I’m not really a heroine.  I’m not even really a good person.

It all started four months ago, when I was at the bank, and four guys with surgical masks came in with guns and told everyone to get on the ground.  

I joined the rest of the people on the floor with my cheek pressed against the dirty carpet while one of the robbers came around and collected our cellphones and zip tied our wrists behind our backs.  

One of the bank tellers must have tripped the silent alarm, because the cops showed up in no time, and I felt oddly disappointed.  I was as scared as everyone else around me, but I was also strangely excited, my darker fantasies realized in those moments of peril.

The bank robbers were panicking as the cops set up a perimeter around the bank.  I overheard one of them saying they’d have to take a hostage with them to ensure their escape.

The bank manager seemed to be having his own internal struggle, but one I imagine was far different from mine.  It was his bank that was being robbed, his employees that were being held at gunpoint, his clients that were tied up on the floor.

I was more terrified as he cleared his throat than I’d been of the robbers with their guns.  He was going to steal my moment.

“I volunteer as tribute!” I said suddenly, looking up at the robbers.  I was not in fact Katniss Everdeen.  What I was doing wasn’t even a fraction as noble or heroic.  

“What?” one of the robbers asked, staring at me blankly.

“Take me as a hostage.”

“Alright, blondie,” the one that seemed to be the leader said, hauling me to my feet.

My fellow hostages looked at me with a mix of gratitude and concern as I was ushered to the front of the bank.  The parking lot was filled with cop cars, and even more gawkers and a couple of news vans piled up behind the police tape.

The robbers shouted for the police to get back or they’d shoot me.  They mistook my hesitance for fear as they dragged me out, a gun held up to my temple, but the truth was, I thought I was going to cum in my pants on the spot.

They got me to their getaway car, and I guess using me as a hostage got the cops to let them through.  I don’t really know, it was all hazy at that point.  The only thing I could think about was the zip tie around my wrists.  How does a hostage go about pointing out that her restraints just aren’t enough?  Not that I would have tried to escape.  And not for fear of their guns either.  But deep down I knew that if I really wanted to escape, to resist, I could have kicked.  I could have bit and spit and screamed.  They had me next to the door for Christ’s sake; I could have just reached over with my minimally bound hands, opened the door, and rolled out to freedom when the car slowed down.

They were too preoccupied with the cops tailing them to even pay attention to me.  The excitement was quickly wearing off as they made their getaway.  Their driver managed to lose the cops at a stop light, they pulled into a parking garage, and they all got out and split up, just leaving me.  They didn’t need a hostage anymore.  They didn’t need me.  

The cops found me soon after, interrupting me as I sat on my bound hands, my fingers furiously working my pussy through my jeans as I fantasized that the robbers had whisked me away back to their layer, tying me much tighter, gagging me as I tried to scream when they bent me over the couch and pulled my pants down.

I’m not normally a violent person, but I could have killed the cop who knocked on the window of the robbers’ car and told me everything was going to be alright, that help had arrived.  Kicked his buckteeth down his throat.  But then I imagined him catching my foot as I tried to kick him, pushing me down in the back seat of the car as he climbed on top of me, covering my mouth his hand while his other hand unbuttoned my pants.

Suffice to say, I was a mess, and the paramedics described my condition as shock.  My parents had been informed and came to pick me up, insisting I come home with them.  I just wanted to go back my apartment, grab the roll of duct tape that I knew was sitting in my junk drawer, get my vibrator, and go to town on myself until I couldn’t see straight.

I didn’t get the chance until the day after, when I’d finally convinced my parents that I would be fine.  “The robber’s aren’t going to come back for you,” my mother assured me.  “You’re safe.”  Even as an angsty teen, I’d never hated my mother as much as I did at that moment.

Still, I went home and my boss was happy to give me the rest of the week off due to my “trying times,” and I spent the next four days trying to relive those fantasies, locked in my apartment save for the trip down the block to the sex shop for some better toys to help me recreate my fantasies.

My life tried to revert back to normal the following Monday.  I was dehydrated, sporting some serious bruising on my wrists and ankles from the cheap cuffs I’d bought myself, not to mention I’d rubbed my clit raw, and every move was both agonizing and tantalizing at the same time, but my life had to go back to normal.

I spent the day distracted, passing the time by going through my phone, looking at all the guys I could perhaps call.  I’d done some light role playing in the past, but I wasn’t in the mood to play naughty schoolgirl.  I wanted, no, needed, something more.  And the guys in my phone, even the few I thought could maybe bring something interesting to the table, deep down I knew that just role playing wouldn’t be enough.  After having a real gun to my head, a squirt gun painted black just wouldn’t cut it.

So I went home and back to self bondage and fucking myself silly with a dildo, closing my eyes as I imagined the bank robbers just ravaging me while I screamed into my sodden panties I’d taped in my mouth.

I got a call from a reporter wanting an interview a few days later.  Despite the tempting opportunity to relive my experiences, I told him to buzz off.  I had a date with a new vibrating dildo I’d bought myself, and if I was going to relive my experience, I was going to embellish the hell out of it with ten inches of realistically molded PVC.  Besides, I wasn’t a hero, as the news made me out to be.

That’s where the idea took root.  I’d looked at a lot of porn since the bank.  Like, a LOT.  And there were a couple of things that I kept coming back to.  One of those was super heroines.  Those big titted bitches get captured ALL the time.  And as much as I prayed for a robbery that called for a hostage situation every time I went back to the bank, or a convenience store, or really anywhere, lightning rarely strikes twice.

Unless you’re a lightning rod.

And those super villains did some fucked up shit to those heroines.  And they kept coming back for more.

According to the news, I was already a hero for my brave sacrifice to the bank robbers.  While I’d failed to comment, my fellow hostages praised my name, and my lack of comment actually made me look even better, the humble savior not in it for the glory.  My stolen line from The Hunger Games, “I volunteer as tribute,” was even more famous than when the movie first came out thanks to me.

“Tribute,” I said to myself, admiring myself in the mirror.  I’d gone back and forth on the costume.  I was tempted to go as skimpy as possible without getting arrested for public indecency (and even then I’d had fantasies about the cops arresting me for running around practically naked and raping me as punishment for being a terrible role model) since the ultimate goal was to get out of the costume.  

But I could still be sexy and revealing and super villain bait without strutting around in a thong and pasties.  

I settled on white latex panties and a bra that really did wonders for my tits.  I’m not as top heavy as most of those heroines, so I need all the help that I can get.  But, I can assure any super villains that I make up for in enthusiasm what I lack in bust.  And then some.

I got matching white gloves and thigh high boots with four-inch heels that really highlight my main attraction, my ass.  I finished it off with a white domino mask.  It’s a pretty simple and generic ensemble, but again, the goal is to get the outfit off of me.

I’m no hero, but I’ll do what I can to keep the bad guys off the street, cause hopefully they’ll be too busy doing unspeakable things to me.