The card attached to the gift box was brief: "Wear it. See you at 6."

Samantha Guilfoyle smiled. It was just like him, she thought. A man of few words. Big, strong, handsome, and with the dick of a champion bull. She was a sucker for — and of — big dicks.

She tore off the wrapping paper and opened the box. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a two-piece, red, white and blue costume. Emblazoned across the skimpy top was a big red "S."

Okay, she thought, I've got the tits for the job. She tore off her gray sweatshirt and pulled on the top. She was right. She filled it perfectly.

She wriggled out of her jeans and tried the blue short-shorts. Again, she looked spectacular.

Samantha didn't consider herself proud or boastful. She was just blessed with a beautiful body, a lovely face and naturally blonde hair. She was a knockout, and she knew it. What was wrong with that?

She glanced at the clock. Only 5:23. She had plenty of time. She selected a CD and popped into the player. Suddenly, her apartment was filled with the throbbing sounds of Slut Slammer and the Jay Birds — brutal, primitive, violent. There was little she was ashamed of — certainly not her hyper-sexuality — but her taste in music sometimes embarrassed her.

She stepped in front of the full-length mirror and began a slow, sensual dance. Slammer was singing, growling really, about what he was going to do to his bitch, how he was going to beat her, humiliate her, make her beg for mercy. Samantha looked at herself in the sexy Supergirl outfit and imagined falling victim to cruel men with rough hands — and kryptonite devices that looked like oversized cucumbers.

"O-o-o-o-oh," she moaned. "Oh, please don't hurt me."

She licked the forefingers and thumbs of both hands, then slipped them under the top and massaged her nipples. They instantly grew erect.

"Stop," she sighed. "Oh, no, don't bite them, don't bite."

Then she jerked her hands behind her, as if someone were tying her wrists. She squirmed and struggled, fighting her invisible bonds.

Her eyes widened in mock horror. She arched her back, pulling her pelvis away from an invisible assailant in front of her.

"Oh, no," she said hoarsely, "not there. Please, not there."

Her pelvis began to gyrate slowly.

"Oh, God. Oh, it hurts... It hurts so good."

She closed her eyes and swayed to the beat of the music. I can use this, she thought. I can use this at the club. They'll love it.

Her make-believe horror turned real as she heard the closet door behind her slide open. In the mirror, she saw a man emerge behind her, a big man, clad in black. She pivoted just in time to get a face full of green mist sprayed from a canister in the man's hand. Samantha ran out of the bedroom and toward the apartment door. But it burst open before she reached it, and another man rushed through. They collided, she stumbled backward, then he punched her in the jaw.

She wobbled, then sank to her knees. He kicked her in the crotch, and she toppled over onto her side.

"Out cold," he said, glancing up at his partner.

"Yeah, that was easy," said the other man. "But what I can't figure is this: I sprayed her with that aerosol kryptonite, just like Domo ordered, and nuthin' — no reaction. It was like I squirted her with water."

"So what? Kryptonite might not work, but she sure can't take a punch."

# # #

Domo was puzzled and disturbed by Gus and Bobbo's account of SG's capture.

"You're sure she inhaled the spray?" he asked.

"Yeah, boss," said Bobbo. "At least, I'm pretty sure. It went right into her face."

He looked at the young woman chained to the wall. She hung limply. One side of her face was swollen.

That worried Domo. Swelling was a normal human reaction to being punched, but Supergirl wasn't normal. At least, she hadn't been before. Maybe the crystals embedded in her skull had somehow weakened her whole system.

Whatever the processes at work inside her, her exterior remained spectacular. They had stripped her, and her naked body was perfect — long legs, slender waist, large, well formed breasts. He slipped one hand under her chin and raised her head.

Her eyes fluttered open.

"Good morning," he said softly. "Welcome back to the land of the living."

"For a while," snorted Bobbo.

Domo shot him an angry glance.

"What... where am I?" SG mumbled.

"Ah, you really don't remember," said Domo. "Well, my dear, you are in my home — in a very special room in my home. We call it the Body Shop. You've been here before."

SG looked past him. The room was full of large tables and strange devices made of metal and rope and leather. Chains with hooks hung from the ceiling.

"What are you going to do to me?" she asked.

"We're going to make you a movie star," said Domo. "Actually, you already are a star, in a way. Videos of your earlier stay here have been amazingly successful. The market is very select and small, of course, but those who've been given the opportunity have paid a very handsome price. And no one has complained."

Domo cupped his hands under her breasts. "They seem, if anything, even larger than I remembered. What do you think, Gus?"

"I dunno, boss," said Gus. "I wasn't given a chance to spend much time with her. Bobbo and Turgul got most of the choice assignments." There was a hint of resentment in his voice.

"Bobbo, how about it?" said Domo.

"She's changed a bit," Bobbo said. "You're right about that. But it's her. I'd recognize that face anywhere. Fuckin' beautiful."

Footsteps approached, and a tall woman with the air of an aristocrat joined the little party.

"Gretchen, our favorite house guest is back again," said Domo. "How do you think she's holding up?"

"Well, she looks okay," said Gretchen. "Have you run any tests?"

"Not yet. I was waiting for you. Maybe an MRI to see if the crystals are still in place? What do you think?"

Gretchen shook her head. "We don't need that." She pulled a small black device from her pocket, aimed it at SG and pressed a button.

SG looked blankly at her.

"Hmmm," said Domo. "Maybe the crystals have dissolved."

"They shouldn't have," said Gretchen. "Kryptonite is a very stable mineral. It should last decades."

She stepped closer to SG and slid one hand between her legs.

"We'll try an old-fashioned approach," she said.

SG flinched, then relaxed. Gretchen gently stroked SG's crotch. Suddenly, SG moaned and began to respond. Her pelvis moved back and forth.

Gretchen removed her hand and slid it into SG's mouth. The blonde sucked her fingers greedily.

"She's the same as when we let her go," said Gretchen. "The crystals may not work, but the wiring in her brain is still that of a slut."

"Thanks for your expert opinion," Domo said with a wry smile.

"What are you going to do with her?" Gretchen asked.

"Pretty much what we did the last time. Lots of rough sex, taped by the inimitable Clyde. And I thought we might sell her at a special auction. She'd bring in ten million easy."

"You don't need the money," said Gretchen. "Neither do I. We're not in this for money. You had your fun last time. This time, I want control of her."

"For what purpose?" asked Domo.

"For my pleasure. For my ultimate pleasure."

"And what would be your 'ultimate pleasure'?"

Gretchen pressed her left hand against SG's throat, then slammed her right fist into the young woman's defenseless stomach.

"Her death," said Gretchen, as SG gasped for breath.

# # #

But Domo had no intention of surrendering SG to Gretchen for a snuff party. It was true that he was rich, but one can never be too rich, he told himself. Besides, auctioning off SG might enable Domo to form an alliance with the buyer; and the buyer inevitably would be someone with enormous wealth and power.

Gretchen didn't think of such things because she had been born to wealth. She didn't have to plot how to accumulate wealth through ingenious criminal schemes — the kind of schemes he had spent his life devising.

So, in his mind, SG's fate was settled. Days or weeks of starring in sex videos, then to the auction block.

Meanwhile, he might as well have some fun with her himself — something he hadn't allowed himself during her first visit.

That evening, he had Bobbo and Turgul deliver her to him in his bedroom. Her hands were shackled behind her, and she wore only a leather collar with a metal ring. Slave collars on women were one of his favorite fetishes.

"Remove the handcuffs," Domo said. "Now, gentlemen, you can go."

When they were alone, Domo gestured to the marble bar and said, "Champagne?"

"I guess so. Sure," she said.

He handed her a glass of champagne, then raised his own glass.

"To a beautiful and mutually rewarding relationship," he said.

"Whatever," she said. Then she drained the glass.

"Be careful," he said. "This can make you tipsy."

"That's okay. I'm best when I'm a little tipsy."

She knew what was expected of her. She moved toward him and opened his maroon robe. He wasn't as muscular as she liked in a man, but when she looked down she saw that the muscle that really counted was just about ready.

"I can see why you're the boss here," she crooned. She knelt and wrapped her fingers around his shaft. "It looks delicious."

She ran her tongue around the head, then took it into her mouth.

Domo closed his eyes and trembled. She was good — a hell of a lot better than Gretchen.

Better than any of the sluts that he and Gretchen had experimented on, and disposed of.

He raised SG to her feet and guided her to the huge bed. "Lie on your belly," he commanded.

He slid a pillow under her pelvis and fucked her slowly from behind. When he was just about to cum, he withdrew.

"Turn over," he said.

When she was on her back, he slid his hands up and down her body. Never had he fondled anything so perfect. He closed his eyes, letting his fingers feed him tactile images.

Then, suddenly, he opened his eyes again. A flaw. His fingers had detected something that shouldn't be there.

He was about to speak, when the bedroom door burst open.

# # #

It was all arranged. Gretchen would stick with at least part of Domo's program. Clyde would shoot lots of videotape. He was, after all, a professional. He had worked in Hollywood, and abroad. Assistant director of "Chop-Shop Mamas." Cinematographer for an Italian flick, "Snuff Babes of the Adriatic." Half a dozen other credits.

Gretchen described what she wanted.

"Okey, dokey," said Clyde. "We can handle that. Is it cool with Domo?"

"Domo is indisposed," Gretchen said sharply.

"Okey, dokey. So who's our leading man?"

"We'll start with Meecham," she said.

Clyde nodded slowly. Meecham. He was the new boy on the block. Melville and Crustacean used to be her favorites, but now it all Meecham, all the time.

"Does he have... uh, the equipment?" he asked.

"More than enough," Gretchen said with a hint of a smile. "More than most of you sorry bastards."

# # #

Meecham may have had the equipment, but physical courage wasn't one of his noticeable characteristics. Fucking Supergirl sounded like risky business.

"The slut is all yours, Meecham," said Gretchen, as they assembled for the shoot.

"Thanks. I assume she's... safe?"

"Of course. The crystals in her head don't sexually excite her the way they did, but she's as weak as a kitten."

"A declawed kitten?"

"Totally. Melville and Crustacean worked her over this morning. She's no more dangerous now than any other reasonably athletic young woman — and you've never had much trouble with that type."

Meecham grinned. Then he turned to SG, and his grin disappeared. He stared at her with cold eyes.

But SG wasn't looking at his eyes. She saw the bulge in his tight leather pants and felt weak. As he moved toward her, she automatically sank to her knees. He stopped, his crotch inches from her face. He wore a black codpiece. On one side of it was a metal tag.

He pointed and said, "Bite it, sweetie. Bite it and rip it off."

She did as she was commanded. There was the sound of Velcro tearing, and suddenly his dick was exposed, semi-erect and much too large for so slim a man.

SG licked her lips and trembled. She wanted it, wanted it to fill her mouth and eject its juices down her throat.

"Lick it, sweetie," Meecham said softly. "Lick it til it's hard as a rock."

She licked it, slowly at first, then with growing intensity. She took the huge purple head into her mouth.

He stepped back and drove his knee into her jaw. She fell backward.

"Did I say suck it?" he barked. He slammed the heel of his boot into her exposed belly. She groaned and turned onto her side.

Meecham flipped her back onto her back, straddled her and knelt so that his dick hovered just above her face.

"Who am I?" he asked, as he stroked his swollen organ.

"My lord and master," she said softly.

"And what are you?" he asked.

She hesitated. He removed his right hand from his dick and punched her in the mouth.

"What are you?" he asked again.

She mumbled an incomprehensible answer. Blood trickled from the corners of her mouth.

"I can't hear you, bitch," Meecham said, resuming his masturbation.

"I am... I am a worthless slut," she whispered.

"Again," he shouted. He was nearing climax.

"A worthless slu..." She gagged on her own blood and coughed, spraying a foamy red geyser into the air. At that moment Meecham groaned loudly, and his creamy ejaculate spurted onto SG's face. Cum and blood mixed into a pinkish mess, and Meecham reached down with his left hand and pressed it into her mouth and nose and eyes. She struggled helplessly.

"What's the matter, bitch," he snarled. "Don't like strawberry?"

Gretchen stepped onto the stage. "Okay, Meecham. Great job, but that's enough for now."

She knelt beside SG, grabbed a handful of her hair and raised her head as Clyde moved closer with the camera.

"Here's our pitiful little superheroine," Gretchen said. "Have you had a good time?" She made SG nod yes. "And did Meecham's big dick excite you?" Again, a forced nod.

"And do you want this degrading session to end?" This time she shook SG's head violently back and forth.

"I didn't think so," Gretchen said with a sweet smile. "Okay, Turgul, now it's your turn."

Turgul's approach was straightforward and brutal. He reached down, grabbed SG's collar and jerked her to her feet. Then he slammed his other fist into her gut. She tried to double up, but he had too tight a grip on her collar. Three, four, five more punches landed with sickening thuds. She went limp in his grip.

"Put her on the table," Gretchen said. "Then butt-fuck her."

Turgul tossed her face down on the heavy wooden table. Meecham grabbed her wrists and pulled until she was at the perfect angle for Turgul to assault her from behind.

Gretchen handed Turgul a bottle of lotion, and he squirted it into SG's asshole. Then he dropped his pants, revealing a dick almost as big as Meecham's.

SG writhed and screamed as he plunged it into her. Turgul fucked her slowly. He prided himself on his ability to postpone ejaculating.

As he continued pumping, Gretchen leaned over the table and brushed the blonde hair from SG's bloodied face.

"So pretty," she said. "She won't be pretty for long, though." She glanced up at Meecham. "When Turgul's finished with her, take her to the kitchen."

Meecham shrugged. "Sure, but what's the point? We're not going to eat her."

Gretchen smiled brightly. "Who says we aren't?"

# # #

Turgul was pissed. Sure, he had gotten to fuck that hot little bitch Supergirl again, and to do it in a way that would fill her with shame. But he wasn't in control here; Gretchen and her freako sidekick Meecham were. Worse yet, they evidently planned to disfigure and butcher the slut, which would infuriate his boss and mentor, Domo. And when Domo was furious, everyone was in danger — including Turgul, even though his only offense was to be unlucky enough to be drafted by Gretchen into this enterprise.

Angry, he punched the wall of the long hallway that led back to the staff quarters. Well, if he was going to be punished anyway, he figured he ought to at least get something out of it — something more than a piece of ass. For months, the image of Stick's crushed skull had haunted him. He had hoped that Domo, after he was finished with her, would turn SG over to him. He planned to ram that studded steel dildo deep inside her pussy and tear apart everything that made her a woman. Then he would attack her asshole. Now that she was weakened and could bleed, the assault on her most private parts would surely be fatal.

Dildo of Death. Butt Ripper. He pictured the steel rod in a marketing video aimed at wealthy perverts. "The sex toy that snuffed Supergirl can be yours for only..." He paused in his mental rambling. How much would it be worth? Could he get away with selling it and pocketing the full price, without sharing with Domo? Hell, why even tell Domo?