AMATEUR XXX STORIES
-
ALPHABETICAL SEX STORY LISTINGS:
A -
B -
C -
D -
E -
F -
G -
H -
I -
J -
K -
L -
M -
N -
O -
P -
Q -
R -
S -
T -
U -
V -
W -
X -
Y -
Z
Paragon 12
Paragon vs. Plastica
by Cobalt Jade (cobaltjade@aol.com)
Chapter 12: Glittering Prizes
Lori watched the warehouse floor with frozen eyes. She was sealed
inside a transparent sphere along with a couple hundred gallons of water.
She should have drowned, except she was as plastic as the drifting
snowflakes circling slowly around her.
*Snowglobe. I'm trapped inside a giant snowglobe.* Her thoughts were
slow and muzzy, but she knew Cal must escaped, or Plastica would have been
torturing her by threatening to him. Had he made it back to his
apartment? Or was he lying dead or dying somewhere in the tangled swamps
that surrounded the plant? A dull panic seized her, but found no outlet.
*Please God, let him be safe...*
Her own future did not look sanguine. In front of a velvet curtain
across from her stood the blue-violet mannequin of Noelani and the bald,
denuded figure of Shana on her stand. To her left, though Lori currently
could not see her, was Gina in her crystal tomb. All of them had been
arranged as if they were samples in a showcase, lit by halogen spotlights
from above. Plastica had placed them there earlier that morning. Lori
noticed she'd left two empty spaces. She couldn't read the names on the
plaques before them, but she could guess who they were. Of Team Paragon,
only Cinnabar and Allison were still free.
*What does that bitch mean to do to us?*
She could only watch and wait, helpless, as the snowflakes drifted
gently before her.
She did not wait long. Motion entered the corner of her vision: Iza,
the more businesslike and collected of Plastica's two henchwomen. In one
hand she held a colorful sheath of papers, brochures or catalogs, it looked
like, along with a calculator. She was leading a group of six others, some
dressed in suits, others in the wilder garb common to the fashion and
retail display industry. When she reached Lori and the others she began to
talk, a winning smile on her face, gesturing at their bodies as if they
were glittering prizes arranged on a shelf.
Glittering prizes... *oh no, not that.*
She commanded her body to move, her wintry ice blast to come; but
nothing happened. She was trapped. And she knew with panicked surety that
she, and the others, were being sold.
#
"I finally found out why our antidote worked," Darlene announced. She
tapped ARTIE's latest printout. "It was Plastica's blood!"
"Holy Corpuscle," Cal muttered, remembering how he'd bitten Plastica on
the hand. "I thought it had a strange taste..."
"You bit her!" Allison said with delight.
"With pleasure," Cal said grimly. It was a good thing he'd had, or
Cinnabar wouldn't be walking around right now, and he would be as plastic
as the molded office chair he was sitting on.
"Plastica must have been using variations of the same compounds on
herself," Darlene mused. "To test them, maybe, or alter her own bone and
muscle structure. Traces of them must have been lingering in her blood.
So when you bit her, you swallowed some along with your saliva." She
chuckled at Cal's expression. "I bet she never dreamed she would help
create her own antidote."
"How many doses of it can you make?" Cinnabar said. Her eyes swept to
the clock; it was early afternoon, and they all knew time was of the
essence.
"ARTIE can make about twelve with the supplies he has now," Darlene
said. "That should be enough for Lori and Shana, and any other team members
who got... who ran into Plastica." Her phrasing was discreet. Neither
Gina nor Noelani had returned to HQ; neither had they left messages.
"Good. Do it." Cinnabar said. She still looked affected by her
experience, going by her posture and the dark circles under her eyes.
"We'll move in on her tonight."
"She'll be on her guard," Allison warned.
"So will we," Cinnabar said. "But we have the advantage. Remember she
won't be expecting an antidote." She reached back to put her long auburn
hair into a ponytail, the tired gesture belying her confidence. "Allison,
I want you to go to the gym after this," she added. "There's still a
chance Gina or Noelani might be there."
"I want to go with you guys," Cal said with determination.
The three superheroines looked at each other. Cal felt his heart sink.
"No," Cinnabar said. "It's too dangerous. You'd only be in the way."
"I can wait in the car," he begged. "I can be the driver, the same way
Allison was last night. You might need me. To go get help if you run into
trouble, if nothing else." The womens' negative expressions remained
unchanged. He had to do more to convince them. "Look, it's my fault Lori
got captured in the first place! She went to the factory because of me.
And she didn't ask you for help because of me. Like it or not, I'm
the one at fault. And I want to make up for it. If you tell me no, I'll
follow you anyway. You can't stop me."
"No, but your leg can," Cinnabar said.
She was right. He needed crutches to get around on; he wouldn't even be
able to use the gas pedal. He was useless. And if the three failed in
their mission, that would be his fault too.
"Wait," Darlene said softly. "There is something you can do, Cal..."
#
Plastica gave a loud sigh of frustration. She'd been watching
Cinnabar's penthouse all afternoon but the blinds remained drawn. If the
superheroine had been freed Plastica saw no sign of it. Neither had
Phanxine, who'd staked out the place from street level. Maybe she should
just scale the building and dump a tankful of the plastification gas into
the ventilation system. At least that way, she'd be sure. There'd be
innocent casualties, of course, but that had never bothered her. The more
mannequins, the merrier.
"Hey Boss," Phanxine's voice crackled in her ears, "Take a look.
Someone's leaving."
Plastica swept her binoculars to the front of the building. A slim,
athletic figure had stepped outside, car keys jangling in her hand. It
wasn't Cinnabar, however. It was Allison Cope: White Rose.
So Team Paragon was planning something! "Follow her," Plastica ordered,
speaking into the tiny microphone suspended in front of her mouth. "Keep
me posted. I'll be right in back of you in the Maserati." She tugged out
her earplug and turned from the balcony, grinning at the sight she'd left
behind on the bed. The two whose house she'd broken into to gain
this perch lay tied to the frame and each other, struggling in vain to
loose their tautly stretched limbs. Their naked gyrations were most
appealing.
"There, there," she said mockingly. "Don't tell me you two aren't
enjoying it."
Strangled whimpers were her only answer. They couldn't say anything
more; bound as they were in a 69 position, they were effectively gagged by
each other's crotches. The on top tried to raise her head to look at
her but was able only to lift her eyes, which were bright with tears of
fear.
"You're welcome," Plastica chortled. She raised her gas gun. "And
thank you, for letting me borrow your balcony. But it's time I was
leaving."
The girl's eyes grew moister, her throaty protests stronger. Her hips
rocked in panic over the face of her friend, no doubt contributing an
unholy pleasure to her plight. The beneath her remained ignorant of
the danger, seeing nothing but her partner's moist, tangled bush.
"Adieu, mon cherie," Plastica crooned. She knew she should leave them
there for their roommates to find. But she just couldn't resist...
She pulled the trigger, bathing the two in exploding pink gas. They
began fucking in earnest as the aphrodisiac entered their bloodstreams, the
buttocks of the on top alternately hiding and displaying the moist
folds of her pussy. So wanton it was... so pink and shaved and helpless.
Unable to resist, she inserted her fingers and gave the winking slit a
reaming of her own, the channel hot and slick through the black vinyl of
her glove.
"Yes," she hissed roughly. "Fuck for me, fuck like the little whores
you are." She was secretly envious of her victims, no matter how cruel
their fate. The roommates' mingled moans grew stronger as she mirrored
their motions with her own, her vinyl-clad crotch rubbing rhythmically
against the bedpost
Struck by a new perversity, she held her now-slick fingers before the
lips of the tied on the bottom. The took them eagerly into her
mouth, with gusto on her partner's juices. Plastica chuckled.
There was contempt in it, but also solidarity. "Ah-ah-ah. That's enough,"
she chided, lifting her hand. "Back to business." She guided the hungry
mouth back to its main source of nourishment, and with a sigh of ecstasy
the reburied her face in the moist crotch before her. Her partner
responded with a gasp, flexing her hips, and fresh fluids soon coursed down
the blonde's reddened cheeks.
But they were taking too long. Impatient, Plastica slapped the bobbing
ass in front of her, leaving one handprint, then two. The
encouragement was appreciated. The moans grew more bestial, the motions
sharper. Plastica smacked her again. "Come on, you cunts," she hissed.
"Come!" The redhead gave a muffled scream of ecstasy, dimpled buttocks
jiggling prettily; beneath her the blonde's hips jerked, a monosyllabic
mantra keening in her throat. Her own banged the bedpost in rhythmic
thuds, each jolt marking time. So close... so close... she stretched a
finger towards the redhead's buttocks, probing deep inside the cleft.
With two ululating cries the pair reached their climax. They stiffened,
shuddering all over like an object in motion suddenly driven to a halt, and
froze; living skin faded and hardened, taking on the dull sheen of plastic.
Then, and only then, did Plastica climax herself: *"... aaahhhh... !!!"*
Her cry faded to a gasp. She came back into herself, the lovely orgasms
still tingling over her skin. Two blank-faced mannequins lay tied to the
bed, trapped forever in a deviant's bondage fantasy. She laughed. There
was madness in it, yet also an awareness of her nature. No could ever
give her the pleasure her creations did. She could be in danger of losing
her freedom, her beauty, all her criminal powers... yet still find time to
do this, her one joy in life, her purpose for existing...
She blew the plastic duo a mocking kiss, and left them to their fate.
She caught up with Phanxine half an hour later outside the entrance of
an exclusive women's gym. The black was leaning on her car, arms
folded, her eyes glued to the gym's entrance. "Where is she?" Plastica
said.
"She's gone inside," Phanxine said, pushing her sunglasses over her
forehead. "Her car's over there."
With Allison alone and vulnerable in the building, now was the perfect
time to catch her unawares. "Good. We're going in after her." She
sculpted her face and flesh into a new guise as a fitness trainer and
grabbed the duffelbag she kept in the Maserati's trunk. It contained her
plastification apparatus, among other things. With Phanxine playing the
role of her client it was no problem to bluff her way into the gym's
security room and knock out the single guard who'd been stationed there.
"Find me a map of the building," she ordered, manning the security
cameras. Phanxine pulled out the building manuals. In a minute or two the
cameras found Allison, and Plastica was able to follow her on-camera
progress from room to room.
"She seems to be looking for something," Phanxine commented. "Or
someone."
Plastica grunted noncommittally, but that did look like the case. She
watched closely as Allison took out her cell phone to make a call. She
zoomed in on the lens to check the number. "Fuck!" she spat. "That's the
number we found on Arctica last night. She's calling someone back at
Cinnabar's place."
"Cinnabar?" Phanxine said. "But she's... How could she have escaped?"
Plastica didn't know, but it had to be true. Who else would Allison be
calling? Her heart skipped another beat when the superheroine disappeared
through an unmarked doorway. She emerged several minutes later in a towel.
Unaware she was being observed, she headed for the sauna.... where she
would be trapped.
Eyes slitting in glee, Plastica gave Phanxine her orders, "Go to the
steam room and make sure Allison's inside, then lock the door. Make sure
no one else follows her." She opened the gym bag, handing Phanxine a gas
gun. "If she comes out... you know how to use this."
Phanxine looked dumbfounded at her orders to take down a superheroine,
but she did as she was told. When she had left Plastica locked the door to
the security room, then climbed up on the desk to unscrew the air duct on
the upper part of the wall; with that she would gain access to the false
ceiling of the gym. She removed the canister of gas from her bag and
pushed it into the duct, climbing after it with the torn plan of the
building in her mouth. So good, so far.
Sliding the heavy tank before her, she crawled through the dark, cramped
passageways that provided the gym's air circulation. She soon came to the
area over the steam room. Using the engineering plan she located the pipe
that carried hot steam from the boiler. Working quickly, she clamped the
canister's feed valve around it and pierced the metal with the
diamond-tipped drill. Now the plastification gas would flow minutely out
of the canister and into the steam, mixing with it, disguised by it. By
the time anyone in the sauna noticed, it would be too late.
She checked to see if the gas was flowing evenly; it was. She turned
the knob up all the way, then slithered back through the duct. Kicking out
the next air vent she saw, she jumped down into the corridor where Phanxine
waited. "She's in there?"
"Yah; I checked through the window. She's the only one, too."
"Good." Plastica said. Now it was just a matter of time to tell if her
gambit had worked.
Five minutes; ten; twenty. The gas canister would be empty by now.
Slowly she unlocked the door, turning on the exhaust fan to disperse the
steam. In another few seconds, she entered.
Her plan had worked. The plasticized body of the superheroine lay
stretched out on a wooden bench, a plain white towel beneath her. The gas
must have anesthetized her gradually, causing her to fall into a drowsy
languor from which she had never awoken. She'd gone down without a
struggle. Indeed, by the serene look on her face, it had been quite
peaceful. By the state of her nipples it had been pleasurable as well.
Plastica flicked each with her fingernail; they were quite rigid. So was
the rest of Allison's body... so stiffly regal, she might have been a
cartouche atop some Egyptian sarcophagus.
But her experience with Chrystar had taught her a lesson. She stood the
plasticized superheroine on her feet and quickly wrapped several lengths of
duct tape around her, ensuring she wouldn't be able to move even if she was
able to. Phanxine peered in through the fading steam, careful not to
breath it in herself. "Shee-it..." she murmured. "She looks like a chess
piece."
The comment gave Plastica an idea. "Go get one of those gym mats and
wrap it around her. We can carry her out that way with no one the wiser."
Phanxine complied, and five minutes later they were sliding their
odd-shaped bundle into the back of the van. To an outside observer, it
looked like they were moving a rolled-up piece of carpeting.
"What are you gonna do with her, boss?" Phanxine asked. She sounded
genuinely curious. "Dump her in the tar pits?"
The awfulness of it gave Plastica goose bumps of pleasure, but she had a
different fate planned for the superheroine. "No. She's the last of the
bait."
#
"Easy Cal," Darlene said.
"Sorry," Cal replied as he backed the little robot away from the wall.
Ruefully he regarded the beach-ball sized gouge he'd made in the plaster.
"Whoa. That's pretty impressive."
"Good thing he's made out of titanium," Darlene quipped. She knocked on
Cal's helmet with her knuckles. "Hey. You're sure you're comfortable
wearing that thing?"
Call nodded. "Fits like a glove." They'd rigged up the remote-operation
system earlier that afternoon, slaving ARTIE's circuits via wireless
transmission to the helmet and visor he wore. That way Cal could 'drive'
the little robot from the safety of HQ as if he was participating on the
mission himself. "Do you think he's insulted because I'm in the driver's
seat instead of him?"
"ARTIE? Nah." While ARTIE was intelligent, he lacked the finer human
judgment required for a dangerous operation such as the one they were
planning, and had been selflessly obedient to his mistress's order to
vacate his sensorial and somatic functions. "Let's see how well you can
handle the weapons."
Cal moved ARTIE out of the corner, sending him hovering slowly to the
center of the floor. In simulation mode he ran through the array: pepper
spray, a small caliber gun that fired rubber bullets, a laser. "Guess all
those years of game addiction were worth it," he said.
"You can use his tools as weapons too," Darlene said. "He has a drill,
pincers, and a circular saw. The saw can cut through 10-gauge steel." Cal
flipped the joysticks at his thumbs, causing each new weapon to pop out of
its slot. At least one of the reasons they were taking him along was that
he was familiar with Plastica's factory and the dangers it presented. The
tools could come in very handy for getting into inaccessible areas. If he
got trapped or in close combat, he could use them.
"How long are his batteries good for?"
"Twelve hours, under normal circumstances. But if it's a combat
situation, much less. I'd say three, four. That's non-stop action,
though. Normally, we wouldn't be sustaining that pace." Darlene went on to
say that ARTIE was well armored too, able to withstand a direct hit from
anti-tank fire, though Cal found that a little hard to believe.
The phone rang. Scirocco went to answer it, a tense look on her face. A
look that got tenser, and paler, when she picked the receiver. Cal heard a
female voice on the other end speaking briefly. Then silence.
Cinnabar looked blank for a second, and terribly lost; then her resolve
slammed back. A look of grim determination came over her voice as she hung
up the receiver. "That was Plastica," she said quietly. "She's captured
Allison."
"What?" Darlene said.
Cinnabar held up her hand, gesturing for silence. "She said she wants
me, in return for the other members of the team. If I go willingly into
sacrifice, and let her turn me into a sculpture again. She has no
intention of keeping the bargain, of course. I'm surprised she even
thought I would fall for it. But it means we move out. Now."
#
Kylasha the Damned paced restlessly in her library, looking again and
again at the marble plinth she'd had her slaves install in the corner.
Cinnabar was to have gone there, rotating so Kylasha could appreciate every
inch of her mute, embedded plight. But yesterday, and now today, had
passed without the cube's delivery. Calls to the airport at Athens had
produced nothing. They'd told her that without a tracking number there was
little that could be done.
Kylasha's lips curved in a sardonic bow. Unless one happened to be a
sorceress, of course...
She touched a panel on the wall, causing one section of bookshelves to
slide aside. It revealed the dark, narrow passage that led to the
rooms where she practiced her magic. None of her household staff knew of
the secret. Her slaves did, but they were slaves, and bidden to keep their
mouths closed on the matter. Or find themselves in new bodies of marble or
bronze, instead of flesh and blood. New bodies frozen into very
stimulating positions...
She smiled a puma's smile, navigating the dark, cramped passage with the
ease borne through long years of use. Her slaves made the most interesting
sculptures. More than one had been presented to a minion of hers as reward
for good service. She didn't do it often, though. Transformation magic
was very draining for her.
She came to the sealed door at the tunnel's end and placed her palm
against the raised metal disk in its center. *"Hat'shwa,"* she commanded.
The door opened. The high-vaulted Sacrificial Chamber before her burst
into light. The frescoes glowed with lurid color, the mosaics sparkled.
Each depicted a highlight from her reign as Queen. The scenes never failed
to stir her blood, even though this room was only a copy of the one from
her palace in Bubabis. She'd had to recreate it from a ten
thousand-year-old memory, frescoes and fixtures included. But the table of
sacrifice in the center of the room was the real thing; she'd had it
excavated from the Sahara two years ago. This she now approached, her
footsteps stirring the dust. It had been a few months since she'd last had
the occasion to use it.
She stood at its head. The worn limestone of its surface was slightly
concave, stained a pale brownish color in its center. Kylasha ran her hand
over the depression with loving appreciation. So many victims she'd taken
in this spot, their last gurgling breaths given as sacrifices for the glory
of their Queen... she remembered the blood, too, barrels of it, that kept
herself and her favorites forever and beautiful, and the royal magic
strong. The dull iron taste came again to her mouth, bringing back an
awful yearning, a palpable, almost painful wish to see Bubabis rise once
again, as it would have if Scirocco hadn't interfered with her original
plan eight years ago.
She lifted her hand, taking a deep breath. She began to chant. The
words were as time, older, rising from the misty depths of another age,
when the great glaciers were receding and the Sahara was green and lush.
*Show me Cinnabar Steele,* she commanded. Above the table the air began
to shimmer; she concentrated on the swirling images, forcing them to
solidify. She steeled herself for the delicious sight of the sculpture
Plastica had promised her. But the magic did not give her that. Instead,
she saw a white-tiled room, a bed, a table with scientific apparatus set
upon it. And a painfully familiar figure striding away from her, a long
shock of swinging from its head...
The figure turned: Cinnabar. And she was not alone.
"NOOO--!" Kylasha howled. Her enemy was free! Cinnabar was alive; the
Powers didn't lie. With that revelation the image broke apart, reverting
to mist. In a second, it was down into the table to join with the
brown stain that had generated it.
Cursing, she beat against the surface of the stone with her fist.
Plastica had tricked her. Perhaps she had never captured Cinnabar at all,
and had been toying with her.. mocking her. Had lied to her, to court her
favor. But no one made a fool of Kylasha the Damned.
Her anger faded as quickly as it had begun, leaving cold ashes. She
began to consider what she should do about it.
This work is copyrighted 2002-2003 by Cobalt Jade (Cobaltjade@aol.com).
This work may be be freely distributed over electronic media provided no
fee is charged for its use. Charging a fee for this story, or publishing
without author credit or this notice violates my copyright.