Introducing the Latex LeopardbyFalcinator©
Author's note: this came from a quick vignette I wrote from an idea (the leg-strap-powered dildo, which started off in an Alone In Space story before I removed it but kept it because I liked the idea) combined with idly flicking through a latex website.
It was written in one initial set-up, followed by a little development at the research hospital, and then everything in the warehouse and afterwards was written basically in one sitting, all on my mobile phone using predictive text. Because I can.
You are warned that it is more playful than erotic, and quite silly. I mean, I don't even LIKE huge tits.
P.S.: Literotica really needs a category for superheroes/heroines.
For her visit to her pet medical research facility, Mistress Morren - better known to the media by her nom de mask, the Latex Leopard, chose to dress formally.
Stiletto heeled, thigh high leather boots went nicely with a tight black knee-length latex skirt over classic fishnet stockings, and she slipped an elaborately lace-trimmed white silk blouse under a flattering low-cut red latex waistcoat. A black leather bolero jacket went over the top, open of course.
She admired herself in one of her mirrors, pirouetting to get a better view of her long legs, narrow waist over noticeable hips and deliciously tight butt, and E-cups surmounting what would otherwise be a very trim and neatly girly figure.
She blew herself a kiss in the mirror, spun neatly on heel and toe, and held out her hand to her meekly waiting rubber maid, who promptly handed over her latex gloves.
"Now," she announced as she pulled the gloves on, "Let's see what those nice men have been turning my money into this time. Collette, have Jeeves bring the Jaguar around to the front."
Collette, who was ball-gagged, accomplished this by pressing a series of onyx buttons on a malachite panel.
When Morren alighted from her lovingly restored MkX limousine, door held open by the exactingly formal Jeeves (not his real name) in his - alone among Mistress Morren's staff - traditional chauffeur's uniform, Professor Chumley was standing at the top of the stairs, waiting for her with a carefully artificial smile on his face.
Midway through the tour, they came to a halt beside a simple door with a small, shuttered window and a sign saying "GASAP573".
The professor pulled down the shutter in the door, and motioned Morren to peer through.
"Our greatest success at the moment", he said expressionlessly.
There was a bed visible through the window in the door, and a woman lying on it.
Her eyes were half open and focused on infinity, a thin sheen of sweat covering her skin.
She was naked, breasts swelling up from her chest, body sprawled out long-limbed and languid.
A wide and thick leather strap was wrapped around each thigh. An arm was hinged to each strap, pointing upwards, and the arms terminated in a thick dildo.
When she squeezed her legs together, the dildo bottomed out at the entrance to her womb. When she spread her legs wide, it pulled most of the way out. Lying on her back, in a drugged haze, she opened and shut her thighs, slowly fucking herself.
"She is experiencing an experimental drug," the professor said with clinical detachment. "It keeps her sexually aroused, and slows down the higher brain functions so that we are left with barely directed - and not at all repressed - instinct. All she wants to do is seek pleasure, but that is almost all the movement she is capable off. An interesting side effect is that if she does perform any sort of exercise - anything to elevate her heart rate - the drug has an /increased/ half life in her system and, because of the increased circulation, more effect. It has so far been tested safe and effective on all twenty three available female, and seventeen male, subjects."
Morren found a smile curling her lips as she stared at the woman's unthinking, animal, weak pursuit of pleasure. Oh yes, there were tools she could use, here.
"Delivery systems?" she asked, over her shoulder.
"Injection, inhalation, pill ... You name it."
"Symptoms of overdose?"
The professor, for almost the first time in all the three years that he had been working for Morren, looked momentarily almost embarrassed. "There doesn't appear to be an overdose," he admitted. "Eventually, sexual desire is replaced by hunger and thirst, but duration of the drug's effect is the only thing that changes with dosage. That woman in there has been in that state for three days. We have to get the orderlies to clean her regularly."
Morren felt a huge grin splitting her face. Things were looking up!
Two weeks later, plans were complete.
Morren sashayed around the ground floor of her recently co-opted warehouse, inspecting her arrangements.
She had considered an obstacle course but Occam warned against it and she had pared it back to the minimum necessary, leaving only some cover and the hostages in peril. She had even dispensed with her - largely for show - booby-traps.
There were two entrances that heroes could take. From the skylight - that would, with any luck, be the winsomely nubile Starling. Number two was the full-on assault through the doors, which the hunkily cute and well-armoured Stallion would find irresistibly heroic.
With careful timing, Morren had ensured that only those two most desirable of official vigilante heroes were in residence in the city, thereby neatly cutting down on the number of complications.
With the help of a small sprinkling of luck, she would have the stage set for a carefully orchestrated and most delicious trap.
Standing in the only open space, in the middle of the warehouse, the Latex Leopard spun on her heels and clapped her hands in delight. The dance would start in just one hour!
When the appointed moment came, she was in the carefully hidden control room, a room modelled on theatre lighting booths, with one eye on an antique but still accurate ship's chronometer she was rather fond of. With a technician in charge of the equipment and waiting with professional patience for the fun to start, she started counting down softly.
"Five," she breathed. She had put a great deal of thought into her outfit for this day.
"Four." After all, she wanted to be looking her best for a momentous victory like this.
"Three." And, in the unlikely but admittedly possible chance that she lost, she wanted to be looking her best for the cameras when she was caught.
"Two." She had, ultimately, decided to go with a traditional villainess-style outfit.
"One." This had meant starting with a full-body stocking, and then removing most of the material above her nipples.
Even before she had given the command, the technician was leaning forwards, stabbing at a remote button on his panel.
A message, purporting to be from an official source - in this case, a network of observers scattered around the city - was sent straight to the Stallion's Blackberry. It detailed a series of observations which lead to the irrefutable conclusion that the young society couple who had disappeared so shockingly after their wedding were, in fact, being held prisoner in a currently disused (due to fire safety regulations) warehouse.
Allow time for the message to be read. Add time for the Stallion to contact Starling. Start counting down their respective travel times from... Now.
"Ten," she re-started.
"Nine." Her costume was one-piece, put on with the use of liberal quantities of baby oil and a zip that ran from the top (really more of a middle, between her nipples) of the front of the suit, down and all the way back to between the delicious bulges of her butt.
"Eight." On her feet she had her trademark eight-inch platform heeled boots, buckled every inch up the fronts of her calves to her knees.
"Seven." From their tops, her delicious legs rose, encased in mirror-gleaming black latex that looked painted on and were relieved only by an inset red stripe up the outside of each, leading up to her high hips.
"Six." At her hips, the black changed seamlessly to scarlet, hugging her waist as it swooped inwards with no need for a corset to constrain it, the black straps buckled across her belly only there for affectation.
"Five." Her statuesque breasts were supported by latex cups that barely rose above her nipples and skirted the upper slopes of her creamy white breasts coyly, heading up to her nearly naked shoulders, where sleeves hugged her arms like a second skin until, at her wrists, they flared into three-inch long ruffs that draped over her exquisitely manicured hands.
"Four." Sensors deployed around the warehouse sensed the approach of one fast-flying human-sized figure from the north-west, and one slower, but still quick, running figure from the south.
"Three." The Latex Leopard's vivid-gleaming scarlet lips parted, and her tongue licked them with lascivious anticipation.
"Two." The technician, who had caught sight of his boss' movements reflected in a monitor, nearly lost his train of thought entirely when she leaned forwards and re-crossed her legs.
"One," she breathed as the sensors flared out from the approaching vigilante's counter-measures.
The huge doors at the front of the warehouse were torn off their hinges and flung inside as the Stallion leaped through and landed with an echoing, thunderous crash four metres inside the door. A mere second later, the skylight dissolved into a million particles of glass and the Starling plunged through, dropping from the sudden glare of noonday sun into warehouse gloom far too fast for humans to react to.
The technician was astounded by how well it had been timed, and even Morren was impressed with herself.
The Stallion was almost the Bull.
His khaki-shaded costume was leather that covered him from scalp to toes and a powered exoskeleton that, including the horse-helmet, he would barely be able to lift without its aid. He was still fast in more than just a straight line, but he had his wiry sprinter's physique and some quite incredible rare-earth electric motors to thank for that.
Taking stock and finding no life signs near the floor save one off to the side behind a pile of crates, he moved quickly but carefully and without more wanton destruction towards that solitary human signal.
The Starling, to the never-ending delight of the populace and those villains who attempted to take her down, chose to fly above the city's rooftops wearing a short, fluttery skirt.
Morren suspected that the famously chaste girl (23, but still grimly holding onto her girlishness) hero knew exactly how distracting that could be, and was doing it on purpose.
She wore shades of yellow and blue ("More like a bloody parakeet," commented Morren, who had travelled and knew more about birds than the heroine did), and started her costume with short boots that had small heels and cute little Hermes-style wings on the ankles, with flaring tops like cowboy boots. Her (also rather delicious) legs were bare, up to that pleated mid-thigh skirt and, it was common knowledge, blue panties. Above that she had a short-sleeved and high-necked blouse that modestly refused to be figure-hugging, and gloves to her elbows. On her head she wore a winged diadem that descended to form goggles and a beak-like nose. All the counter-measures and sensing equipment she carried was in her winged back-pack.
Sensing only one life-sign in the upper half of the warehouse, and noting that the Stallion was in command of his little situation, she came at it obliquely, eyes peeled for trouble.
The Stallion slid around the crates with startling smoothness and grace (a movement which made the Latex Leopard in her aerie purr in anticipation of seeing his body naked) and found Portia Bayliss, blond, translucent-skinned, clad only in a shift and her famous charm bracelet, one half of the missing newly-weds, huddled against them with her wrists and ankles bound, quivering with fear.
She gave a short scream when he appeared, then recognised the heroic machine-clad figure and turned it into a gasp of joy.
"Oh, thank heavens," she wept as, still not identifying any threats, the macho-silent Stallion bent and sliced through the rope around first her ankles and then her wrists, allowing her to throw her arms around his neck as she continued to babble "They ran out of here about half an hour ago, they seemed to be in a panic or something, anyway they were shouting a lot, and they just dumped me here, and ..." and, taking hold of her bracelet behind his neck, she pulled the largest charm off and deftly slid it into a socket on the side of his helmet where, with embarrassing ease, it caused all his exo-skeleton joints to jerk straight and lock.
He toppled backwards with an outraged shout that failed to get through his disabled speaker grill, and could only struggle impotently as Portia, picking herself up and wincing ruefully but prettily at the bruise she had acquired when she landed, pulled a gleaming syringe out of a crate and, sliding it carefully through the leather and knife-proof kevlar under-weave about his neck, injected him with a pre-measured dose of an extremely powerful and fast-acting sedative.
The Starling, moving out of sight of her colleague, had alighted on a gantry, folded her wings, carefully opened a control-room door and found the second half of the missing newly-weds, the devilishly handsome and athletic Rhodes Scholar James Bayliss, tied to a chair in his boxers, with his hands behind him in approved fashion, and facing the door.
He recognised her at once and his face went from grimly stoic to relieved to concerned in commendably fast time. He did not bother with pleasantries.
"Portia!" He gasped. "Have you found her?"
"The Stallion's downstairs," she assured him with the winning smile which assured her a future in advertising if she ever wanted to leave the crime-fighting business.
He sagged in the chair with relief. "Thank Christ for that!"
Then, as she bent over him to examine his bonds, he used her momentary lack of vision to bring his unbound arm up, across and to crush an injecting ampule of sedative against her neck.
She was cute but not a fool, and her immediate reaction was to back-hand him. James, an enthusiastic boxer who had distinguished himself in England and startled his local gym in America, was both waiting for it and unfazed by it, rolling away from the blow and landing on the floor at about the same time that the Starling did.
In her shielded booth, the Latex Leopard, who had been avidly watching screens that were attached to a fortune in shielded cabling and surveillance cameras, laughed with delight, spun in her chair, flicked a switch that activated the PA system, and said "Well DONE both of you! I'm very pleased!"
Lying on his side and untying the rope about his ankles, James blushed modestly, his boxers revealing how pleased he was to have pleased her, while on the floor below him his wife squealed, gave a little hop and clapped her hands like a little girl who's just been given a pony.
Pressing another button to call in the second team, Morren leaned over the technician, her breasts staying clothed by sheer habit alone, and whispered in his ear "And well done Chris, your toys worked beautifully." She licked his ear and hop-skipped out of the booth while Chris, who had a different but not, under the circumstances, inappropriate understanding of "toys", nearly came in his latex jockey-shorts.
As Morren strode along the walkway towards the hut containing superhero number one, vans could already be heard hurrying towards the warehouse.
By the time she entered the hut, James had rolled the Starling onto a piece of canvas, removed her back-pack and boots and securely hog-tied her into a backwards bow.
The Latex Leopard paused in the doorway, impressed despite herself.
"That's rather good," she said. "Does Portia like that?"
He grinned, bashfully, as he packaged up the Starling's equipment. "Extremely! The basic ties are just cowboy knots, but I picked up some Japanese shibari techniques at a workshop in Paris, and incorporated them. I guarantee that she won't be moving if she does wake up!"
She gave him a smile that made his knees go rubbery, and said "I'm going to have to have a chat about these skills of yours when this is finished."
She departed, leaving James trying desperately hard not to masturbate.
As she descended to ground level, the first van through the ruined doors had skirted the rubble, parked as near as it could get to the staircase, and had disgorged three burly men who, as they passed the Latex Leopard at a jog on their way to collect the Starling, were nearly so distracted by the smile she gave them that they ran into bits of warehouse. Narrowly avoiding this fate, they staggered upstairs.
The second and third vans had parked near the pile of crates hiding the Stallion and Mrs Bayliss who, an electrical engineering PhD candidate, was kneeling over a laptop plugged into the fallen hero's helmet, too engrossed in her work to notice the Latex Leopard until, finding that Portia's shift had, riding up, exposed her bottom, the villainess smacked it.
Portia nearly lost all concentration, and had to freeze for a second and bite her lower lip to regain any of it, but her work was nearly done and with just two more key-strokes the Stallion's armour all, simultaneously, unlocked and opened.
The arriving van crews were, despite facing the dual sights of a kneeling, nearly naked, hard-nippled and flushed Portia, and the Leopard with one of her straight-to-the-groin smiles directed at them, were just in time to, a little weak at the knees, remove the pieces of the Stallion's armour, apply bonds that on anyone else would appear excessive and, with considerable grunting and cursing of effort, carry both the Stallion and his armour to respective vans.
The Leopard pivoted neatly on one heel. Four figures were hurrying down the ladder from the second story, carrying one large and two smaller bundles. From the door to the camouflaged booth, Chris leaned out and shouted "Clear!", his equipment having been unplugged in record time and taken down the back way to a fourth van.
By the time the Leopard, hips swinging like a metronome, had walked out from behind the crates, a salvo of slamming doors blended with three diesel engines starting up and being flung into gear, and by the time James, looking like an advertisement for either a gym or underwear, had jogged over to where she was standing, she was alone in the entire warehouse save for two darlings of city society clad only in their smalls.
She offered them each an arm. "Shall we?" they each threaded an elbow through hers, and nodded emphatically.
With a muted purr, a battered XJR saloon - one of her "incognito" cars - slid to a halt in front of them and Jeeves, leaping out, held the rear door open for them.
A minute later, there was once more nothing in the warehouse to suggest that the two nominated defenders of the city, who daily struck terror into it's underworld, had just become captives of it's most deliciously outrageous villain.
"My DARLINGS!" The Latex Leopard was happy, and when she was happy she believed in spreading it about.
The crowd cheered. The huge hall, which her voice had filled with little seeming effort, echoed to the sound. It was carved out of rock and furnished so opulently that Cecil C de Mille would slap his forehead and wonder why he hadn't thought of that.
"You have made me HAPPY today, all of you!" she was wearing a one-piece, ankle-length latex dress in red geometrical panels edged with black. It was, once more, cut to reveal as much as possible of her bosom, but this went one step further by having triangular panels over her nipples so that fully two thirds of each majestic globe was exposed to view.