Harrier's Heartbreakers

1.

Well, at this point... what else was there to say? This was just... awkward. It was difficult to imagine a situation more awkward than this one.

Harrier recognized that things could be worse. Far worse. She kept trying to look on the bright side. Her present situation, though certainly uncomfortable, wasn't dangerous, at any rate. Not exactly, not anymore. They were all safe now. Mostly. More or less. A big plus for the plus column.

All they had left to do at this stage was to get home—well, not home exactly, but to one of her nests. One of her secret bases. The main one was too far away, but thankfully she had set up three other smaller ones hidden in different parts of the city—it's good policy for a superheroine to have more than one bolt-hole. Good thing she'd finally got around to getting that done. And it shouldn't take them much longer to reach the place. Just another few minutes. That was all. Then they'd be all right. She had tools stored there they could cut their chains with. Then a shower, spare clothes. Medical supplies, if any of them turned out to need any.

She had found herself in lots of worse scrapes, from time to time. Moments of far greater peril. Sometimes her very sanity had been at risk, let alone her life. Yet even the scariest of those, at their most threatening moments, hadn't made her feel quite as bad as this—because it was an entirely different kind of badness. Simple plain awkwardness. This was the most embarrassing experience of her life. Nothing was going to top this, on the scale of humiliation. Her stomach was full of squirming snakes, and she could feel a molten throbbing in her cheeks, because she kept blushing so strong. It had been almost an hour now, since this began... Still, she kept blushing. It didn't go away, or if it did it kept coming back, surge after surge... Felt so mortified she wanted to curl up into a ball as tight as she could, with her arms over her head, so she wouldn't have to look at the others anymore, and she wouldn't have to see the way they kept looking at her. The chains prevented her from doing that—a good thing, actually. She couldn't let herself do that even if she weren't restrained. It would be much too cowardly and childish. Plus she was afraid she'd break down even further and start crying, like a little girl.

There was so much disgust in their expressions, most of the time. Because she'd let them down so badly. That wasn't all, either. Sometimes it felt like they were laughing at her, or at least that they wanted to. Not all of them, and not all the time—and hopefully it was only in her imagination. Just paranoia, from her own sense of guilt and shame. She kept getting that feeling, regardless. It was pretty darn dreadful. Like they were sneering down their noses at her, because of what she'd allowed to happen to them all.

Hey, she'd tried her best! She'd tried the best she could. She really had. It just hadn't worked out good enough. The only viable solution at the very end had been to give in. There was nothing else she could have done. Couldn't they see that? Didn't they understand? And she'd done it for them—to save them. How could they judge her so harshly for that? But they were. Or it felt like they were. Some of them, sometimes.

Maybe they weren't, though. Maybe all this shit was just in her head. They weren't really judging her and scoffing at her—they weren't really that mean—she was only doing all that to herself. Yeah, probably. Hopefully. Hopefully that's all this was. Yeah.

Here's the basic rundown... Harrier the superheroine is sitting in the back of a limo with three handsome young men who happen to be celebrities. They, together with their fourth member, who at this moment is up front driving the limo (with his feet on the steering wheel, if you can believe it), make up a pop band called the Heartbreakers. They used to be a boy band, but you can't accurately call them that anymore, because the years have moved on and they've all got too old. Not to say they're old men now, because they aren't. But they're not boyish enough anymore to be a boy band. The group has been broken up for the past couple years, only just recently a reunion tour was arranged. They were Harrier's favorite musicians, back when she was in still in high school and her first year of college. She had posters of them on her bedroom and dorm room walls. Of course again, like was just mentioned, that was several years ago, now. She doesn't still consider herself a big fan. But she had got tickets to their show, when they were gonna play in her city. Just for nostalgia.

That show was supposed to happen the night before. It hadn't, because the four got taken hostage by a supervillain calling herself Copycat. She was one of those freaks, it turned out, with the weird ability to make short-term, semi-autonomous copies of herself. Lots and lots of copies—Harrier never found out what her limit was, if the psycho bitch had one. That particular type doesn't need to put together a gang of minions, or make alliances with other supervillains, not usually, because they can split themselves into a group whenever necessary, big or small. So the whole kidnapping was planned and performed by Copycat all by herself, and yet Harrier ended up fighting at least thirty different versions or projections of the girl, or whatever the damn things were. Pretty exasperating for a single heroine to take on. As well as exhausting.

Harrier would still have defeated her—all umpteen freaking copies—if the villainess had fought fair. They don't, is the problem. Things start to go against them, they won't just take their medicine. No sir. They always turn to dirty underhanded tricks, instead.

Which is why the villainess has got away, scot free, laughing her head off as she went. And it's why Harrier is currently stuck in this limo with the four other guys. What makes the situation so extraordinarily awkward is the fact that all four of them are wearing handcuffs—yes, even the one that's driving, up front, and not just on their wrists—each of them has their ankles cuffed together as well. But those two sets of cuffs they're each wearing—that, unfortunately, is all that each of them are wearing. Except for dog collars, attached to their wrists by another short length of chain down the middle of their backs, which is to prevent them from wriggling their hands around their legs to the front side. The collar chains keeps their cuffed hands trapped behind their backs, and also pulled up painfully high back there, right up tight under their shoulder blades.

It sucks. Hurts worse and worse, the longer this shit lasts.

They've got nothing else. All the rest of their things were taken away. Harrier's enormously expensive, one-of-a-kind powersuit (mark two, since she was recently forced to redesign her entire persona ) was just carried off in its component pieces by Copycat, the disassembled parts stuffed into several large gym bags. No doubt the plan is to auction the suit over the internet to sicko collectors or terrorists or whoever wants to pony up enough dough for the thing.

Leaving the heroine herself entirely nude. Doesn't even have any underwear on, or so much as a pair of socks.

With four celebrity pop stars—also utterly stark naked—all of whom, for an extra special personal emotional bonus, she just happened to have enormous crushes on, when she was younger. They'd featured in practically all of her earliest romantic fantasies.

How about that.

The villainess had abandoned them. She'd got what she wanted, and split. So technically they're all safe, they're free. They have this car, to get home in. Things could be much worse. Things could have ended a hundred times more horribly than they did.

Knowing that ain't helping. Ain't making Harrier feel any fucking better at all.

She wishes she was dead. She wishes Copycat had shot them all in their faces, at the end. Well, just her at least.

No, not really. But God it would have made things a big bunch easier, wouldn't it? Instead all she can do is sit here with the rest of them, nobody saying anything, with nothing to do but wait and wallow in all these awful feelings—the endless squirming awkwardness of the whole fucked up situation. Just trying to endure it patiently, until this was finally over. And utterly failing, of course.

Be honest now. You wouldn't be able to handle it any better, in her shoes. Or lack-of-shoes, to put it more accurately.

Speaking of which, the floor carpeting in this limo is extremely itchy, under her bare soles. So she swivels sideways on the seat, to swing her feet up on to it in front of her there, and then goes ahead and curls herself up a bit more. Not completely—she doesn't tuck her head down—but she scoots her knees up tight as possible against her breasts. Now her folded legs are shielding all her keys bits from the guys' view. Not that they haven't already seen everything there is to see. Still, this feels better. A tad.

Except for how the leather of the seat is sticking to her ass, because of her sweat. Her own butt-sweat. Christ. But that's what it is. No good pretending otherwise. The seat is sticking to her uncomfortably like that for no other reason but that her butt is sweaty and she doesn't have any clothes between the sweat and leather to prevent that from being a problem. She wonders if her ass is going to leave a stain on the chair, if she sits here too long. Hopefully not. The leather is probably treated with something to prevent that sort of thing. Like for when people spill drinks, or have sex with groupies in here. People that make limos would be paid to think these things through, right?

Her ass is getting itchy, too. Pretty bad. She doesn't want to reach under herself to scratch it. Have to use her heels, probably—no other way. Not with the guys watching, like they are. She tries wiggling her butt a tiny bit, to loosen the leather's grip on her skin. Seems to help a little, but not near enough. It's still clinging to her, and it still itches. God, she's gonna end up getting a rash. Her whole butt will break out.

She wonders if any of the guys are having this same problem. Probably they are. They're probably all feeling just as uncomfortable and embarrassed as she is.

Knowing this should help, shouldn't it? Why isn't it helping?

Because of their faces. The expressions on their faces. That's why.

And also there's this fact: all three of the guys have hard-on's. They're sitting directly across from her giving her evil-eyed stares, with big twitchy purple boners sticking up from their laps.

Yeah, that's disturbing to see. Not a good sign at all, is it?

Believe it or not, it's not just them... she's more than a little keyed-up herself, in that same type way. That clenching, sizzling feeling inside. Her nipples are sticking out so stiff they're aching—and pressing her knees against them like she's doing isn't easing that ache. It's worsening it, instead—still she keeps pressing her knees backward on them, and leaning forward a tiny bit against her legs at the same time, maintaining that constant tingling pressure, even as it gets harder and harder to bear. And when she put her feet up on the seat, her heels accidentally brushed back against her crotch, for a moment. Just a tiny slice of a second. Still, it had sent a jolt through her—and also, she felt a tiny bit of warm goo smear on her heels, from her slit. Yeah, she's in a state, down there. Enough of a state to have started seeping. It's pretty bad.

She's turned on. Not a whole lot but more than a little. God oh God. The guys are turned on and it's got to her. It's got her turned on too. Everybody trapped together with nothing to do but stare at each other's nakedness, and of course remembering everything that happened that brought them to this point, chained and disgraced and tormented, everything they were all made to witness. The strange bitter kinship of victimization. It doesn't draw them together—you might think it would, but it doesn't work that way. Instead the feeling that dominates is resentment. You can feel it, on both sides. Nobody wants to be seen like this. Nobody wants to be an object of pity. The men resent her for it and she resents them, equally, or maybe worse.

Yet on top of that, the simmer of sexual tension. And just like the embarrassment, and resentment, it's firing both directions. Back and forth across the interior of the limo.

Can they tell? Do they see that she's feeling it, just as strong as they are? Of course they can. It isn't as easy to see as it is with guys, obviously. Doesn't mean a girl's body gives no signs at all, even when she's trying her damnedest to suppress them or disguise them.

They can probably see she's trying, if nothing else. Trying itself might be the biggest giveaway of all.

Just chill, she keeps telling herself. Chill out and settle yourself down. Find your center. Focus on your breathing. You're freaking yourself out and that's no good for anyone in here. Fucking relax before you make your head explode.

No fucking chance, of course. Not in this situation.

If they'd been anybody else than the men they were... Just three regular people, this wouldn't have happened to her. Not like this, not this bad. Or even probably if they were still celebrites but a different group. So she felt no personal tie. That wouldn't have made everything totally cool; she would still be feeling pretty much the same levels of embarrassment and guilt... but without this extra bonus discomfort of inappropriate arousal boiling on top the other feelings. Because the three guys were these particular pop stars—her specific teenage crushes. Jesus. The irony. Thought she'd grown out of those feelings. Now it was clear, deep down where it counted, she never had, not completely. They still affected her as strong as they used to, in that special way. When she looked at them and when they looked at her, she wasn't a superheroine any more, not even a failed one who kept losing her suit... Their gazes made her regress to the giddy, awkward science nerd girl she used to be in college, who could never find herself any decent dates.

2.

Traffic's got bad, all the sudden. They're not making much progress. Good thing the windows are tinted.

"Christ, I gotta piss," says Antonio. He's the one with a ponytail.

"Me too," says Barton. He's the one with bleached spikes. "Except my stupid cock wouldn't let me do it. I don't think I could squeeze any out."

"Yeah," Antonio says, "Me neither. What the fuck did that crazy cat-bitch inject us with? I've taken Viagra, just for fun—it ain't like this. How much longer you think it's gonna last?"

"Beats me," says Barton. "It's been hours and hours and none of us are starting to droop yet. Aches like a bitch, too."

"Hell yeah it does. I've never seen my Johnson get this big. I'd be grateful if it didn't hurt so fucking bad."

"Hey," says Deacon, "you're not the one who got zapped up his ass."

"I know, I know. Sorry, man. I know."

Deacon has dreads and a goatee. He was maybe her favorite, before, if she had to pick one. 'Cause he was the dark and sullen member of the group. Made him the most interesting. Now he's the one that's giving her the angriest looks.

"I can't believe you let her get away with this!" he says. It's the first time he's spoken to Harrier directly. "How could you let that happen? I can't believe you just gave up like that! You even took off your panties for her, and then you let her spank you in front of us! Holding your own goddamn ankles with your ass and your snatch in our faces! I couldn't believe that shit!"

Hearing this from him feels like a kick in the belly. She almost starts bawling. "I had no choice! What was I supposed to do?"

"You were supposed to kick the shit out of the supervillain! That was your job! To win!"

"She was torturing you! Right in front of me! Giving up was the only way to make her stop!"

"It was the wrong call. It just made everything worse for all of us! You're an idiot!"

"You were screaming your head off! She was electrocuting you! You were begging for mercy!"

"Yeah, thanks, I remember. Shouldn't have mattered. You should have kept fighting. If you had, everything would be over. We wouldn't be stuck like this in this fucking car, staring at each other with our dicks sticking up in our faces. This is all your fault! Who trained you? You need to take your butt back to superheroine school. All it's good for at the moment is letting bad guys spank it! Or is that why you do what you do? 'Cause you like being made to do that stuff?"

"I was... I was trying to save you! How can you say these things to me? I gave myself up to save you from further torture! And then I let that woman humiliate me! I did that for you! I just... I just couldn't stand watching you get tortured!"

"Then you're too weak for your job. You should fucking quit!"

"Jesus, Deacon," said Barton, "Lay off her, man."

"Yeah, bro," said Antonio, "You're too harsh. She did her best with a difficult situation."

"A difficult situation? She got a spanking, was all, and a little fingering. Pretty playful treatment, too, in my opinion. Way she was carrying on, all that gasping and panting and jiggling and splashing around, I'm pretty sure she liked it. That bullshit got her off, or it got her damn close. Meanwhile, I had an electrified dildo shoved about a foot up my butthole!"

"I know, dude. We all saw. We all heard you screaming and pleading too, just like she said. Christ, that's the point. That's why Harrier surrendered. I can't believe you're giving her shit for it now."

"Jesus! I'm giving her shit because the crazy bitch that tortured me like that got to walk away! Laughing her head off! She left us in chains and she took all our stuff with her! Including, best of all, Harrier's power-armor! That's my favorite part! 'Cause it means all of us were just bait! Getting the armor was the real goal. And this dumbass girl let her take it. Let herself get duped!"

"Let me see if I've got this straight, man," said Barton, "You're telling us that you would have preferred she kept letting you get your ass fried off? Seriously?"

"For another minute or two, yes. Exactly! What difference would that have made? She was kicking the shit out of Copycat's copies before she quit—tossing them all over the room. Wouldn't have taken her much longer to finish the job properly, if she stuck it out. If she knew her business! I'm telling you, you wouldn't believe how bad my ass is burning inside, right now. And my nuts. Holy fuck, my nuts... But that damage was a done deal, by the time she found us. My ass and my nuts were already fried to Hell. Another minute or two wasn't gonna leave me feeling any worse off than I do right now. Only I'd have the comfort of seeing the evil twisted bitch that was responsible hauled off to jail! Also I'd be free from these chains and be able to put clothes back on and feel like a human being again instead of a monkey in a fucking zoo!"

Nobody said anything more for a while after that.

Worst of all for her, it was true what he'd said—she really had got off on the spanking and the fingering, bent over completely naked in front of them. Clinging to her own ankles, and with her bare feet spread as wide as they could reach. The concrete floor had been so cold and damp and gritty. With her head dangling upside down, she could see the Heartbreakers between her stretched legs whenever she let herself open her eyes. She could watch them watching her as she was dominated and disgraced. Paddled and probed.

"Is this turning you on?" Copycat kept asking her, "It is, isn't it? I can tell."

"Nhn. Mhm. Mhhrr! Nuhn. Ohhuuhh. Uhhn!"

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" she'd gone on, "With the boys watching! They shouldn't get to see you like this! A superheroine is supposed to be more resistant. Supposed be made of sterner stuff. But not you. Oh no. Not you, little thing. Not when you're naked. You're too weak and too randy. Aren't you? Yes you are."