple against the relentless tide of his hunger. He snarled, his claws biting into her hips as he hauled her body flush against his, his cock twitching inside her like a live wire. The aftershocks of her orgasm still pulsed through her, leaving her oversensitive and trembling, but Grodd didn’t pause, didn’t relent. He used her trembling, the way her walls clenched around him in helpless spasms, to drive himself deeper.
The rhythm was brutal—a conqueror’s cadence, each thrust measured to wring another choked gasp from behind her mask. His hips pistoned with animal precision, the slap of flesh against flesh echoing off the stone walls. Diana’s huge breasts bounced with each snap of his pelvis, the sweat-slicked curves jostling wildly as he hammered into her. Her stockings strained at the seams where the garters dug into her thighs, the lace stretching with every brutal yank of her shackled legs.
Grodd’s growls escalated into ragged snarls, his claws raking down her flanks to grip the meat of her ass, tilting her pelvis for deeper access. The angle changed—Hera, it changed—and suddenly his cockhead was grinding against some hidden ridge inside her, a spot that sent fireworks detonating behind her blindfold. Diana’s back arched off the cushions involuntarily, her body no longer her own, her toes curling in the ruined stockings as another orgasm built with terrifying speed.
But just as the tension coiled to breaking point, Grodd’s telepathic grip clamped down like a vise around her pleasure centers. "No." The command reverberated through her skull, cold and absolute. "This is for me now, girl." His thrusts grew erratic—short, punishing jabs that fed her newly-starved puss, but wouldn't allow it to relief—even as his knot swelled obscenely at his base. Diana whimpered, her body trapped between agony and ecstasy, her cunt fluttering desperately around his girth while he used her.
He rutted her like a beast, his chest pounding in a primal drumbeat that shook the chamber. Spittle flew from his muzzle with each snarling breath, his claws leaving crescent moons in the flesh of her hips. The scent of their coupling—a salty musk—hung thick in the air. Torchlight caught the sweat sheening his fur as he mounted her in truth, his hips pistoning with such force her shackles screeched against stone.
Then—
The knot.
It swelled like a fist inside her—unrelenting, unforgiving, reshaping the clutch of her walls with every brutal thrust. Grodd's breath came in ragged, snarling bursts now, his rhythm fracturing into stuttering jerks as his hips pushed against her. Diana felt it first in the way his cock pulsed—thick, uneven throbs that sent shockwaves through her oversensitive nerves. Then the heat as he came: molten and primal, flooding her depths in viscous surges that seemed endless. His release was violent, and he roared as he ejaculated, each jet of cum painting her insides with scalding proof of his conquest.
Oh, Hera. Wonder Woman felt herself sigh into her gag._Oh, Grodd. _
When he finally stilled, his knot kept her anchored, her body forced to accept every last drop. Grodd's claws slackened their grip on her hips, leaving behind marks like crescents. He exhaled—long and satisfied—as he withdrew the slightest bit, just enough to make her whimper at the drag of his softening length. Then she felt him reach down to her feet with a long arm and -with a metallic clink- released her ankles from the floor shackles.
But freedom was a fleeting illusion. Despite the blindfold, she could sense him as he continued to rummage down by her feet, and suddenly cold iron clamped around her legs again, binding her ankles together this time rather apart, the chain between them just short enough to hobble any attempt at escape.
Diana lay there, breathing hard into the rubber mask. The blindfold had slipped during their coupling, but she still couldn't see well—only sense the torchlight flickering against her eyelids, the sweat cooling on her skin. Her thoughts were fragments, scattered like the torn lace clinging to her thighs. She felt... hollow. Not just from the stretch of him, the way her body still pulsed with the ghost of his girth, but from something deeper. A fissure in her pride, in the bedrock of who she was supposed to be. The Amazon who had faced gods without flinching now trembled at the memory of her own pleasure.
Then—air. Cold against her lips, her cheeks, the bridge of her nose. Grodd's claws hooked under the rubber mask's edge, peeling it away with a wet pop. Diana gasped as the stale, trapped heat rushed out, her first unfiltered breath in hours. The torchlight stabbed at her vision, forcing her to blink rapidly, her lashes sticky with tears she hadn't realized she'd shed. Grodd loomed over her, his muzzle streaked with saliva, his golden eyes reflecting the firelight like twin suns. He held the mask between them, letting her see the damp interior where her identity had been restrained.
"You chose pleasure," he rumbled then, his voice thick with exertion. A single claw traced the curve of her lower lip, smearing the moisture there. "Even if your pride refuses to admit it." Diana flinched, but she knew her body had betrayed her; her thighs still trembled with aftershocks, her nipples pebbled against the cool air. Grodd's nostrils flared as he inhaled her scent, his tongue flicking out to taste the sweat beading along her collarbone. "Your girlcunt doesn't lie, little queen. It welcomed me." His laughter was a low, rolling thunder as he tossed the mask aside, the rubber hitting the stone with a dull slap. "And for that... you have been rewarded."
Wonder Woman tried to shift, but she was so sore, and Grodd wasn't having it anyway. He collapsed into the bedding beside her with a crash, and pulled her down beside him. The bed furs were coarse against her bare skin, smelling of musk and something faintly herbal. As he grew comfortable, Grodd pulled her form against his massive chest like a trophy, her shackled legs pressed flush against his furred thigh. His arm draped possessively over her waist, claws idly stroking the curve of her hips where only her Amazon strength had prevented bruising. Diana shuddered—not from cold, but from the obscenity of it all: her body molded against his, his cum still leaking from her folds, her sacred maidenhood spent on the rutting of a beast-king.
She kept her breathing even, counting the seconds between inhales to stop herself from screaming. The fight wasn’t gone. It coiled in her belly like a serpent, waiting. But her body—her treacherous, pleasure-starved body—betrayed her and could no longer be fully trusted.
The moment Grodd’s claws stilled, her eyelids grew leaden. Exhaustion pulled at her like an undertow, dragging her down into the warmth of his bulk. No more thought. Just sleep. For though she had little choice but to find warmth in the Ape King tonight...she hoped tonight's rest would help her find a way to fight again tomorrow.