Breaing Breaing Broen

Author's note: It shouldn't need saying that this is all highly implausible, illegal, immoral, and sick.

It gets a bit brutal, with rape not just brainwashing.

So, you know: Enjoy!

When you're a Villain, there are certain things you sign up for.

The risk of arrest, the risk of getting shot by police, the risk of getting hunted and severely beaten up by heroes. The risk of what happens when your secret identity is uncovered.

The risk of other Villains hunting you for their own ends.

Oh yes, don't believe that only Heroines get hunted, trapped and put through slave training by Villains. Villains get it worse.

There is a code between Heroes and Villains. Sure, heroes hunt and beat up Villains, but that's just the natural way of things—and nobody tries to kill anybody for real. Part of designing traps is making sure you don't use lethal force on a non-immortal opponent. Sure, Heroes and Heroines get trapped and humiliated by Villains and have compromising photos taken, that's also the natural way of things—but there are lines you don't step over. After all, you want the public to see, and you want the public to hate you but to hate you fondly and see you as entertainment, not hate you with contempt and fury and howl for your blood. Ever seen a photo of a Heroine totally naked? Ever seen the inside of their labia? Ever seen them wearing cum? No, you haven't, you've only seen their nipples and camel toe because they're always wearing panties. It's always quite tasteful bondage.

But Villains? Villains are fair game. If you're a Hero, you have a good-guy reputation to protect, but everybody looks the other way when Villains and Villains throw down. Keep bystanders out of it, and even Heroes will leave you alone. What do they care? It's better for them if we thin our own numbers. Heroes get sexually molested, but never truly abused. But Villains? It's game on torture, rape, brain-washing, drugs, long-term sexual slavery, you name it. Some just love how much damage they can do to a woman who is all but guaranteed to heal from it.

Trust me, being a female Villain is the job that takes the real balls. Some of us can't hack it after the first capture, and retire. But what do you do instead? Try getting a job with that on your CV. Anybody who thinks sex work would be a good option is probably already doing it—the hours are better, it's safer, and the pay is reasonably steady.

I've only been captured once. I got beaten nearly senseless and then raped good and hard for a day, by a thug Villain and all his goons, then discarded with the trash. Literally. They threw me into a dumpster. It took me three days until I could walk comfortably again, and I have highly accelerated healing. Try doing that to a Heroine and every goodie-two-shoes parahuman within flying range will be hunting your arse down like a dog.

Like the vast majority of my peers, I have no unusual powers. I'm parahuman, sure, but all I have are strength and endurance and toughness. I can't fly, I'm not physically indestructible or immune to toxins and I have no powers of influence or suggestion, so I had to rely upon years and years of damn hard training based on a precociously active childhood. Oh, and I have great but not perfect night vision.

The reason I became a Villain, not just a thief, though, had more to do with tossing up risks than with my innate übermenschery. Get caught as a thief, and it's all very depressing. Get caught as a Villain, and you get special treatment but at least you can keep yourself entertained and they put you where there's a high likelihood of being able to take advantage of someone else's breakout attempt.

Get caught as a thief and get discovered to have any sort of powers, though, and you get

special

treatment.

I became a Villain.

I chose dark greens and blues as my costume, simply because they blend into darkness better than true black. As my identity I decided to associate with animals not nouns or verbs, but since cats were overdone, bats were taken and I didn't feel very birdlike, I became The Lemur in the hopes it would confuse at least a few people.

Tonight, I'm on a job to order, hunting a small piece of statuary that my client wants in order to be a dick to the owner. I get a lot of contracts like that, and I like them. I get money without having to fence something tricky, and the motivations are usually clear enough to untangle.

It's one of those big, old houses that were built back when there was enough spare land to put them on. The owner is the third generation after the builder, and is mildly reclusive in the way of successful businessmen who have more time for business than public relations and make their money through shell companies and manipulation not one big, successful firm. That's fine by me, too.

Believe it or not, it's often easier to break into somewhere when you can assume a certain minimum level of competence and seriousness about the security system. It removes a lot of uncertainty and gives you a proper job to do. That helps you concentrate.

I get through the perimeter alarms easily, and cross the outer grounds without leaving scent or attracting attention because I found my way into the camera data network and I'm wearing a suit that masks or contains all odours.

The movement sensors close to the house are a little trickier because they're independent, but since they're also not perfect and have false positives, I get by them by activating one, waiting for a guard to investigate, then ghosting past his back before the timer has wound down.

Getting into the house itself requires first climbing up to the roof. I had mapped out a course past the sensors, but have to take it in three carefully timed rushes to avoid human eyes.

Inside, I have to avoid cameras but my going is much easier.

Then I turn a corner.

She has no chance of seeing me, but see still makes me freeze.

She's dressed in a fetish maid outfit: Frilly skirt that doesn't quite cover her arse, visible chastity belt, fishnets, 4" heels, a waistcoat with nothing under it so her tits are hanging out, a chain between nipple rings, and her arms in a binder behind her back, so her posture is excellent. She's dusting with a feather duster attached to a face dildo harness.

I retreat back into the shadows like a startled cockroach.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck

.

Anyone, but

anyone

who has bondage girls hanging around is bad fucking news. There are plenty of ways for someone to be perverted and a Villain and to be into sadism, but at this level of power and money, only two people have bondage girls doing the dusting—lifestylers, and sick fucks, and lifestylers rarely have maids dusting this impractically, at this time of night.

I wait until I can see her eyes.

She's broken inside. She's so terrified she's numbed into hopeless submission.

She's not a lifestyler. He is a sick fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

What to do?

Not much question of that. I'm here, now. It's not far to my target, and I am

not

wasting all the effort of getting in, just to turn tail and flee when I'm this close.

I proceed with every sense ratcheted up to 11.

I see another maid, also dusting. I easily avoid two guards.

I make it to the gallery as described with no more surprises, nasty or otherwise.

I scan, I check, I double-check. I bypass two security systems.

The statuary is fairly nice, but wouldn't be worth a fraction of my fee, if it wasn't personal.

Oh, well.

I begin checking the base for triggers.

Something sharp punches into my left thigh.

Fuck!

I'm already moving, jerking it out and registering it as a dart as another one whistles through where I would have been if I had moved like a normal, predictable person.

Double fuck, drugged!

I snatch the statue and I'm moving, sprinting down the gallery trying to keep myself shielded from where that dart probably came from. I'm not done yet, my metabolism can deal with drugs a lot better than yours can.

Another one whistles past me.

I can feel numbness spreading through my leg, almost making me stumble. What the hell was the dose?

This is bad, this is very bad

.

Two guards burst through the door carrying drawn Tasers. The first one dies quickly. The second one almost draws a bead, then makes my life briefly difficult before he dies.

A second dart slams into my right buttock. It fucking hurts, and it fucking near panics me.

I jerk it out as well. It's a hypodermic, and it's fully depressed.

Triple fuck!

I barely make it halfway through the door when my left leg buckles. I try to catch myself, but my right is going as well. The numb feeling is accelerating up my torso.

More guards appear, and I can't do a single fucking thing about them. Even my arms are beginning to disobey me.

That doesn't stop them tasing me until I stop screaming because the drugs have given me merciful unconsciousness.

#

Waking up naked is pretty much a given.

I'm strapped to a table, arms above my head. Pretty routine, then.

I recover from drugs or concussion quickly, and go straight into diagnostics. There are straps around my ankles, knees, and my upper thighs right up near my hips. Also wrists, elbows, and just by my shoulders. One over my belly just above my hip bones, and then two straps crossed over my chest between my breasts. And one over my forehead pulling my head into a depression in the table. Yep, designed for as much immobility as possible short of chemical restraints.

"Exactly on time."

The rich fuck I had been trying to steal the statue from puts a stopwatch down. I can't turn my head to get a better look at anything, I can just see him out of the corner of my eye. I run a quick mental inventory, and realise he must have injected me in my right thigh with something to counteract the sedatives. Cheerful thought: What else has he injected me with?

"You know my name," he says, "but if you ever use it you will be punished. I am Master. You were the Lemur but are now fuckslut. It's so nice to capture one of your kind. It's so much harder to acquire regular slaves without attracting attention. Your real name is irrelevant, you'll forget it soon enough."

"Confident, aren't you, Christian Rutherford?" I say. Like hell will I ever cooperate.

"I shouldn't be too upset," he says as he picks up a thick wand with a glass ball at the tip. "I enjoy breaking stubbornness."

He flicks a switch and the violet wand flares to life. He cranks the dial viciously up to maximum, then jams it into my right breast.

Holy fuck, but it hurts. Those things can be turned down to the level of feeling like you're being tickled, or they can be turned up until it feels basically like a Taser being applied directly to your nipple.

I try to lock my jaw, but that amount of pain just overrides all my self-control. I scream but good.

He leaves it on a little longer than is really necessary before abruptly pulling it away.

"Now you know what will happen each and every time you wilfully disobey me," he says. "I advise you to keep your mouth shut and learn your place."

I do not, right now, have the self-control to goad him again. My nipple is locking my mouth shut.

He turns away while I am trying to restore my breath and mentally force the pain to go away.

I nearly yelp when something hot lands on my hips barely above my pussy. "You're waxing me?" I ask, incredulous.

He snatches up the wand again. I slam my jaw shut but my left nipple overrides my self-control and I scream again. I swear he holds it there for longer.

When he finally sets the wand down, I am almost in too much pain to hear his answer. "You are filthy," he says. "Your legs are good, but this ugly mess has to go."

I trim, you judgemental shit.

The sharp pain of the waxing is nothing after my nipples, and nothing I can't ignore anyway. Then he does my underarms, which is more painful but something I can deal with.

I decide to restrain myself and bide my time.

He puts lotion on the waxed areas. Well, isn't he fucking nice?

He holds up a squat glass jar. He's wearing long gloves on both hands. I'm not sure if it looks ominous or if I'm relieved that it's not his actual skin that's touching me.

"This," he says, "is a quite effective ointment to increase sensitivity. It's quite popular in sex shops, but you can't buy it this potent from anywhere."

He scoops out a small dollop, then begins working it into my right nipple.

Having somebody you loath touching your nipples, let alone your genitals, is a queasy, disgusting experience. Unfortunately, your flesh is not entirely under your command. If it feels itself being stimulated, it'll react. It's just that instead of feeling nice and aroused, the rest of you wants to vomit.

He is startlingly gentle and patient. He spreads the ointment all over my aureole and nipple, and massages with steady circular motions that would be highly erotic from a lover and extremely pleasant if you did it to yourself. I try not to let him see me grit my teeth as my nipple stands up.

Around and around and around, steady and gentle and soft and persistent and patient.

I don't know if the ointment begins to work, if it's just suggestion or if it's just the attention, but I begin to feel his touch keenly. His rubbing has my nipple hard despite my revulsion at his touch. Then I start to feel the sexual stimulation. Warmth grows in my breast. I feel tingles spread down to my cunt.

I try to control my breathing, but I can feel my heart beat a little faster.

My nipple is as hard as rubber. I almost want him to be cruel, to pinch or pull it, which would be easier to deal with. But no, he just keeps on gently rubbing.

Just as it becomes sheer torture, he takes his fingers away. Absent his touch, I can almost feel air currents. Holy hell, the ointment is ridiculously effective.

He leans down and blows on it. It's like having a feather duster sweep across my breast.

"See? Effective," he says, then he sticks his fingers back in the jar before starting on my left nipple.

Now my body knows what to expect, that nipple tightens and stands up much faster.

"Hey, Rutherford..." I begin.

He snatches up the wand, pressing it to my hyper-sensitised right nipple. My scream hits a new octave. He doesn't even need to hold it there for long. When he takes it away I am crying. Actually sobbing.

My left breast is warm and tingly and aching with his touch before I can pull my scattered wits together.

"You may think that being punished will help you deal with this," he says, "but I can assure you, it is not worth it."

I'll be the judge of that.

But I'm almost agreeing with him.

When the pain fades from my right nipple, it goes right back to craving his touch again. It is still achingly hard and has just enough ointment left on it to keep it cool. It feels that coolness as endless little stabs of Arctic cold that only make my body more desperate for stimulation.

By the time he stops on my left nipple, I am all but screaming for him to do something, anything, else. My torso is quivering, completely outside my control. I'm just about to goad him again when he says, "The next time I need to punish you, I will apply current precisely to your clitoris."

That makes my jaw lock shut. My body will not let me experience that pain, there.

He lets me watch as he coats his fingers thickly with the ointment, then he starts on my pussy.

Mother of God. All the attention to my nipples has made me wet. I feel sick at myself. I feel betrayed by my own body. I know my pussy lips are puffy, my clitoris is half out and I'm wet.

He shoves two fingers right into me, hard up as they will go, ramming his knuckles against me to make sure that cursed ointment is coating as much of my cunt as possible.

I can't stop myself clenching around him.

"See?" He says. "Your body is beginning to learn its place."

That gives me an extra flash of anger and helps me focus. It's just my body. It's just nerves and hormones. I can deal with this. I can bide my time.

He keeps finger-fucking me. Two fingers, nice and steady, in and out, in and out, in and out, curled to rub against my walls, twisting a little to spread the stimulation out.

He hasn't even touched my clit yet, and already I know that if he keeps going, I will come and there is not a damn thing I can do about it. I try to open my mouth, but the thought of that wand pressed against my clitoris is too much even for me to bear.

Fuck, he's only just captured me and already he's found my limit.

In and out, nice and steady, evenly spreading around an ointment that is so effective that his fingers inside me feel like the biggest dildo imaginable.

I can't fight it. I can't give him the pleasure. I can't relax, exactly, but I let the orgasm build and I let it happen because I will not give him the satisfaction of watching me fight this as though I'm terrified of it.

Plus, I have the nasty feeling that if I fight it, it's only going to be bigger when it hits.

It hits, after not too long. My torso clenches but I manage to restrain my vocal reaction to a muffled "Nnnf."

"You can try to fight me by relaxing and trying to appear bored," he says, "but I assure you, it won't work."

Then he smears more ointment on his fingers again.

I quail even before he touches my clitoris. After that orgasm, my body is desperate to betray me and sing for him.

I start reacting even before the ointment has a chance to work. My hips are pinned so I can't even try to escape his fingers, but nothing can hide the way they twitch when he first touches me, or the way they keep quivering.

He has incredible discipline and patience, I'll give him that much. His hand is moving with the same absolutely maddening, tireless pace.

"Good sluts learn their place quickly," he says.

I have to clamp my jaws shut to stop reacting to that one, but at least I'm doing that already.

I don't even notice when I start fighting my body. When I realise I've been doing it, I force myself to relax, and I come almost immediately.

Clitoral orgasms are different to vaginal orgasms. For me, vaginal orgasms are bigger, slower and more satisfying; clitoral orgasms are sharper and more explosive. This one punches me like a violet wand set on half.

I manage to restrain my response to "Gnnnffff!"

As I'm recovering, he moves out of the range of my limited vision.

"I'm going to leave you to become comfortable with the fact that your only purpose and use is fucking," he says.

A dildo slides easily into my cunt, which tries to clench around it but has no hope of stopping it.

I try to tell myself that I'm trying to keep it out. I have to try quite hard.

He appears holding a venous catheter. "This will help you to relax and get used to your new life," he says before bending down out of sight and inserting the catheter in the vein in my leg, right up near my groin.

I was half expecting a full hallucinatory trip, but all I get is floaty and detached. That does well enough at reducing my ability to fight my body's reactions, though.

I feel the dildo inside me as a thick, warm, delicious sensation. I try to remind myself it's a violation, that I'm being raped, but the feeling just floats away. The feeling of the dildo, and the feelings from my nipples, remain. I'm floating detached, but I'm floating on top of those erotic feelings.

After the orgasms, the multiple drugs in my system, and the violent punishment shocks, I'm tired enough to go to sleep. I fight it, but that resolve floats away as well.