Chapter 3. In which our heroine resists, futilely

Cynthia’s relatively quiet morning was almost more adventure than she could bear. It started in the shower. First of all, it required an immense effort of will for her just to put her head under the running water. She finally did it but shivered uncontrollably the whole time. Then she had to go through the whole ordeal a second time just to rinse off soap and shampoo.

All the while she silently reassured herself, «He’s not here. He can’t hurt me. He can’t drown me. I’m safe.»

After the shower though, she soon was gripped with terror again. After drying her body she raised the damp towel up to dry her face and hair. Suddenly she spasmed, throwing the towel into the bathroom door hard enough to crack the wood. No matter what, she could not bring herself to put that damp towel over her face to dry it. She simply could not. Finally, she decided to dry her face and streaming wet hair with a blow dryer. It took almost an hour but the alternative was unthinkable. «There is no way that towel is going over my head!»

Later she picked nervously at her breakfast while downing cup after cup of coffee. Usually by now she was at least scanning the news — radio, TV, internet — for word of a crime or disaster that might call for Majestic Woman’s help. But not today. She had a lot on her mind. She had had lucid dreams before, but nothing like last night’s vivid, horror/porno of a nightmare. She didn’t know how to deal with it. Never in her life, not in her centuries upon centuries growing up and living in the Amazon Queendom, nor in her decades living as a superheroine in “Man’s World”, had she ever felt such desire for a man, not even Simon.

She felt a familiar stab of anguish. «Ah, Simon. It still hurts every time I think of you. But not as much as it used to.» She let go of her sad loss and got back to mulling over her strange dream.

The worst was not that there was sexual desire; she was after all only human, despite the gifts of the Gods. The worst was the ease with which the object of her lust had subdued her. The terror he had instilled in her. The sheer orgasmic joy she had felt in surrendering. The cold disquiet she had felt on every “failure”. It had just been a dream, but nonetheless the memory of it was shaking her idea of — her belief in — who she really was. «I called him “My Lord”. And Hera help me, I meant it!»

Later that morning superhero duties were still on hold. Besides her need to come to terms with that awful dream, there was the matter of the wreckage which her nightmare had left in the real world. Her bedsheets and her pajamas were utterly ruined. She needed to dispose of them, to remake the bed with one of her two remaining sets of sheets, and to do something to get the reek of sex out of her bedroom.

So she opened the windows to air out the room, cleaned and vacuumed thoroughly, and — not satisfied — lit some aroma candles to mask the last traces of the stench. Now what? «I need to get out of this house!» So she left, not as Majestic Woman, but as Cynthia Royal, just a long walk to get a change of scenery and to be alone with her dark thoughts.

She came back home more than an hour later for a late lunch and to don her Majestic Woman togs. This afternoon was the monthly Legion of Heroes executive meeting, held in the Legion’s Spyglass orbital platform. Access to the satellite was by a teleporter provided as a courtesy by the Uenans, the ancient alien race with whom Magic Lamp was affiliated.

She signaled for teleport, and in seconds she was there. Other committee members trickled in. Snacks and beverages were consumed — in the usual way; no special handling required due to the artificial gravity, provided as yet another courtesy by the Uenans — and small talk was exchanged. Were it not for the garish uniforms and rippling muscles, not to mention the cold, untwinkling stars visible in every viewport, one might think this were just some mundane group of civic-minded leaders.

At the appointed time, they gathered in the war room, and the executive committee meeting was called to order. It was the Wraith’s term as Chair, his second turn in the big chair, and so the meeting ran with clockwork efficiency: status of known and suspected extraterrestrial threats, status of the various hunts for supervillains known to be at large, status of jailed or civilly-committed supervillains nearing release, status of ongoing programs of training for young or newly-powered heroes, probationary status of villains-turned-hero, status, status, status. Cynthia was lost in her own thoughts and twice had to ask someone to repeat a question directed at her.

After the meeting, the Wraith asked her to stay behind in the war room and help with some strategic planning. Such a request was not unusual; her long centuries of military experience among the Amazons had made her quite the expert at strategy and tactics of both defensive preparedness and organized combat.

However, as the last of the other heroes teleported back to Earth, the Wraith approached her with an attitude that had much more in common with multi-billionaire captain of industry, Blake Warren, than with the terror of the Carthage City underworld.

“Cynthia, what’s wrong? You’re a key leader in this team, and today you weren’t really here.”

“It’s nothing really, Blake. Don’t worry about it. You’re right. I’ve got a lot on my mind, but I’ll deal with it.”

“You’re sure...”

“Positive. Look, you said you wanted to talk strategy, and I do have some strategy ideas. About the Betelgeusean threat. Let me look at Power Man’s reconnaissance report, and I’ll try to have something back to you tomorrow.”

“Well — alright then,” he said. There was a brief flurry of tapping on his wristpad and then, “It’s in your mailbox now, Cynthia. Thank you.”

Soon she felt the full-body tingle of the alien teleporter technology sending her back home, and she caught one last glimpse of Blake Warren, with a look of concern on his face. His yearning expression said it all. He wanted to comfort her, shelter her, ease her troubles.

«Uuugh. MEN!»

She was more than a match for the Wraith, physically and mentally. «Well, maybe I’m equal mentally. On a good day. But that’s beside the point. He knows I’m not some wilting pansy. But he’s trying to do the stupid “male protector” thing just the same.»

She was no longer insulted by such treatment as she often had been when she first left the Queendom.

«It’s not his fault. He’s just a man. He was raised in Man’s World. He can’t help trying to be — what’s the word? — “chivalrous”.» She sighed. «But it’s still annoying.»

Later that evening, she prepared and feasted upon her typical gourmet dinner for one. Tonight was: Chicken Kiev, steamed artichoke, and a light salad with homemade Roquefort dressing. In the aftermath, she was sipping a nice pinot grigio and pouring over the report.

«The Betelgeuse Empire thinks the Earth is easy pickings except for what they call “the metahuman problem”. And they’re probably right about that. Even so, they still seem to be preparing for invasion, so they must think they have a “solution”. Ah, there! They’re stockpiling rheanite!» Exposure to the rare radioactive mineral was Power Man’s only known weakness. «And they know about that! But rheanite only works against Rheonians. Is there more? No, that seems to be the linchpin of the whole plan.»

A smile came over her face. «Great Hera! They’ve made two critical mistakes. First of all, they think Power Man is a metahuman. They don’t realize he is non-human, an alien. Secondly, they think, based on no evidence whatsoever, that rheanite affects all metahumans the way it affects Power Man.» There was some small possibility she had missed something, but it was not enough to worry about. So she happily typed up her preliminary analysis, fired it off to the executive team, and rubbed her tired eyes.

A cup of hot cocoa and a warm bath later, she was feeling much more relaxed. Working on the Betelgeusean problem was exactly the antidote she needed to that nightmare. Mind at ease, she headed to bed.

Dreams soon overtook her. As I watched them, I saw that much of the violence in her dreams centered on being trapped underwater and drowning. She was not as “over” last night as she thought. Ah, there. In her dreams, Blake was calling her back to the war room, except that through the viewports I could see that Spyglass is deep underwater, not in outer space. As she shut the door to the war room behind her, she was suddenly naked. A masculine arm reached around and cupped her firm breast.

“Blake,” she sighed. But when she turned around, it was — me: Blond hair and beard, blue eyes, and a lecherous smile.

I was almost too surprised — and flattered — to take my cue. But I managed to execute the body swap before her dream moved on to something else.

In the penthouse, Cynthia was in a familiar state. Head down, ass up, arms outstretched. Her body alive, electric. Her nose full of the smell of her Lord, somewhere in the room. The gap between her legs, wet, empty, yearning.

«Oh no. I’ve got to get out of here.»

Clumsily she staggered to her feet. Too, too slowly she ran for the front door, her only hope of freedom.

She hadn’t seen me yet at all, but I easily overtook and subdued her. She was again helpless in my grasp, arms pinned behind her, every fiber of her being aware of her Lord, her body aching to submit to me even as she struggled.

“You have to be one of the most stupid bitches I’ve ever owned,” I said with just a hint of sadness.

«“Discipline”»

In her mind she said it with me. We body swapped as her knees gave way.

In my training room dungeon again, she was restrained exactly as last time. However, unlike last time, there were no introductions, no explanations, no chance for compliance. The towel was already over her face. The hose was already drowning her. She had already screwed up too badly to be allowed to breathe.

Over the sound of continuous clicking, I began, “This is unforgivable. In only one day you have forgotten every ... single ... lesson. I’m tempted to just drown you now and find a new baby bitch. Is there anything worth salvaging here? Are you actually intelligent enough to benefit from instruction?”

Flip. Cough. “Please. Please just let me g...” BRAP!

Once again over constant clicking as I drowned her: “Your answer was not responsive.”

Inside she was digging in her heels. She thought she was ready to die rather than become the servile rag doll that she had become yesterday. She thought she was ready to let herself drown. But there were two forces working against her. First, she had lived through two and a half millennia; her will to live was stronger than you, or she, can imagine. Second, and I can’t emphasize this enough, her body wanted her to be servile, to be used, to submit, to obey.

And, of course, I was ultimately in control of the situation. I was ready to give CPR. Hell, I was ready to intubate her and force her to breathe if it came to that. But it would be much simpler to just not let her suffocate.

I flipped her and let her breathe, and cough, and moan, but then I put her back under the hose whenever she attempted to speak.

“You belong to me. Your breath belongs to me. Your little rebellion will not work. You will live as long as I will it. You will die when you cease to amuse me.”

Over the next several iterations, her moans gave way to pitiful sobs. Her body began to shiver uncontrollably. And tears. A normal “practitioner” would not be able to tell that she were crying with all the water flying everywhere, but I was inside her head. I knew. It was an impressive display of will power, but it would ultimately fail.

“You’re not doing very well. I can keep this up all day if necessary. Just as a reminder, in case you forgot, you should be pondering the question ‘Can you be taught?’.”

I kept the hose trained on her as her will finally crumbled. She squirmed. She stopped shivering. She clicked once.

Flip. Cough. “I ... I ... I can be taught. My Lord!” she screeched. «Fuckfuckfuck I almost forgot!»

“Well, that remains to be seen.”

I took her through yesterday’s session again. Of course, it went much faster this time, since she knew the answers and was tremblingly eager to give them. But there were no “rewards” this time, much to her dismay. She so wanted to hear me say “Good Girl” again. But I merely said “Correct” to each answer and put her under the hose again while I asked the next one.

The heroic facade was gone; she had crumbled completely. Now she wanted the reward as much as she wanted to avoid the punishment.

At long last I paused. Ding! “Well. You have answered truthfully and completely, you may pleasure yourself, twat.”

“Thank you, My Lord. Aaahh!”

The smell of her Lord added spice to her masturbation. Soon she was hanging on the edge of her orgasm, knowing that she needed me to get her over.