Furious! Wonder Woman was jet lagged, battered, groggy and sore from her Guatemalan fiasco, but mainly she was––furious! Outraged! About to ease her abused body into a soothing hot jacuzzi, she had turned on the TV, idly, and saw––herself! Or rather, an obscene parody of herself: a busty brunette in a abbreviated version of her patented costume, kung fu fighting with three sinister looking middle eastern types, tripping, doing a comic pratfall, then quickly subdued and tied with her own magic lariat, after suitable kicking and wiggling, to a nearby lampost. For TV, the bondage was fairly elaborate and detailed; wrists and elbows behind the pole, several loops above and below her breasts, a tight cinch around her waist, and then the free end of the rope tugged between her legs up and back to her arm ties. She fought her bonds; helpless, provocative. The three men leered, menacing. Closeup on the tight bondage, the actress's mouth and eyes, wide with fear and anger, close up on her heaving bosom and struggling hips. Fade to commercial.
WW leapt out of the tub, all thoughts of the soothing bath forgotten, grabbed her cell phone, punched in her top secret state department number and, dripping wet, screamed at Josh, her spymaster.
"Josh! Yeah, it's me! Just got back. Don't ask, I'll report in later. Josh, there's some bimbo on the tube playing me! Big slut, all tits and ass! She's making me a clown, a buffoon! A clumsy comedienne! What is this?"
"Now, Wonder, don't get upset" Josh's voice was a little too reassuring, she thought. "When you were––er–-out of comission for so long––it took us months to finally bribe your way out of that Guatemalan whorehouse––we decided here at the agency that we needed to keep your image fresh; you're our terror- fighting poster girl, you know."
"Cut the bullshit! Who is that ––that woman? Why am I on TV?"
"As I said, we wanted to keep you in the public eye, so to speak, and HBO paid us seven millon dollars for the rights to your story, seven mil––that'll cover a lot of the creative accounting we've had to do lately."
"HBO! That's the network with all the swearing and nudity, right? And who is that bitch in my costume, or almost falling out of it?"
Josh gulped. This wasn't going well at all. "Uh, well, she's a starlet, I guess... Jenny Jugster. Worked in a few movies, bit parts, and––well, she did some porn, too. But she looks so much like you, Wonder..."
"Like me! She's got a fat ass and those big sagging tits!"
"Exactly!––that is--" Josh hurried on: "Look, we have script control, you are in charge of your own image, of course. If we need to have you advise the writer and director, I'm sure we can set up a meeting in a few days, after you––feel better.."
During Josh's last speech, the show had resumed. WW felt sick, but she couldn't tear her eyes from the screen. An adorable black boy, about 12, in a hooded sweatshirt, droopy pants and newlooking Nikes appeared around the corner, put his hands on his hips and yelled:"Allah sucks!"
The three Arabs stopped pawing WW (one had his hand inside her skimpy tights, toying with the crotch rope) and, howling with rage, pursued the boy who ducked adroitly around the corner, the camera following, as he jumped into a dumpster while the three men raced by.
Back to WW wriggling salaciously in her bonds. A black woman wearing black gartered stockings, a tiny miniskirt, a blonde wig, a sheer blouse and absurdly high heels appears. She eyes WW.
"Nice rack, girl. You into bondage and that shit, huh! Your pimp tie you up like that to turn on the johns, right? But. Honey, this is my corner. So haul your big white ass outta here!" She flicks open a switch blade knife.
The boy, Leroy, reappears "Hey Lateesha! Don't be like that! Tnis is my new friend, wonder woman. She's going to help us make these streets safe again!"
"Well, I hear you, you little skinny assed loser. You know I'm tight with your sister, so I'll cut you some slack, just this once. But, get her off my corner!"
Leroy is untying WW with some difficulty; they both struggle with the tight breast and belly ropes. One ample breast, pink nippled, escapes her halter; Leroy tucks it back in and is rewarded with a smile.
He blushes. Fade. Time for another commercial, this one for Viagra.
WW turned from the TV with a curse. She was still on the phone.
"Josh! are you watching this shit? This cow is making a joke out of me! I won't stand for it!" WW was livid now, screaming at Josh.
"In a few days..." Josh begins.
"In a few days, my ass! I'm going over to that studio right now!" She watched the closing shot as the credits rolled. "OOH! That slut!" Wonder fumed. On the screen Wonder was walking down the street, arm around Leroy. The shot was from behind; Wonder swayed on her high heeled boots, her barely covered ass jiggling, swaying.
TWO
In minutes, WW stood before the huge HBO studios. An armed security guard met her at the door. "Another one" he muttered. "OK, lady, we gotta screen you. Just stand over here."
"Another one?" What was that about, WW wondered as he led her to a neck high steel box some twenty feet long; a 8 inch wide groove ran down the top. The guard directed her to a treadmill, "Just stand up straight, put your neck in that slot," he said. "and I'll close these doors. Arms at your sides."
The doors were topped with two semicircular steel clamps; as the guard closed and latched the doors behind her, the two metal arcs
meshed and clicked shut, forming a rigid collar around WWs neck. Before
she could protest, he pushed a button and the treadmill began to roll . There were various mechanical whirrs, rumbles and clicks; at the same
moment, WW felt more metal clamps trapping her wrists at her
sides, apparently slotted into the side walls of the big metal cage as was the collar; as she trotted on the treadmill moving into the machine, trying to keep from stumblng, her imprisoned head and hands slid along at the same pace.
"Hey! What kind of––ow!" she sputtered at the guard; he was now grinning widely.
'Ow', because some sort of mechanical searching device was now exploring and roughly stroking her body. 'almost like hands–very clumsy hands', she thought. And then: "Ow! OH! Stop that! Stop this fucking machine!" (an appropriate adjective, as she soon was to discover.) The hands had fondled her shoulders, then caught in the fabric of her top, pulling it down; the same rough machinery, or robot, or whatever diabolical device was now pinching and kneading her breasts.
"Just routine, lady, Our patented search robot. Enjoy your trip!" the guard chuckled.
The treadmill was slowing; she was only halfway through the steel chamber. Now the robot snagged her shorts, pulling them down below her knees; as she struggled against the wrist cuffs and the rigid metal
collar the device explored her thighs, then slid up, up into her crotch. She felt a cold squirt of lubricating goo between her legs. Before she could
gasp again, she was deeply penetrated fore and aft, both intimate channels violated. The robotic fingers seemed to linger there, twisting and plunging, as she continued to protest––pain, humiliation and rage combined. The treadmill suddenly sped up; she was whisked to the end of the big box, the metal cuffs released, the exit doors flew open and she was hurtled through them, sprawling on the floor, disheveled, exposed, nearly naked, shouting at the guard even as she tried to cover herself, pulling up her trunks and hastily covering her bare breasts with her gaping top:
"You––you–– I'm going to report you! That ––that torture machine is seriously warped! Look what it did to me!"
The guard's grin was even wider. "Actually, lady, the robot is not at fault––except it's in the shop, being repaired. I asked my Uncle Louie
to fill in today. Louie?"
A small man stuck his bald head out of the box, flashed a wide snaggletoothed smile and waved two dripping fingers at WW in an obscene, mocking gesture.
Should she beat both of them to a pulp, should she?––no, she had to focus on this television slut. First things first. She could kick their asses later. She gave the steel box one mighty kick, crumpling one side panel, and stalked over to the receptionist at the end of the big lobby. 'Wait a second? What's going on? 'she paused and blinked.
The lobby was full of Wonder Woman wannabes; fat, skinny, old, young, a few frankly voluptuous (they wore the scantiest contumes), others butt ugly. And everyone of them was wearing some ill conceived parody of her personal costume: red white and blue, bustiers, bikinis, , saggy shorts, one was topless with patriotic star pasties on her nipples. Some of the worst brunette wigs she'd ever seen were in evidence.
Overhead a big banner proclaimed:
WONDER WOMAN LOOKALIKE CONTEST. WINNER WILL BE CHOSEN TODAY!
Now WW understood the guards 'another one' comment. She wondered if Uncle Louie had violated all of these––there must have been fifty––women too. She approached the desk.
"I must see Jenny Jugster! At once! I'm Wonder Woman!"
"Right." said the bored receptionist without even looking up. "You're Wonder Woman. Take a number."
This was too much! WW's pent up rage exploded. She reached across the desk and lifted the stout girl by her HBO jacket lapels across the desk and held her there, their faces just inches apart.
"I am Wonder Woman! Now tell me where this Jugster bitch hangs out! Now!"
Blinking and trembling, her feet off the floor, kicking, the frightened
girl gasped: "Trailer 302. At the end of the lot. You can't miss
it. Gee, you really are Wonder Woman, aren't you? Can I have your autogra....."
