The Broken Bombshell, Part Two

Contessa Elsa Bindenhaus lived a life of opulence. Through her family’s wealth and power and breeding she wanted for nothing in life, save for the feel of her enemies under her heel.

And because of that need, she would gladly trade it all in to make this moment last forever... The moment when her greatest annoyance, this tubby American woman who stylized herself a hero of the common people, kneeling broken and submissive before her. She never imagined that victory could feel *this* good.

“Now then, mein sklaven...” She hisses her words as she steps forward, her heels thudding upon the carpeted floor. Her alabaster skin almost shines as she stands before her captive, wearing nothing but gloves and boots made of shiny rubber, and places her hands upon her bare hips. “Is this not enjoyable to you?”

“Mhn...” Comes the pitiful, mumbled reply from the woman below her. Her foe, The ‘Bombshell’ -Typical amerikanisch, so boastful! - kneels with her head bowed, her ugly reddish hair pulled back so that her face is still visible. Her hands are shackled in front of her pale, pudgy and freckled body, barely moving save for the rise and fall of her huge, bell-shaped breasts.

“Hmph, erbärmlich!” The Contessa sneers, yanking at the silver chain serving as her slave’s leash. The Bombshell raises her head slowly, her chin slick with drool escaping past her ball gag, nothing but emptiness seen in the eyes beneath her domino mask. The Contessa hadn’t bothered to unmask her after breaking her... after all, what did it matter? She was nothing, even before her defeat.

The only other clothing she wore now was a pair of skintight, crotchless lederhosen - the attire of the Contessa's harem. She abhorred the style of clothing as a child, but relished how pathetic her slaves looked in it. For the Bombshell, she even had her servants style her ugly, reddish hair into traditional braided pigtails that rest over her shoulders.

Hmph, pigtails... Fitting for this amerikanisch schwein! The Contessa’s smile is thin and predatory as she moves closer, the Bombshell not even flinching. “I must confess, liebchen, I am unimpressed... You are normally louder, even when gagged. I want to hear you screaming beneath that thing.”

“Mrrmff... Nrrmff...” The Bombshell’s moans, averting her gaze down once more. “Mhh... Mrrmff...”

“I said to scream!” The Contessa raises her voice as she leans down, her gloved hand and striking it across her bare breasts. “Schrei, damn you!”

“Nhhmmnn!” The Bombshell howls through her gag, her glassy eyes closing as she endures her mistress’ treatment. It takes another slap across her reddened chest before she complies. “Mhh... Mmmmnphh!”

“Hmph. Better...” The Contessa smiles but it is lessened as she looks at her diminished foe... The Bombshell’s shackles were superfluous, she has snapped stronger ones in the past. But the power of her perfected Forniclimax machine having reduced her to an obedient, submissive thing that would endure all the punishments the Contessa could visit upon her. And I have much to visit upon you, liebchen... If only I could break you over and over...

“Now then, let us see how your preparations are going... Sich bücken, schwein!” She jerks her leash harder, the Bombshell lurching forward and throwing her manacled hands to stop her fall. She rests on all fours for a moment, then complies with her mistress’ command and bends herself further forward.

Knowing she will never tire of this sight, the Contessa leans down over her fat buttocks, tracing her gloved fingers between them until she feels the base of the analstöpsel nestled there. “Ahh, there it is... How does it feel, sklavin? Feeling nice and loose down there, ja?”

“Mhn...” The Bombshell hesitates to answer, then gives a small nod. “Yhhrsh... Mshhdrhshh...”

“Wunderbar... I do not want to ruin you completely for what comes next.” The Contessa grins, her fingers tracing around the circular base. “I have been saving something very speziell for this moment... A falsenschwanz of my own design! Fifteen inches long, studded from the tip all the way to its base. I call it ‘Der Bunkerbrecher.’”

“Mhhn... Nhhm.” The Bombshell mumbles, and the Contessa’s eyes widen as she slowly shakes her head from side-to-side. “Nhh... Nhhm--”

“Nein?!” The Contessa snarls, grabbing her pigtails and yanking back with such force that it pulls the Bombshell upright, her tubby breasts and stomach jiggling. “You dare to deny your mistress her pleasure?”

“Nhhm! Nhhm, Mshhdrhshh!” The Bombshell screams into her gag, shaking her head despite the pain in her scalp. “Phhlshh...”

“So I thought!” The Contessa eventually lets go, letting her head loll forward. “I do not tolerate insubordination from my slaves... But still, it is nice to see that you are not completely without spirit... I will enjoy pounding the last bit of it out of your chubby rear--”

The knock at the door makes her look up, displeased at first that her fun has been interrupted, but then smiles. “Ahh, Der Bunkerbrecher, at last! Bleib hier, sklavin! Do not move until I command you to!”

“Yhrshh.” The Bombshell mumbles timidly, her earlier defiance now squashes as she waits obediently to be commanded.

Good things come to those who wait! The Contessa feels as giddy as a schoolgirl, moving to the wine table, slowly pouring herself a glass as she bellows, “Komm hier rein!”

The door opens immediately, a member of her personal army quickly entering her chambers. The Contessa did not bother with the names or faces of his subordinates, preferring to pay attention to how their tight military uniform’s hug their bodies. And as she looked at the shapely, raven-haired beauty before her, she swore that there was something strangely familiar about her curves.

“Was ist das?” The Contessa demands, noticing her empty hands. “Where is my newest toy? How dare you come here without it!”

“My apologies, Comtesse,” says the guard in a sultry French accent, “but I am afraid your playtime is over.”

“My playtime-- Guards!” The Contessa screams, finally remembering where she had seen that shapely rear before. “Guards, to m-- Mhhrmmphh!”

Infiltrating Contessa Bindenhaus’ ancestral home was no easy feat. But for Sabine Lefevre - the infamous Agent Foxtrot, the Allies’ greatest spy - there was no feat she couldn’t pull off. Especially for the woman she loves.

“Hush now, Comtesse...” she whispers, tightening her grip around the Contessa’s mouth as her other arm wraps around her neck. “Just relax, s'il te plaît. No need to strain yourself.”

“Ghrrmmmphh!” Growls the Contessa, her face already turning red. Her gloved hands find no purchase as they try to claw at the arm, Sabine’s chokehold too firm as she grips her from behind. The arrogant aristocrat had let her guard down in her own chambers, the spy very easily able to get the better of her. “Ghhrhh... Hrrmmff...”

“That’s it, relax... You have had a very tiring day, non?” Sabine whispers, trying to keep her anger in check. “Time for petite sieste.”

“Mhhnnn...” The Contessa’s struggles ceasing as her eyes slowly roll backwards. How easy it would be for Sabine to not let go... But the demise of such a prominent member of society, even one as reviled as her, would cause serious trouble for her.

As such, Sabine holds on just a moment longer, waiting for the skinny aristocrat to go fully limp, then lets her drop to the floor. The Contessa drops face first to the carpet with a satisfying thud, the debonaire woman soon breaking out into an undignified bout of snoring.

Sensing the immediate threat is over, Sabine rushes into the room and drops to her knees. The sight of seeing her beloved ally in such a state - stripped and gagged, and utterly humiliated - tugs at the hidden heart of the usually stoic spy.

“Bombshell! Parle moi!” She reaches around the back of her head, loosening the gag before easing the spit-soaked ball out of her mouth. “Say something!”

The bombshell does not respond, her mouth hanging open as a trail of drool extends down from her lip. She looks into her eyes, seeing the fire and resoluteness she admired in them missing, glassy orbs staring back at her.

“Bombshell?” Sabine feels a chill up her spine, cupping the marked cheeks of her face and speaks softly, preventing anyone else from hearing. “Peggy, mon doux parapluie... Please, come back to me...”

She then leans in and kisses her, pinching her lips around her lover’s bottom one. Peggy Parasol had given her reason to keep fighting, and she would not give up on her. So she holds the kiss for some time, hoping that she will respond, but feels nothing. Non... It cannot be. Not her--

“Mhn.” The gentle moan makes Sabine jump, the soft lips on hers suddenly coming to life and returning the kiss. The spy pulls away, watching as those glassy eyes start to clear, her voice a whisper. “Sa... Sabine...”

“Oui... It is me, Peggy!” Sabine smiles, a rare feat she saves only for the woman before her, her heart filling as she sees her beloved start coming to. But the sound of doors thundering in the distance tears her gaze away, and she realises that the Contessa’s cries were heard after all.

“Merde!” Acting quickly, she starts to unfasten the shackles binding the Bombshell’s arms. “Peggy, you must fight this... I cannot fight off these guards without you! Please, Peggy...”

Story by MisterEye
Artwork by MisterEye

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