Patriotic stared at the photograph. She didn’t go about collecting autographs or signatures, so the glossy 8x10 she held in her hands was alien to her.
As a superhero, she simply didn’t allow herself the luxury of hero worship. Her few hobbies all bled into her career as a heroine. Her low ranking among the heroes and heroines of Venus City meant that she played more on ambition than an established reputation. The only time she’d even been among top-ranked names like Disguise or Multitude had been years ago, when she’d been present for a dedication by Mayor Panton.
The heroine placed the glossy photo back on the table, photo-side down. She chuckled to herself. If things had been different, if she didn’t possess powers and went about her business as an ordinary human, would she value the photo differently? Patriotic imagined a world where her home was framed with black-and-white images of stars and heroes and villains rather than notices, notes, paperwork, and memorabilia of her previous adventures.
She shook her head. No, she wasn’t a collector. She hoped to one day be the one giving out the autographs to smiling faces. Until then, she had to focus on rising up through the ranks. Patriot took a look at the noted marked on the back of the photo and sighed.
Patriotic -
It’s time for me to retire. I could simply cash out my fortune and disappear, but heroines like you deserve one last chance to catch me. Find me before I retire, and I won’t put up a fight.
All my love,
The Painted Lady
Patriotic flipped back to the front. The Painted Lady wore an elaborate technicolor costume, one so tight that it indeed looked painted on. The photo had the villainess sitting in a wide throne, legs crossed, and with each of her hands firmly planted on a captive’s head. Both of her hostages were totally hooded, faces coated by the Painted Lady’s own costume. Each of them was anonymous, though the shiny encasement was so tight that one could practically make out their facial features. Eyes shut and mouths closed, they seemed to be wriggling and writhing in their restraints.
The heroine bit her lip and moved her eyes to the center of the photo. The Lady’s costume - the source of her powers - was skintight and colorful across every inch of her body save her face. Its dome-like appearance was mirrored silver. She could see the camera reflected in its shine. The Painted Lady’s henchwomen - Double Dees, Harmony, and Coldshoulder - were all milling about in the background.
She dropped the photo and went to her closet. Her spandex outfit was ready for her; the glamorous red, white, and blue of Patriotic.
“I hope you didn’t have any retirement plans,” muttered the heroine. “The only beach I see in your future is Black Beach Penitentiary.”
===
Patriotic thought that she would hesitate before opening the door. She didn’t. This was her third visit to the old detention camp. The first had been when it was under control of a shadowy government agency. She had cleared it out and brought misdeeds to light alongside now-missing heroine Disguise. Her second visit had been a year later, during which The Painted Lady had converted it into a reproachable human trafficking operation.
Now it was silent. It was located in a run-down portion of Venus City, mostly abandoned since the 1950s. Old brownstone walls on the outside belied the advanced construction inside. Techno-coffins lay dormant and broken, the occupants long since rescued in that daring raid. Any toys or equipment worth salvaging had been taken long ago. First the authorities, then the gadgeteer-heroes, and then the curious kinksters - all that was left was memories.
But what memories they were! Patriotic found herself swallowing a minor lump in her throat. She remembered busting in through an air vent to find herself surrounded on all sides by slaves-to-be. She gazed over the spaces where training rigs had once filled the wall. She could still hear the pleading, desperate moans from the dozens of men and women doomed to servitude. They had been trapped in revealing latex suits, then strapped into heavy neoprene sleepsacks. She remembered trying and failing to remove the thick metal collars that bound them to the wall before the guards came, the pleading look in their eyes as they begged her through tight gags. It was a bit traumatic… though the grins on their faces when she’d finally let them free had been worth it.
The sudden arrival of Deandre DeVries, or “Double Dees” as she was known, was quite a surprise for Patriotic. Her honey-almond skin was plainly visible, covered as it was by a fairly revealing outfit. Tight pants and a tighter top let her generous breasts bob freely. The domino mask covering her eyes didn’t do a very good job of hiding her identity. After all, she went about proclaiming it every chance she got.
“Honey, I’m home!” shouted the villain. She had come down through the skylight, landing and rolling gracefully. Her eyes met with Patriotic’s gaze.
“I’m not here for you,” stated the heroine flatly. “I’m not interested in some two-bit crook. I’m looking for the Painted Lady.”
“Looks like you found her! Except you’re a few years too late. She hasn’t used this hideout in ages. In fact, the only reason she sent me here was to ward off slow heroes like yourself. Foolish little girlies who think they can take down The Painted Lady. She’s not here!”
Patriotic cracked her knuckles. “I know she’s not, but you are.”
The fight with Double Dees was brief. She could punch like no other; each fist (one tattooed ‘death’ and the other ‘destruction’) had the force of a cannonball. However, she quickly tired. The villain was much more suited to gloating and using the threat of her powers than she was at actually using her powers.
Old equipment shook. Metal cages splintered into dangerous shards. The moldering concrete walls turned to a noxious powder as the two met. Coughing and stuttering, Patriotic stumbled to the ground. She wiped dust and grit from her face, looking up just in time to feel the tremendous impact of Double Dee’s hammy hand. Woozy with the impact, she hardly resisted while the busty brunette grabbed her and dragged her to a small metal cylinder.
“The boss wants her guests dressed for the occasion,” gloated DeVries. “A few hours in there and you’ll be good and squirmy - and of course, properly kitted out to meet TPL.” She removed the top of the cylinder and nonchalantly dropped Patriotic into the tube.
Her vision cleared and the stars skittered from her eyes. She could see again, and with that clarity came a rising sense of fear. She was in some strange metal pod in the bottom of a techno-dungeon. And it wasn’t just fear that was rising - it was some sort of sticky liquid! The tube was too narrow to try to wriggle free from; she could move her arms but just barely. She didn’t have the room to kick, and as the viscous gel continued to rise, she knew that she wouldn’t be able to summon the momentum anyway. Patriotic didn’t waste any time thinking about what would happen if she stayed in the warm embrace of the cylinder. As the level grew, so did the pressure. She waited for just the right moment, then shoved her fist towards the lid! It burst off and Patriotic leapt from her metal prison. Smoky nozzles and machinery in the base spewed inky black gel and white smoke everywhere as it depressurized.
Double Dees shrugged. She had been doing her nails, nonchalantly sitting on a decrepit shipping container.
“Looks like the process didn’t take.”
“What process!?” shouted Patriotic. She adopted a fighting stance - wide, with her fists raised.
“Look down, dummy.” Double Dees got to her feet and readied herself.
Patriotic took one look and furrowed her brow. Her costume had been completely erased; now, the gentle vinyl shine of tight rubber coated her from her neck to her toes. It had eaten away at the spandex red-white-and-blue designs, and formed a thin layer around her gloves and boots. It was curing as she stared at it, becoming solid and losing its stretch.
“Like i said,” continued DeVries, “The Painted Lady likes her guests dressed. I think you’re supposed to technically find her, right? That’s what her dumb contest is about? Well, if you could have just gotten in the tube, shut your eyes, and let the lovely latex corruption take root, you’d already be halfway there!”
DeVries prepared one more punch to knock her out. Patriotic knew that if she fell now, she’d be wrapped, encased, and turned into a mindless slave for the Painted Lady before the day was done. She gritted her teeth and ran at Double Dees.
“You know what they say. If the dress fits…”
===
“And then I said, ‘If the dress fits, wear it!’”
The bus driver didn’t respond.
“...and then I knocked her out and threw her in the latex machine. She came out all cute and coated up and some message started playing. So I dropped her off at the police station and said - I said she’s all dressed for the occasion. Do - do you get it?”
“I got it,” he said. He ran a hand through his curly beard, never taking his eyes off the road.
“Okay, because if you don’t get it, I could-”
“I’ve been driving this bus for six years. Do you have any idea how many caped crusaders want to tell me their one-liners?”
Patriotic was silent.
“A lot. A damned lot. Most of them don’t even make sense. They just say things that sound like other things. You can’t just say gibberish and call it a one liner.”
Patriotic sat back in her seat and huffed. A series of fights had broken out across Venus City. It seemed like the Painted Lady had really stepped up her game, and heroes - and even a few villains - were doing everything they could to find her before the time limit ran out. Heroes, of course, wanted the glory and fortunes of bringing down an iconic villain. Rescuing a bunch of rubberclad hostages was good business. But then again, a few villains probably wanted a bite of the pie, and the chance to take over the Lady’s operation.
The result was that Patriotic was grounded - and that she was taking the bus to get to the next hideout.
A grinning girl with auburn hair and alabaster-white skin was sitting across from her on the bus. She had a turtleneck with a thick collar, though curiously, she was wearing tight yellow gloves beneath it. She crossed her legs, lacing her gloved fingers and resting on her knee.
It was a provocative act. Patriotic raised an eyebrow. Since her costume had been corrupted, she was wearing a white shirt and a pair of cheap sweat pants. She hadn’t yet figured out how to cover up her strange new rubber uniform. She didn’t return the flirtatious approach, though, and pretended that she could still intrigue the driver.
“Well, you don’t always have time to come up with a good joke in a fight.”
The driver shrugged and sighed again. “And I don’t always have time to put up with a bunch of capes makin’ jokes when it’s rush hour. And, to re-iterate my point, you can’t just change someone’s name. Like calling someone named Wellington “Skellington” as though you just said the funniest thing-”
She turned back to the posing girl. Suddenly, the gal with the red-brown hair was grinning.
“Aroma!”
“See, that’s what I mean, total gibberish.”
Thick, foggy gas the color of roses filled the car. Aroma stood up, dropping the sweater to her feet. She was wearing a black-and-yellow HAZMAT suit. All that was missing was the gas mask. She casually reached into her purse, took out a modern single-pane rebreather, and placed it over her face. By the time she did so, the public bus was completely filled with the crimson smoke. Patriotic hadn’t even had time to figure out where the fumes were coming from.
The driver was unconscious. The bus jerked forward. The heroine had her vision reduced to a few bare feet. She was holding her breath, but the gas touched her skin and eyes and made her body tingle. She coughed as her face went numb, reflexively drawing in another gulp of the red-tinted gas. Smashing the window was child’s play, but the gas wasn’t evacuating nearly fast enough.
Aroma was strutting up and down the aisles, picking the pockets and grabbing anything that looked valuable.
“Not a very good haul, it seems,” said the thief. Her words were muffled through her mask. “Though then again, the burglary is just for some spending money. I really came here to slow you down.”
“How-”
The black-clad brigand placed a finger on Patriotic’s lips, forcing her back into her seat.
“Don’t speak. Unless you want a nice mouthful of my fantastigas. Actually, no, go ahead, breathe deep.”
A raspy chuckle through the filters told Patriotic that she was dealing with a very sarcastic villain. “I used to go by Aroma, and it seems you remembered that name. But now I’m Harmony. I give the people what they want. Right now, everyone on this bus but you and I are in the throes of phencylidine-induced ecstasy. So, why don’t you just take a deep breath and relax while I liberate you of your freedom?”
Harmony cut an imposing sight. A black-and-gold suit with a chrome-tinted visor made Patriotic turn red. It was also the fact that she’d been nearly thirty seconds without taking a breath.
“I don’t think you’ve got it in you. To resist that is,” said Harmony. “Why not just relax? I could drive this entire bus back to the hideout if you want. Only downside is that you’ll be promptly enslaved to become part of the Painted Lady’s living latex canvas.”
The gas was taking its toll on Patriotic. Images and sounds and sensations were flooding her mind. They crashed over her mental walls like a wave, pouring through her body. Sensuous thoughts and giddy ecstasy began to permeate her flesh. She could practically feel the drugs making their way through her system.
In her mind’s eye, she was clad in a perfect white suit. She was happy and helpless. Her arms were tucked behind her back in a reverse straitjacket. Straps had been buckled and locked. Her sensitive neck was protected by a thick collar - white with a gold clasp. She stood straight, a fat toy tickling the walls of her womanhood and a smaller plug flaring into her rear. A wide strap dug them in as deep as possible, ensuring that any step she took would only further aggravate her arousal.
The Painted Lady was there, too, standing behind her. She was of course too heavily blindfolded to see her, and the wide rubber strap across her lips meant that she’d never speak unless the Lady demanded it. But she knew it from the texture of her suit and from the soft touches she provided. If only she could submit, she knew, she would always feel this way - the glory of being an objet d’art and the simple mentality it entailed. She hopped up and down once , feeling her white-coated breasts weaving as though begging to be groped.
Her measured molestation made Patriotic notice that the submissive clad in white rubber was quite a bit taller than she was. She noted that the Painted Lady was quite a bit shorter and more muscular than she had appeared in the photo. The blurred image of her own face beneath the chrome mask gave her pause. The fantasy wasn’t one of submission at all. It was one of complete and utter dominance.
She reached forward and grabbed at Harmony’s mask. Harmony gasped in surprise, falling to the ground and grasping at her bare face. Patriotic grinned.
===
If you slow down,” said Patriotic, “you’re only going to prolong this.”
Harmony had been panting heavily earlier. Her breathing was fairly shallow. After defeating her and saving the bus from nearly crashing, the heroine took out the day’s frustrations on the hero-turned villainess.
The gold-and-black suit remained on, but Patriotic had hooked up one of her gas bombs directly to her respirator. Every breath was now drawing in minute amounts of dangerous gas. Every minute grew cloudier and hazier. She couldn’t reach up to remove her mask - Patriotic had glued it in place with rubber cement, and agreed to remove it if - not when - the two of them arrived at The Painted Lady’s hideout. Just in case she got any ideas about escaping, Patriotic had her sealed in a pair of very strict metal handcuffs behind her back. She couldn’t reach her mask if she tried.
They were now walking through the closed administration wing of the Museum of Contemporary Art at Venus City. The MCAV’s walls were adorned with a stunning variety of art that ranged from the abstract to the hyper-realistic. Patriotic started to wonder if maybe some of the sculptures were - or had been - actual humans. She pushed the thought aside and pushed her captive ahead again. She stumbled slightly, then walked toward the door. Biometrics scanned her and it opened.
“This… this is the last door. She’s inside. The… the foundation office.”
Patriotic squinted her eyes. “Any traps?”
“N-no traps. Please, let me out. I can’t think.”
She stroked her neck for a moment, curious as to what would happen. If she breathed too much gas, would she lose herself entirely? Would Harmony fall prey to her own lurid imagination? She was curious what the hero-turned-villain's mind looked like, as well. What fantasies did a villain have?”
“What are you thinking about?”
Harmony made a wheezing sound. Patriotic sighed and removed the mask, throwing it to the ground. The villainess fell to her knees, then on her side. She was squirming in her shiny suit, grinding her thighs and working herself into a frenzy. Patriotic stepped over her with a cold glance.
The office’s floor was a series of concentric, colorful circles. White walls lined with bookcases, knick-nacks, and screens. Artwork was everywhere - canvases, digital prints, and sculptures. All of the sculptures were moving. Patriotic wasn’t dumb. She saw the vac-packed women and men on the wall, starved of their freedom and helpless to escape. A beautiful white latex that completely sealed them in save life-support tubes. Patriotic's eyes lingered on them. She felt a mixture of appreciation and empathy. The heroine imagined the difficulty in procuring and displaying the captives - the craft that went into keeping them alive, healthy, and ensconced as pretty little displays.
"Where are you?" she asked. Patriotic strutted further into the office. There was no need to vacillate while looking for traps or enjoying the artwork. Patriotic's mind had become hardened around her singular goal of finding and taking down The Painted Lady.
"I'd hate to have to search for you," she said. "There are so many nice piece of art here. Things I know that you painted. I'd hate to have to knock them over while looking for you. I'd hate to accidentally let your painted pets free."
Her hands were balled into fists. She wasn't entirely certain of the Lady's power suite, but she knew that any top-tier villain would never get carted off to jail without a fight. It simply wasn't sporting. Patriotic slid open a door and ducked into a side-room - a bathroom with polished white tiles on the floor and ceiling. Her reflection - all dark and black - contrasted nicely against the white of the room. It was also a far cry from her Americana attire. The thought to change back to her normal costume hadn't occurred to her.
"All right," she said, exiting the bathroom. "I wouldn't even harm any of your art. I mean, I'd happily let those people go. But I'm not going to pressure you. I don't have any blackmail material on you."
She slid open the door to an enclosed porch. A pair of women sat back-to-back, seated on a white pillar. They moaned and mewled, straining against the crimson ribbons that tied them together. A placard listing them as "THE LOVERS" adorned the plinth. Patriotic closed the door.
"...I doubt I'll be able to talk you down, but hey - your letter said that you'd go without a fight. I'm trusting you in that. I'm one of the good guys, right?"
Patriotic opened a door on the left. It was a living room that smelt of a crackling fire and exuded an old-world charm. The heroine's lightning reflexes identified four individuals - two white-clad captives and two metahumans.
"One of the good guys?"
The Painted Lady stood up. She was older now, and her body didn't have the same supple allure that Patriotic possessed. She was still fit and firm, as well as anonymous. The chrome mask and suit totally obscured her identity. The same could not be said of the woman trapped above the fireplace. Coldshoulder had been stripped nude and was squirming in tight metal restraints. The flames weren't enough to burn or heat the thick bonds to uncomfortable levels, but it was enough to make the frost-based villain sweat, moan, and mewl. She was panting through a ring-gag - powerless, quite literally. Her hands, ensconced in two spherical mitts, jiggled against a bodycage.
The Painted Lady put her hands on her hips. "Curious," she said, "You don't look like one of the good guys."
"I don't need to," said Patriotic.
"No, no, you're right." The Painted Lady began pacing, her head tilted down and her hands still on her sides. "A hero can be anyone, blah, blah, blah. Do you know how many times I've heard that monologue?"
Patriotic was silent.
"Neither do I. Too many times. Enough times to make all that optimistic nonsense rote. So, you're here. You're ready to take me in and get all the applause in the world. You're ready to be the heroine that Venus City needs."
Patriotic stepped forwards, but still said nothing.
"Ah. You're probably suspicious." The Lady had a certain vocal fry that made her sound old. She couldn't have been more than fifty years of age, but she clearly had an old soul. "Coldshoulder didn't like my retirement plan. She wanted to ambush you. Coat the floor in ice, make you slip and slide right into a pit trap. Seal you inside a block of ice, I think. I don't remember. I was getting tired of it."
"Tired of your henchmen?"
"No, just... all of it. The great game we play. That's why I sent you that letter, Patriotic. I knew that you'd have the spirit to do what needs to be done. To help me retire in the way that a good villainess should."
"I'm not entirely sure what you mean," she said. "I was planning on bringing you in to Black Beach Penitentiary. I know you're an artist but that doesn't make you above the l-"
The Painted Lady came closer. Her hands were outstretched, to show that she had no weapon and no tricks. Then, when she got close, she put her hands on her hips once again. "Come close. Come very close."
If it was a trap, then it wasn't a good one. Patriotic stepped until she was a breath away from the lifelong ne'er-do-well.
"Look at me."
"At your mask?"
"Yes. What do you see?"
Patriotic bit her lip.
She saw herself in the mirrored mask. Her makeup had run. She'd thrown off her mask days ago. Her costume was, like her name, patriotic to the extreme - at least it had been before being eaten away for shining black. Her lips were developing a certain pout. Her handsome features seemed sharper somehow.
She saw possibilities, too. She'd never been a collector because she'd never had anything she truly wanted to collect. She saw the squirming Coldshoulder - wouldn't it be easier to keep her bound like that rather than go to the trouble of turning her in? She stared at the two white canvas-drones; did they really need to be released? They seemed so gentle, so helpless and innocent as latex-clad possessions. She saw this life that The Painted Lady had lived. The things she could do! The joys she could taste! The fruits of her labor were all waiting for a new, vigorous young woman to taste them.
Patriotic breathed in deep. Her body tingled with excitement. She'd never felt like this when she was stopping muggings. This was power. She could hear it in the room's crackling fire and gentle moans. She could see it in herself.
She took the Painted Lady by the hand and guided her to a couch. Without words, she sat the villainess down. For a few moments, they simply sat in companionable silence, enjoying each others' company. Patriotic denied her corrupt heart's needs and gave her foe a few pleasant moments of introspection. They both knew what this was all about.
When she felt enough time had passed, the Lady removed her chrome mask. She passed it to Patriotic. The heroine didn't hesitate and put it on instantly. She'd still need to find a good cowl to cover up her neck and hair, of course, but that would come in time.
Information and control flooded her mind. She had complete dominion over the equipment in the lair, as well as a newfound appreciation for it. The young woman nodded to the two white latex servants and then nodded to the now-unmasked woman sitting on the couch. She was grinning as they took her to the workshop. She was smiling even as they applied layer after layer of white latex, sealing her fate as another trophy for the madame of the house. She was making the pleasant sounds of a woman without responsibility as they escorted her to the bed, set her down, and began to gently rub and tease her.
The young woman was satisfied. She'd give her predecessor an evening of cuddles; tomorrow she'd need to find more permanent accommodations for the former Painted Lady.
Grinning - though none could see it under the mask - the young woman approached the bed. Tonight she basked in her victory. Tomorrow, Venus City would learn the power of its newest villain.