“You look surprised to see me, Frauline Bombe... Is this not a familiar sight?”
Damn your skinny hide, Contessa... Her captor was right, though the curvaceous heroine was loath to admit it. To fall afoul of such a fiendish but obvious trap might have been acceptable to the casual, gal-about-town heroine. But not for her... Not for the Bombshell, the Allies’ stout-hearted and stout-built saviour in the war against the Axis Powers.
And yet she was bound, naked and helpless, her strength robbed of her by the gas of a cowardly booby-trap. Held up on her plump feet by nameless henchwomen, the massive ball gag tucked between her full lips prevents her from answering the question that her captor levies at her.
“Oho? No witty reply, frauline?” Mocks The Contessa, Elsa Bindenhaus, as her heels click loudly on the stone floor of the laboratory. Foul cigarette smoke fills the Bombshell’s nose as she steps closer, having to crane her head up to look into the blue eyes of the Aryan beauty. “I do so miss the pathetic banter of the amerikanisch.”
“Mhnm...” is all the reply that the Bombshell can muster, her fatigue muddling her thoughts and compounded by the ache of her jaw from the massive ball of vulcanised rubber she is forced to bite down on. “Ghwmff.”
“Pah! Erbärmlich!” The Contessa spits, removing the cigarette holder from her thin lips. “At least show me you still have some of that lustre left in you... Otherwise, it will be no fun to break you.”
Tried that before, you ol’ goat... Never works... The Bombshell musters all her strength to string that thought together. She looks up defiantly at the Contessa through her domino mask, the only item of clothing remaining on her, forcing a smile under her gag.
“Ach, ausgezeichnet!” The Contessa smiles, nodding to her guards as they walk their prisoner forward into the lab. “But your bravado is worthless. You may have escaped my clutches in Egypt, but that was but a mere eröffnungsakt to the torment I will finally visit upon you.”
“Nhmff, lhhmh ghff!” The Bombshell protests weakly as she is marched into the laboratory. Normally the manhandling of the anonymous help would be nothing against her mighty strength, but now she feels as helpless as a newborn kitten. “Mhnnn, nhhmmff!”
“Save your strength, frauline... You will be needing it.” The Contessa sounds practically gleeful as she leads her captive in, approaching the tan tarpaulin that covers the rectangular object raised in the centre of the room. “Actually, I am pleased that you fell into my little trap. It is only fitting that it be you who gets to experience my meisterwerk...”
“Whmff?” The Bombshell mumbles, confused until the Contessa grabs the tarp and energetically pulls it away, her eyes going wide as the contraption below is revealed. Holey moley! It can’t be...
The Contessa flashes her perfectly white teeth at her reaction, the covering pooled around her shiny leather boots. But the Bombshell is focused upon the sight of the upright metal table, leather cuffs bolted to the top and bottom to accommodate whoever will rest upon it. A bulky console housing the strangest, sci-fi levers and buttons flashes and hums next to it, wires and tubes leading from it to the contents of a small trolley.
“Ja, Frauline Bombe,” the Contessa growls, “my beautiful Forniclimax machine! You bested it the last time I subjected you to its powerful machinations. But since then, I have made some improvements... And I am most eager for you to experience them. Schnall sie an!”
“Nhhmff! Nhhmff!” With renewed strength she tries to pull herself free of the guards, her bare soles scraping on the rough stone floor. As her back slams against the cold steel surface, her limbs strapped down tight, th memories flooding back to her... While investigating the disappearance of the French resistance spy Sabine Lefevre, the Bombshell was captured and subjected to a similar device. Were it not for the thought of her beloved beau Sabine, the physical pleasures that its twisted, Axis science visited upon her would have rendered her a simple, drooling slave to the Contessa’s whims.
And that twisted has only had time to finetune this wicked doohickey! The Bombshell swallows the lump in her throat as she tries to pull her arms free, with no success. I must be strong... For Sabine, I must resist!
“Mmm, what is it you amerikanisch say?” Moving to the trolley, the Contessa grabs the steel and leather crotch piece. The Bombshell’s meaty breasts rise as she watches her tormentor liberally lube up the dual rubber schlongs bolted into the inner plate, then slowly bring it forward. “‘Double the pleasure, double the fun’, ja?”
“Mhhrrmmmff...” The guttural groan rumbled from beneath the gag, unable to suppress it as her foe forces the plate between her legs, the thick tadgers pushing inside of her. “Mhnn nhhmff, nhhrmff...”
“Oh ja, ja! My tubby adversary!” The Contessa giggles as she buckles up the leather straps, watching them dig into her thick hips. “Bring the visor! Schnell!”
One of the guards rushes to the cart, grabbing the requested item and hurriedly placing it into her mistress’ hand. Whereas before it was a solid strip of leather, it now looks like a modified pair of aviator goggles ripped out of a comic book.
“This I am particularly proud of.” the Contessa continues, reaching upwards and pulling them over the Bombshell’s chestnut hair. “The images you will be subjected to while the Forniclimax machine ravishes you, will reprogram that weak, Allied mind of yours... Soon enough, you’ll forget even your own name!”
“Ghrrmmphh...” The Bombshell shakes her head desperately, but her new spaceman goggles do not come loose. The loud clicks draws her attention downwards, peering through the tinted glass to see the Contessa has already moved to the console and is preparing the machine to begin its work. “Rhhlushh mhh, yhhff... Yhhff...”
“Still the smart mouth on you? That will soon change...” Cigarette smoke wafts from her mouth as she speaks, moving with slow grace as her gloved hands grasping at the chromed valve and beginning to turn it. “You already belong to me, mein sklave!”
“Nhhhrrrmmmmff...” The Bombshell howls through her gag, the intrusive rubber johnsons inside of her springing to life in a series of irregular, pleasurable pulsations. Her vision is obscured as the visor activates, the psychedelic colours flashing before her eyes overpowering her senses as her resolve begins to falter. “Hhrrnnnghhh!”
“Wunderbar! Musik in meinen Ohren!” The Contessa’s mocking tone manages to reach her ears, almost drowned out by the rattle of shackles as she struggles for freedom. “Already I see that a persönliche touch is what was required... To break my most hated adversary!”
Fight it, girl! You have to fight it! The Bombshell thrashes in her bondage, desperate to rip herself free and throttle the hag tormenting her. But her thoughts turn away from violence acts as she is brought, slowly but surely, to the absolute edge of orgasm, heightened by an array of lights dancing in her eyes. Can I fight this? I-- No! I must... Be strong...
“There will be no escape for you, mein sklaven!” The Contessa shouts over her captive’s cries, another squeaky turn of the valve increasing the vibrations inside of her body, a psychedelic whirlpool carrying her resistance away. “Surrender... Surrender to pleasure!”
“Mhhrrmmmgff... Yhhrrrffshhh....” The euphoric orgasm washes over her in an instant, robbing her of the last of her resolve. She feels her body jiggling as the spasms of pleasure overtake her, the whole mechanism rocking from the strength of it all. “Mhh... Mhhrrh... Phhlshh, mhhrrh!”
“Not so fast, liebchen.” Through the haze of colour and emotions, the Bombshell can hear the clacking of the Contessa’s heels getting closer to her. When the gloved hands grasp at her heaving breasts she does not shy away, welcoming her touch. “Can it be? Have I finally... Broken you?”
“Mhhnnmm... Phhlshh...” Breathless and trembling, the Bombshell lifts her head as she pleads. She tries to remember Sabine, the beauty of her eyes and the softness of her body, but feels nothing but cold apathy for her compared to what she has experienced. “Phh... Phhlshh...”
“Say it, sklavin.” The hot, smokey breath of the Contessa caresses her bare skin, her hands kneading her breasts. “Say, ‘I submit’, and you shall grant you a place at my feet...”
I must... I must... The last of her resolve finally breaks, tears slipping from beneath the blinking visor as she mumbles weakly into her gag. “Uhh... Shhbmhhtff...”
“Wunderbar.” The softness in the Contessa’s voice sends shivers over her body, feeling her lean over and plant a kiss on her reddened cheek. “Finally, you are mine... And I have such plans for you, liebchen...”
|Story by MisterEye|
|Artwork by MisterEye|
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